The Great King Ordered Me to Marry – Chapter 58
by Little PandaSpeaking of the Fox and Tiger Touching Hearts to Convey True Meaning.
Even in her dreams, it was nothing but those sorts of things—red waves tumbling over the bedclothes1.
Awake, they lingered in each other’s arms; asleep, phoenixes sang in harmony—embarrassing the wind and moon, flushing the clouds and mist.
Longming pressed a secret kiss—only for her wooden hairpin to slip loose and clatter down beside Zhuoxue’s spread-out silver hair.
In the dream, it was as though a stray cat had trodden on the rooftop tiles. The five fingers locked around her wrist suddenly released, and just as the lotus calyx revealed its hidden fragrance, their entanglement came to a halt.
Zhuoxue rolled to her side, panting with exhaustion. Even though Buzhou Mountain’s wind cut to the bone, the instant she roused, sweat dampened her temples.
Her lashes fluttered. A soft touch landed on her lips, then her cheek tickled—as though the gauze curtain around the bed in her dream had been torn down and draped over her entire face.
Longming straightened up, sweeping her long hair aside in the same motion, and gazed down at her without blinking.
Zhuoxue rubbed her cheek and opened her eyes—only to lock gazes with Longming without warning.
She stared back for a good while. Her eyes were open, but her mind was still a thousand miles away.
This expression was so similar to three days ago when she broke through her cultivation boundary—except the mating heat had subsided, and it carried no undertow of arousal.
A quiet meeting of eyes, free of passion’s tangle.
But the two demons were different. Longming’s gaze was one of waiting; Zhuoxue’s was blank bewilderment, not understanding why.
Not a trace of fatigue remained in Zhuoxue’s body. Her lingtai was clear, her Demonic Core gleaming bright—she had been utterly reborn, and even her breathing was steadier than usual.
She hadn’t yet noticed the change in herself. The moment she opened her eyes, Longming’s crimson gaze hijacked every thought she had.
Why was she suddenly so close?
What had just touched her lips?
Why was she staring so fixedly?
After less than half a ke of stupor, her face flushed crimson from root to tip. Scene after scene of those three days of abandon crashed into her mind—truly living up to you and I entwined2, passion burning like fire.
Now THIS was a revolving lantern3, and before it had even finished turning, she wanted to dig her own grave right then and there.
She didn’t want to wait for the Impermanence to come escort her—she knew the way anyway. She’d set off right now.
At this thought, her hand resting at her side began scratching at the ground involuntarily. Digging holes, she was good at. Digging graves wasn’t so different.
But her fingertips had barely grazed the stone when Longming caught her wrist dead to rights—a posture that belonged to both outside the dream and within it.
“Want to shed another layer of skin?” Longming gripped once, then released.
Zhuoxue’s thoughts snapped like a broken string, and she blurted: “I don’t know!”
She didn’t know what had happened these three days.
Didn’t know Longming’s tender attentiveness.
Didn’t know Longming had been secretly kissing her.
The fox who’d been insisting “I know” three days ago now knew nothing again. As long as one could argue their way out, even a narcissus could pass for garlic.
“Hm?” Longming didn’t immediately understand what the fox was trying to argue.
Zhuoxue already understood completely—Longming had kindly hidden a stretch of memory from her, apparently fearing she’d dig a hole and bury herself.
Longming still watched her without blinking. No shock, no anger in her eyes—just a faint, amused scoff as she agreed: “All right. You don’t know.”
Zhuoxue’s golden eyes darted. Of the thirty-six stratagems, fleeing is best4.
Three days of tender devotion, and the fox turned her back on the tiger. She instantly transformed into a nine-tailed silver fox, kicking her legs to bolt.
But before her legs could kick off, the slippery fabric of Longming’s robes beneath her made her paws skid. The fox’s chin hit the ground, and she screeched to a halt right where she was.
Thud.
Longming froze, reaching out to scoop the fox up.
The fox’s beast form wasn’t much larger than before—easily gathered in one arm.
The fox’s heart screamed: absolutely must not get caught!
