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Ch112 - The Fallen Abyss Dragon




This time, it was Chongjue’s turn to be scolded.
Su Hansheng dared not stay in the Buddha Hall, darting back to the courtyard’s lodging.
Chongjue watched him leave. The venerable World-Honored One of Mount Sumeru actually lowered his gaze in rare unease, staring silently at the flickering candlelight on the desk.
Zou Chi also kept silent. He wiped the spilled tea from the floor, trembling slightly as he poured himself a new cup.
He drank a shaky sip—just to calm his nerves.
The two sat in silence for a long time.
At last, Zou Chi was the first to speak, breaking the oppressive quiet that filled the hall.
The Vice Dean’s voice still trembled faintly as he called out, hopeful though wary, “Jingyu?”
Chongjue rolled the prayer beads between his fingers. His ink-dark eyes were clear and cold as they swept over him.
Zou Chi fell silent.
So it really wasn’t that damned evil one acting up again?
Normally mild and deferential, Zou Chi rarely showed anger. Even if the body before him now belonged to his long-time friend, who had once been gentle and reserved, he could no longer hide the fury that surged up.
“Chongjue, have you lost your mind?”
At that sharp question, Chongjue only regained his usual calm composure.
“No.”
With a flare of temper, Zou Chi slammed his teacup down on the small table. Hot tea splashed across the surface.
The gentle-eyed Vice Dean now looked icy cold. “He’s Xuanlin’s son—and he just came of age a few days ago.”
Compared to Chongjue, Su Hansheng was barely more than a child.
How could Chongjue—how could he possibly bring himself to do such a thing?
“I know,” Chongjue replied evenly.
Zou Chi felt his temper spike at that indifferent tone. A faint aura of death crawled across his features, turning his face ghostly pale, like a revenant risen from the grave.
He spoke in a low, cutting voice. “The Heaven-Reaching Tower is on the verge of collapse. Can you guarantee that he’ll emerge from this catastrophe unscathed?”
“I can.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t foresee,” Zou Chi said coldly. “Word has already spread across the Three Realms that Xiaoxiao bears the Phoenix Bone. Once the Heaven-Reaching Tower collapses completely, Heaven’s Will itself will—”
Chongjue interrupted with a faint smile. “Has anyone actually said so?”
Zou Chi stopped short.
“When Xiaoxiao was born,” Chongjue continued calmly, pouring himself another cup of tea, “Xuanlin and I placed a seal on him. If anyone within the Three Realms leaks news of his Phoenix Bone, then by my will alone, nine bolts of divine lightning will strike to annihilate that soul.”
Zou Chi stared, stunned. “Heaven’s Will was already declining by then?”
Otherwise, even great cultivators like Chongjue and Xu Xuanlin could never have crafted such a forbidden barrier under Heaven’s gaze—one that enveloped all Three Realms.
Chongjue took a languid sip of tea.
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Instead, he heaved a quiet sigh. “You need not worry. I have made my decision.”
Something about those words struck a nerve in Zou Chi. His expression turned ashen, as though reminded of an old wound. He suddenly raised his voice.
“Chongjue!”
As his shout echoed through the hall, a strange shadow appeared behind him, long and sinuous, twisting in the air—like a dragon.
Zou Chi’s face turned deathly pale, cold and lifeless, his cadaverous features streaked with blood. The eerie pupils of his eyes gleamed, then shifted to molten gold—dragon eyes.
Two trails of blood tears slipped down his cheeks. He fixed his unblinking gaze on Chongjue, voice cracking as if torn by pain.
“So you insist on ending up like me… only then will you understand what it means to fall.”
***
Outside the Buddha Hall, lightning split the skies. Torrential rain lashed down, driven by roaring winds.
In the back courtyard’s quarters, Su Hansheng sneezed violently.
After three years, the place was still spotless—whether kept clean by monks under Zou Chi’s orders or tidied specially by Chongjue today, he couldn’t tell. He had been lying sprawled across the bed for nearly half the day, rolling over in mortification, wanting nothing more than to bury his head in the pillow and disappear.
