PROMISE
Zhenwu had already examined Songhe’s body himself. There was no seal of bondage buried within the meridians, no contract of servitude wrapped around the soul, and no curse distorting his mind. He was not under any form of compulsion.
That was what made it incomprehensible. His thoughts returned again and again to the same impossible answer: Songhe was acting of his own will. Each time, Zhenwu's mind rejected it.
In the end, he abandoned caution entirely and spoke with brutal directness.
“Da-ge… why are you protecting Xue Feng Yong Ye? Why would you willingly give him your blood?”
Songhe lifted his eyes and met Zhenwu’s gaze.
For a long while, he did not answer. The silence stretched on, wearing steadily against Zhenwu’s patience. When he finally answered, Songhe’s voice carried a weary certainty.
“He is not Yong Ye. Not yet.”
Zhenwu stared at him, confusion written plainly across his face, but Songhe offered no further explanation. The tension in Zhenwu’s expression deepened.
“The fox spirit is the Demon King Tianyao reincarnated. Da-ge, you know this.”
“Yes. No. I—”
Zhenwu’s confusion only deepened. His eyes searched Songhe’s face.
“Why are you compromising your Dao for him?”
“Because he is my son.”
In that moment, Zhenwu forgot how to speak.
A storm of emotions crossed his face in rapid succession: shock, disbelief, anger, confusion, yet none of them settled into speech. His jaw tightened, and he found himself unable to respond.
Songhe lowered his gaze toward the meal Zhenwu had prepared earlier. He picked up the chopsticks and began eating without urgency.
Zhenwu said nothing while Songhe ate. By the time the meal was finished, the turmoil within him had settled beneath the surface, restrained but far from gone. He poured Songhe a cup of water and waited.
Songhe finished the water before speaking. He began with the day Ling Feng first arrived at the Moon Ivory Eastern Gate, two months earlier. From there, he recounted every event without concealment: their first meeting in the infirmary, the growing entanglement that followed, the Blackwood and his capture, and finally, his awakening within the very chamber where they now sat.
When Songhe finished speaking, Zhenwu was no longer seated. At some point during the telling, he had risen and turned away. He now stood with his back to Songhe, hands clasped behind him, shoulders rigid beneath white robes.
When he finally turned back, he found Songhe watching him, gauging his reaction.
“It is my fault,” was all Zhenwu said.
Songhe raised a brow, surprised, but after a brief moment of consideration, he quickly understood.
“If I had gone to the summit instead…”
“Zhenwu, it is not your fault.” Songhe interrupted him before the guilt could take root.
“I have already examined the matter thoroughly. Every event surrounding the summit was orchestrated for a single purpose. Every coincidence, every delay, every movement was arranged so that the one who encountered the nine-tailed fox spirit would be me.”
His gaze darkened slightly.
“We were both used—the fox spirit and I. Though, in the end, I was the greater fool.”
Zhenwu frowned, unable to fully grasp what Songhe meant, and Songhe continued.
“I already confronted and interrogated her. The fox spirit never realized the truth. She was only a piece of the grand plan. That night, she believed she had found you. That is why she sent Ling Feng here in the first place. However, I was the one meant to meet her while wearing your face.”
Something of the strain beneath Songhe’s composure surfaced then. It was not merely exhaustion, but the weariness of a man who had carried centuries upon his shoulders until even immortality had become burdensome.
“Do you see,” he said softly, “none of this can be blamed on you.”
After a thoughtful moment, Zhenwu asked the question that truly mattered.
“But who would devise such a plan? To what end?”
“Tianyao.”
Zhenwu blinked, then frowned. Once again, he found himself without words.
Songhe continued.
“Throughout his reign, I was his greatest obstacle. Again and again, his ambitions collapsed because of me. If he intended to reincarnate, then naturally, he would seek a way to eliminate the one person capable of threatening him before he could regain his full strength.”
Songhe’s voice grew quieter.
“And so he set all of this into motion.”
The truth settled, slow and certain, over the chamber.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
When Songhe spoke again, his voice softened in a way Zhenwu had almost forgotten he was capable of.
“Zhenwu, I knew the moment I saw him. I saw his eyes and I knew…” Songhe’s gaze lowered slightly, growing distant as memory took hold of him.
Zhenwu observed him intently. The composure of an immortal cultivator had faltered. He was no longer speaking as the Silver Thread of Shifting Stars.
He was speaking like a father.
Zhenwu’s heart softened, though he struggled to find the right words.
Songhe continued, his gaze still distant.
“I also understood the danger. I was supposed to destroy him on the very first encounter. I should have ended him immediately. That was the only opportunity I had to end everything before it slipped beyond my control.”