Just seeing Longming’s beautiful hands made her blush—how could she let Longming touch her again? She frantically transformed back into human form, but her fox tails still hung boldly behind her, completely forgetting to count how many more she’d grown.
“Did you bump your chin?” Longming asked.
The gentler the white tiger’s voice, the more Zhuoxue’s face burned and sweat beaded. She gritted her teeth and changed her tune: “No, I do know!”
Backtracking and tripping over her words, back and forth, only making things worse.
“What do you know?” Longming smiled, picking up the wooden hairpin and asking at her leisure.
Zhuoxue’s gaze darted evasively—she hadn’t figured out her wording yet.
Longming spoke slowly: “If you won’t say it, then it’s my turn.”
“No, I’ll say it!” How could Zhuoxue know what Longming was going to say—but she absolutely couldn’t let Longming have the upper hand completely.
“Go ahead.” The silver-haired great demon was endlessly patient.
Zhuoxue wanted to cry but had no tears left, never imagining that she, deep in mating heat, had been so uninhibited. She stammered: “Why—why were you secretly kissing me? You’re not playing by the rules5!”
“Not playing by the rules is how you gain the advantage.” Longming spoke the plain truth.
Gain the advantage of what?
The fox’s thoughts tangled again.
“Do you know what advantage I’ve gained?” Longming followed the thread of conversation, her gaze drifting slowly, darkly toward her.
How could Zhuoxue not know? The more she thought about it, the more she flushed. She glared at Longming and said nothing.
Ten zhang below the mountain fissure, it was as though they’d been cut off from the mortal world. Here, there was no need to listen to the clamor of the dust and din.
Fox fur swirled through the air like snowflakes drifting through a barrier, settling generously on Longming’s shoulders and speckling her robes in patches of white.
The “ink” of the ink-wash embroidery was concealed, leaving only the water-blue.
Water-blue on the robes, and in Zhuoxue’s eyes as well.
“I—” Longming paused, then said delicately: “I didn’t only kiss you.”
Zhuoxue hastily pulled one of her fox tails in front of her to hide her burning face, mumbling: “I know!”
But the white tiger wasn’t about to let it go—she had to add oil to the fire.
Longming asked with a smile: “You ask why I kissed you, but why did you hold me for three days?”
Zhuoxue’s ears were scalding—this time entirely from shame. She wished she could wad up all that floating fox fur and stuff it in Longming’s mouth.
Her eye sockets too, so this wicked tiger demon would stop staring so fixedly at her!
“When you were asleep, I couldn’t help thinking—what if someone else had come to Buzhou Mountain with you?” Longming gazed at her steadily, her eyes holding words left unsaid.
Her flushed face suddenly stiffened. Zhuoxue released her tail, raised her arm, and grabbed a fistful of fox fur from the air—exactly as she’d intended.
She pressed the fox fur hard against Longming’s detached, impassive face, a surge of emotion rushing up from her chest, burning hot: “If someone else had come with me, I wouldn’t have come at all.”
She paused, lowering her eyes and arms, and went on in a muffled voice: “I wouldn’t have leapt into the mountain fissure either. Whoever wants to pull up that spirit herb’s roots can do it—I wasn’t about to suffer that indignity.”
Which meant she certainly wouldn’t have fooled around with anyone else, or held anyone else.
Why did it sound as though she had no heart at all? Her physical discomfort had just subsided, and now a wave of grievance swelled within her.
How could Longming not see she was upset?
Zhuoxue was thoroughly indignant. She hastily grabbed another fistful of fox fur and pressed it over Longming’s eyelids, thinking: this white tiger might as well be blind.
“Don’t be angry. It’s my fault.” One of Longming’s eyes was covered completely. She didn’t pull away—just gently stroked the wooden hairpin in her hand.
Zhuoxue wasn’t satisfied. She leaned in and deliberately challenged: “Then tell me—who did you see me as? Did you see me as Jueguang?”
This was a question that struck straight at the vitals.
Through the fox fur against her palm, she sensed Longming’s eyes seem to shift.
When Longming looked through her flesh, which lifetime’s soul was she seeing?
The fox fur pressed against Longming’s eyes, also lightly tickling Zhuoxue’s palm.
