When the splitting headache hit, Shen Qingci was still at his computer, typing his final comment on the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, eyes heavy with the exhaustion and impatience of late-night editing. Outside, it was already three in the morning. The desk lamp in his rented room cast a dim yellow glow, and scattered on the table were a half-cup of cold coffee and a stack of printed manuscripts. On the screen was the original draft of the classic xianxia novel Immortal Master's Reversal: The Disciple Goes Wild.
Looking at the plot where "the villain Shen Qingci punished his disciple Ling Xuan by making him kneel in the Icy Ravine for three days, only to be hated in return," he typed with frustration: "Completely brain-dead. Instead of winning over a prodigious disciple, he insists on courting death and building hatred. Getting killed later is entirely his own fault—besides, doting on a disciple is way safer than abusing one. This villain deserves to die."
As a novel editor who worked with classic web novels year-round, Shen Qingci was used to plots where "villains are forced to be stupid and deliver themselves to death," but he had a particular grudge against the villainous master in Immortal Master's Reversal—not because of character collapse, but because the villain's name was identical to his own. Every time he edited and saw the description of "Shen Qingci" being beheaded by Ling Xuan and hung at the mountain gate, he felt uncomfortable, unconsciously putting himself in that position.
After pressing Enter to send the comment to the author, he rubbed his throbbing temples and stood up to get a glass of hot water, but his legs suddenly gave way, and the light and shadows before his eyes instantly twisted.
A strong wave of dizziness hit him. The surrounding lights suddenly went out, and even the faint glow from the computer screen was swallowed by endless darkness. Shen Qingci felt as if all his bones had been taken apart and reassembled. A sense of weightlessness, wrapped in a torrent of unfamiliar memories, crashed into his mind—the coldness of jade-white halls, the heat of alchemy furnaces, the malice when wielding a whip, the scheming during sect meetings, and the searing pain of a longsword piercing through his chest. The pain was incredibly real. Warm blood flowed down his chest, soaking his robes, and finally his vision fixed on a pair of eyes—dark as a cold pool, filled with killing intent, belonging to a young man. The faint red teardrop mole beneath his left eye was like a drop of blood splashed on snow, so sharp it made his heart stop.
"Cough... cough..." He struggled to open his eyes, his throat dry and painful. What met his gaze was a jade-white dome carved with cloud patterns. Between the beams and pillars, a faint fragrance of spiritual herbs mixed with sandalwood lingered—definitely not the smell of his dusty, cluttered rented room. The clothes on his body felt cool and smooth to the touch. The moon-white daoist robe had intricate silver cloud patterns embroidered on the sleeves, and a warm jade buckle was tied at his waist. As his fingertips brushed over the fabric, he could clearly feel the faint spiritual energy flowing within—an experience he had never had as a corporate slave editor.
He propped himself up and sat, looking around. This was a spacious, solemn hall. The floor was paved with whole slabs of white jade, polished to a mirror-like shine. In the center stood a carved jade table, neatly arranged with ancient texts and pill formulas. In the corner stood a bronze alchemy furnace, with faint sparks still glowing at its base. Unfamiliar memories gradually became clear, fragmentary images flashing through his mind—the original's pride, suspicion, harsh treatment of his disciple, and Ling Xuan's eyes changing from clear to icy cold. Finally, it all pieced together into a complete identity: this was the main hall of Yuling Peak in Qingyun Sect, and he was now wearing the identity of "Shen Qingci"—the villainous master he had just criticized, the one who died a miserable death.
The original Shen Qingci, master of Yuling Peak in Qingyun Sect, possessed unfathomable cultivation and was one of the five great peak masters of the immortal sect. His alchemy skills were unmatched in the sect, and he was revered by countless disciples. But behind this glory lay a narrow-minded, deeply suspicious nature, and he had established many harsh rules—disciples were not allowed within three feet of him, not allowed to touch anything in his hall, and not allowed to have talent surpassing his own. He was over three hundred years old and had never taken a disciple, not because there was no one to teach, but because he feared a disciple's talent exceeding his own and ending his glory. Until a month ago, when he found Ling Xuan alone in a mass grave, saw the boy's pure spiritual roots and recognized him as a one-in-ten-thousand cultivation prodigy, he took him in on a whim as his only disciple, thus planting the seeds of disaster.
