Ordered to Marry by the High King - Chapter 17

Jueguang.

It was the distant and profound cry of a sea demon, chilling and eerie, catching her off guard as it attacked from all directions, casting an inescapable net across heaven and earth.

It was also like a secret incantation, instantly piercing the seal at the back of her neck and seeping deeply into her very skin, making every strand of hair, every inch of flesh, shiver uncontrollably.

No known cause, no known source.

Those two characters felt so familiar, as if this wasn’t her first time hearing them.

Lately, her daydreams had been haunted repeatedly by the grand scenes of the royal city in the mortal world. And now, in the dead of night, she was dreaming again—once more of that very city.

There seemed to be fresh flowers nearby, and before her eyes stretched a dense, endless crowd. People pushed forward, laughing, and cried out in unison—

“Jueguang! Jueguang! Jueguang!”

But what exactly did Jueguang look like? Zhuoxue could not see her no matter how hard she tried. She only knew that the people longed for her deeply—their calls clearly treated her as a goddess.

Then what about the white tiger she had dreamt of before?

The white tiger walked gracefully beneath the palanquin, like a blade clearing the way, sharp and unstoppable. It moved with great pride, its gaze unwavering, treating the royal city as its own domain. Even when surrounded by crowds, it showed not a hint of unease. And the mortals weren’t afraid of this white tiger either. They still stood on either side of the main road, shouting Jueguang’s name. Presumably, they believed the tiger had been tamed by Jueguang and would not easily harm people.

Zhuoxue was deeply curious. Just what kind of person was Jueguang, to be remembered for a hundred years by the demon lord of the Cangqiong Realm?

Yet in her vision she could see the crowd, the white tiger, but never Jueguang herself.

She only vaguely saw a pair of legs stepping onto a jade-inlaid footstool. The hem of a white dress fluttered in the wind, revealing a pale left ankle wrapped in several loops of red string.

On the string were lily of the valley charms carved from jade, like little bells—but without clappers, so they made no sound.

…

The dream cut off abruptly. Zhuoxue, like a drowning person suddenly saved, drew a sharp, urgent breath. She felt, without knowing why, that this was probably a case of thinking by day and dreaming by night. Since she had never seen Princess Jueguang, her mind simply couldn’t construct an image of her face.

Just as Aunt Lan had said—she had listened to so many storytellers that she’d come to believe she’d truly been to the royal city.

Yet in her dream, the royal city felt more real than pearls—so lively, so vivid.

In the marketplace, ornate carriages and fine horses sped by, roads paved with flowers. Music filled her ears, the scent of osmanthus and orchids filled her nose, and Princess Jueguang—surely she was beloved by all who saw her.

In the darkness, Longming sat in quiet contemplation. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the chill of a soul long resigned to fate. “She spoke the language of beasts, could compose poetry and paint, danced with a blade like no other—her movements graceful like a startled swan, elegant like a swimming dragon.”

Such a person—no wonder the people of the royal city loved her.

Like a girl listening to a storyteller at a teahouse in town, Zhuoxue completely forgot that Longming had only allowed her to ask one simple question. Her ears were pricked up straighter than the sugarcane in the fields. She asked curiously, “She could speak to animals—so when she talked to you, did she growl like a tiger?”

Longming fell silent.

“She didn’t?”

Longming said, “To understand is to communicate. Making sounds—that’s mimicry.”

Zhuoxue chuckled awkwardly. “Then what happened next?”

“Next?” Longming lowered her gaze. “There was no ‘next.’”

“When you left the mortal world, where did Princess Jueguang go? What did she do?” Zhuoxue wanted to know, though she was somehow also afraid of the answer. If by chance Wanqi Jueguang had lived a hard life, she would feel terribly sorry.

Longming remained silent. The room was still and soundless.

The sudden silence chilled Zhuoxue’s back. She lowered her head and gnawed on her fingers, thinking maybe she shouldn’t have been so curious. Had she asked one question too many? Was the big tiger going to twist her into a pretzel again?

Fortunately, Longming only said calmly, “You enjoy mortal world stories this much? You’re certainly not like other demons.”

Was that… a compliment?

Zhuoxue replied proudly, “I often go to the mortal world to listen to storytellers.”

“So now you see me as a storyteller too?” Longming lifted her eyelids slightly.

“How could I?” Zhuoxue quickly offered flattery. “High King tells true stories—unlike the half-truths served in mortal world teahouses. Those are like watered-down wine—bland!”

Longming gave a soft snort. “Demons who yearn for the mortal world like you… are rare.”

Zhuoxue muttered inwardly, And demons who sincerely follow mortals like you are even rarer. Who could compare?

After a long pause, Longming sat up. Her red pupils were veiled in the night, the arrogance once in them extinguished. Only the outline of her form remained, blurred by the moonlight spilling through the window.

Zhuoxue grew even more still, not daring to move.

The demon lord sat quietly, lost in memories, then suddenly said in a cool, detached tone, “She was already dead before I left.”

Zhuoxue froze. Her heart crumbled like a collapsing mountain, crashing into a heap of mud. In that muddy mess swirled her confused thoughts—she was stunned, lost, dizzy.

Dead? That person who was adored by the entire Mortal Realm, who was so powerful—how could she just… die? 

She was more upset than she had imagined she would be. In a panic, she asked, “Mortals are fragile… did she die of illness?”

“How many ways have you seen mortals die?” Longming asked, emotionless.

