Merin wakes first.

The faint light of the sun filters through the curtains, soft and pale, and he becomes aware of warmth before thought.

Yu Diexin is draped over him like a blanket, one arm across his chest, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her breathing slow and even.

For a moment, he does nothing.

Then, carefully, he slides her arm away and shifts her weight, easing her down onto the bed without waking her.

She murmurs once, turns slightly, and settles again.

Merin rises, gathers his clothes, and enters the bathroom.

Water runs softly.

Minutes later, he emerges dressed, his expression composed, his body already moving toward the next task.

He walks through the estate and enters the refining room.

Inside, heat shimmers in the air.

A large kettle sits over a steady fire, steam curling upward, and a maid kneels nearby, carefully tending the flames.

The moment she notices him, she startles and stands.

“Lord,” she says, bowing deeply.

Merin nods once and approaches the kettle.

Without touching anything, he extends his spirit sense into the boiling jar submerged inside.

The white worm within has changed.

It has shrunk to half its original size, its body no longer pale but tinged with deep purple, golden specks scattered along its length like distant stars embedded in flesh.

The Dream Gu is complete.

Merin withdraws his spirit.

“You may go,” he says.

The maid bows again and leaves quickly.

Merin locks the door.

He lifts the jar from the kettle and sets it on the table, then removes the lid.

The instant the seal breaks, the Dream Worm springs upward.

Merin’s hand snaps out.

He catches it in his palm.

Sharp pain blooms as the worm bites down, a foul, bitter stench filling the air.

Merin does not flinch.

He looks down calmly, watching the creature writhe in agony.

The Dream Worm’s power surges, invisible waves pushing outward, trying to slip into his dreamscape, to anchor itself inside his subconscious.

It finds nothing.

His Dao stands firm, layered and absolute.

Unable to invade, the worm thrashes harder.

Merin channels his Blood Qi.

Gold light spreads from his palm, wrapping around the worm, compressing it, imprinting it with his will.

‘Gu’ are different.

The only spiritual object that even warriors can refine into their natal object.

Warriors rarely touch Gu.

Refining them requires feeding the Gu with one’s own blood energy, slowing cultivation and risking foundation damage.

Most warriors consider it foolish.

Merin does not.

His Blood Qi pours steadily, neither rushed nor excessive, grinding the worm’s resistance down piece by piece.

The worm’s struggles weaken.

Its body relaxes.

The bite loosens.

At last, the Dream Gu coils obediently in his palm, bound to him.

Merin exhales and seals it into a small jade container, placing it within his robe.

—

At the same time, within the royal palace, Commander Di Yuanheng enters once more.

Yesterday, after his report, the King personally ordered him to rest, noting his injuries and exhaustion.

This morning, however, a summons arrived early.

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Breakfast.

He is led to a pavilion beside an artificial pond, with lotus leaves floating on still water.

A generous spread is laid out between two seats.

The King is already present.

“Sit,” the King says, gesturing lightly.

Commander Di bows and sits.

They eat in silence for a time.

Only after the meal is nearly finished do footsteps approach.

The Seventh Prince enters, pale but upright, his movements careful.

Commander Di stands immediately.

“Your Highness,” he says, bowing.

“Congratulations on waking.”

The Prince inclines his head.

The King smiles faintly.

“Yuanheng,” the King says, “do you know who healed my son?”

Commander Di looks up, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

“The one responsible,” the King continues, “is Lieutenant Duan’s fiancée.”

Commander Di freezes for half a breath.

Then he smiles.

“So it seems,” he says evenly, “both husband and wife are extraordinary.”

“Rising stars of our kingdom.”

The Seventh Prince shifts slightly.

Then he speaks.

“Father,” he says, his voice steady, “I have a request.”

Commander Di’s gaze sharpens.

A prince addressing the King as father outside a private audience is no small matter.

The King notices as well.

He studies his son.

“You came here without resting,” the King says.

“The request must be urgent.”

The Seventh Prince straightens.

“Yes, Father.”

He meets the King’s eyes.

“I wish to get married.”

The words hang in the air.

The King blinks once, genuinely surprised, then lets out a short breath that might almost be a laugh.

“If you wish to marry,” he says lightly, “tell your mother. Why come to me with this?”

The Seventh Prince does not retreat.

Instead, he straightens, his pale face tightening with resolve.

“Father,” he says, “I wish to marry Cai Wenji.”

The pavilion goes utterly still.

Commander Di’s eyes widen, shock flashing across his face before he can restrain it.

“That is impossible,” he says sharply, stepping forward before he can stop himself.

“Your Highness, Cai Wenji is to be married to Marquis Duan.”

The Seventh Prince turns his head slowly, looking at Commander Di, then back at the King.

“She is to be,” he says, emphasising each word.

“She is not yet married.”

His gaze sharpens.

“With an order from Father, does Marquis Duan dare to disobey?”

Silence.

Heavy.

Uncomfortable.

The King does not answer immediately.

Neither does Commander Di.

Both of them know Duan Merin.

They know his rise.

They know his reputation.

They know the sword marks left behind in the mountains, the lingering Sword Qi that has yet to fade, sharp enough to cut the senses of even seasoned cultivators.

Does he dare?

The truth is—they do not know.

And that uncertainty is precisely what makes the question dangerous.

The Seventh Prince’s expression changes as realisation dawns.

His eyes widen, disbelief creeping in.

“He dares,” he says softly.

It is not a question.

The King lifts his hand.

The gesture is small, but absolute.

“Enough,” he says.

“Go back to your quarters and rest.”

The Seventh Prince opens his mouth to object.

Before a word can leave it, the King’s gaze hardens, and imperial guards step forward at once.

The Seventh Prince clenches his fists, then exhales sharply.

He bows stiffly and allows himself to be escorted away.

When his footsteps fade, the pavilion feels colder.

The King turns to Commander Di.

“What should we do with Duan Merin?”

Commander Di does not answer at once.

His mind races.

Yesterday, he reported Merin’s battlefield performance—Outer Refining Realm strength manifested through the sword alone.

That report was already dangerous.

The truth is far worse.

But he cannot speak it.

The Heavenly Oath binds his tongue.

Still, evidence remains.

The shattered terrain.

The impossible precision.

The lingering Sword Qi etched into stone like scars that refuse to heal.

Even without words, anyone with eyes can guess Merin’s potential.

Commander Di finally speaks.

“The Golden Lotus Sect has invited him,” he says carefully.

“If he accepts, he will no longer be our concern.”

“And if he refuses?” the King asks quietly.

Commander Di’s jaw tightens.

“Then,” he says, “he may disappear—like the other talented individuals before him.”

The King does not react immediately.

He looks out over the pond, watching ripples disturb the reflection of lotus leaves.

At length, he nods.

“That is one path,” he says.

“But we must still show favour to Marquis Duan.”

Commander Di understands instantly.

Favour is not kindness.

Favour is a leash.

“If neither outcome comes to pass,” the King continues,

“We must ensure he has reason not to act against the kingdom.”

Commander Di inclines his head.

“A marriage alliance,” he says.

The King turns back to him.

“Which daughter,” he asks, “would be best suited to Marquis Duan?”

Commander Di thinks.

Names pass through his mind.

Personalities.

Political weight.

Temperament.

Then he stops.

“There is one,” he says.

“The First Princess.”

The King’s eyes widen.

For a brief moment, surprise pierces his composure.

Then his expression shifts—slowly—into something thoughtful.

The First Princess.

He exhales slowly.

“…Very well,” the King says at last.

—

At noon, a carriage rolls out of the Duan estate.

Merin sits inside, posture relaxed, eyes half-lidded as the city slides past beyond the thin curtain. Street noise filters in—vendors calling, hooves striking stone, distant chatter—but none of it truly reaches him.

His focus is inward.

The Dream Gu rests within his dantian, coiled and obedient, its purple-and-gold body slowly dissolving into threads of power as he refines it further. This is the final stage—no longer merely binding or controlling, but assimilation.

A natal spiritual item is not meant to remain external.

Its essence must be ground down, woven into flesh, blood, and spirit, until item and cultivator are indistinguishable. Even if the physical Gu is destroyed, its authority remains.

Merin guides the process calmly, letting the Dream Gu’s power seep into his meridians, imprinting itself onto his soul structure.

The carriage slows.

Then stops.

Merin opens his eyes.

“Here,” the driver announces.

Merin steps down.

Before him stands a modest house—well-kept, but clearly strained by recent hardship. The door opens almost immediately, and Mei Ji hurries out, relief flickering across her face the moment she sees him.

“Lord Duan,” she says quickly, bowing.

Merin nods and follows her inside.

The interior smells faintly of medicine and stale air.

Zhang Shan stands near the doorway, shoulders tense. Zhu Jie and Ming Li are seated at a low table, their expressions tight with concern. