Seven years.
Seven years since the visions had torn through the heavens.
Seven years since the five forbidden clans had welcomed their first male heir.
Seven years since a thirty-something Earth man had awakened in an infant’s body and discovered he was destined to become the greatest villain the Primordial Realm had ever known.
And what a seven years it had been.
— The Long Dynasty’s territory stretched across a mountain range so vast that its peaks scraped the bottom of the stars.
Each mountain was a palace.
Each valley was a training ground.
Each cave was a meditation chamber where dragon-blooded cultivators sharpened their claws and their souls in equal measure.
The sky above the dynasty’s main peak was a permanent twilight of gold and amber, lit by the residual dragonfire that the ancestors had breathed into the atmosphere eons ago.
Rivers of molten gold flowed down the mountainsides—not hot enough to burn, but warm enough to remind every Long cultivator that they carried the blood of the first flame in their veins.
And there, in the highest palace, in the warmest chamber, a seven-year-old boy was being thoroughly spoiled by his grandmother.
— Long Biya was the kind of woman who made the word “grandmother” feel profoundly inadequate.
She was the mother of Long Yue, the matriarch of the Long Dynasty’s direct bloodline, and a Great Emperor who had lived for over four hundred thousand years.
But looking at her, one would never guess her age.
Her face was that of a woman in her late thirties—mature, elegant, with the kind of beauty that had been refined by millennia into something timeless.
Her golden hair, the same metallic gold as her daughter’s, cascaded in waves down her back and pooled on the floor around her throne.
Two dragon horns, larger and more majestic than Long Yue’s, curved from her temples like crowns of polished amber.
Her body was a monument to mature womanhood.
Her breasts were full and heavy, straining against robes of molten gold silk that hugged every magnificent curve.
Her waist was narrow but soft.
Her hips flared wide, promising the same generous shape she had passed to her daughter.
Her skin was warm to the touch, radiating the internal heat of dragon blood, and her eyes—her eyes were pools of liquid gold that had watched four hundred millennia pass and still found reasons to smile.
Currently, those eyes were fixed on her grandson with an expression of absolute, unashamed adoration.
“Come here, little flame,” she purred, her voice a rich contralto that carried the distant rumble of thunder.
“Grandmother hasn’t had her hug yet.” Tian, seven years old and already understanding exactly how to work his family’s affections, ran into her arms without hesitation.
Her embrace was warm—dragon blood ran hot—and her breasts pressed against his face with the soft, pillowy familiarity of a woman who had held him a thousand times before.
“Grandmother,” he said, his voice muffled against her chest, “you saw me yesterday.” “Yesterday was too long ago,” Long Biya declared.
“A day without my grandson is a day without sunlight.” She cupped his face in her hands—her fingers were long and elegant, tipped with nails that could transform into dragon claws at will—and studied him with the intensity of a woman memorizing every detail.
“Look at you.
Growing so fast.
You have your mother’s chin.” “Everyone says that.” “Because it’s true.
Though you also have the Zhou family’s cheekbones.
And the Ling family’s eyes.
And the Su family’s…
something.
Something clever.
I can see it in the way you look at people.” “Grandmother, I’m seven.” “Seven and already too smart for your own good.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, her lips warm as sunlight.
“Now.
Tell Grandmother what you want for breakfast.
If it exists in the Primordial Realm, it will be on your plate within the hour.” “I want something you made.” Long Biya’s golden eyes widened.
Then softened.
Then grew slightly misty.
“You,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “are the most precious child in all of creation.
Grandmother will make you her special dragon-fire pancakes.
The recipe is older than most holy lands.” “With the golden syrup?” “With ALL the golden syrup.” Long Xia, sitting nearby and sharpening her practice sword, rolled her amber eyes.
“Grandmother, you’re going to spoil him rotten.” “He’s my grandson.
Spoiling him is my sacred duty.” “You never made ME dragon-fire pancakes.” “You never asked so sweetly.
And you were a terror at his age.
Do you remember the incident with the phoenix chick?” “That was a misunderstanding.” “You tried to ride it.” “It looked rideable!” “The phoenix elder was very upset.” “The phoenix elder needs to develop a sense of humor.” Long Biya laughed—a sound like golden bells—and rose from her throne with Tian still cradled in her arms.
Her robes swirled around her magnificent figure as she carried him toward the palace kitchens, her dragon horns catching the amber light.
“Come, little flame.
Grandmother will teach you the secret of dragon-fire cooking.” “Is the secret fire?” “The secret is love.
And also fire.