Though Zhuoxue often visited the human world, she had only ever been to one small town. It was a peaceful and happy place. The young went off to seek fortune; the old stayed behind. Those who passed usually did so in one of three ways: either succumbing to a serious illness, stumbling and falling due to age, or dying naturally of old age. She really hadn’t seen much else.

Zhuoxue transformed into her human form, started counting on her fingers, and said glumly, “Roughly three kinds.”

“She was poisoned—her health worsened day by day,” Longming said quietly. “Later she caught a plague and couldn’t pull through.”

Poisoned was bad enough… and then she caught a plague?

Zhuoxue struggled to accept it. She had only just learned Jueguang’s name, and yet it felt like they were bound by a hundred ties of fate. Her eyes reddened at the corners. 

Her eyelids fluttered, and her thick lashes were damp with tears. She felt sorrow for no reason, weeping in silence. Only when the tears rolled into her mouth, leaving a faint salty taste, did she realize she was already crying hard.

The little fox sniffled.

“What are you crying for, fox?” Longming chuckled softly. “It’s not like you died.”

The words were cruel—cold. A living, breathing person was just gone, and she still had the mind to joke?

Zhuoxue pressed her lips together. Does this tiger demon truly feel no grief?

Surely not. Otherwise, that cold detachment in her voice just now wouldn’t have sounded so much like a broken heart.

She hadn’t misheard. Back at Qiufeng Ridge, Lanhui had once spoken to her in that same tone.

Back then, Lanhui had been recalling the past beyond the mountains, recounting all kinds of interesting stories from before she came to Qiufeng Ridge. Only, she spoke in riddles, vague about the places and people—as if she were afraid anyone might learn of her past.

Whatever, Zhuoxue muttered inwardly. Whether it was Lanhui’s heartbreak or the sorrow Longming had accidentally let slip, they sounded… almost the same.

She quietly wiped her tears on her sleeve and mumbled, “Who’s crying? It’s just… staying in this house that feels like one from the mortal world, I caught a mortal cold—my nose is all stuffed up.”

“Get out.”

“Huh?” Zhuoxue was confused. Why was she being told to leave again?

Longming said, “You’re a demon—what mortal cold could you possibly catch? Nonsense. Go outside and reflect. Don’t disturb my sleep again.”

Fine. She didn’t want to stay in this room anyway. That gut-wrenching pain from earlier had left her feeling like life and death were tangled together—how could she possibly sleep now?

Zhuoxue slowly got up, intending to leap out the half-open window and, in the process, shifted back into her fox form.

“You can use the room door, but not the mountain gate,” Longming added.

The fox, dragging her big tail, spoke in human tongue. “I never planned to leave. This Lingkong Mountain is lovely in every way, and with you, High King, here—how could I bear to leave?”

“I forgot to ask for your name earlier,” Longming said at last, as though she were finally taking her seriously.

The fox stiffened, her mind racing. Lanhui had told her before that names were tied to fate. One must never reveal them lightly to outsiders.

But the demon lord had asked. How could she dare refuse? If she gave a false name and was later exposed, wouldn’t she suffer even more?

Nearby, there was a rhythmic tapping sound. It was the demon lord gently knocking her fingers on the edge of the bed, urging her to answer.

Bracing herself, the fox spoke. “It’s Zhuoxue, my lord. Zhuo, as in ‘to cleanse,’ and xue, as in ‘snow.’”

As soon as she finished, a soft laugh came from the low couch.

Light filled the room as Longming traced the air with her finger, as if writing, forming the characters of the fox’s name in midair. The glow lit up her face, highlighting her crimson eyes and the dark markings beneath them. At a glance, she looked like the King of the Underworld, writing names into the Book of Life and Death.

The final stroke extended into a fine, silky thread that wrapped around the fox’s waist.

Again?

The fox’s fur bristled, afraid the silver thread would suddenly tighten.

Thankfully, it vanished the next moment, along with the glowing characters in the air.

Phew. Just her imagination running wild.

Longming said, “That was a binding charm. As long as it’s in place, the farther you are from me, the tighter that thread will wrap.”

Zhuoxue’s eyes widened. What a vicious spell!

“You may go now. The night view of Lingkong Mountain isn’t bad,” Longming said, eyes closed. “Come morning, the mountain lord of Qiufeng Ridge should arrive. I imagine you miss her very much.”

How could she not? The little fox felt like crying again, but the tears wouldn’t come.

She took a cautious step forward. When her waist didn’t feel any pressure, she dared to take another.

That short walk took her a full half an incense stick’s time—slower than the snails on the mountain.

She thought to herself, If Aunt Lan really shows up tomorrow, she’ll know I’m utterly useless. There’s even a strange spell on the back of my neck I can’t undo. She raised me for over ten years, and all she got was a cursed broom star in return.

At the window, the fox paused and looked back anxiously. Her short, squat beast form was completely hidden in the shadows.

It was the last night. She should at least do something, right?

“High King, may I stay in tonight?” she asked.

“Why?”

“I’m scared,” the fox whispered.

Longming gave a faint, amused scoff.

“That pig demon isn’t gone for good—he’ll surely come back,” the fox added.

“And what makes you think he dares?”

The fox boldly began to sell herself. “If I stay, I can warm your bed! My fur is silky and glossy—unforgettable once seen. Even the chicken farmers in the mortal world sing my praises!”