Chapter Nine: The Deity’s Wedding

Suhe glanced at her empty palm—she was, after all, a step too late.

Though she had suspected some trickery at this banquet, she had not imagined it would come so swiftly.

Sweeping her gaze around, she saw the once-crowded hall of guests was no longer a feast, but a grove of willows and apricots. Each person had become a tree, utterly transformed from their former selves.

“There are roads to the Three Mountains and Five Rivers, but through my humble door, you come unbidden.

If you seek death, you cannot blame me, Lin, for being ruthless. Steward Zou, bind her. If you delay, you’ll answer with your own life.”

Lin Mao rose and, with a woman, walked to the side. He exchanged a glance with her; she curtsied, supported her young lady, and gracefully passed over the stone rockery towards the moon-gate.

Upon command, Steward Zou stomped the ground. Instantly, the earth rumbled as roots burst forth, writhing like serpents, surging towards Suhe.

She would not be so easily captured. Dodging deftly, she drew the Sword of Compassion and, in a flash of dazzling light, shredded the roots to pieces.

“Distinguished guest, you do not honor your host with your conduct. Why destroy my master's treasures?” Steward Zou’s face chilled, his brows slanting wickedly as the willow grove moved like stars encircling the moon.

Layer upon layer, the willows wove a bewildering net, their once-tender leaves now strong as silk, encircling Suhe until she was hemmed in.

Channelling true energy into her sword, she called out, “Forgive my ignorance, but I have not heard of a wine that consumes the drinker rather than the other way around. Nor one that forbids self-defense.

Tell me, if someone sought your life, would you offer your neck for the slaughter?”

With her words, the sword’s radiance surged, slicing through the net. She leapt, attempting escape.

But as she reached midair, the willows whipped at her like lashes—heavy and brutal, a single touch would cost dearly. Only her swift reflexes let her drop to the ground unscathed.

Yet, in that moment’s delay, the rent in the net closed. She had missed her chance and was trapped once more.

“To enter Willowheart Hall and leave nothing behind—do you take my master so lightly?” Steward Zou laughed coldly from the grove.

At the mention of Willowheart Hall, Suhe’s memory finally stirred.

In the Sea of Desires, the name was infamous—though not easily described. She’d heard tales during her time at Suyou, mostly spoken of with scorn.

In short, Willowheart Hall was a gathering of degenerate immortals, notorious for sinister, unpredictable methods.

Back then, she’d dismissed the rumors as idle talk. Now, it seemed they carried some truth. The enemy was hidden, their power uncertain.

To reveal all her abilities before understanding their motives? That would be reckless, even foolish.

Reflecting on her recent misfortunes, her anxious heart suddenly calmed.

Qingfeng had once said that a frostless soul would rarely last a month, but with the unique aura of the medicinal pool, it could endure three. Judging by her predicament, she would not escape in a day or two. Better to feign weakness and see what tricks they would play.

Decision made, Suhe pretended defeat, letting the Sword of Compassion slip from her grasp as the willow branches bound her tightly, rendering her a giant rice dumpling.

She fell heavily, sword and all, and both were dragged to Steward Zou’s feet.

He seized the willow ties and hauled her up, deftly plucking the sword into his hand. Dragging her before Lin Mao, he asked, “Master, the captive is yours—what next?”

He made a throat-slitting gesture.

Lin Mao merely flicked his gaze up and waved a broad hand. “Take her away. She is for the Goddess’s use.”

“Yes, sir.” Steward Zou bowed, then roughly shoved Suhe. “Move.”

She offered only a token struggle.

He pushed her again, annoyed. “Behave yourself.”

In my hands, you still struggle? How clueless.

After several steps, Suhe suddenly stopped. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see. Why so many questions?”

“I’m already your prisoner. Is there anything left to hide?” She shot a resentful glance at the willow bindings.

Steward Zou noticed her lack of resistance and grinned, stroking his beard with schadenfreude. “You’re right.

But I’m not telling you. What can you do, bite me?”

…Old fox.

“Enough whining. What comes, comes. To be chosen for the Goddess is fortune earned over lifetimes. Don’t look so miserable, like your wife ran off.”

Suhe stood still, eyes lowered, his eyelids twitching.

So, in his eyes, being offered to the Goddess was a supreme honor, and to resist was ungrateful.

Steward Zou nodded heartily—indeed, that was his belief. Many sought such a fate and failed; you, boy, are lucky and still complain?