Mostly fire.” — The Yaochi Holy Land had become Tian’s second home over the past seven years.
The floating islands, the upward-flowing waterfalls, the immortal cranes that sang melodies of welcome whenever he arrived—all of it was as familiar to him now as his mothers’ faces.
The female disciples, once forbidden from even looking at a male, had long since abandoned any pretense of distance.
They adored him.
They doted on him.
They fought—politely, with refined arguments and occasional formation battles—over who got to escort him through the gardens.
And then there was Lin Yueyao.
Seven years had transformed the cold young woman into something truly breathtaking.
She was thirty-seven now—still young by cultivation standards, barely past adolescence in immortal terms—but the years had been kind to her.
More than kind.
Her body had bloomed.
The slender curves of her youth had ripened into the beginning of true mature beauty.
Her breasts were fuller now, straining against the pale blue silk of her robes.
Her waist was still narrow but carried a new softness.
Her hips had widened, her legs had lengthened, and the way she moved had changed—less the rigid stiffness of an ice queen, more the fluid grace of a woman comfortable in her own skin.
Her face was still eighty percent her mother’s, but the years had added something new to her silver eyes.
Warmth.
A warmth that appeared only when she looked at a certain seven-year-old boy.
Currently, that boy was being showered with kisses by the female disciples of the Yaochi Holy Land.
“Oh, little prince, you’ve gotten even cuter!” “Those cheeks!
I must kiss those cheeks!” “His hair is so soft!
What do his mothers wash it with?” “Move over, I haven’t had my turn yet!” “Ladies, please, form a line—” “There IS no line for cuteness!” Tian, buried under a mountain of beautiful women in flowing silk robes, accepted his fate with the practiced dignity of someone who had been experiencing this exact treatment for seven years.
Kisses rained down on his cheeks, his forehead, his nose.
Soft hands ruffled his hair.
Warm bodies pressed against him from every angle.
This is heaven, he thought.
Absolute, undiluted heaven.
[The Host’s luck with women continues to function perfectly.] System, I’m being kissed by thirty women at once.
Can you let me enjoy the moment?
[This system is merely observing.] Observe quietly.
From the edge of the garden, Lin Yueyao watched.
Her expression remained calm—cold, even—but the slight tightening of her jaw, the faint twitch of her elegant fingers, betrayed her true feelings.
Finally, she stepped forward.
“Ladies,” she said, her voice carrying the particular ice of a future Holy Lord who had reached her limit, “I believe the young prince has an appointment with his fiancée.” The disciples scattered like leaves before a winter wind.
They knew that tone.
They had learned to respect that tone.
And they had absolutely no desire to be frozen to the garden path.
Lin Yueyao approached Tian, her silver eyes softening as she looked down at him.
She knelt gracefully, bringing herself to his eye level, and studied his face with quiet intensity.
“You have lipstick on your cheek,” she said.
“I was attacked.” “By thirty women.” “It was a coordinated assault.
Very strategic.” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips—barely visible, but there.
“And did you enjoy this…
assault?” Tian considered lying.
Then he considered the fact that Lin Yueyao had the Ice Moon Dao Body and could probably freeze his feet to the ground.
“It was okay,” he said.
“But they’re not you.” The smile grew.
Just slightly.
Just enough to transform her cold beauty into something radiant.
“You’re learning to be diplomatic,” she observed.
“I’m learning from Su Lan.” “That explains a great deal.” She produced a silk handkerchief from her sleeve and gently—so gently—wiped the lipstick from his cheek.
Her fingers brushed his skin, cool and soft, and she lingered a moment longer than necessary.
“Tian,” she said quietly, “do you…
do you like visiting the Yaochi Holy Land?” “Of course I do.
You’re here.” The faintest blush touched her pale cheeks.
“I mean besides me.
The disciples.
They’re very…
affectionate with you.” Tian understood immediately.
Seven years as the only male in a world of women had taught him to read between the lines.
His fiancée was jealous.
Not angry—Lin Yueyao was too controlled for anger—but jealous.
Worried.
Afraid that one of the more affectionate disciples might catch his eye and displace her.
He stepped closer and, rising on his tiptoes, pressed a kiss to her cheek.
Lin Yueyao froze.
Literally.
A thin layer of frost spread across the grass beneath her feet before she caught herself and reined in her power.
“Tian—” “You’re my fiancée,” he said simply.
“That means something to me.
You mean something to me.
And you’ve grown even more beautiful, so stop worrying.” Her silver eyes went wide.