After a long while, Longming smiled. “I was just about to ask you—keeping it from me for so long, were you trying to make a fool of me?”
Zhuoxue couldn’t exactly say no.
Longming’s smile lingered at the corner of her lips. That dark, sharp gaze was like an anchor—once it caught, it wouldn’t let go.
She said solemnly: “You are you. I long suspected there was some indescribable connection between you and Jueguang.”
Truthfully, Zhuoxue didn’t find this strange at all. If Longming had truly been oblivious, her heart must have been carved from stone—with only her flesh and skin barely counting as alive.
Her heart raced. She desperately wanted to hear Longming’s next words, yet was terrified of hearing them.
“I will honor Jueguang.” Longming spoke very slowly. Every syllable was hewn from the deepest reaches of her chest, brought forth with everything she had, then uttered one by one with solemn weight. “But I will give my heart to you.”
Zhuoxue froze. She felt something damp beneath her palm—the fox fur was no longer quite dry, clinging to her skin.
This great demon who rarely betrayed emotion, who seemed to regard everything with indifference—had she shed a tear?
Then again, perhaps not. Looking at Longming’s other eye, the one not covered, it was still composed and restrained as ever.
Yet it wasn’t entirely as usual either. Her crimson eyes carried a gravity like she’d cut open her own heart and lungs—there was a barely perceptible unease, and also a naked sincerity that offered herself entirely.
Zhuoxue wasn’t making things difficult for Longming—she was making things difficult for herself.
Her heart was struck hard, pounded through and through, nothing spared.
It wasn’t because of Longming that her spirit, which had drifted and wandered restlessly across a century, finally became a fallen leaf returning to its roots.
It was because of Longming that two stretches of memory, which had seemed separated by a gulf, were joined together completely.
This was the bridging of past life and present, the alternation of life and death, the continuity that made life whole.
Zhuoxue’s eyes stung. She slowly lifted her hand from Longming’s eyes. Some fox fur stuck to her palm, some clung to the corner of Longming’s eye.
It was as though this silver-haired great demon, beautiful as flowers and radiant as the moon, had in an instant become a white-browed old woman of the mortal realm. She broke into a laugh through her tears.
She covered her flushed face, turned her eyes away, and summoned enormous effort to ask: “Then what do these three days count as?”
Longming’s thoughts spun. She thought of countless replies, but not a single one matched what Zhuoxue was about to answer herself.
Zhuoxue gathered the fox tail wider than her own waist, as though a bowl of water had been set on the bed between her and Longming. Her increasingly lovely face was half-concealed behind it.
The fox asked cautiously: “Does it count as dual cultivation6?”
Dual cultivation? Wasn’t it “where love runs deep, passion burns like fire”? How had it become dual cultivation in the blink of an eye?
Longming hesitated, then thought: so be it. This was Zhuoxue’s first life as a demon. Demons were always tossing “dual cultivation” around casually, so she’d gotten it into her head that any intimacy between demons counted as dual cultivation.
“Did your cultivation increase, then?” Zhuoxue abandoned her shame and hastily felt Longming’s face, brushing the fox fur aside in the process.
Those mortal charlatans who called themselves living immortals—this was exactly how they read bones and told fortunes.
Zhuoxue felt Longming’s face, then pressed her own pulse, mumbling: “The cultivation didn’t all go to me, did it?”
A touch of embarrassment welled in her eyes, along with an indescribable tenderness. She thought: one great demon falls from the altar, and another great demon rises to take her place. Longming had fallen, so she would step in.
But Longming said: “That was naturally not dual cultivation.”
Zhuoxue was faintly disappointed, stammering: “Then—then what does dual cultivation look like? Back at Qiufeng Ridge, I asked Auntie Lan and the other demons several times, but no one would tell me.”
Longming saw the fox’s gaze bright and clear—which only made her own thoughts seem indecent.
But dual cultivation of love—how could that be indecent?
“Why ask others? If you want to know—” Longming’s voice was low and unhurried, “I’ll teach you next time.”