There was no hesitation in his voice when he said it. No attempt to soften the truth.
Only exhaustion.
“But instead, I lied to myself.” A bitter smile crossed his face briefly before fading.
“I lied to him. And I lied to everyone else.”
Zhenwu looked away. The weight of the revelations pressed too heavily upon him.
“The truth is… I saw that he was my flesh and blood, and I wanted him.” Songhe closed his eyes briefly. “The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted him to live. The more dangerous he became, the more I wished to keep him safe.”
“I came to love him.”
At length, Zhenwu asked, “What are we to do now, ge?”
Songhe regarded him quietly. A faint warmth touched his expression—not ease, but recognition. Recognition of the man before him, of the bond that endured despite everything that had been laid bare.
Zhenwu returned to the table and sat.
Songhe said, “In the Blackwood, I suffered a deviation of qi. The imbalance has already taken root. There is no return for me now, Zhenwu. If nothing is done, the path before me leads to one end.”
Zhenwu’s lips curved faintly, but there was no humor in it. The expression surfaced like a reflex against a truth too close to dismiss.
“Speak plainly. What do you mean?” he asked, his tone sharp and edged with accusation.
Songhe lowered his gaze and looked away.
“I was uncertain before, but now that you have returned… my heart is settled.”
“I will end it.”
Zhenwu did not react at first. But then a low chuckle escaped him, quiet and unimpressed.
“Da-ge, you cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
Zhenwu’s expression tightened.
“Oh? Explain it to me, then. Explain how ending your own life resolves anything.”
Songhe met his gaze without flinching.
“Because now I can leave him to you.”
Zhenwu found himself without ground to stand on. His thoughts faltered, and even his growing indignation refused to take shape. He parted his lips, then fell silent. No argument came. No refusal followed.
“Will you accept him, Zhenwu?” Songhe asked softly.
“Have you considered the deceptive nature of fox spirits? What if all of this is an illusion? None of it makes sense. What if none of it is true?”
Songhe merely shook his head, his expression making it clear that such a possibility was impossible.
“He has three tails.”
“I… I…” Zhenwu’s breath came unevenly. “But how can I accept him after what he has done to you?” he demanded. “I should destroy him.”
Songhe did not react to the rising anger.
“I do not regret what has happened to me, Zhenwu,” he said. “Please, do not despair for me.”
Zhenwu’s expression tightened, but Songhe continued before he could speak.
“I may be blinded by my love for him. You may believe that. Even so, you must give Ling Feng a chance. I believe he can be saved.”
“Da-ge, he is a demon. ‘Ling Feng’ is nothing more than a name he wears to deceive you, to trap you. And he has already succeeded.”
Songhe shook his head and looked away.
“He is still only a darkling. He has not fully become what you fear, Zhenwu. Part of him remains human. Part of him remains a fox spirit. The demon within him… is still only a seed.”
Zhenwu did not flinch.
“Can that seed be removed?” he asked pointedly. “Leizun already warned us of this. Once it takes root, it will grow. It will consume everything.”
Songhe had nothing to counter. He retreated into his thoughts as despair settled across his face. Beneath it lay a deeper pain he could no longer conceal.
Zhenwu watched him and wondered how alone his brother must have been through all of it—carrying the weight of his choices and enduring a private struggle that had brought him to this point. And he—he had been absent through all of it.
Finally, Zhenwu spoke.
“I will not teach him the Dao.”
Songhe looked up at him.
“But I will care for him and protect him for as long as I can, for as long as he remains human.”
Songhe smiled faintly, briefly, before looking away again.
The two immortals sat in silence for a long while, neither inclined to break it. Each lost in their own thoughts.
At length, Songhe spoke.
“Before I go, I will give him my blood one last time.”
“No.”
Zhenwu’s expression remained steady, though something in it had softened into resolve.
“You have entrusted him to me, da-ge. Leave this to me as well.”
Songhe rose slowly to his feet, and Zhenwu immediately followed. The silence between them stretched taut, burdened by everything that could no longer be undone.
“I have asked too much of you.”
Before Zhenwu could respond, Songhe stepped back and lowered himself to his knees. His forehead touched the floor.
The gesture struck harder than any blade. Zhenwu’s breath caught.
“Ge—”
He bent over, gripping Songhe by the shoulders and pulling him upright before he could kowtow a second time. Shock had broken cleanly through his composure. Zhenwu dropped to his knees before him.
“What are you doing?”
Songhe’s expression remained calm, though exhaustion lingered beneath it.
“Thank you.”
Zhenwu stared at him for a long moment, his expression pained.
“You would have done the same for me.”