I descended from Chaowu Mountain, carrying a wooden basin in my hands. The white frost on the grass dampened my shoes, socks, and the hem of my skirt. The distant mountains were faint like an ink-wash painting of an ethereal realm, veiled in misty clouds. I paused for a moment to take in the view, realizing that even such beauty could not compare to one-tenth of what Du Zhong depicted in his paintings.
Following the stream back to the White Bamboo Forest, it looked from afar as if a light snow had just fallen. The sun had just risen, and the dew on the bamboo leaves dripped onto my hair, sending a chill from the top of my head down to the soles of my feet. I walked slowly, but after washing clothes all morning, I wasn’t even out of breath. I felt a faint sense of relief.
The wind was strong in the bamboo forest. I had originally tied a rope to dry the clothes, but when Yuwen Hao came by, he scolded me, saying it was improper for others to see. So I cut two white bamboos and planted them in the courtyard to hang the rope. When I first arrived, the yard had been bare, with nothing in it—those old pear and jujube trees were long gone.
I shook out the clothes and hung them up—simple white robes, plain and thin. I always washed them carefully, afraid that too much force would tear them. Du Zhong didn’t have many clothes to begin with, usually alternating between two old ones. He never paid attention, nor did anyone else. It wasn’t until I arrived that I couldn’t stand it and made him a few more. Since they were still white, he probably didn’t even notice the difference.
After hanging the clothes, I swept the courtyard and tidied the house. While organizing Du Zhong’s study, I saw a painting on his desk, the ink still wet—likely freshly finished. With just a few sparse strokes and vast empty spaces, it depicted a lone boat, exuding a serene atmosphere.
I let out a cold laugh and left the room, then went to the cave behind the mountain to fetch a pot of water. Du Zhong loved tea brewed from the clear spring there.
Carrying the pot, I headed toward Manhua Pavilion. The roar of the waterfall grew louder. Du Zhong was usually seated on the protruding boulder beside the waterfall at this time, meditating—unchanged for over twenty years.
I brewed tea for him in the pavilion as the water boiled on the small stove. Du Zhong’s figure stood not far away, as steady as Mount Tai, ethereal as an immortal. In the past, I would often prop my chin in my hands and watch him for hours without growing tired. Now, I dared not look for more than a glance.
Judging by the sun, he would likely rise soon, so I turned back. It had been over three months since I arrived at the White Bamboo Forest, but because I knew his routine well enough to avoid him, we had hardly crossed paths directly.
On the way back, I ran into Yan Shang, still looking sickly and weak. No matter how delicate his features were, he resembled a wilted flower, casting a shadow over one’s heart. I wanted to tell him to cheer up but didn’t know how to say it.
"Ye Niang, how has Master been lately?" he asked, though his eyes didn’t meet mine, instead drifting elsewhere.
He was Du Zhong’s second disciple, while Yuwen Hao was the eldest. I had grown accustomed to Du Zhong’s indifference and Yuwen Hao’s arrogance, but Yan Shang’s politeness and gentleness always unsettled me. I knew he avoided looking at me because of Chaowu Mountain’s strict rules, his own shyness, and the scars on my face. Perhaps he thought it rude, not realizing that people like me feared evasive gazes more than anything—we’d rather be treated as ordinary.
I gestured in sign language, telling him Du Zhong had been well recently.
Yan Shang nodded and continued toward Manhua Pavilion, likely to report something.Du Zhong was the sect leader of Zhaowu Mountain, renowned as the Water Sword Immortal. Thanks to him, Zhaowu Mountain stood on equal footing with Mount Shu. However, in recent years, he had largely withdrawn from sect affairs, leaving them to Yan Shang and the senior elders.
As for me, Ye Niang, I was merely a servant attending to his daily needs—not even a formal disciple of the sect.
Three months ago, Yan Shang transferred me from the kitchen to the White Bamboo Forest where Du Zhong secluded himself in meditation. The reason? During the sect’s grand ceremony, Du Zhong had actually sipped half a bowl of the congee I cooked. Rumor had it that he had barely eaten anything for the past five years, occasionally nibbling on fruit at most. Though a cultivator, he was no immortal—he hadn’t achieved the state of fasting, yet he simply couldn’t stomach meals. This had driven his devoted second disciple to desperation, summoning renowned chefs from all corners of the land.
When I first arrived at the White Bamboo Forest, there had been another servant attending to Du Zhong. Later, through some underhanded scheming, I drove her out of the forest, forcing her back into menial labor within the sect. From then on, aside from cooking, I took over all her duties—sweeping, laundry, everything.
Returning to my room, I sat before the bronze mirror and studied the scar on my face. It ran from my cheekbone to my ear, thin and not particularly gruesome. Yet I always let my bangs cover the unblemished half of my face, leaving only the scarred side exposed. Ordinary people couldn’t help but let their imaginations run wild, mentally reconstructing how horrifying the hidden half must be.
I swept my hair aside. The unfamiliar face in the mirror was strikingly alluring, even bewitching—especially when smiling. I bared my teeth at my reflection, afraid that without occasional practice, I might forget how to smile.
How could I seduce a man if I couldn’t even smile?
Yes, after lurking in Zhaowu Mountain for two years, I had finally seized the chance to get close to Du Zhong—all to seduce him, bed him, and destroy his true form and cultivation.
A mute woman with a scarred face, daring to seduce a man coveted by women across the realm? Anyone who heard of it would surely think I’d lost my mind.
But I knew better than anyone—no one was more clear-headed than I.
—I sought vengeance.
OpenNovel