The mating heat had faded, yet Zhuoxue’s ears suddenly scalded, even the outer corners of her eyes seared, flooding with crimson.
She lowered her gaze to her slightly curled toes and managed with difficulty: “Longming, the way you look right now…”
Too soft—the second half was barely a heartbeat’s whisper, meant for no one but herself.
“What?” Longming asked.
Zhuoxue couldn’t bring herself to say it, her voice thin as a mosquito’s whine: “So frivolous.”
In truth, Longming’s demeanor was no different from usual. It was Zhuoxue who was brimming with spring, her thoughts coloring what her eyes beheld.
Longming’s eyes widened slightly. She had no rebuttal and could only rise, saying: “We should go. We can’t stay on Buzhou Mountain.”
“The lightning didn’t strike over here, so no one should know we’re hiding here.” Zhuoxue hastily gathered her robes and glanced at Longming. As she turned, her nine fox tails dissolved into phantoms and vanished, revealing a slender, graceful back as flawless as white jade.
She swept her silver hair cascading behind her, it barely covering a waist small enough to span with one hand, as the spring scenery gradually faded from view.
Longming lowered her eyes and adjusted her robes meticulously, saying evenly: “Only Buzhou Mountain has the Blazing Heart Orchid. For a sudden breakthrough, short of marauding everywhere, this is the only way.”
She squinted toward the world beyond the fissure, but saw only vast white snow, not even a glimpse of the heavens. “Kunlun Jade Capital must be in chaos by now. That heaven-spanning lightning striking the celestial palaces—truly unheard of.”
Just as Longming had said, Kunlun Jade Capital was now a scene of devastation. The immortals argued bitterly, each holding their own opinion—they were a hair’s breadth from turning into dogs and chickens, scattering in chaos on the spot.
Kunlun Jade Capital was built upon immortal mountains, its jade pavilions gleaming. On one side, Auspicious Radiance blazed bright; on the other, cold wind and clear moonlight reigned.
The Heavenly Gate had only recently been unsealed, yet now heavenly soldiers locked it down tight again. The immortals gathered among the shattered walls and ruins, with Emperor Tianji at their head.
“Tribulation lightning?”
“No immortal in the capital is undergoing tribulation.”
“This absolutely cannot be tribulation lightning. Tribulation lightning always comes in three bolts, but never this ferocious. This was clearly meant to reduce Yaojing to rubble!”
“If it isn’t a heavenly tribulation, then it’s heavenly wrath!”
“The Mourning Spirit Dove died horribly just before this, and now lightning strikes here—could the culprit be within the capital?”
“It was only a Mourning Spirit Dove that died. Why would the Heavenly Dao unleash such fury?”
“Indeed, only a Mourning Spirit Dove,” one immortal sneered. “But whether worse calamities follow—that remains to be seen.”
“Has there been anything unusual in the Three Realms of late?”
“From what I observe, the mortal world is at peace. The abnormality doesn’t originate from the Mortal Realm.”
“The demon tribes seem to have had no upheaval either.”
“Round and round we go—and it all comes down to suspecting our own celestial colleagues!”
Celestial music had ceased in Yaojing. Immortal attendants hurried from all directions, their rainbow banners and crimson tokens still fluttering unsteadily, while the grand palaces below had already collapsed in swathes.
Shattered tiles carpeted the ground. Eaves and pillars had caved in. Every carved railing and curtained pavilion was destroyed in an instant.
A vast expanse of scorch marks had consumed half of Yaojing.
Among the immortals, the Celestial Leader surveyed his surroundings with calm composure. He had black hair and white eyebrows, appearing as a mortal in his thirties, draped in a dazzling robe as though the sun and moon accompanied him.
Emperor Tianji said without alarm or unease: “Immortal friends, stay calm. The Heavenly Gate, though impregnable, has never been strictly sealed due to the Auspicious Radiance’s protection. Even if some demonic entity infiltrated and caused havoc, it wouldn’t be unheard of.”
“What demonic entity could wreak havoc in Yaojing?” one immortal scoffed. “I say we lock down the Heavenly Gate and investigate every immortal here thoroughly—lest the thief cry ‘catch the thief’7!”
