“No wonder this old servant sees that the Princess has already begun cultivating.”
At this, Old Wang asked with concern, “Is it the Suxin Manual?” He looked up and down at Yu Xiu, the handsome sovereign, but saw nothing amiss in his demeanor. And that was precisely the problem. He had passed on the Jing Chonghua family’s secret art to an outsider—something that should have been bound by oath. Yet now…
Yu Xiu’s face revealed a trace of pride. He raised his brows and said, “I know well what Chonghua worries about. But I have already wronged Xianzhu and her mother for so many years. I will not let an oath bind me to wrong them further.”
Back then, though he was betrothed to Jing Chonghua, he had fallen for another woman of humble birth. But the engagement had been arranged by his father—if his father discovered he dared to break it, wouldn’t he have had his legs broken?
Besides, though marrying Jing Chonghua felt suffocating, her noble status and gentle, refined nature made her a prized match. She was a blossom of grace, befitting his station. Far more suitable than stooping to wed a common, low-ranked cultivator.
“Xian’er is my blood as well.” The words struck like thunder—anyone would be shocked.
Seeing Old Wang’s startled expression, Yu Xiu remained unruffled. He said calmly, “Her mother followed me without name or title, enduring much hardship.”
Having married the daughter of a national benefactor, he could not openly take concubines. So he kept the woman he loved hidden away, concealing the matter completely. That female cultivator, rootless since childhood, sought only shelter and stability. She never clamored for recognition. And since Jing Chonghua’s health was frail and she resided long within the palace, she naturally remained unaware of his affairs outside. Over time, each woman bore him a daughter.
The one within the palace was called Xian’er. The one outside—pitiful child who at that time could not even inherit his surname, and thus drew more of his pity—was named Xianzhu.
Yu Xiu spoke lightly: “Back then, Chonghua demanded I swear an oath. So I swore to Heaven that I would cherish my beloved daughter.”
No one knew he had another child. Thus, when he solemnly vowed, *‘I will treasure my beloved daughter, my bloodline, Xian’er,’* the similarity of names deceived everyone: his ailing wife, the courtiers, even Heaven itself. And so, his affection for Xianzhu was no violation—for she was his blood, his daughter, and he could give her anything.
“What a grievance,” Old Wang murmured softly, eyes closed.
Yu Xiu inclined his head. Indeed, it was a grievance.
Xianzhu was born outside the palace. Even when she followed her mother back into the royal clan of Dayu, he dared not acknowledge her as his own blood—lest the Taisu Sect discover his betrayal of Jing Chonghua and hold him to account. Thus, in the eyes of others, she was merely a girl of unknown parentage, growing up without a royal title, enduring slights in silence. Fortunately, the child was cheerful by nature and never minded such things.
Speaking of this, the king—no longer the man who once endured everything in silence—said softly, “Perhaps… when I gave her that name, it was because in my heart I wished to plan for her future.”
Marrying a noble wife brought prestige and meant no dealings with commoners. Yet in truth, life was suffocating. So when his frail consort died, he married the meek concubine he had kept hidden. Over the years, she served him well, and he no longer felt diminished before his wife. He lived quite comfortably, even recalling the past with ease. And so, long ago, he had already conceived the thought: once his sickly wife passed, he would let the daughter of his concubine take the place of his wife’s child—so that he would never again raise a “noble celestial daughter” who might one day stand above him.
Old Wang bowed his head respectfully. “In that case, this old servant is reassured.” He led his sovereign deeper into the imperial mausoleum. From afar came the carefree laughter of a young girl.
The girl’s sweet, carefree laughter drifted on the summer breeze, reaching their ears—a liveliness never before heard within the austere imperial mausoleum.
Old Wang’s steps faltered for a moment. Then, seeing his lord’s faint smile, he spoke softly: “So long as Your Majesty does not bind yourself by oath, this old servant has a way to fulfill the Princess’s place. You need not worry about Immortal Shangyong.”
The handsome sovereign turned his head toward him, and Old Wang continued with a slight smile: “Does Your Majesty recall the very foundation upon which Dayu was established?”
“Of course,” Yu Xiu replied, though puzzled why he raised the matter.
Dayu, though small and remote, was still a dynasty within the cultivation world. To establish a kingdom was no simple feat. Its survival owed to the powerful treasures once held by the ancestors of Dayu—artifacts that safeguarded the realm and allowed it to endure to this day.
“And what has this to do with Xian’er?” Yu Xiu asked.
“Whether it be immortal Shangyong or the Taisu Sect, what Your Majesty fears is only that the Princess’s true identity might be exposed,” Old Wang said, lowering his gaze. “But if there is a way to make her truly become Yu Xian’er—not merely Xianzhu—if she can take her rightful place as the late consort’s daughter, then all will be real. She will have nothing to fear.”
“Ah?” The king was bewildered. Falsehood is falsehood—how could it ever become truth?
“All beings are bound by destiny. If one alters the heavenly mechanism, exchanging the fates of two people, then whenever anyone seeks to divine the truth, Heaven itself will reveal Yu Xian’er as our Princess. Thus she becomes real.”
In the cultivation world, suspicion often led practitioners to consult the heavenly mandate. And Heaven’s decree was absolute—what it revealed could not be false.
If Xianzhu could replace Yu Xian’er’s place within destiny, taking her fate as her own, then she would truly become her. Even if someone tried to expose her, those skilled in divination would never believe it.
Yet this was defying Heaven itself—no mere Foundation Establishment cultivator could succeed. Indeed, even higher realms would struggle. To alter fate and deceive Heaven was no small matter.
Still, there was advantage. Cultivators trusted destiny. Once fate was changed, in simpler words—it would be secure.
“But this…” Yu Xiu hesitated.
“Have you forgotten? Within our mausoleum lies the White Dragon Jade,” Old Wang said, enumerating Dayu’s treasures as if reciting from memory. Seeing Yu Xiu ponder, he urged gently: “Within that jade rests a breath of dragon soul, once capable of overturning Heaven and Earth. With it, we can…”
He whispered into Yu Xiu’s ear. The king’s brows eased slightly, though he hesitated: “But the Dragon Jade is our nation’s guardian treasure…”
To alter fate, to let one person wholly replace another within destiny, was a grievous sin. It might damage the jade.
Old Wang sighed. “Your Majesty forgets—whether or not it is used, the jade cannot last much longer.” His aged face showed sorrow as he murmured, “Have you forgotten why the late sovereign fell? The jade was damaged then. Its spiritual essence is fading, its dragon soul dispersing. Better to let it…” He lifted his gaze to the revolving stone steles above the mausoleum, eyes reddening. “…better to let it accomplish this final task it was meant to do.”
Yu Xiu grew uneasy at the mention of the former sovereign.
Dayu was but a small kingdom, its strongest cultivator no more than his father at the Golden Core stage. Though its remoteness spared it many conflicts, danger was never absent. Decades ago, Dayu had faced annihilation. A ferocious beast stormed into the land, devouring the people. His father fought it, but was no match. Even when he summoned the dragon soul within the Dragon Jade, the treasure shattered, and his father was gravely wounded. Just as Dayu was about to be consumed, a passing grand cultivator intervened, slaying the beast and saving the realm. That cultivator was none other than the father of his late wife, Jing Chonghua. For this, all of Dayu was indebted to him. Yu Xiu’s father was grateful beyond measure, and when Jing Chonghua married into Dayu, he treated her as his own daughter. Though the crisis passed, the former sovereign’s injuries damaged his foundation. Within a few years, he fell.
Yu Xiu ground his teeth. His father’s death was one thing—but could he not have handed over the vast wealth brought by his wife’s clan before dying? When the aristocratic orphan married into Dayu, she had carried with her the treasury of a clan ten thousand years old. By right, that should have belonged to Dayu—to Yu Xiu himself. Yet while his father lived, he had taken charge of the treasures. And after his death, they never returned to Jing Chonghua’s hands.
When Yu Xiu asked his wife, she only looked bewildered: “Did Father not say he entrusted them to you?”
Entrusted? Nonsense! His father had lied to both sides. To Jing Chonghua, he claimed the wealth was given to Yu Xiu. To Yu Xiu, he said nothing—leaving him to assume it had been returned to her. In truth, it had vanished.
For years, Yu Xiu had watched their only daughter, Yu Xian’er, but the girl’s simple, impoverished life proved she had inherited nothing.
“You were my father’s confidant,” Yu Xiu pressed Old Wang. “Do you know where the wealth Jing Chonghua brought lies?”
He had never seen the full trove of the Jing clan, but even her dowry at marriage had been dazzling. He remembered that wedding night—countless vermilion birds flying across the sky, bearing treasures that lit the darkness with radiant light. That dowry also had vanished.
“Was it not given to Your Majesty?” Old Wang asked in surprise. “The late king said it was all entrusted to you.”
“What?”
So he had received nothing, yet bore the blame.
Yu Xiu’s mouth went dry. Under Old Wang’s subtle gaze—one that seemed to say *I know you refused to return it to your daughter, so now you pretend you never received it*—he could not defend himself. His hatred for his father gnawed at his bones.
Indeed. Who would believe that Jing Chonghua’s immense wealth had not fallen into his hands? After all, the late sovereign was his father. And what father would cheat his own son?