GD Ch. 51 Part 1

Chapter 51: Why Was She So Good To Her?

On that day, Zhuyou had taken her on another trip to Songling City. The journey had originally been for the Heaven-Observing Mirror, but after probing Zhou Xizhao’s sea of consciousness, they had stumbled upon an unexpected surprise.

At that time, Zhuyou had asked about this very date—the fifteenth day of the twelfth lunar month, in the 170th year of the Guangsu Calendar in the Mortal Realm.

“That day, there was a banquet in the Jade Pool. I did not take a single step outside the Heavenly Palace.” Jingyi clenched her hands in secret, her slightly long nails nearly digging into her flesh. Her forehead was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, her eyelashes trembling incessantly, making her look utterly pitiful.

But Changying was unmoved. It was as if she was born without the concept of pity—her heart was as calm as still water, without a ripple of emotion. She lowered her eyes and asked again, “Is that the truth?”

These two words were like a blade, hanging over Jingyi’s throat.

Jingyi dared not meet Changying’s gaze. She only felt a chill creeping up her nape, the hair on her neck standing on end. Her hand, hanging at her side, was clenched tightly as she hurriedly replied, “I would never dare to deceive the Divine Venerable.”

Changying responded indifferently, “Then prove it with your sea of consciousness.”

The moment her words fell, she did exactly as Zhuyou had once done to her—placing her index finger against Jingyi’s forehead.

That finger was slender and pale, carrying a slight chill.

She did not close her eyes, yet in the blink of an eye, she had already seen through Jingyi’s sea of consciousness with complete clarity.

Jingyi had been born for nearly three hundred years, and her sea of consciousness was pristine—each strand of spiritual thread neatly arranged, resembling luminous white blades of grass. When brushed by Changying’s spiritual energy, they trembled slightly.

Perhaps due to the fact that this celestial had been born with incomplete three hun and seven po souls, the spiritual threads from her early years were all fragmented and uneven. When Changying extended her divine sense into them, the memories she saw were all blurred and indistinct.

So indistinct that it seemed this celestial had spent her early years in a daze, oblivious to the passage of time. Her mind was chaotic, wholly unlike an ordinary person.

Changying frowned but did not withdraw her divine sense immediately. Instead, she slowly parted the strands before her, meticulously examining them—even the scattered, fragmented threads from Jingyi’s infancy, which held no clear memories, were not overlooked.

She was not truly interested in what this celestial had done as a child. Rather…

She wanted to use this celestial’s eyes to see what Zhuyou had looked like in her youth.

What was Zhuyou like back then? What had she been doing?

The spiritual threads Changying brushed past were almost all imprinted with Zhuyou’s figure, as though Zhuyou had been branded into this celestial’s sea of consciousness.

At that time, Zhuyou had not yet become a devil. She wore luxurious red robes, her long black hair devoid of even a single silver strand. Her features were stunning—radiantly beautiful beyond compare. She appeared to be around fifteen or sixteen, like a young girl from the Mortal Realm.

Behind the girl in red followed a group of young celestials, their eyes filled with admiration, speaking to her with the utmost care, as if she were some delicate, precious treasure.

Zhuyou still seemed so innocent then. There was no trace of sarcasm or disdain in her expression. She still bore divine light, and wherever she went, she was like the moon surrounded by stars—except she shone even more brightly than the moon.

So that was Zhuyou in her youth? She had already been so charming back then? No wonder the devils in the devil’s domain adored her. No wonder the celestial who wielded the tower to suppress the devils could not bring herself to strike her down mercilessly. Even the peafowl demon who followed her side was remarkably obedient to her.

She was meant to be adored—so how had she fallen to such a fate?

Changying furrowed her brows. Through the strands of memory, she noticed that Jingyi had always been watching in secret, never approaching, yet never leaving either.

But Jingyi’s mind had been muddled—could she have even formed such thoughts?

Day after day, year after year, Jingyi had always been like this, hiding in the shadows as if she could not be seen. Whenever she was discovered, she would look terrified—startled and afraid, trembling all over. And yet…

Even so, her gaze never strayed. It remained locked onto Zhuyou, as if it had taken root, unable to move away.

In the Heavenly Palace, there was no night. It was bathed in divine light at all times, bright and luminous. Zhuyou cultivated in the morning and, later in the day, would rest atop the phoenix’s parasol tree. Jingyi would always be there, secretly watching—not with admiration, nor with resentment, but simply staring with a blank expression. It was truly strange.

Zhuyou, however, was not annoyed by this younger sister with missing souls. Instead, she would even toss her spirit fruits to eat. She sat in the tree, barefoot, her pale feet dangling in midair. The wind lifted the hem of her red dress, revealing a stretch of fair skin.

“Why are you following me again? Aren’t you tired today?” At that time, Zhuyou had not yet developed her sharp, sarcastic way of speaking. Her eyes curved into a gentle smile, warm and soft.