Yet Suhe’s sullen, lifeless expression only stoked his ire. He kicked Suhe’s leg and yanked the willow cord. “Move.”

“Let go, I can walk myself.”

With a twist of his shoulder, Suhe tried to break free.

Steward Zou tightened his grip. “Behave. This isn’t some petty realm for you to act up.”

With that, he half-dragged, half-led Suhe over the rockery, up the steps, along a corridor, and finally through a moon-gate.

The moment they crossed, darkness swallowed them.

They walked in pitch black for a long while, Steward Zou leading her through twists and turns. More than once, Suhe nearly stumbled into a void, only to be yanked back with a muttered curse—“People from small worlds, so timid. A breeze and they fear a storm; a pit, and it’s an abyss. Shallow…”

Suhe did not argue, responding meekly, as if truly cowed by the journey.

After about the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, a faint, dim light appeared.

“In you go.” Steward Zou pushed her, and she fell inside.

With a grunt, Suhe struggled to a sitting position against a stone pillar.

Now, Steward Zou merely stood guard at the entrance, arms folded.

Suhe ignored him, surveying the room.

Dim oil lamps were draped in red gauze, bathing the chamber in a crimson glow that felt oppressive, as if a heart were trying to burst free from its chest—yet finding no escape, suffocating until breath failed and death followed.

Beside each lamp stood a figurine—strange, was it not?

Cultivators, people who aspire to divinity, keeping clay and wooden idols as common folk might, each with a unique costume and style, unlike anything from the Sea of Desires. They resembled the painted burial pottery of mortals.

Their cheeks bore exaggerated rouge, eyes downcast, hair like clouds, all in red dresses with green floral embroidery at the collar, a green sash draped at the wrist, and ribbons cinching the waist, their poses ethereal, as if about to dance into life.

With the flicker of flame, they seemed ready to move.

There were eighteen such idols, and at the end, a tall altar carved with fierce, vivid beasts.

Upon it stood a statue of the Goddess—unlike the lesser idols below, her beauty was luminous, her posture graceful, arms raised as if embracing the moon. In her palm rested a jade cup shaped like a lotus leaf, and her golden skirt seemed to ensnare the heart at a glance. Her allure defied description.

Eight pillars ringed the dais, draped with red curtains, the whole chamber aglow with an eerie, burning red.

Suhe withdrew her gaze, exhaling softly—what was Willowheart Hall plotting?

Judging from the surroundings, this was a shrine to the Goddess—not large, but he could not discern her identity.

The Sea of Desires had its own traditions of worship, with shrines and statues for the virtuous and renowned, but always with names and stories. Never had he heard of such a strange, enigmatic cult.

No matter how he looked, it all seemed like a wedding ceremony.

But a wedding for a statue—was that not bizarre?

Even if it were, marriage is the union of yin and yang, male and female. With only a Goddess, there could be no match.

Yet the reality before him could not be denied. Where, then, lay the truth?

Why had everyone else been turned into trees, and why was he spared?

Had he simply stumbled into their plot, or did they have other designs for him?

Were the banquet guests truly ignorant of Lin Mao’s nature, or was this all part of a deadly trap?

He pondered long, but found no answer. He glanced at Steward Zou, who stood calm and indifferent, ignoring him.

Unless he was a fool, he must have some hidden reliance.

Suddenly, a thought struck—he had not seen the young lady and her mother since they preceded him here. He had sat at least half an hour, yet there was no sign of them.

In such silence, two living people could not simply disappear—unless…

At that moment, a droplet of water fell from above—clear and melodious, sending ripples across his heart, stirring a wave of dread.

Suhe frowned, quickly circulating his true energy to banish the unease.

As he worked, a faint, almost imperceptible fragrance wafted through the air, tinged with the barest hint of blood.

Instantly, Suhe’s face hardened, his bound hands clenching. He struggled upright against the pillar, meaning to question Steward Zou—when suddenly, the shrill wail of suonas and the crash of gongs split the air, chilling his very soul.

Then, a sharp, eerie woman’s voice began to sing, laughter laced with menace:

“The old ox weds, the weasel bows.
Family to family, the groom comes to marry.
Mother, oh mother, I will not wed.
No, no, you must obey.
The groom arrives, you must go.
To marry the heavens, a price beyond measure.
Elder sisters come, younger sisters arrive,
Sisters together, side by side.
Hee hee hee… the wedding begins…”