Returning in Triumph.

The Sanctuary was a ripple of cheers, like wind through banners. On hearing the capture succeeded, Cerqin let out a breath, relief flowing like warm tea.

Joy surged first; she wrapped Spring Tide in a full embrace, like throwing a cloak around a returning comrade.

“Why so sudden?” Spring Tide said with a laugh like chimes. She didn’t push Cerqin away, letting the moment settle like warm sand. Silver Luan and Aileaf watched the usually carefree Cerqin show a rare softness, like a cat smoothing its fur. The four finally exchanged a quiet look, like lanterns lowering.

Ming Duo’s magical avatars, woven through her body as a medium, unraveled like torn silk. The arcane mechanisms were destroyed, like gears drowned in rain. The soul-shards clinging to each limb drifted back to the core, like smoke to a kiln.

In the improvised meeting room, Ming Duo’s head rested on the table like a severed moon. Alive yet broken, the sight struck like cold iron—subtle and terrifying.

Thankfully, they’d seen similar carnage. A leader of the Beauty Association had been carved into a mess, a shattered mirror of flesh—worse, unspeakable.

“We just met, yet let me say it again. Long time no see, Uncle Ninexiao,” her voice rustled like a dry leaf.

In the room stood Cerqin’s group of four. Several Divine Officers flanked Ninexiao, faces tight as frost. When Ming Duo spoke, their bodies tensed like bowstrings.

The senior Divine Officer furrowed his brow like stormclouds. He’d fought in the capture. When Ming Duo’s scattered minds fused into that head, he felt a wrongness, thin as a knife.

She was only Seventh Rank, yet her spirit force twisted and surged. In that instant of fusion, it spiked like a blaze climbing dry grass.

It left a cold thought like a draft under a door: had Ming Duo really fought with her full strength?

The room’s air was taut as wire, yet Ninexiao’s presence was a tonic, like a steady lantern in wind. Ninexiao wore an easy, unhurried look, smooth as ink. He glanced at Spring Tide across the table, then smiled at the head like a cat eyeing a puzzle.

“It’s been a while indeed. I’ve heard the story from Spring Tide. Ming Duo, you want death?” His words were steady as stones.

“Yeah. So can you give it to me?” Her tone was flat as winter glass.

The plea sounded like a joke, yet held no feeling. A blank face speaking from a severed head—eerily calm as snow on slate.

“I don’t know what Ming Xi intended, or why he let you leave. You know this: I can’t decide your life or death,” his gaze calm as midnight water.

“This kind of thing you knew from the start. The Sanctuary won’t order your direct execution, unless you…” Spring Tide’s voice was light as drizzle. She didn’t finish. If one purely sought death, there were better ways, like slipping under a quiet tide. But reason stripped of feeling, swollen by the instinct to survive, wouldn’t let her choose. And since she couldn’t dissolve into total madness and harm everyone indiscriminately, the Sanctuary wouldn’t order her killed outright. Ming Duo knew this, the truth sitting like a stone in the mouth.

“Too much talent isn’t always a blessing,” a voice sighed like wind through pines.

“Is that a lament?” Ninexiao replied, taking a device from a nearby Divine Officer, motion smooth as flowing ink.

They’d gathered because Ming Duo was too strong, a powder keg without a stronger hand to anchor the room, buzzing like a wasp nest.

Ming Duo would be escorted back to Eastern Sea City. But Ninexiao, an Eighth Rank cultivator, couldn’t leave the imperial capital, chains of duty like iron around his ankles.

Curbing a high-rank prisoner’s power was necessary, a lid on boiling water. Ninexiao first planned to brand her soul with a curse mark, like pinning a moth. Aileaf suggested a method that felt steadier, like bracing a bridge with stone.

Use the rule-power of divine abilities to augment Ninexiao’s soul-seal—more keys, harsher shackles, traits layered like iron scales. Cerqin and Aileaf were only Fifth Rank, and Silver Luan hadn’t broken through. Yet lending traits through the gods’ abilities could still bolster the seal, like adding herbs to a brew.

Aileaf, crown princess of the Littlefolk, had a healer’s genius. She knew many secret arts and hidden lore, like a cabinet of moonlit vials.