Ling Xuan's cultivation speed far exceeded that of his peers, even breaking through the Qi Refining stage in just one month. Such talent made the original's suspicion explode. He believed Ling Xuan possessed evil techniques and feared the boy would one day surpass him and threaten his position, so he began deliberately mistreating Ling Xuan—withholding cultivation resources, giving only the lowest quality pills; frequently beating and punishing him, making him kneel outside the hall for the slightest mistake; and when Ling Xuan made mistakes in cultivation, not only did he not guide him, but he threw him into the Icy Ravine to freeze, claiming it was to "temper his will." This time, the original had punished Ling Xuan by making him kneel in the Icy Ravine for three days and three nights on the grounds of "rushing cultivation and having evil intentions"—this was the beginning of their enmity and the first unhealable scar in Ling Xuan's heart.
Shen Qingci rubbed his throbbing temples. The more he sorted through the memories, the more alarmed he became, cold sweat breaking out on his back. In the original novel, Ling Xuan was the last descendant of an ancient spirit clan, possessing a spirit-devouring constitution. His family had been destroyed when he was young, and he was abandoned in a mass grave, surviving by chance. Under the original's abuse, the sect disciples' exclusion, and the exposure of his origins, Ling Xuan gradually turned dark, eventually beheading the original at the sect's grand ceremony and hanging his head at Qingyun Sect's mountain gate. Then he swept through the immortal sects, ascending to the position of Emperor, but lived the rest of his life in loneliness and obsession, while the entire Yuling Peak was destroyed because of the original's actions.
"Seriously... why did I have to transmigrate into this death-seeking villain?" Shen Qingci wanted to cry but had no tears. He subconsciously raised his hand to touch his neck, and only when his fingertips touched warm skin did he breathe a slight sigh of relief—good, he had transmigrated early enough. Ling Xuan had just finished his punishment and hadn't completely turned dark yet. Everything could still be salvaged. He quickly calculated in his mind: the top priority was to stabilize Ling Xuan, change the original's death-seeking habits, and use "favoritism" to max out his favorability. As long as he made Ling Xuan reluctant to kill him, he could save his life. As for those so-called sect rules and master's dignity, what did they matter compared to survival?
But before he could fully plan his self-preservation route, a cold voice wrapped in restrained trembling came from outside the hall, like ice striking stone, each word carrying a bone-chilling cold that made all his hair stand on end.
"Master, this disciple has followed your orders and knelt in punishment at the Icy Ravine for three days."
Shen Qingci's heart tightened abruptly, as if struck by lightning. Ling Xuan! It was Ling Xuan! That ruthless character who would kill the original and destroy Yuling Peak in the future! He stiffly turned around, his gaze falling on the thin figure at the hall entrance. His breathing stopped instantly, and even his fingertips began to turn cold uncontrollably.
The young man wore a washed-out, even somewhat tattered, coarse white robe. The hem and sleeves were stained with unmelted snow and mud, and the trouser legs were torn in several places by the ice in the Icy Ravine, revealing skin that was blue-purple from the cold, with ice crystals still clinging to the wounds. Clearly, he had walked all the way from the bitterly cold Icy Ravine, not even having time to dispel the cold from his body. A faint chill surrounded him, forming a stark contrast with the warm spiritual energy in the hall, making Shen Qingci shiver involuntarily.
The young man was thin and looked to be only fifteen or sixteen, yet his back was ramrod straight, like a bamboo stalk struggling to stand firm in the cold wind, refusing to bend. His small face was deathly pale from the cold, his lips chapped and white, yet still pressed into a stubborn line. His jaw was tense, and even though his whole body trembled uncontrollably, there was no trace of bowing or begging for mercy. Fine ice particles still clung to his long eyelashes, casting faint shadows beneath his eyelids when they fell, hiding the emotions in his eyes but unable to conceal the forbearance and stubbornness that radiated from his very bones.
Most striking were his eyes when he looked up. A pair of pitch-black eyes that should have been clear and bright for a young man were now filled with coldness, forbearance, and a trace of barely concealed hatred that didn't match his age—like a dark current hidden beneath ice, ready to burst forth at any moment and freeze everything around it. The faint red teardrop mole beneath his left eye, set against his pale skin, looked like a drop of congealed blood or an indelible scar, making Shen Qingci's chest inexplicably tighten, even his breathing becoming cautious.
These were the eyes that would one day be filled with blood and killing intent, personally beheading the original. This was the young man who would, in endless pain and betrayal, gradually shed his youth and become a figure that struck fear into hearts. This was the hatred that ran bone-deep, which would lead to the original's beheading and the sect's destruction. Shen Qingci's legs trembled uncontrollably. His mind raced through "customer service-style concern" phrases, trying hard to mimic the original's cold tone, but he still gave himself away, his voice wavering: "I... I see. You may rise."