Emperor Tianji’s expression didn’t change. He nodded: “You speak sense, immortal friend. However, a few days ago, Yanwang of the Yellow Springs Bureau submitted a report.”
“About what?”
The Bureau of Heavenly Law’s officials formed hand seals, and a scroll-painting unfurled before the immortals’ eyes, showing the scene of Yanwang’s report that day.
In the image, Yanwang’s black hair hung loose, his face displeased as he bowed: “Reporting to the Bureau of Heavenly Law: all Destiny Registers in the Yellow Springs Bureau have been completely incinerated. Not a single volume remains. I know not what the intruder sought. I am ashamed to say I failed to apprehend them.”
“Was it a demon or a ghost?”
Yanwang said: “The face resembled a Shura, the movements resembled a demon’s—bizarre and unpredictable.”
The Bureau of Heavenly Law officials formed seals again to retract the scroll-painting, bowing with hands clasped: “As all immortal friends have seen.”
“Demonic and ghostly behavior!” an immortal denounced.
“The intruder burned all the registers and left, not knowing that the registers can be restored. It was a complete waste of effort,” another immortal scoffed.
“I seem to recall the registers were burned once before. Only one volume was destroyed that time, and the cause was also unclear.”
“That burned volume—if I remember correctly—was restored by the Celestial Leader himself, personally recopied.”
Emperor Tianji said calmly: “There are always demons and ghosts who believe burning the registers grants immortality. Utterly foolish.”
“More likely someone diverting blame eastward. Who would commit crimes in their true form and true face?” An elderly immortal blew his beard and glared. “In my view, the trouble is right here in the capital.”
While Yaojing was in an uproar of endless bickering, Buzhou Mountain, touching the heavens, remained silent and still.
Two figures flew out from the mountain fissure. The crack slowly closed, and heavy snow flooded the mountainside. Before long, Buzhou Mountain looked once more as though it had never been harmed.
Zhuoxue’s robes were different from before. She was draped in a fox-fur shawl, her skirt split into nine trailing panels, like fox tails that hadn’t yet faded.
She gathered her skirts and strolled through the snow. Now neither the Auspicious Radiance nor the biting wind could do anything to her.
The fox skipped merrily ahead, then suddenly turned back: “Longming, so nine tails are prettier than nine heads! What am I now—how many like me are there in the world?”
The first half left Longming speechless.
After a moment, Longming replied: “One of a kind in this world.”
“I’m that amazing!” The fox suddenly sniffed herself, puzzled: “Why do I smell strange?”
Footnotes
- 被翻红浪 | bei fan hong lang | Classical Chinese literary euphemism for passionate lovemaking, literally 'red waves turning over the bedclothes'; from erotic poetry imagery of tangled crimson bedding.
- 你侬我侬 | ni nong wo nong | Classical term of endearment from Guan Daosheng's Yuan dynasty poem 'I and You,' expressing two lovers becoming inseparably one; here paired with 'passion burning like fire' to describe their three days of abandon.
- 走马灯 | zouma deng | Literally 'revolving lantern'—a traditional Chinese lantern whose inner vanes spin from candle heat, casting moving shadows; metaphor for memories flashing rapidly through one's mind during shock or embarrassment.
- 三十六计走为上计 | sanshiliu ji zou wei shang ji | Classical Chinese military treatise 'Thirty-Six Stratagems' in which fleeing is listed as the supreme strategy when outmatched; proverb for tactical retreat as the wisest course.
- 不讲武德 | bu jiang wu de | Modern Chinese internet catchphrase literally meaning 'not speaking of martial virtue,' originating from a viral video; used playfully to accuse someone of fighting dirty or not playing by the rules.
- 双修 | shuangxiu | Daoist 'dual cultivation'—a partnered practice of energy exchange between cultivators; in popular xianxia fiction, often carries sexual connotations, which Zhuoxue naively conflates with any physical intimacy.
- 贼喊捉贼 | zei han zhuo zei | Classical Chinese proverb literally 'a thief crying catch the thief'; describes someone deflecting suspicion by accusing others of the very crime they committed.
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