CHAPTER 638: VYING FOR CONCUBINE STATUS

His lips moved in silent chant, his breath mingling with the incense smoke curling into the cold morning air. Behind him, the children arrived, bundled tightly in wool and fur, their cheeks flushed with winter’s kiss.

Each carried a white feather, plucked from the river cranes that nested near the frozen bay. They approached the shrine with solemn steps, placing the feathers gently at its base, their small hands trembling not from cold, but from reverence. Their parents had told them about the benevolent immortal who kept them safe hence they took it seriously.

The village elder lifted the silver orb lantern, its glass and iron frame catching the morning light. The flame inside had dimmed overnight, but with a fresh wick and a single drop of sacred oil, it flared to life once more casting a warm glow across the snow-laden ground.

Their offerings feathers, prayers, and incense rose into the spiritual realm like wisps of smoke. A golden thread shimmered in the air, curling and drifting with purpose. It floated across the village, weaving through alleys and rooftops, until it reached a quiet courtyard.

It was Old Master Shen’s forge.

Smoke curled from the chimney, mingling with the scent of hot metal and pine ash. The workshop doors stood wide open, revealing a cavern of firelight and clanging steel. Inside, Han Xin hammered away at a blade, his arms steady despite the years etched into his frame. His face was half-hidden behind a soot-streaked cloth, his now black hair was tied loosely at the nape. His inner shirt hung untied, revealing the faint shimmer of runes etched into his skin, marks no mortal could read.

Outside the courtyard, the snow crunched beneath embroidered boots and the air shimmered with the scent of pine and roasted chestnuts. Young women, cheeks flushed from the cold, and something far warmer, gathered in twos and threes, clutching food boxes wrapped in embroidered cloth. Some carried handkerchiefs stitched with plum blossoms, others bore small charms tied with red thread, all pretending to have errands that just happened to pass by the forge.

They weren’t there for Master Shen, though he was respected. No, their eyes were drawn to the tall, enigmatic man who had arrived days ago. He had been found unconscious in the snow by a hunter and carried back like a fallen star. The village doctor had tended to him, and by morning, he had awakened. Word spread like wildfire.

Some said he was a wandering cultivator. Others whispered he was a fallen immortal. But all agreed, he stirred something in Lianhe. A hunger not just for beauty, but for mystery.

Women of marriageable age came bearing gifts. Even a few bold aunties joined in, offering food and flirtation. When Han Xin politely declined, saying he had a wife to return to, they laughed and said, "Good things should be shared." They were all vying for concubine status.

He refused their offerings every time. But Master Shen, ever practical, would accept the food with a grunt. "I need to feed this tall man somehow," he would say, stacking the boxes beside the forge.

Han Xin didn’t stop him. He simply kept hammering, sparks dancing around him like fireflies, his silence only deepening the village’s fascination.

He ignored the onlookers and continued hammering the blade with rhythmic precision, each strike ringing through the forge like a heartbeat. He didn’t care that the women outside still watched him with flushed cheeks and hopeful eyes. His focus was absolute. When the blade reached its final shape, he plunged it into the water trough. Steam hissed upward, curling around his face like ghostly breath.

Master Shen, seated nearby, opened one of the food boxes and sniffed. "What did you girls bring this time. It better be dumplings?" he muttered, lifting the lid with mild curiosity. He had to admit that he had grown plumper ever since the handsome stranger stepped over threshold.

Suddenly a scream tore through the village. The warning bell rang sharp, frantic, unmistakable. It was the sound of terror.

Master Shen dropped the box, grabbed his axe, and shoved it into Han Xin’s hands. "Something’s wrong," he said grimly. "Go."

He turned to the women outside. "Seek shelter! Now!"

Han Xin was already moving, his feet pounding against the snow-packed ground. He raced past panicked villagers, faster than Master Shen could follow. Chaos reigned, people screamed, doors slammed, children cried.

And then he saw them.

Western realm demons.

Forged in the glacial depths where light dies and screams freeze mid-air. Their forms were twisted by cold and cruelty, shaped by the realm’s eternal winter. Translucent skin shimmered like cracked ice over deep water. Beneath it, cursed veins pulsed faintly, each beat a whisper of suffering long devoured.

Their eyes were hollow and silver, reflecting no light. Only the memories of those they had consumed. In those eyes, faces flickered... brief, haunting glimpses of weeping monks, dying cultivators, and children who had prayed too late. Their final moments were etched into its soul, playing like echoes behind its stare.

Han Xin gripped the axe tighter. The forge’s heat still clung to his skin, but the cold of battle had arrived.

A demon’s gaze swept across the village and gazed at the shrine. Its limbs were grotesquely elongated, ending in claws of jagged black crystal, glistening with spiritual residue that pulsed like corrupted starlight. With each movement, it left behind a trail of frost, not the kind that numbs flesh, but the kind that burns the soul, unraveling warmth, memory, and hope.

It did not walk. It glided, as if the earth itself recoiled from its presence. Snow beneath its path turned to ash, curling upward in silent despair.

It wore shattered armor, forged from the bones of slaughtered cultivators. Their names were still etched into the fragments, now twisted into curses. Over one demon’s shoulders hung a cloak stitched from the skins of corrupted beasts, their snarling faces frozen in eternal agony, mouths agape in silent screams.

That demon paused before the shrine. The lantern flickered once then shattered. The shrine collapsed in a single blow, sacred wood and stone splintering like brittle glass.

The village head despite his fear and lack of strength rushed forward to protect the sacred site. But the demon struck him with a single kick, sending him flying through the snow, his body crumpling like parchment.

The shrine lay in ruins. And the village trembled beneath the weight of its silence.