A guttural roar preceded Teng Zong’s arrival, shaking the very air above the Ashen Peaks. He materialized on the central island, a whirlwind of furious Qi, his fine robes slightly singed from breaching the barrier. His eyes, usually pools of placid gold, blazed with a manic intensity. He expected ruin, desolation, a spectral Wuyan cloaked in grief and desperation. Instead, he saw her, Guzhao Wuyan, standing amidst the nascent reconstruction, her silhouette sharp against the sky. And beside her, seated on a makeshift throne of polished sky-jade, a figure of unimaginable celestial grace, Yan-Zhun, the Supreme Deity, idly tracing patterns in the air with a finger shimmering with starlight. The sight hit harder than shattered iron; Teng Zong recoiled two paces, the arrogance draining from his posture into rigid mortification. A god? *The* Supreme Deity Yan-Zhun? And Wuyan, the discarded fiancée, was entertaining him as an equal, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. “Wuyan!” Teng Zong finally managed, his voice cracking with disbelief. “What… what is this charade? You dare to defile the sacred grounds with an outsider? And a deity at that?” His gaze flickered to Yan-Zhun, a mixture of awe and profound envy twisting his features. “He must be here to restore your sect, to pity your wretched state. I knew you couldn’t survive without me.” Wuyan’s gaze was as clear and cold as winter ice. She offered no greeting, no explanation. Yan-Zhun merely lifted an eyebrow, a hint of ancient amusement playing at the corner of his perfect mouth. His presence alone made Teng Zong’s bluster feel like the childish tantrum of a street urchin. “Teng Zong,” Wuyan’s voice was devoid of warmth, echoing across the crags. “Your presence here is unsanctioned. I recall no invitation. And your accusation of ‘defilement’ is ironic, given your history.” She gestured with a graceful hand, and a scroll, shimmering with faint calculations, unfurled itself in the air between them. “However, since you have intruded, let us speak of reparations.” Teng Zong blinked, thrown by her utter lack of emotional reaction. “Reparations? For what? For my generosity in letting you go free? For not condemning you to a barren life?” He scoffed, regaining some of his previous arrogance. “If you truly wish to survive, Wuyan, you need the protection of a powerful clan. My clan. I am willing to be magnanimous. Forget this… deity. Return with me. I will permit you to be a concubine, a secondary wife. Your name will be restored, your status secured.” The wind died over the basalt precipice. Yan-Zhun’s faint smile vanished, replaced by an expression of cold, detached appraisal, as if Teng Zong were a particularly unpleasant insect. Wuyan did not blink. From a small pouch at her waist, she produced a single, meticulously inscribed jade slip. “A concubine?” Wuyan’s voice dropped to a pitch that sliced through the heavy silence. “Your ‘magnanimity’ is nauseating, Teng Zong. Here is your invoice.” She flicked the jade slip towards him. It stopped inches from his face, glowing with an internal light. “For the spiritual Qi stolen from the Celestial Realm of Jiu-Yuan, specifically the Canghai-Aetheric flow, due to the parasitic drain of your so-called ‘true love’ narrative, which has destabilized the foundational arrays of this universe, the total sum is three living Dragon Veins. Pay this, and I will consider offering you one word of reply.” Teng Zong’s face contorted in a mask of pure fury. “You… you dare to mock me? You accuse *me* of stealing Qi? You, a discarded wretch, demand Dragon Veins?” His spiritual reserves, erratic and undisciplined, erupted outward, splintering the granite flagstones beneath his boots. He raised his hand, gathering a swirling vortex of emerald lightning, the 'Jade Serpent's Fang' – an ancestral strike of the Teng clan, known for its annihilating force. “This is your answer, Wuyan! You will beg for mercy!” he roared, unleashing the strike directly at her. The emerald lightning ripped through the air, vibrating with destructive power. But before it could reach Wuyan, a blur of shadow intercepted it. Baili Chen, who had been silently observing from a rocky outcrop, moved with impossible speed. His own Qi flared, a protective shield of shimmering silver erupting from his palms, deflecting the Jade Serpent’s Fang with a violent clang that echoed across the islands. The deflected force tore a trench through the shale beside Wuyan. “My Lady Wuyan,” Baili Chen said, his voice firm, his stance resolute as he faced his former master. “This one serves Canghai. Intruders will be dealt with.” Teng Zong stared, aghast. “Baili Chen! You traitor! You dare to turn against the Teng family? Against *me*?” “My loyalty is to competence, Lord Teng,” Baili Chen replied, his expression unwavering. “And you have proven singularly incompetent in understanding the true cost of your ambitions.” As the confrontation escalated, Wuyan, with a movement imperceptible to anyone but the keenest eye, drifted behind a crumbling pillar. A searing pain erupted in her chest, a phantom claw tearing at her core. She pressed a hand to her lips, a deep, rattling cough escaping her. When she drew her hand away, a single, iridescent petal, glowing with a soft, ethereal blue, lay in her palm, smeared with crimson. The Void Lotus was blooming within her, faster than she had anticipated. She quickly concealed it. But a shadow fell over her. Yan-Zhun stood beside the column, blotting out the gray horizon. His eyes, the color of distant galaxies, were fixed on her. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers cool and feather-light, closing around her wrist. A current of primordial essence, pure and incandescent, surged from his fingers into her meridians. It was meant to mend, to heal, to purify. Yet as the divine essence poured into Wuyan, Yan-Zhun’s serene mask split. His thumb locked over her pulse, his pupils shrinking to fine needlepoints. The celestial light around him flickered, momentarily dimming. He felt it – not just the draining Qi, not just the fatal array within her, but a profound, gaping absence. A core. A vital piece of her soul was simply… gone. She wasn't merely ill; she was a collapsing star, burning down to nothing.

The Parasite's Regret