No Secrets, Ask What You Want

Lin Qingyun couldn't see the expression on He Zhuoming's face—he tilted his head, puzzled but with a hint of matter-of-factness: "Didn't I already play it for you once? Just follow along and blow."

He Zhuoming: "Is that how you learned the flute? You can play it after hearing someone else do it once?"

Lin Qingyun nodded, unconcerned: "Mm, that's how I learned the flute. Actually, instruments are all simple—some don't even need to be heard, just touch them and you know how to use them."

He Zhuoming's brows and eyes drooped instantly. She snatched the flute from Lin Qingyun's hand and pretended not to care: "Honestly, I don't really like the flute that much anyway."

At first, she really hadn't liked it that much—it was the kind of thing she could take or leave. Asking Lin Qingyun to teach her was mostly to keep him from being bored.

But Lin Qingyun turned out to be a flute prodigy!

He could be amazing at the flute, but how could he actually be a genius? Hadn't all his talent points already gone into cultivation? How did he have room for musical instruments too?

Damn it! She wasn't a flute genius! How could Lin Qingyun be one? Damn it, damn it, damn it—and he had all these secrets from her on top of that!

Remembering how her music tutor had once praised her for having a good ear and natural talent, compared to Lin Qingyun's true genius-level learning speed, He Zhuoming grew even more glum.

She didn't even know where her frustration came from. Calling it jealousy felt like too strong a word, yet she couldn't find any other way to describe the emotion churning inside her.

He Zhuoming gloomily wiped the flute's mouthpiece with her sleeve, took a deep breath, and tried blowing a couple of notes.

She'd never had formal lessons, but she'd watched people play the flute before, so she tentatively pressed her fingers over the holes—though of course, she couldn't tell the difference between the various high and low holes.

The order she pressed the holes was random, and the sounds that came out were just as random. After two blows, He Zhuoming didn't want to play anymore.

Lin Qingyun clapped enthusiastically, his lips curving into a smile as he praised her: "That sounded really good!"

He Zhuoming's face stayed sullen; she didn't feel proud from the compliment.

It's hard to puff someone up in an area where they know their own shortcomings, and He Zhuoming was fully aware she hadn't played well—in fact, Lin Qingyun's praise made her a little angry, her cheeks flushing red.

She cut him off loudly: "What's good about it! That was just random noise!"

Lin Qingyun was puzzled: "You're angry."

He Zhuoming: "I'm not angry!"

Lin Qingyun's tone shifted to certainty: "You are angry."

He Zhuoming: "I'm not!"

Lin Qingyun went quiet, hearing her breathing faster than usual, her heartbeat quicker, the rustle of her lungs rising and falling—she was clearly angry.

He sighed: "It's just that you can't play the flute well. Why do you care so much?"

His tone was light and airy, but his words hit He Zhuoming's heart like a bomb; in the rumbling explosion, she felt all the blood in her body flowing backward, rushing up to her face and ears.

The subtle, awkward thought hidden in her heart had been called out by Lin Qingyun, and she sat up bolt upright, hair seeming to stand on end, both hands clenched tight around the long flute.

She wanted to deny it, to say she didn't care at all, but a knot of exposed frustration lodged in her throat, leaving her momentarily speechless.

She stared wide-eyed at Lin Qingyun, who calmly faced her in return.

Half of his face was covered by the white silk, making his expression hard to read—only his curved lips and dimples remained visible.

He Zhuoming jabbed the flute angrily against the ground, and amid the chaotic, irregular thuds, she said: "I'm not angry! I'm just—just—just feeling really unbalanced!"

Hearing this, Lin Qingyun grew even more confused, tilting his head so far that it seemed to indicate genuine bewilderment. "Unbalanced? Why?"

He Zhuoming: "You have too many secrets! And—"

Lin Qingyun was still waiting for her to finish, but after "and," He Zhuoming went silent.

She clutched the flute, her mouth opening and closing, her face and ears flushed red.

He Zhuoming didn't know how to say it—could she just come out and say that he was good at everything, and it made her feel unbalanced?

That would make her seem like a jealous person.

Unable to get the rest of her sentence, Lin Qingyun asked on his own: "And what?"

He Zhuoming: "…And that's it! I don't want to learn the flute anymore! I'm going back to sleep!"

The moment she finished speaking, her bedroom appeared right there—the two of them suddenly shifted from the pure white room to the middle of the bedroom.

Lin Qingyun said with a smile: "Mm, it is getting late. Go to sleep."

He Zhuoming: "…"

She'd meant she was going to leave this place and go back to the other side to sleep. But Lin Qingyun had already conjured the bedroom, and besides…

He Zhuoming looked up and saw Lin Qingyun's smiling face, half-covered by the white silk.