He almost wished he could die of embarrassment.
After several rounds of tossing and turning, Su Hansheng finally composed himself. Slapping his cheeks lightly, he forced his mind to focus on what he’d just seen.
Zou Chi—he had looked like a man on the verge of death.
Even under warm candlelight, the lifeless aura clinging to him had been unmistakable, his pallor that of a corpse.
Frowning, Su Hansheng ran his hand through his messy black hair, thinking back to something Chongjue had mentioned the previous night—
“Two thousand years ago, after the fall of the Phoenix Bone, the Dragon of the Fallen Abyss was separated from her by life and death.”
“The Fallen Abyss Dragon can rebuild its form. Naturally, it has its own means of survival.”
Was Zou Chi… the former Fallen Abyss Dragon?
The Heavenly Way’s sacred objects had cycled for thousands of years already. Just how strong must his obsession have been for the current Fallen Abyss Dragon to, upon first seeing the Phoenix Bone, instinctively yearn to draw near?
Su Hansheng furrowed his brows tightly.
Outside, the rain thickened, pouring as if heaven itself had cracked open. The window remained ajar, rain pattering against the floor. Su Hansheng stepped closer, breathing in the strangely sweet scent of rain on soil—a fragrance that always soothed him for reasons he could never name.
A sudden gust blew through, splashing raindrops straight into his face.
Wiping his cheek, he reached out to close the window—but before he could touch it, a hand extended past his shoulder. Long fingers, elegant and pale, pushed the frame shut with a soft click.
Su Hansheng whipped his head around, nearly bumping into Chongjue’s chin, then stumbled back in surprise.
With a quiet thud, his shoulder struck the windowpane, sealing it shut. The raging wind and rain were cut off outside.
Chongjue stood tall beside him, his motion of pulling the window closed lifting his wide white sleeve slightly, revealing the faint gleam of his wrist.
The fabric brushed Su Hansheng’s nose; he sneezed abruptly.
Chongjue withdrew his hand, his tone softening without his realizing it.
“Caught a chill?”
Su Hansheng shook his head, lazily spreading his arms to lean against Chongjue’s chest. With a yawn, he murmured, “No, probably just someone talking bad about me—so, how’d it go? Did you get scolded?”
Chongjue: “……”
He didn’t respond to Zou Chi’s reaction. His tone was light. “Since you’re tired, you should go back and sleep.”
Su Hansheng woke up instantly.
Thinking Chongjue was about to retreat again, he tightened his arms around the man’s waist, holding on with unwavering defiance. “Don’t even think about sending me back to Falling Parasol Lodge! Even if I die tonight, it’ll be in your bed!”
Chongjue found the latter part of that sentence oddly phrased, but as the World-Honored One who had rarely heard such brazen words spoken to his face, he didn’t grasp any deeper meaning.
“I wasn’t planning to send you back,” he said helplessly. “I only meant you should sleep on the bed.”
“Oh.” Su Hansheng eyed him quietly.
This man was like a flower growing on a distant cliff—too pure, too untouchable. He almost felt guilty for wanting to pluck him.
Guilt aside, the high mountain flower coaxed Su Hansheng to the bed, lowered the bed curtain, and let the candlelight fall to a dim half-glow.
Su Hansheng’s black hair spilled across the mattress. His thin robes outlined the lean grace of his form. He turned slightly on his side to look at Chongjue, smiling, and patted the spot beside him, wordlessly inviting, “Come here.”
“You sleep first,” said Chongjue, “I have some urgent matters to attend to.”
Su Hansheng’s face immediately crumpled in displeasure, but he knew he couldn’t cling too much or rely too heavily on others. Reluctantly, he loosened his hold and nodded.
Chongjue blinked in mild surprise.
