Chapter 75
With a movement faster than lightning, more aggressive than a storm, more desperate than someone drowning in a dark ocean, Ling Xu brought her face closer to Huan Zheng's.
Her hand—which moments ago had been clenched in anger—now lifted, gripping the man's chin firmly, warmly, with absolute certainty that she would never let go again, would never let anyone take him away again, would never allow any distance—no matter how small—to separate them again, after so long walking together, after so long dying and rising together, after so long hiding feelings that may have existed from the very beginning, only never acknowledged, because to acknowledge love is to acknowledge weakness.
And in this cruel world, weakness is death, and the two of them had died enough times to know they did not wish to die again—not before they had the chance to feel what it means to live, what it means to love, what it means to be human—or whatever they chose to call themselves—who do not only hate and kill and burn, but also feel the warmth of the lips of someone they love upon their own, at least once, before everything ends, before the flames fade, before flesh turns to ash, before their names are forgotten by a history that is never kind to those who dare to love in the midst of war.
"Huan Zheng," Ling Xu whispered, her voice no longer harsh as when she shouted, no longer cold as when she threatened, but soft, gentle, almost like a whisper, like a prayer spoken by a child who still believes the universe is not entirely cruel.
And as she brought her lips closer to Huan Zheng's—when the distance between them grew nearer, thinner, more meaningless, when their breaths blended into one in the hot air of the artificial hell filled with the stench of sulfur and burning flesh, when their hearts beat in the same rhythm, like two rivers meeting downstream and deciding never to part again—she felt something she had never felt before.
Not hatred, not resentment, not anger, not jealousy, but calmness—a strange, peaceful calm, like the surface of a morning lake undisturbed by wind or man or beast, a calm born from the realization that after so long walking upon blood and fire and tears, after so long hating and killing and burning, she had finally arrived here, at the edge of her first kiss, before the man who had become her home, and nothing could disturb this moment, nothing could ruin it, nothing could take it from her, even if the world around them burned, even if this artificial hell collapsed upon them, even if the puppet master behind the curtain revealed himself and laughed at their foolishness.
Because love, as she had learned from her mother who had been violated and beheaded, never truly dies—it only sleeps, waiting for the right moment to awaken, waiting for the right person to awaken it, waiting at the end of all these journeys, at the end of all this suffering, at the end of all these deaths, with open lips, with an open heart, with open arms, saying:
"Kiss me, Huan Zheng. Kiss me as if you have never feared loss, because you will never lose me, no matter what happens, no matter how many enemies we must face, no matter how many hells we must pass through, I will always be here, by your side, just as you have always been for me, since the first time we met, since the first time you yawned before me and I felt that this world was not entirely cruel, since the first time you chose to stay by my side even though you could have left at any time."
But just as Ling Xu's lips—no longer pale, now fresh and alive like those of an ordinary twenty-two-year-old human, offered to Huan Zheng, for a first kiss that might also be the last, depending on what would happen next in this artificial hell filled with black flames, bone walls, and unending screams—were about to touch Huan Zheng's lips, about to close the final distance, about to turn an unspoken dream into reality, Huan Zheng's hand moved.
Not with a swift motion like lightning, not with an aggressive motion like when he killed twenty-seven Bright Sky Old cultivators in Wuji City with a single lazy kick, not with a desire-filled motion like when The Singer licked his ear and pressed her soft curves against his back, but with a slow motion, calm, strangely gentle, like an older brother patting the shoulder of a crying sibling, like a friend wiping away the tears of one in grief, like a lover stopping their partner's lips from kissing—not because he did not want it, but because he wanted the moment to be perfect, not rushed, not forced, not happening in the middle of an artificial hell filled with black flames and bone walls and unending screams and two women fighting over him as if he were a prize to be won.
Three fingers—index, middle, and ring—of his right hand lifted, placed between Ling Xu's lips that were about to meet his, and when Ling Xu's lips finally landed, what she kissed was not the lips of Huan Zheng she had longed for, desired, imagined every night before sleep, but those three fingers—rough from years of holding swords and spears and weapons he never truly used with seriousness because he was too lazy, warm fingers, fingers pulsing with the same rhythm as his heartbeat, fingers that—in a strangeness beyond words—felt like a kiss, like an embrace, like a promise, as if Huan Zheng were saying:
"Not now, Ling Xu. Not here. Not in the middle of this artificial hell, among black flames and bone walls and endless screams, in front of the Singer who still watches us with blazing red eyes full of anger and insatiable desire."
Ling Xu pulled her lips away from Huan Zheng's fingers, unable to hide her disappointment.
Her lips, which had been ready to feel the warmth of that lazy man's lips, now curved downward into a pout she had never shown anyone since she was a child and her mother was still alive, before everything turned into a silence more terrifying than screams.
To be continued…