Ling Xuan clearly paused, a flicker of surprise in his pitch-black eyes, quickly replaced by deeper confusion. He slightly raised his gaze, his eyes falling on Shen Qingci's face, carrying a hint of scrutiny and wariness, as if judging whether the master before him was playing some trick. In the past, whenever the master saw him, it was either cold mockery like "trash is trash, kneeling for three days won't change your nature" or intensified punishment—either making him chop firewood or placing him under house arrest. Never had he been let off so easily. Today's master seemed somewhat different—there was no disgust or malice in his eyes as before, but instead a trace of panic that Ling Xuan couldn't read. Even his posture seemed somewhat stiff, and his fingertips were trembling slightly.
Shen Qingci felt uneasy under his gaze, afraid that saying one more word would expose him. He quickly added, trying to salvage the master's dignity, but his tone unconsciously softened and broke the original's rules: "Next time... cultivate within your limits. Don't rush for quick results." After speaking, he waved dismissively, his words coming so fast they almost tripped over each other. "Go. Have the disciple quarters send some braziers and warming pills over, and bring a clean set of disciple robes—the thickest kind."
This sentence made Ling Xuan's eyes darken completely, wariness mixed with even more distance and coldness. In his understanding, the master had never shown him the slightest kindness. The last time he was injured during cultivation, the master had given him a "healing pill" that made him writhe in pain on his bed all night, nearly severing his meridians. The last time the sect disciples distributed pastries, the master had "bestowed" him a piece that was mixed with bitter powder that was hard to swallow, and the master had stood by, coldly watching his miserable struggle to swallow it. This time, with braziers and pills, and even the thickest disciple robes, there must be an even more malicious trick hidden—perhaps wanting to appease him first, then find an opportunity to torment him properly.
The young man's hands hanging at his sides clenched tightly, his nails digging deep into his palms. The pain kept him maintaining his last shred of clarity. After all, he was a disciple and didn't dare disobey the master's orders. He could only bow and say, his voice still cold as ice, without a trace of warmth: "Yes, Master." As he turned to leave, he couldn't help glancing back again, only to see Shen Qingci leaning on the table edge, fingertips pressing down with slight force, knuckles white, his back stiff as a statue, even his breathing seeming somewhat hurried—this master was truly very strange.
When the hall door creaked shut, Shen Qingci could no longer hold on. His legs gave way and he leaned against the table, his heart racing wildly, a thin layer of sweat breaking out on his forehead, the daoist robe on his back soaked with cold sweat. He looked down at his own pale, slender hands—hands that had held brushes and refined pills for years. These hands had countless times wielded whips against Ling Xuan, forced poison down his throat, and personally pushed the young man into the abyss. These hands had planted the seeds of hatred and ultimately cost the original his life.
"No, I absolutely cannot repeat the original's mistakes." Shen Qingci gritted his teeth, determination flashing in his eyes. He raised his hand to touch his chest, where a warm jade pendant hung—the original's life-bound spiritual jade, said to be a family heirloom that the original always wore close to his body, never leaving it. The jade was slightly cool but carried a strange warmth that spread from his skin to his limbs, slightly soothing the panic in his heart. Shen Qingci didn't know that this seemingly ordinary spiritual jade was no ordinary object, but an ancient spiritual jade of the same origin as Ling Xuan's spirit clan bloodline. It would become the beginning of his destined bond with Ling Xuan and his greatest reliance in rewriting the ending and protecting the young man.
The cold wind outside howled past, rustling the hall's curtains and bringing waves of chill. Shen Qingci took a deep breath, suppressing the unease in his heart, and began to refine his self-preservation plan in his mind: Step one, start by improving Ling Xuan's treatment, first solving food, clothing, and warmth, breaking the original's pattern of abuse; Step two, actively teach him cultivation, use techniques to win favor, and incidentally control the spirit-devouring constitution situation to prevent him from turning dark due to uncontrolled power; Step three, always remember "harsh words, soft actions," show enough favoritism, find enough reasons, and attribute all concern to "self-preservation needs."
Meanwhile, Ling Xuan returned to his simple bamboo hut, and before long received the braziers, pills, and disciple robes sent by the disciple quarters. The thick blue disciple robes were of excellent quality, the brazier was burning brightly, and the warming pills had a mellow, gentle fragrance—definitely not the inferior products of the past. He sat by the brazier, fingertips pinching the white pill, complex emotions filling his eyes. The master's change was too sudden, making him unable to figure it out, yet the warmth from his fingertips was real and impossible to ignore. He was silent for a long time, but in the end, he still swallowed the pill. Warm spiritual energy spread throughout his body, dispelling the lingering cold from the Icy Ravine, and also stirring a barely perceptible ripple on the frozen lake of his heart.