The sealing went smoothly. The rule-force of four divine abilities—Phantom God, Love God, Dragon Deity, Curse Deity—flowed into Ninexiao’s soul-seal like rivers into a lake. With several Divine Officers assisting, the soul-chain gained nine keys, nine cold stars. To unlock it, Ninexiao, the four with Cerqin, and four Divine Officers had to be present together, a constellation complete.

The curse was built with rules hard to unwind, knots like wet hemp. In truth, it was set as permanent from inception.

Given Ming Duo’s state and her crimes, freedom was nearly a vanished star.

Once the binding curse was complete, the eerie force radiating from Ming Duo’s head was pressed down like snow on embers, falling below high-rank. Even so, that lone head still carried threat beyond Sixth Rank, a blade in a box. It just couldn’t endanger high-rank cultivators anymore.

Cerqin felt it first: once the soul-curse forged its shackles, a pale current of emotion rippled in Ming Duo’s hollow eyes, like dawn mist. She let out a soft hmm, as if hearing whispers like reeds. Shaking her head clear, Cerqin asked, curiosity like a cat’s tail, “Is this fate?”

Everyone turned to Cerqin, puzzled, like birds tilting heads. She said nothing, only locked eyes with the head on the table, a stare like twin wells. Because of the array, their gaze could align, like mirrors facing.

“Fate. Yes.” Ming Duo’s voice was still hollow, but less mechanical, like wind finding shape. Everyone noticed, and Aileaf nodded, eyes bright as leaves.

“As expected. If she’s under a god-relic’s influence, the same rules might yield unexpected effects,” Aileaf said, words like measured drops.

“It actually shifted her.” Ninexiao was the most surprised. After the capture, he had examined her soul in fine detail, like reading threads. He’d concluded it couldn’t be repaired or influenced, only sealed by soul-curses.

“Even a sliver of feeling returning is good; otherwise she can’t sense anything, right?” Aileaf’s face turned fierce, a hawk’s mask. Cerqin chuckled, laughter like a bubbling spring. “Aileaf, your look is terrifying.” Aileaf rolled her eyes and glared, like snapping a fan shut.

“Laugh all you want. Your body parts swapped with Qianli still isn’t resolved…” Her words landed like pebbles. “Oh, right…” Cerqin blinked, memory rippling like a pond, and looked back to Ming Duo.

“In this state she can’t use her abilities. Let’s assemble her first,” Ninexiao said, voice steady as bamboo. He pointed to the other side of the table—to the pile of parts, deliberately ignored, resting in three small basins like grim lotus bowls.

This patchwork was easier than before; the pieces were more complete, fewer in number, like a simpler puzzle. After they put Ming Duo back together, Spring Tide pulled a blanket from her spatial gear and draped it over her, like laying a cloud.

“You’ve become gentler, more human,” the prisoner said, words like a thrown pebble. She only paused, a silence like frost. The jab drew a stifled laugh from Cerqin, a bell under a sleeve. Spring Tide shot her a glare like a thrown dagger and held her tongue.

Once the dust settled, Cerqin and Qianli swapped back their exchanged body parts, the work careful as stitching torn silk. Spring Tide watched anxiously, brow knotted like rope. At the end she fought down nausea like a wave, and sought Ninexiao, asking if Ming Duo’s bloodline ability could be restrained.

The Hand of Dominion barely touched peers or those above. But its suppression of weaker beings was terrifying, like a tide smothering candles.

Ninexiao had no perfect answer. The Hand of Dominion triggered on touch. In the end, Ming Duo would wear gloves, and her keepers would stay wary, like cats around hot stoves.

Spring Tide took on the escort to Eastern Sea City. Ninexiao considered and agreed. She was Seventh Rank now, strong enough to guard a weakened Ming Duo, like a net over a storm fish.

The Holy Maiden’s Procession convoy was the best group for the task, a sacred caravan like a moving temple.

One Seventh Rank alone felt thin, like paper against rain. They planned to depart after Silver Luan broke through to Seventh Rank as well, two pillars under one roof.

Plus, Cerqin had long-distance communication trials and meetings to wrangle, like weaving wires through fog. Staying longer in the imperial capital became inevitable.