He had expected the willful Su Hansheng to grow even more shameless now that their relationship had been made clear. He was prepared to let the youth act spoiled for at least half an hour before slipping away.
But to his astonishment, Su Hansheng was unexpectedly obedient.
Gathering his black hair, Su Hansheng twisted it into a messy bun with a hairpin, pulled up the brocade quilt, and prepared to sleep peacefully to the sound of rain.
Yet when he finished adjusting himself, Chongjue was still seated at the edge of the bed.
“Aren’t you going to deal with your urgent matters?” Su Hansheng asked, puzzled.
Chongjue: “……”
Lowering his gaze, Chongjue replied softly, “What time is it?”
Su Hansheng peered at the timepiece on his storage ring. “It’s already three quarters past the hour of the Dog.”
“Mm.” Chongjue nodded, tapping a finger lightly against the boy’s brow. “Then there’s still a little time left. I’ll go when you’ve fallen asleep.”
Su Hansheng looked at him, confused. Didn’t he just say he had something urgent?
But the World-Honored One’s thoughts were beyond ordinary comprehension. Su Hansheng didn’t bother to question him further, only mumbled an obedient “oh.”
He’d woken early that morning and spent the day on the barge, exhausted beyond belief. Surrounded now by a familiar, peaceful scent, he soon drifted into sleep, fingers still clinging to the quilt.
Chongjue remained sitting at the bedside, silently watching him fall into deep slumber.
The young man, newly come of age, had grown taller. Compared to the small, curled-up figure he used to see three years before, he now sprawled openly, sleeping with arms and legs unguarded—as though he finally trusted this world that Chongjue had once “borrowed.”
Su Hansheng loved to toss and turn. After a few turns, his hastily tied bun came loose, strands of hair spilling messily over the pillow. At one point, he rolled onto a strand, muttering irritably in his sleep as if scolding someone.
Chongjue reached for the lotus-engraved hair ribbon at his waist and gently gathered the scattered locks, tying them loosely to rest aside so they wouldn’t get caught again.
Half-asleep, Su Hansheng felt someone playing with his hair. He kicked out reflexively.
“Yuan Qian, braid it again and I’ll… tie your snake tail into a knot…”
Chongjue: “……”
Su Hansheng’s bare foot pressed against his knee, a glimpse of his slender ankle peeking out.
Though Chongjue had never once entertained any base or profane desire toward him, the faintest tilt of his gaze sent a ripple through his ink-dark eyes.
Su Hansheng’s inner robe was loose, his trousers rumpled around his knees, and his lean calf rested half across Chongjue’s white kasaya—innocent yet shockingly sensual.
In the depths of Chongjue’s mind, it was as if spring wind swept across frozen rivers, stirring the ice and exposing faint, half-buried memories beneath.
The vision overlapped—indistinct but eerily familiar—with the youth’s ankle before him.
In his mind, he saw himself reaching out—his long fingers sliding along that slender ankle, that smooth calf, until the other hand followed, grasping firmly around a narrow waist.
Chongjue’s breath stalled.
He watched—as those familiar hands pulled the body close. The warmth of skin pressed against him.
Su Hansheng’s face was streaked with tears, his black hair tangled across his pale skin. He trembled, breath unsteady, eyes glazed with tears and exhaustion, sweat-damp strands clinging to his cheeks.
Those clear amber eyes were red and glistening, spilling silent tears yet uttering not a sound.
A low, taunting voice echoed faintly—
“Don’t even know how to talk dirty? Shall I teach you myself?”
Boom—
Back in the Buddha Hall’s adjoining room, Chongjue jolted out of the memory almost violently. In those few moments, he had vividly relived every detail—crude, debauched, obscene words spilling uncontrollably from his own lips in that vision.
Despicable.
A flash of lightning illuminated his ashen face.
He pressed a trembling hand over his chest, cold sweat gathering at his temples. In that moment of ragged breathing, he suddenly understood—
Perhaps he and the evil one were about to fully merge.
And that memory… was only the beginning.
***