Shen Xiyin’s breath quickened, her throat parched and tight, a fine sheen of sweat glistening across her pale neck. Lately, she had been plagued by a restless heat that seemed to surge endlessly through her body.
“Perhaps the weather is turning warmer—you may have caught a touch of summer fever,” said Xu Yanxing gently, handing her a bowl of warm water. Watching his wife drain it to the last drop, the corners of his lips curved almost imperceptibly.
Shen Xiyin did not doubt his words. She thought a few days’ rest would suffice. Yet as the days passed, her symptoms only worsened. At first it was merely an uncomfortable heat coursing through her limbs. Now, her chest felt swollen, as though a pool of water were trapped inside, sloshing without release. Even the physician could not name her ailment. Her pulse was strong, her complexion rosy—by all appearances, she was perfectly healthy.
Besides, Changliu Mountain was steeped in spiritual energy year-round. Even mortals like Shen Xiyin, who possessed no cultivation, could live long and free of illness simply by dwelling in its aura. She had no idea what was happening to her.
“Perhaps it is a sickness of the heart,” Xu Yanxing told her.
“A sickness of the heart?” Shen Xiyin lifted her gaze to him.
Seeing her bewilderment, he lowered his eyes to hide the turmoil within. After a pause, he affirmed softly, “Yes.” Though he knew better than anyone—her malady was no mere affliction of the heart.
Three years earlier, Xu Yanxing had slain a cunning, malevolent spirit that had plagued the mortal world for a century. The feat brought him instant renown; sects hailed him as a brilliant young talent with limitless promise. It also secured his place as heir among the Xu clan of Changliu, elevating him to the seat of sect master. Yet behind this glory lay a secret wound he could not confess. In that battle, he had been injured vitally, leaving him increasingly powerless in matters between man and woman.
The Xu clan of Changliu, an old and venerable family of the mystic world, was bound by ancestral law and bloodline. They prized lineage and heirs above all. As sect master, Xu Yanxing bore the duty of continuing the line. From the moment he assumed leadership, the elders pressed him relentlessly to marry and produce descendants.
Shen Xiyin was a village girl who made a living gathering herbs. Honest and unassuming, she often carried baskets of spirit grass to the sect’s apothecary, where cultivators patronized her trade. Whenever she passed the bamboo grove where disciples practiced swordplay, she would linger at a distance, gazing up at him with cautious reverence. Xu Yanxing was no stranger to such looks—many female cultivators admired him—but hers was different, timid and fragile.
Orphaned young, Shen Xiyin had grown up alone, with no one to rely on. She wore faded, stiffened skirts, spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, and seemed forever on the verge of being bullied. Wooden, unremarkable—save for the striking beauty of her face. He had never intended to entangle himself with a coarse village woman. Yet what he needed was a wife who could placate others and be easily managed—and Shen Xiyin fit the role perfectly.
Feigning grave injury, he collapsed by the stream where she often came to wash clothes. She happened upon him and saved him. Using the excuse of convalescence, he lingered in a cabin at the foot of the mountain, spending his days and nights in her company. Affection grew with time, and soon enough, marriage followed as a matter of course.
Outsiders believed he had wed her out of gratitude, never suspecting he had other designs upon a mere farm girl. Over the years, the voices within the sect urging him to produce an heir grew louder.
Shen Xiyin, being mortal, was thought more easily able to conceive than a female cultivator. Yet his body had steadily declined, and no child had come.
Xu Yanxing tried every method to overcome his cursed affliction, but all failed. At first, spirit medicines sustained him for a while, but gradually they lost their effect. By the start of this year, no amount of medicine could help him at all.
At a recent sect gathering, his father pressed him again about heirs.
“You know well that your cousin has long coveted your position as sect master. His talent rivals yours, and through marriage into a noble family he has gained influence. Many within the sect quietly support him.”
“You are capable, respected, admired—but you chose to marry a lowly farm girl. The clan elders have never ceased to grumble about it.”
“I understand your loyalty. That woman saved your life, and such a debt must be repaid. Our Xu clan of Changliu has always honored righteousness; we would never force you to cast her aside and remarry. But to calm the sect, you must have a child—and soon.”
“Father speaks wisely,” Xu Yanxing replied. He too wished to resolve the matter quickly. The longer it dragged on, the greater the risk that someone might discover the truth of his hidden infirmity. No matter how much he longed to resolve the matter quickly, his body refused to respond.