The blush that spread across her cheeks was no longer faint—it was vivid, unmistakable, the pink of cherry blossoms against snow.
“I…
you…
you noticed?” “I’m seven, not blind.” “Seven-year-olds don’t usually—” “I’m an unusual seven-year-old.” She stared at him.
Then, slowly, a real smile broke across her face—not the tiny curve of earlier, but a genuine, radiant smile that transformed her from a cold beauty into something warm and lovely and utterly captivating.
“You,” she said, her voice soft with wonder, “are going to be a very dangerous man when you grow up.” “That’s the plan.” She laughed—actually laughed, a sound like ice chimes in spring—and pulled him into a hug that was warm despite her cool skin.
Her body had matured so much in seven years.
Her breasts were soft against his chest.
Her arms were strong around his back.
“I will wait for you,” she whispered.
“No matter how long it takes.
No matter how many women throw themselves at you.
I will wait.” “That’s a bold promise.” “I am a bold woman.” Tian hugged her back, breathing in her scent—winter jasmine and clean snow—and thought that, all things considered, being a villain with a devoted fiancée was not the worst fate in the world.
— The Shadow Pavilion’s headquarters had not changed in seven years.
It was still a realm of perpetual twilight.
Its towers were still black needles against a bruised sky.
Its assassins were still the deadliest women in the Primordial Realm.
But the way they treated Tian had changed dramatically.
The first time he had visited, at age two, the assassins had regarded him with cool professionalism.
A child.
Important, yes.
Worth protecting, certainly.
But not someone they needed to interact with beyond their duties.
By age four, something had shifted.
The assassins—these cold, lethal women who had killed more people than most sects had disciples—had discovered that Tian was not afraid of them.
He smiled at them.
He asked them questions about their weapons.
He told them their veils were pretty.
By age seven, the Shadow Pavilion’s assassins had abandoned all pretense of professionalism where the little prince was concerned.
“Little Tian’er!
Over here!” “No, over HERE!
I haven’t seen him in three hours!” “Three hours?
I haven’t seen him since YESTERDAY!” “You’re being dramatic, Sister Yu.” “I am an assassin.
I do not DO dramatic.” “You’re literally pushing past me right now.” “Strategic repositioning.” Tian stood in the center of the Shadow Pavilion’s main hall, surrounded by women in tight black garments.
Their veils did nothing to hide the adoration in their eyes.
Their generous figures pressed against him from every side as they competed for his attention.
Mo Qingwu watched from her throne—the same divan of shadow-silk she had been lounging on seven years ago, though she was now properly dressed thanks to Qin Qingyue’s lasting influence.
Her purple hair still cascaded in waves.
Her thunder mark still glowed.
Her magnificent body was still barely contained by her gown.
Her purple eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Ladies,” she called, her husky voice cutting through the chaos, “do try not to smother the young prince.
compressed.” The assassins reluctantly parted, creating a path between Tian and the Mistress’s throne.
Tian walked forward with the confidence of a child who had been coming here for years and knew exactly how welcome he was.
“Aunt Mo,” he said, bowing politely.
“Thank you for having me again.” Mo Qingwu’s lazy smile widened.
“Little prince.
You know you are always welcome here.
My assassins certainly seem to think so.” She glanced at the crowd of women who were still hovering nearby, their eyes fixed on Tian with poorly concealed longing.
“I believe some of them have started a rotation schedule.” “A rotation schedule?” “To ensure fair distribution of Tian Time.” “There’s a schedule?” “Yu drew it up.
She’s very organized when she’s not killing people.” From the crowd, an assassin with particularly striking purple eyes—Yu, presumably—crossed her arms and said, “It’s an efficient system.
Everyone gets exactly seventeen minutes.” “I get thirty,” another assassin muttered.
“That’s because you’re his favorite.” “I am NOT his favorite!” “He hugged you twice last visit.” “That was a coincidence!” “He called you ‘pretty sister.'” “…He calls everyone pretty sister.” “Not Sister Chen.
He called Sister Chen ‘scary sister.'” “To be fair, Sister Chen IS scary.” “I heard that,” a cold voice said from the shadows.
“Case in point.” Tian laughed—a bright, childish sound that seemed utterly out of place in the headquarters of the realm’s deadliest assassins—and turned to find the one person he had been looking for.
Mo Yurou stood at the edge of the crowd, slightly apart as always.
Seven years had transformed her too.
She was thirty-five now, and her body had followed the same trajectory as her mother’s—fuller, more generous, with curves that promised to one day rival Mo Qingwu’s legendary figure.
Her purple hair fell in waves past her hips.
