Nan Mengling, utterly dejected, took a moment to pull herself together. Biting her lip, she admitted it—she still couldn’t let go of that stubborn regret.

Those seven days in the gravity chamber had been pure agony. But for revenge—and to claim the young master’s first time—she’d gritted her teeth and endured.

Yet now, in practice, she collapsed from exhaustion before even unzipping his pants.

Remembering his comforting words, fresh guilt washed over her.

If her experience felt off… his must’ve been far worse.

“I’m sorry, Young Master. I messed up.”

“It’s fine. First time, Mengling. You did great.”

“No… I should make it up to you.”

Clenching her fists, guilt refused to let her drop it.

“I said it’s fine—wait, what are you doing? Silly maid, rebelling again?!”

Pinned once more, Zhou Jiuyu blinked in surprise—then just raised a brow and shrugged nonchalantly.

“Go ahead and invite humiliation. Not like *I’ll* be shedding pearls later.”

A flush crept up her cheeks. She despised this dignity-trampling act. Her first glimpse of such degradation came from that tape of her mother and master… Why did her mother wear that dazed look while stripped of pride? Why did her master smirk with smug conquest?

Repulsion. Disgust. Yet now—she *wanted* to trample her own dignity? Absurd…

And yet… a flicker of anticipation stirred anyway.

*So badly… to teasingly glance up at his face while bowing…*

“That’s not so certain… Young Master.”

Nan Mengling lightly bit her crimson lips, eyes glinting with mystery and allure. Her small hand tugged his zipper down. A blush of shame flashed. She took a deep breath… and lowered her proud head.

Zhou Jiuyu hissed sharply, eyes wide—composure shattered.

*Where did this silly maid learn this?!*

…

Dawn arrived. Lingering intimacy still hung in the air.

A phone call jolted Zhou Jiuyu awake—the almost-no-longer-virgin young master. Frowning, he answered.

Tong Che’s voice, weary yet respectful: “My lord, apologies for the early disturbance…”

“Speak plainly.”

“Are you free tonight? I’d like to invite you to dinner.”

“Time. Place.”

“Six PM. Suite 3, Celestial Pavilion.”

“I’ll be there.”

*“Dinner”?* Zhou Jiuyu hung up. *Clearly needs help. City Four’s situation must’ve turned dire for Shadow Syndicate.*

He gently kneaded Nan Mengling’s soft curve. “Don’t sleep too deeply. We’ve business tonight.”

“Mmm… Young Master…”

Her cherry-red lips parted drowsily; her tongue swirled unconsciously inside her mouth.

“What dream is she having?” Zhou Jiuyu rubbed his forehead.

…

Dusk settled.

Nan Mengling wore a simple white slip dress under a thin cyan suncoat, cradling her sword, White Moon.

Zhou Jiuyu led her hand to the Celestial Pavilion.

Amber corridor lights glowed softly. Night deepened outside. On the second floor, Tong Che paced anxiously—then lit up spotting them.

Suddenly, the lights flickered wildly.

Pitch blackness flashed—then a handsome figure in ash-gray Taoist robes, longsword in hand, materialized behind Nan Mengling.

She spun instantly. Every nerve alight. Pupils tightened—but no fear trembled her. Only roaring killing intent.

The man remained calm. “Mengling. Time to return to the mountain with your master.”

“I will return—but not today, Master.” Black and white energy vortexes swirled around her.

With a gesture, she vacuumed the air around the Sword God, trapping him.

He smiled serenely. “You’ve grown. Ninth Tier ability—energy perfectly fused with swordsmanship. I’m proud, Mengling.”

“Cut the ‘Master’ act. You’re not the real Sword God. Silly maid—attack. He’s just putting on a show.” Zhou Jiuyu glanced at the note and sneered.

*“Not the Sword God’s true body—a ‘Weeping Sword’ avatar forged from sorrowful emotions.”*

“Truth or illusion matters not. This reunion is between master and disciple. Who are *you* to interrupt?”

The Weeping Sword stepped—vanished—reappeared beside Zhou Jiuyu, blade slashing down!

Nan Mengling met it instantly.

Pure sword intent clashed with her black-and-white energy blade—BOOM! A massive hole exploded through the Pavilion’s second floor. Bystanders scattered.

Zhou Jiuyu watched, frowning.

Nan Mengling was losing.

The Weeping Sword, brow slightly furrowed, moved with effortless ease. He offered a smile like weeping. “Surprised?”

His slash sent her stumbling back.

“Did you think killing that hermit cowering on Little Sword God Mountain for decades means *I’m* the same?”

“One step. One slash.”

“The sword in his head was mine from fifteen years ago. *Mine* is fifteen years sharper. In swordsmanship alone, I surpass countless top-tier Ninth Tier users.”

His blade tip pointed at her.

“Come back to Sword God Mountain, Mengling. Your scent… intoxicating. You’ve been with him, haven’t you… haven’t you…?”

His body trembled—not in sorrow.

His voice held no grief. Only exhilarated thrill.

He wasn’t crying.

He was trembling with hungry anticipation.