Jingyi stood beneath the tree, looking up at her. The fruit landed right on her, and she quickly bent down to pick it up. Then, clutching it in her hands, she looked back up at Zhuyou, blinking before nodding once.

Her nod was peculiar—it was unclear whether she was tired or not.

“Father gifted you a parasol tree a few days ago. Go back and sleep there,” Zhuyou said softly.

But Jingyi did not leave. She remained silent, standing stiffly beneath the tree, fiddling nervously with the hem of her robe. Incomplete souls had made her look even more foolish.

“Forget it, come here,” Zhuyou said, patting the branch beside her.

But Jingyi’s cultivation was weak—she could not even climb a tree.

Zhuyou remained gentle, using a wisp of spiritual power to lift her up onto the branch.

Changying withdrew her divine sense, nearly crushing the fragile thread of memory between her fingers.

Suddenly, she felt an incomprehensible irritation—had that devil always had a habit of raising little ones? What a shame her luck was poor, and her judgment worse—how could she treat such a treacherous little bird so well?

She frowned. For some reason, the drop of blood in her heart began to boil again, bouncing around like a restless pearl, nearly disrupting her state of mind.

If this were before, when her seven po souls were incomplete, she would have had no idea what was happening to her. But now, she understood her emotions all too clearly.

She did not want to see Zhuyou treating this little bird well. Nor did she want Zhuyou to see herself in someone else.

Why did she raise her, teach her, care for her so much? Was it because she had failed to teach this bird properly in the past, and now sought solace in her instead?

No.

She could not allow that.

Jingyi was ice-cold all over, her sea of consciousness frozen as if encased in ice. She dared not move, dared not even lift her head. Her back was already drenched in sweat.

Changying continued sifting through the remaining threads in her sea of consciousness, yet the memories from the fifteenth of the twelfth lunar month were completely murky—nothing could be seen. The threads beyond that day were clearer, but soon after, they became tangled and unreadable once more.

Was it because this bird’s souls were still incomplete at the time?

Or… was there another reason?

Jingyi didn’t dare to move. Shaken by the Divine Venerable’s oppressive aura, she nearly collapsed to her knees, her legs weak and powerless. She struggled to catch her breath.

She was terrified—not only was her sea of consciousness covered in an icy chill, but her feet also seemed frozen to the ground, unable to budge. Her face was deathly pale, and her tightly clenched lips trembled uncontrollably.

The Divine Venerable’s spiritual power brushed across her spiritual threads, leaving her no room to resist.

This Divine Venerable was far from gentle—when she stirred the spiritual threads, it felt as though each one was being forcibly ripped out, sending waves of pain crawling across Jingyi’s scalp. She almost whimpered aloud.

But even if she cried out, this Divine Venerable would not spare her.

Too cold. From this Divine Venerable, there wasn’t the slightest trace of mercy or pity. It was as if she had never known what feelings were—born heartless and unfeeling.

Wherever Changying’s touch fell, those memories resurfaced—no matter how deeply they had been buried.

Memories from the past floated before Jingyi’s eyes, sending her heart into a frantic panic. Fear crept into her bones.

Changying narrowed her eyes, and through one of the threads, she caught sight of the Execution Platform.

Earlier, when Xuanqing had led her past it, she had only caught a glimpse—just the top of the execution frame barely visible above the white jade walls.

The blade on the frame hung three zhang high, gleaming with a cold, sharp light. Several black Immortal-Binding Cords dangled between the pillars, thick as a human wrist.

Now, using this spiritual thread, Changying could see everything in perfect clarity.

On the Execution Platform, Zhuyou was suspended three zhang above the ground, the execution blade hanging over her head. Her arms and legs were bound, and the executioner wielded a long blade, slowly severing her immortal tendons.

Through Jingyi’s eyes, Changying watched as the blade cut down, inch by inch—each slice felt like it was carving a piece from her own heart.

Zhuyou’s head drooped low, her long, disheveled hair falling across her face, hiding her expression. She didn’t cry out—not even when her immortal tendons were cut. It was as if her life had already slipped away.

A burning heat surged in Changying’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

Around the Execution Platform, rows of immortals sat watching in silence, their faces showing a mix of emotions. No one spoke in her defense.

No one helped her. No one stood up for her.

Suddenly, Zhuyou’s body trembled violently. The blade slashed open the back of her robes, and as the silk fell, it transformed into crimson feathers. The moment the feathers touched the ground, they burst into flames, leaving no trace behind.

Her pale, slender back was exposed, and when the blade came down again, it split open her flesh—red and white intermingling—as a section of her immortal phoenix bone was forcibly extracted.

The phoenix bone was a brilliant, blood-red hue, glowing with boundless divine power.

Zhuyou’s head snapped back in agony. Her mouth opened soundlessly, and her wide, vacant eyes stared blankly ahead.

Only now could Changying clearly see her expression—those once innocent and beautiful eyes were now clouded with poison.

Zhuyou trembled but slowly lowered her gaze again, biting down hard on her lower lip.

Amid the dead silence, a voice rang out, “Do you admit your guilt?”