Her thunder mark glowed faintly.
Her black veil still covered her face from nose to chin, but her purple eyes—those sharp, fierce, hungry eyes—were fixed on Tian with an intensity that had nothing to do with assassination.
“Yurou,” he said, walking toward her, “why are you hiding?” “I am not hiding.
I am observing.” “You’re always observing.” “Observing is my profession.” He reached her and, without hesitation, took her hand.
Her fingers were cool and slender, callused from years of weapon training.
She stiffened at the contact—she always did, as if she still couldn’t quite believe he was real—and then relaxed.
“I missed you,” he said.
“You saw me last month.” “A month is too long.” Her purple eyes softened above her veil.
“You sound like my mother.” “Your mother is very wise.” “My mother once assassinated a Great Emperor because he was mildly rude to her at a banquet.” “Very wise AND very terrifying.” “Mm.” She squeezed his hand gently.
“The assassins have been…
eager for your visit.” “I noticed.
I think Sister Yu almost fought Sister Mei for the right to greet me at the door.” “They did fight.
I had to separate them.” “Who won?” “Neither.
I assigned them both to perimeter duty as punishment.” “That seems fair.” “It was not fair.
I was jealous.” Tian blinked.
Mo Yurou was not a woman who admitted to soft emotions easily.
Her voice was as matter-of-fact as if she had been reporting on a mission’s status, but her words were anything but professional.
“Jealous?” he asked.
“I do not like sharing you.” Her purple eyes met his without flinching.
“You are my fiancé.
My little husband.
The assassins may adore you, but you are MINE.” There was a possessiveness in her voice that might have been alarming coming from anyone else.
But coming from Mo Yurou—the shadow princess, the heir to the Pavilion, the woman who had been trained to kill since she could walk—it was strangely comforting.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
“Good.” She knelt, bringing herself to his eye level, and pressed her veiled lips to his forehead in a kiss that was soft despite the strength behind it.
“Because if you did, I would find you.
I am very good at finding people.” “That’s…
romantic?
I think?” “It is extremely romantic.
Now come.
Mother has prepared a feast.
Sister Yu made dessert.
She will be very upset if you do not compliment her cooking.” “She can cook?” “She learned specifically for your visits.” Tian let Mo Yurou lead him toward the dining hall, the crowd of assassins parting before them like shadows before a flame.
The women watched him go with expressions of longing, affection, and in some cases, open hunger.
From her throne, Mo Qingwu watched her daughter lead the little prince away and smiled.
“Seventeen minutes each,” she murmured to herself.
“Yu’s schedule is going to need revision.
Yurou will never agree to less than an hour.” She leaned back on her divan, her purple eyes half-lidded and satisfied.
“The future of the Shadow Pavilion,” she said quietly, “is in very good hands.” — That night, Tian lay in the guest chamber that had been prepared for him—a room of shadow-silk and soft darkness, with a window that looked out onto the perpetual twilight of the Pavilion’s realm.
He was not alone.
Mo Yurou sat beside his bed, her back against the headboard, his head resting against her thigh.
Her fingers traced lazy patterns through his hair.
“Tian,” she said quietly.
“Mm?” “Do you ever wish…
things were different?
That you weren’t…
destined for all of this?” He considered the question.
It was a serious one, asked in a quiet moment between two people who trusted each other.
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
“Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be normal.
To not have six Immortal Physiques.
To not have five mothers and six sisters and two fiancées and hundreds of assassins who fight over who gets to hug me.” “That does sound stressful.” “It’s exhausting.
I’m seven years old and I already need a secretary.” Mo Yurou’s laugh was soft and warm.
“Su Lan would apply for the position.” “She’s already drafted the application.
I saw it.
It was seventeen pages long.” “That sounds like Su Lan.” “But…” He shifted, looking up at her veiled face.
“I don’t think I’d change it.
Any of it.” Mo Yurou was silent for a long moment.
Then she leaned down and pressed another kiss to his forehead, her veil soft against his skin.
“When you are older,” she whispered, “I will show you exactly how much I love you.
But for now…
sleep, little husband.
Your sisters would kill me if I kept you awake too long.” “The twins would definitely kill you.” “Ling Xing would kill me twice.” “Probably.” “Sleep.” “Goodnight, Yurou.” “Goodnight, Tian.” He closed his eyes, and the system’s voice purred in his mind one last time before sleep claimed him.
[Seven years, Host.
Seven years of love and growth and preparation.
The world still does not know what you will become.] [But it will.] [Soon.] — END OF CHAPTER 7