Thinking about how he couldn't see anything and was still trapped in this room, He Zhuoming felt a pang of pity for him. She wondered if the Pear Garden gave him a bonus for staying here for the full fifteen days.

They probably would, right? That was basically overtime.

He Zhuoming lay down on the bed, gloomy, turning her back to Lin Qingyun, but she couldn't fall asleep no matter what.

Complex and swelling emotions clogged her chest, prickling at her awareness, leaving her thoughts active and excited, with not a trace of drowsiness.

She rolled back over, propped her head on her bent arm, and stared unblinkingly at Lin Qingyun—he sat on the floor in the middle of the bedroom, the candlelight making his figure look somewhat hazy.

He Zhuoming's gaze wandered before finally settling on his waist. "Where's your Wuyi Sword?"

Lin Qingyun: "No need for the Wuyi Sword here."

He Zhuoming: "…Oh."

Lin Qingyun slowly turned his neck, tilting his face toward the direction of He Zhuoming's bed. He let out an almost imperceptible sigh and said: "Ask whatever you want. I'll have no secrets from now on."

He Zhuoming sat straight up in bed: "Really?!"

Lin Qingyun smiled slightly. "I'd say I'm still a person of some credibility."

He Zhuoming instinctively wanted to laugh but forced herself to hold it in—she squeezed her cheeks with her hands, pushing down the urge. "It's not that I'm dying to know your secrets. I just think it's not good for friends to have too many secrets between them. Ordinary classmates are the ones with things they can't say. We—we're really good friends, right?"

Lin Qingyun stood up, walked over to the edge of the bed, and sat down, speaking seriously: "You're my only friend."

He Zhuoming was deeply moved and tried to return the sentiment: "Mm… so far, Qingyun, you're also the only one in this world—"

Before she could finish, Lin Qingyun covered her mouth with his hand.

Lin Qingyun said, his tone tinged with melancholy: "Xiao He, if you don't say that, I'd be more moved. Forget it, don't say things I don't like hearing—what were you going to ask me just now?"

He Zhuoming blinked and pulled his hand away: "Why don't you need the Wuyi Sword here?"

Lin Qingyun felt her grip on his hand—the girl's warm, soft fingers pressed against his skin with gentle force.

The patch of skin she held absorbed the warmth of He Zhuoming's palm, the heat of a living person seeping into his flesh, making Lin Qingyun freeze for a moment.

He lost his focus briefly, so much so that his answer came half a beat late: "Mm… because it's very safe here, and weapons aren't allowed… that's a rule of the Divine Palace… the Wuyi Sword… the Wuyi Sword is stored somewhere else for now…"

His speech became halting, like gears not quite fitting together, stuttering and catching.

But He Zhuoming believed him, and it clicked: "Oh, I see! Hey, there's another thing I really want to ask you—in this Divine Palace, are you really just a nominal musician? I feel like you have a pretty high status!"

Lin Qingyun: "Nominal musician? Oh… yes, a nominal musician. I also, also hold another position—the Blessing Priest, right, something like that."

"That's why I have to stay here during the Day of Divine Celebration; I offer blessings for them."

He didn't know what his true body had told He Zhuoming, so he could only piece together guesses and fabrications, all while his thoughts drifted because she was holding his hand, causing him to forget what he'd said just moments before.

But thankfully, He Zhuoming believed it all.

She let go of Lin Qingyun's hand, flopped back onto the bed with a thud, and more than half of the gloom in her chest dispersed. He Zhuoming let out a long breath: "So that's how it is."

"So, for doing this blessing thing, does the Pear Garden pay you extra? Like a hardship allowance or something."

Lin Qingyun lowered his arm, gently rubbing the back of his hand, and answered carelessly: "There's nothing like that… Becoming a Blessing Priest, getting the chance to be close to the Earth Immortal, is what every Pear Garden disciple dreams of. People will do anything to compete for that position, so there's no need to pay… no extra money."

He Zhuoming asked curiously: "Are wishes easier to get granted as a Blessing Priest?"

Lin Qingyun: "Blessing Priests don't make wishes."

He Zhuoming was surprised: "Huh? Why!"

Lin Qingyun smiled and said: "Silly Xiao He, because a Blessing Priest has to sincerely offer blessings for all the Pear Garden disciples from the bottom of their hearts—if you only think about making wishes for yourself, that's an act of blasphemy against the True Deities."

Normally, after hearing that last line, a person would feel a sense of fear and drop the topic.

But He Zhuoming was someone who lacked reverence for the True Deities—even though she knew from her vague memory of the original novel that the True Deities were incredibly powerful beings.

Still, that understanding was just a few lines of text on a screen, far too abstract and ethereal.

So naturally, with curiosity, she asked the next question: "What happens if you blaspheme against a True Deity?"

Lin Qingyun lowered his voice: "You want to know?"

