Chapter 37
The night passed slowly.
Too slowly.
When Zhuo Yichen returned to Zhao Yuanzhou’s chamber before dawn, he found the demon exactly where he had left him.
Curled beneath the blanket.
Asleep.
Or perhaps simply exhausted enough that his body had finally surrendered.
The room was quiet.
Yichen stepped closer.
Then frowned.
Something felt wrong.
He placed a hand against Zhao Yuanzhou’s forehead.
Immediately, his expression changed.
“Zhao.”
No response.
“Zhao Yuanzhou.”
Still nothing.
The demon was burning with fever.
Yichen sighed.
“Of course.”
The ancient demon could survive a Blood Moon.
Fight three great demons.
Break a suppression tower.
And yet somehow end up bedridden afterward.
Ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
Yet seeing him like this still hurt.
The fever had turned Zhao Yuanzhou’s face pale.
His breathing was uneven.
Even asleep, his brows remained furrowed.
As though he was trapped inside another nightmare.
Yichen fetched water.
Changed the cold cloth on his forehead.
Forced medicine into him.
Which was a challenge.
Because even unconscious, Zhao Yuanzhou somehow managed to look offended by medicine.
Hours later, the morning bells of Kunlun echoed through the mountains.
Today was Ying Zhao’s funeral.
Everyone would be there.
Including Zhao Yuanzhou.
Whether he liked it or not.
Eventually, Yichen managed to wake him.
The demon slowly opened his eyes.
For a moment they seemed lost.
Then memory returned.
The funeral.
Ying Zhao.
The smile vanished immediately.
His gaze lowered.
“Leave me here.”
“No.”
“Yichen.”
“No.”
“I don’t deserve-“
“No.”
The answer came so quickly that Zhao Yuanzhou actually blinked.
Yichen folded his arms.
“You are attending.”
“I’d rather die.”
“Not today.”
The demon groaned.
For perhaps the first time in history, the mighty Zhuyan was being bullied while running a fever.
And he lacked the energy to fight back.
An hour later, Yichen was helping him prepare.
The situation was deeply embarrassing for Zhao Yuanzhou.
“I can dress myself.”
“You put your sleeve on backward.”
“…”
“You are quiet now.”
“…”
Yichen almost smiled.
Almost.
But the sadness lingering between them never fully disappeared.
As he helped Zhao Yuanzhou adjust his robes, the fabric shifted.
And suddenly-
he saw them.
The scars.
His hands froze.
Eight scars.
Running across Zhao Yuanzhou’s back.
Some old.
Some ancient.
All terrible.
Each one carrying enough pain to silence a room.
Yichen remembered Ying Zhao’s words.
The old mountain god had once mentioned them.
But hearing about them and seeing them were entirely different things.
For a long moment he couldn’t speak.
Because those scars told a story.
Not of battle.
Not of glory.
Not of victory.
Punishment.
Repentance.
Self-inflicted suffering.
Blood Moon after Blood Moon.
Century after century.
The realization settled heavily inside his chest.
Every time Zhao Yuanzhou lost control.
Every life taken.
Every tragedy.
Every accident.
He had carried it.
Alone.
The years had never healed him.
They had only made the wounds deeper.
Even immortality had not saved him.
It had merely given him more time to suffer.
Yichen’s fingers tightened.
For the first time-
he truly understood.
Not the legends.
Not the stories.
Not the terrifying demon everyone feared.
The man.
The lonely man beneath it all.
Zhao Yuanzhou noticed his silence.
A bitter smile appeared.
“You saw them.”
Yichen nodded.
The demon laughed softly.
Without humor.
“Ugly, aren’t they?”
“No.”
“They are.”
“No.”
The answer came firmly.
Zhao Yuanzhou looked away.
“I deserved every one.”
The room became quiet.
Then the demon spoke again.
His voice barely above a whisper.
“Yichen.”
“What?”
“Kill me.”
The words landed like a blade.
Neither moved.
Neither breathed.
“Kill me before I hurt anyone else.”
His eyes lowered.
“I am tired.”
The confession sounded ancient.
Heavy.
Worn down by centuries.
“So very tired.”
Yichen felt anger rise unexpectedly.
Not anger at Zhao Yuanzhou.
Anger at the sadness in his voice.
At the hopelessness.
At the fact that he genuinely believed death was the answer.
The commander grabbed his shoulders.
Forcing him to look up.
“No.”
The demon stared.
“No?”
“No.”
The answer was absolute.
Unyielding.
Like a mountain.
Like ice.
Like Zhuo Yichen himself.
Zhao Yuanzhou blinked.
“But-“
“No.”
The second interruption was even firmer.
The room seemed to grow still.
Yichen’s eyes were red.
Not from tears.
From conviction.
“You think death is difficult?”
The demon remained silent.
“It isn’t.”
His voice sharpened.
“Death is easy.”
The words struck harder than any sword.
“Anyone can die.”
Zhao Yuanzhou froze.
Yichen stepped closer.
“If you truly have a conscience…”
His voice trembled.
“If you truly regret everything…”
Then his hand tightened on the demon’s robe.
“Then live.”
The words hit harder than any accusation.
“Live and fix it.”
“Live and protect people.”
“Live and carry responsibility.”
The room fell silent.
Outside, funeral bells echoed across Kunlun.
Slow.
Heavy.
Mournful.
Yichen’s voice softened.
“Ying Zhao just gave his life for you.”
The demon lowered his gaze.
“Wen Xiao believes in you.”
Silence.
“Bai Jiu believes in you.”
More silence.
“Ying Lei believes in you.”
The demon’s hands began trembling.
“And countless people are alive because of you.”
A tear slid down Zhao Yuanzhou’s cheek.
Yichen continued.
“If you die now…”
His own voice cracked.
“…then what was the point of all those sacrifices?”
The question shattered something.
Completely.
The demon closed his eyes.
Unable to answer.
Because he knew.
For once-
he knew Yichen was right.
Death would be easier.
Living would hurt.
Living would require him to face every mistake.
Every memory.
Every loss.
Every scar.
Yet perhaps-
that was exactly why he needed to do it.
When Zhao Yuanzhou finally opened his eyes again, they were wet with tears.
But different somehow.
Not healed.
Not happy.
Simply…
Less lost.
Yichen reached forward and adjusted his collar one final time.
The gesture was surprisingly gentle.
“Come on.”
His voice softened.
“We have an elder waiting.”
The funeral bells continued ringing through Kunlun.
And for the first time in many years-
Zhao Yuanzhou stood not because he wished to die.
But because someone had finally given him a reason to keep living.