Waves surged, billows rolled, and the red silk plunged into the water like a blaze, dyeing sky and sea one brilliant crimson.
The East Sea Dragon Palace had suffered another calamity. Shards of crystal glass littered the ground, shrimp soldiers and crab generals lay scattered in disarray, and a crimson figure tread upon blazing fire, churning the seawater into chaos.
Nezha hovered amidst the murky waters, his face fair as powder, lips red as vermilion, with a vertical red mark between his brows. The Universe-Overturning Silk coiled around his lean waist, and two sparks of fierce light burned in his fiery eyes. The Third Prince was in a foul mood—nothing pleased him today. He had demolished the East Sea Dragon Palace, and that was the palace’s doom.
Nezha stepped on the surging turbid currents and rose upward, casting a sidelong glance at the desolate sea trench beside the Dragon Palace.
The trench was, in truth, a fissure carved by the Universe-Overturning Silk during his last rampage through the palace. The wound at the seabed had yet to heal, and all the demons of the Dragon Palace now took detours around it, terrified that the baleful god might, on a whim, strike again.
Over the years, the trench had accumulated thick layers of silt, and occasionally small demons hid there. Today’s disturbance had churned out quite a few of them—those with long legs fled in all directions, leaving only a single small clam shell lying quietly.
Nezha stepped on his Wind and Fire Wheels and scooped up the clam shell. The moment it entered his hand, the shell opened slightly, releasing a tiny bubble, then snapped shut tightly, trembling faintly.
“Alive.” Nezha held it up before his eyes. The shell was smaller than his palm. He casually wiped it on the Universe-Overturning Silk, brushing away the silt to reveal delicate pinkish-white patterns.
Pretty.
He pressed with his fingers, testing the hardness of the shell. The little Clam Spirit had just been born, its magic pitifully weak, its protective shell pathetically brittle. A single breath from the Third Prince could scatter its soul to the winds.
The commotion had been too loud, sweeping creatures from the shallows into the deep sea. Nezha glanced back, reminded of the cricket cages he’d seen in Chentang Pass in his past life—the insects inside flapping their wings, unable to escape a child’s grasp.
Seized by curiosity, he closed his palm around the clam shell. Ao Guang, having had several dragon scales torn from his body, was writhing in agony. He stumbled out after him, furious yet terrified, as Nezha swaggered away.
The storm at sea subsided, and the waters grew calm. Nezha should have returned to the Heavenly Court, but he didn’t. His long fingers toyed with the clam shell. These hands, accustomed to wielding spears and swords, had to ease their grip around the tiny shell.
“Can you talk?”
The clam shell remained motionless. Nezha’s temper was short, and he impatiently tapped the shell with his fingernail. “Mute?”
Whatever was inside got knocked around, and the shell cautiously cracked open a sliver, then snapped shut again.
Nezha thought it was terribly timid. The pinkish-white shell gleamed in the sunlight, and he found himself reluctant to throw it away.
He tossed it in his hand a few times, draped a black-and-red Daoist robe over his shoulders, tucked the Clam Spirit into an inner pocket, and rode the wind away.
Nezha didn’t return to the Heavenly Court. He went back to Qianyuan Mountain. Years had passed, and the mountain was lush with green grass, wreathed in white mist—a place to rest.
Back in the Peach Garden Cave, he tossed the clam from his pocket onto the table. The shell rolled several times across the stone surface, landing belly-up, not daring to move.
The little Clam Spirit kept silent—timid, but patient.
Nezha pried at the shell’s seam with his flat fingernail. “Stop playing dead. The Dragon Palace has collapsed, and you’re sleeping soundly? Come out.”
The clam didn’t move.
A wisp of flame gathered at Nezha’s fingertip. “I’ll burn you with Samadhi True Fire, you little fiend!”
The shell tremblingly cracked open a tiny slit. Nezha couldn’t see where the Clam Spirit’s eyes were, but he knew it could see him. It stole a quick glance, but Nezha’s hand was faster—his fingertip wedged into the edge of the slit, preventing the shell from closing.
