Ning Yitao followed the bodyguard down into the main hall.
An elder sat on a raised seat at the far end. As they approached, a vigorous old man stepped forward — straight-backed, white hair and beard, a face carved with years, yet with eyes sharp as daggers. His voice rolled out like a bell: deep, authoritative, every word resonant with the kind of command that brooked no argument. When he stopped in front of her, his face was a storm of barely contained anger.
Ning Yitao recognized him at once.
Ji Yeran.
“So you really are persistent — even your choices in reincarnation are predictable,” she drawled, strolling around him with every ounce of feigned indifference.
She had never liked Ji Yeran. It had been his whispering that had led Ji Wangqiu astray and into betrayal. Now, seeing Ji Yeran in person, her sarcasm was sharp and careless.
She sauntered to a chair and sat as if she owned the place. “Spit it out. Why did you summon me? You old fox don’t do anything without a reason.”
Seeing her cool attitude only fueled Ji Yeran’s fury. He puffed up, stabbing an accusing finger in the air. “You again! So disrespectful. I told Wangqiu to stay away from you — I told him not to go near you — but that foolish boy wouldn’t listen. He’s always been a headache, and now he’s come back with nothing but injuries.”
Ning Yitao had no argument for that — this time it had been her actions that put Ji Wangqiu in harm’s way. “Yes, that was my fault. I’ve already mended his outward wounds. But his internal injuries… why are they so severe?”
For a moment Ji Yeran’s thunder faded. He fell quiet, face folding into something unreadable, and he glanced at her as if weighing what to say. Finally he muttered, almost unwillingly, “Family matters are best left alone.”
That wasn’t like him. Ji Yeran normally spared no one his opinions. His evasive tone set off alarms in Ning Yitao’s mind.
She tilted her head. “Come on. Don’t tell me you did this yourself.”
His face flushed a violent red. He clutched at his chest as if insulted more than angry. “How dare you accuse me? He’s my son — I’d never harm him. If anyone is to blame, it’s you!”
His outrage was theatrical enough that Ning Yitao almost laughed. She jumped up and patted the old man’s back with mock concern, easing the steam out of his eruption. “You’ve had a second life and you’re still this volatile? Grow up.”
That confirmed one thing: Ji Yeran hadn’t hurt Ji Wangqiu. But it made the rest stranger. Ji Yeran clearly knew who had, yet he wouldn’t say. Was this a family secret he was protecting?
Last life, Ji Wangqiu had used the same excuse to brush her off, then disappeared without a trace. Men and their promises — all lies, she thought.
She folded her arms and fixed him with a level stare. “So you’re not here to tell me to stay away from your son this time?”
He turned his eyes away, the anger gone now, replaced by a tiredness that belonged to someone who’d carried too many burdens. “No. I’m here to ask for your help.”
That should have been impossible. Ning Yitao blinked. “You — asking me for help? Really? Have you finally gone senile in your old age?”
Ji Yeran bowed his head and sighed. “You see his condition. Wangqiu’s internal injuries are severe. Our clan’s secret technique can, in a way, reverse death — bring people back. But it has drawbacks. Since my rebirth into this world, my life cycle has resumed: I age, I fall ill, my spiritual power has vanished. I can’t do anything for him.”
Ning Yitao’s brow knit. “I don’t buy that you only revived the two of you. From what I know, the assets you’re running now aren’t something a man in his fifties could build on his own.”
She pushed at the real question. “And why did you all come back into this world so suddenly? You could have chosen better fates.”
Ji Yeran’s eyes darted away, skirting the heart of the matter. “It wasn’t just the two of us. Most of the clan elders were brought back too. But none of them can resolve Wangqiu’s internal injuries. You fixed his external wounds last night — you proved you can patch flesh. Only you can treat what’s inside.”
Ning Yitao saw him pacing, stalling. She met his avoidance with bluntness. “If you won’t tell me why he’s like this, I won’t help. I’ve already fixed his surface wounds — his internal problems are your mess to sort. Want to anger me?”
Ji Yeran tried another diversion: money. He offered to buy her help.
Ning Yitao opened her phone, set the balance screen in front of him, and said flatly, “Do I look like I need your money?”
The long string of zeros on her phone made the old man step back as if he’d been slapped. “How… how is that possible? You were just revived by my son. How could you be so wealthy?”
Ning Yitao’s eyes flickered. “Wait — you mean he revived me?”
Ji Yeran could no longer dodge the question. His voice softened into something almost ashamed. “My son… has deep feelings for you.”
She snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s hurt me over and over, and stabbed me in the back more than once. Love? Hardly.”
Her tone was dismissive enough to make the hair above Ji Yeran’s lips bristle. He snapped. “What are you saying? How dare you—”
Ning Yitao let him sputter, then nudged the topic back to where she wanted it. “If you won’t tell me who hurt him, at least explain what the cost of his resurrection is. What’s the drawback you keep clamming up about?”
Ji Yeran sank back into his chair and let the memory come. His voice slowed, carrying the weight of long-held tradition.
“It wasn’t that Wangqiu meant to treat you that way. Our clan has burdens too heavy to be borne by one man. He couldn’t run after his own heart when the family needed him. His return… was complicated. I lied to him — told him his old man was dying so he would rush back.”
“But I didn’t expect fate to make my lie true. When he came home, I was already slipping away.”
He looked up at her, eyes empty for a moment. “The Fengze Sect has guarded a secret for generations: the method to bring someone back. But nothing is free. No one can gain without giving up something. No one escapes the curse.”
He spoke of rituals and inheritance, of how, when an elder dies, the next leader is chosen and the inherited memories — the weight of lifetimes — are passed on. “That is our way. We return the past to the successor so the lineage endures. Once Wangqiu was chosen, there was no turning back.”