The moment his voice dropped, He Zhuoming tensed up too, unconsciously leaning closer to Lin Qingyun and lowering her voice as well: "If we talk here, the Earth Immortal won't hear us, right?"

Lin Qingyun smiled softly: "He won't hear us."

He Zhuoming: "Oh, then I do want to know—what happens?"

Lin Qingyun pointed at the candle he'd left in the middle of the room: "Look."

He Zhuoming's gaze followed his finger.

Lin Qingyun said: "See that candle? Those who blaspheme against the Earth Immortal are made into the wick, and only when the entire candle burns down can they be reincarnated."

His voice was light and gentle, almost hypnotic, and He Zhuoming was completely drawn in. As she listened with full attention, he suddenly reached out, his finger brushing against her neck while he made a popping sound like a candle flame bursting.

He Zhuoming screamed in fright and curled up in a ball on the bed, while Lin Qingyun burst out laughing.

He laughed so hard he pounded the mattress: "Xiao He, you're such a scaredy-cat~"

He Zhuoming's heart was pounding; she stared blankly with wide eyes for a long moment before realizing Lin Qingyun had been joking with her.

She shouted in anger and lunged over, pressing down on the back of Lin Qingyun's neck: "How could you do that? You're so mean!"

Lin Qingyun didn't resist at all, letting her shove his head into the blanket.

He raised both hands in surrender: "Don't be scared, don't be scared—I was just teasing you. Candles do that sometimes, you know, pop every now and then while they burn!"

He Zhuoming puffed her cheeks, refusing to let go. Not only did she keep pressing on Lin Qingyun's neck, she messed up his hair, rubbing it into a spiky mess like a hedgehog.

He Zhuoming: "You just said you had no secrets!"

Lin Qingyun laughed quietly: "I didn't lie either."

He Zhuoming: "…So it's true about people being made into candle wicks?"

Lin Qingyun lowered one hand, leaving only the other raised in a vow, and said: "Of course it's true. His temper has improved a lot now; he used to be fiercer. Maybe because he's grown up, his heart's become kinder."

He Zhuoming let go and muttered: "That doesn't seem all that kind to me…"

Lin Qingyun lifted his head, his short hair all over the place like a bird's nest, smiling with two innocent, harmless dimples: "I told you, it's compared to how he used to be. You know, the Lord of Pear Palace didn't have a very auspicious path to becoming a True Deity, so really, anything he does is normal!"

He Zhuoming: "Not a very auspicious path? What do you mean… is it that he's a True Deity who possessed an ordinary cultivator's body and became a god that way?"

Lin Qingyun tilted his head: "Xiao He knows that story too?"

He Zhuoming curled her lip: "You told me before. My memory's pretty good."

Lin Qingyun: "Haha~ I see. Yeah, something like that. After the reincarnation succeeded, the Earth Immortal became much more decisive than before. I guess it has to do with him choosing a young tyrant as his vessel."

He Zhuoming was taken aback: "A young tyrant?"

Lin Qingyun smiled: "Did I never mention this to Xiao He before? The person chosen by the Guye Immortal as his vessel was the previous ruler of the Xia Kingdom."

"After the late king passed, the prime minister overrode all objections and supported the youngest of the nine princes to the throne. But the ninth prince had a brutal temper and was erratic, so even though he was young, he quickly became an infamous tyrant."

He Zhuoming: "The youngest? How old was he?"

Lin Qingyun: "A little over seven when he ascended the throne."

He Zhuoming was shocked: "That young? How can someone that young be a tyrant? A seven-year-old brat can't even recite the multiplication table!"

Lin Qingyun spread his hands: "That I don't know. It's just what the stories say."

He Zhuoming found it absurd, then flopped back onto the bed, muttering to herself: "That's way too young. Weren't there any other princes of suitable age?"

Lin Qingyun sighed: "Silly Xiao He, he was called the Ninth Prince, so of course he had eight older brothers before him—the Xia royal family numbers princes and princesses separately."

He Zhuoming was even more confused: "If there were older brothers, why push a little kid onto the throne? Seven years old! Could he even read memorials?"

Lin Qingyun said: "He definitely could. Children start their education at three, and by seven, most can compose poetry and essays."

He Zhuoming: "…That's so intense."

The academic pressure sounded worse than the high school entrance exam.

He Zhuoming lay flat on the bed, hands folded over her chest, fingers twining around each other—after a long pause, she spoke: "Do you think he did it willingly? Even if he did, at seven years old, did he really understand what it meant to lend his body to a True Deity?"

"I don't know," Lin Qingyun's voice came, low and a little distant.

He Zhuoming turned her head, glancing at him. At some point, he'd propped himself against the edge of the bed, half his face buried in the crook of his folded arms, the other half covered by the white silk.

He looked kind of pitiful.