In the depths of his frustration and despair, an outrageous thought took root in Xu Yanxing’s mind. He could not father a child—but Shen Xiyin could. If she bore a child, it would be his heir. To make her conceive, he needed only to borrow the seed from someone suitable. He had plotted this for a long time. Now, only the final step remained.
“These days you shut yourself indoors from dawn to dusk. Even without illness, such confinement would make one sick. No wonder you complain of tightness in your chest and restless nights,” Xu Yanxing said gently. Turning aside to block her view, he slipped the last pinch of powder from his sleeve into the calming tonic he had prepared for her.
To ensure Shen Xiyin would conceive at once, he had readied a fertility pill. It could bring the body swiftly into its most receptive state. Yet its potency was fierce—too much at once could overwhelm the body—so he had been dosing her little by little.
“The tonic is cooling. Drink it while it’s warm,” he urged, handing her the bowl.
This final pinch of powder had to be taken immediately, or its effect would vanish. If she did not drink, all his careful scheming would be wasted. His gaze fixed on her rosy lips, desperate for them to part.
But Shen Xiyin did not oblige. She accepted the bowl, set it aside, and hurried into the inner room.
Xu Yanxing’s face darkened. He followed with the bowl in hand, only to see her emerge carrying a pair of boots. She held them out to him. “Newly made cloud-walking boots. Try them later, husband, see if they fit.”
Xu Yanxing lowered his eyes to the boots in silence. Her shoes had never failed to fit. It was almost laughable. Back in the cabin at the foot of the mountain, he had once idly praised her for being deft and careful, saying her shoes were sturdy and long-wearing. The foolish woman had believed him. Ever since, every pair of shoes he wore had been made by her.
On this pair of cloud-walking boots, she had stitched spirit stones in one by one. She had padded every edge with soft cloth to prevent chafing. Such a pair had cost her many days of labor. Alas, he had never lacked shoes that fit.
“Madam, you are thoughtful,” he said with customary courtesy, then set the calming tonic before her once more. “It grows late—drink this and rest early.”
Shen Xiyin suspected nothing, obediently taking up the bowl.
Xu Yanxing’s gaze fastened on her, watching as her lips parted and the tonic slid down her throat. Only when the last drop was gone did he release a quiet breath of relief. With his purpose achieved, he departed as usual, citing pressing duties and unwilling to linger a moment longer.
Shen Xiyin lowered her eyes as she watched his retreating figure, hiding the disappointment that flickered there. That night, she tossed and turned upon the bed. Strangely, the calming tonic had no effect at all. Instead, her body grew hotter, beads of sweat sliding from her brow and temples. Not until dawn did the feverish heat ease, leaving her inner garments soaked through, clinging damply to her skin in miserable discomfort.
She fetched water to wipe away the sweat. Beneath the drooping canopy, in the dim glow of the candlelight, her graceful figure was cast in silhouette upon the screen.
Outside, wild cats cried in the spring season, their calls sharp and plaintive. Somehow, Shen Xiyin thought of the sounds she herself had let slip in her moments of distress earlier that night.
Thinking of the cats’ cries in spring, Shen Xiyin’s cheeks burned. She was a traditional, modest woman, shy of anything that touched upon desire between man and woman, always feeling such matters too shameful to speak aloud.
The next day, when Xu Yanxing came to see her, she kept her head lowered, unable to meet his eyes, afraid that the stray thoughts of last night might somehow be discovered.
Xu Yanxing found her bashful demeanor amusing, though none of it showed on his face. He maintained his mask of concern and said, “In a few days I must travel to Jinling to attend the Pei clan’s symposium. You will accompany me. I thought that going out might benefit your health, and besides, many learned men will gather there—perhaps among them one skilled in medicine who can examine your condition.”
As always, Shen Xiyin obeyed without question. “That would be good,” she replied.
Xu Yanxing’s gaze fell upon her flat belly. With the aid of the fertility pill, her body was already primed for conception. All that remained was to plant the seed within her. He had long since chosen the seed for his heir—the finest he could obtain within his reach. Yet whenever he thought of how that seed must be sown, a suffocating unease rose in his chest. What man could bear to see his wife in such intimacy with another? He reminded himself: a small sacrifice must not ruin a greater plan.
After all, Shen Xiyin in those moments was motionless, silent, like a block of wood—incapable of stirring tenderness or passion.
It did not matter. Mortal or cultivator, all must continue the line. Such was the law of heaven and earth. He only wished to become a father.