The Clam Spirit shook violently, trying to retreat. But it was pinned, caught in his palm. “Open up.”
The Clam Spirit trembled even harder, reluctant, but Nezha applied force with his hand, forcing the shell apart. He squinted into the gap—the clam’s flesh was pale pink, even whiter inside, moist and soft.
Such a small clam—it probably couldn’t form a pearl. Just as he thought this, he spotted two tiny black dots: the Clam Spirit’s eyes, very small.
As he watched, the little black dots shrank back. But after a moment, they peeked out again, blinking slowly, continuing to steal glances at him.
Nezha let go, and the clam fell with a clatter onto the stone table, snapping shut and trembling as two droplets of water seeped out.
It was crying. Nezha lost interest—too weak. It had survived his rampage through the sea purely by luck.
He returned to his jade bed to meditate, crossing his legs and forming hand seals. Qianyuan Mountain was blessed by heaven, its very air thick with rich spiritual energy.
He drew a wisp of spiritual energy, condensed it into spiritual power, then shattered it into fine powder. It drifted to the stone table and scattered before the clam.
“Hungry?”
The clam didn’t move.
Nezha closed his eyes and began his cultivation.
After a few breaths, the clam finally stirred, inching toward the powder. A wisp of translucent mist emerged from within the shell—a tentacle formed from its meager magic.
The tentacle cautiously touched the glittering powder, then quickly withdrew.
After a pause, the tentacle extended again, lingering over the powder, tasting it.
Having sampled the flavor, the shell cracked open, and the tentacle swept the powder inside.
After finishing the powder, the shell closed contentedly, leaving a thin slit to breathe. Inside, the Clam Spirit secretly watched the Third Prince meditating on his couch, inwardly wailing in despair.
Shuanglian had died from staying up all night!!
And transmigrated!!
Born not long ago from a clam shell, unable to speak, Shuanglian spent several years cultivating just to grow a pair of eyes.
The sea floor was turned upside down. Watching the youth on Wind and Fire Wheels swing his Universe-Overturning Silk and knock the Dragon King flat on his back, Shuanglian realized she had been transmigrated into the collected edition of her ancestors’ mythology.
Before her was the Third Prince Nezha—the Grand Marshal of the Three Altars and Seas, the Great General Who Pacifies the Frontier, the Marshal of the Central Altar, the Great Immortal Under the Jade Emperor’s Command, the husband of Shuanglian’s childhood, and the son of Pagoda-Bearing Heavenly King Li.
Meanwhile, Shuanglian was a former internet-surfing prodigy, a cringey high schooler in her past life, a Sichuan-Chongqing immortal, a dragon-phoenix hybrid elite, a devotee of Chinese mythology, a night-owl cultivator (now reformed), and the 9,200th Clam Spirit of the East Sea Dragon Palace.
She had been caught.
Seeing the Third Prince in mythology was one thing; facing him in reality was another. Shuanglian wanted to ask which version of Nezha he was, but given the aura of someone who had just wreaked havoc on the Dragon Palace, he was definitely not the friendly little Nezha!
Shuanglian stayed obediently hidden in her clam shell. She ignored the Third Prince, letting her shell open and close gently as she slowly dozed off.
Just as she was about to fall asleep, she suddenly dropped into a pool of cold water. Shuanglian jolted awake—turns out Nezha had taken a white porcelain bowl, filled it with fresh water, and tossed her inside.
She blew bubbles from the crack of her shell: I’m a saltwater clam.
But for a demon, fresh water would barely do.
The Third Prince clearly wasn’t going to change the water. He stripped off his black-and-red robe, revealing his lean, muscular upper body. His lotus-reconstructed body looked about sixteen or seventeen. Nezha lay bare on the couch, head tilted, fast asleep.
His face was turned directly toward the Clam Spirit. Shuanglian floated in the water, her black bean-like eyes fixed on the blood-red vertical line between his brows. The little demon king actually looked quite handsome at rest.
Just as she was thinking this and about to close her eyes, Nezha on the couch suddenly opened his crimson eyes—his red pupils eerie, his cold brows ink-black, the vertical line between them like a third eye. “Looking at me?”