Wandering Swordsman |

"Qing'er..." he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if confessing to her from afar, "I'm sorry..."

That cry of "Qing'er" was his last stand, his guilt towards Murong Qing, and a questioning of the vow he once made.

He knew that after this night, no matter the outcome, his soul would bear a wound that would never heal.

When it comes to saving lives, the cost shouldn't be a concern.

He took a deep breath, his fingertips trembling slightly, and finally slowly unbuttoned his shirt.

His black clothes slipped off his shoulders, revealing a muscular body covered in old wounds—marks left from countless life-or-death battles.

He gently embraced Situ Meng, who rushed towards him, his movements tender, as if afraid of shattering a rare piece of glass.

The moonlight shone down, illuminating her jade-like skin and exquisite curves, causing her to tremble slightly in the night breeze.

Her breath was hot as she nestled in his arms, like a weary bird that had finally found its way home.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

In an instant, the man's own pure yang energy flowed in through his mouth, like a spring flowing into a dried-up riverbed.

She let out a soft moan, her body trembling violently, as if a withered flower branch had suddenly received a refreshing rain.

At the same time, his hands did not stop. His fingertips gently stroked the acupoints on her back, using the demonic energy as a guide to slowly release the rampant poisonous fire in her body.

The fiery poison, like a snake, roamed through the meridians, but was gradually tamed by the dual suppression of yang energy and demonic energy.

However, this is just the beginning.

As the yin and yang energies merged, the poisonous fire within Situ Meng's body became increasingly restless, as if it wanted to break free of its restraints.

She unconsciously wrapped her legs around his waist, clasped her arms tightly, their lips met, their breaths mingled, as if trying to merge into one.

Her body was taut like a bow, then slowly relaxed, and every slight tremor tugged at Shen Mo's heartstrings.

He closed his eyes, not daring to look at her, yet he could clearly feel the temperature of every inch of her skin and the trembling of every low moan.

Her hair brushed against his neck, carrying a faint medicinal scent and the unique fragrance of a young girl.

Her fingertips traced his back, leaving a slightly itchy mark, like the imprint of fate.

The night breeze swept by, bringing echoes from the distant valleys, but it could not drown out the silent turmoil within this small area.

This is not an expression of desire, but a struggle for life.

Every exchange of breath is a resistance to death; every touch of skin is a challenge to fate.

Shen Mo felt no joy, only heaviness.

He recalled Murong Qing's pale yet resolute face; he remembered her saying to him, "Shen Mo, since you've seen me naked, you have to take responsibility for me."

But at this moment, he is facing a life-or-death situation with another woman.

"I... was saving people," he murmured to himself, as if trying to convince himself or begging for forgiveness.

But her body responded honestly to this union—yang energy flowed into her body continuously, the poisonous fire gradually subsided, and her blood and qi changed from violent to gentle.

Her breathing gradually became steady, and her complexion returned from a sickly flush to a healthy glow. Her eyelashes trembled slightly, as if she were about to awaken.

finally--

The last wisp of poisonous fire was drawn out of the body and, with a long sigh, dissipated into the night wind.

Situ Meng's body went limp, and she collapsed into Shen Mo's arms. Her consciousness gradually returned, and her eyes changed from chaotic to clear.

She slowly opened her eyes and saw his profile so close to hers—his brows furrowed, his lips slightly pursed, and his forehead covered in fine sweat, as if he had just returned from the brink of hell.

She suddenly realized something and looked down sharply—she was naked as a newborn, and he was only wearing his original black clothes.

She didn't scream or struggle; she just looked at him quietly, tears glistening in her eyes.

"Young Master Shen..." her voice was weak, yet filled with relief, "I..."

Shen Mo did not respond. He gently draped his coat over her shoulders, his movements careful, as if he were wrapping up a fragile treasure.

The night grew ever deeper.

For him, this night felt as long as a lifetime.

If it were an ordinary person, such a romantic encounter would be considered a divinely granted opportunity, something they would desperately desire.

For Shen Mo, however, this was not a joy, but a calamity—a tearing apart of righteousness and personal feelings, a cruel choice between love and duty.

He saved her.

But he also personally drew a bloody mark on his heart.

The moonlight remained cold and clear, unable to illuminate the turmoil deep within people's hearts.

In the distance, the mountain wind swirls up fallen leaves, as if whispering—some things, once done, can never be undone.

Situ Meng was wearing Shen Mo's black clothes. The clothes were loose and fell over her shoulders, revealing a section of her fair collarbone. Her hair was messy and stuck to her cheeks. Her breathing had returned to normal, and her eyes were gradually becoming clear.

But her heart was churning like a turbulent tide.

Although she was confused about what had just happened, she was not entirely unaware of it.

She remembered those burning lips, the hand that guided the poisonous fire, his suppressed breathing and trembling fingertips.

She remembered even more the whispered "Qing'er" before he closed his eyes—that sound, like a needle, pierced the softest corner of her heart.

She knew that he had feelings for Murong Qing.

But she also knew that if it weren't for him, she would have already perished.

She slowly raised her head and, in the moonlight, saw the profile of Shen Mo's face—his brows were furrowed, his lips were slightly pursed, and there was no trace of triumphant joy in his eyes, only unfathomable gloom and heaviness.

He gazed at the distant night sky, as if staring at an irreparable mistake.

Situ Meng's heart skipped a beat.

She suddenly understood—for him, this night was not about possession, but sacrifice; not about pleasure, but torment.

"Young Master Shen..." she said softly, her voice still a little hoarse, but with a gentle firmness.

Shen Mo was taken aback and looked down at her.

She looked at him, her eyes filled with no resentment, no shyness, only a faint smile, like a lotus blooming under the moon.

"About what happened just now..." She paused, her fingertips lightly touching her lips, as if to confirm if the warm touch was real, "Let's just pretend nothing happened."

Shen Mo's pupils contracted slightly.

"You don't need to feel guilty," she continued, her voice soft yet each word firm and resolute. "I know you did this to save me; if it weren't for you, I would have died from the poison long ago. I will remember this kindness, but... I don't want to put you in a difficult position."

She smiled faintly, a gentle smile that concealed a hint of bitterness: "So, I will keep this secret forever. Let this night fade away with the wind, okay?"

She spoke calmly, as if she were recounting something that had nothing to do with her.

But Shen Mo felt as if his heart was being torn apart.

Looking at her forced indifference smile and her feigned ease in her eyes, he suddenly understood—she wasn't indifferent, but rather she cared too much, which was why she chose to back down.

She would rather bear this memory alone than let him bear the guilt.

"Miss Situ..." His voice was hoarse and almost incoherent.

"Call me Meng'er," she said softly, a hint of tears welling in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them fall. "At least... in this moment, I feel that I am not a weak person who needs to be pitied."

Shen Mo was shocked. As a man, how could he not take responsibility for taking a woman's virginity?

He suddenly reached out and gently pulled her into his arms, his movements firm and without the slightest hesitation.

"No," he whispered, his voice as firm as iron, each word ringing out, "I will not let this night 'go away with the wind,' nor will I pretend nothing happened."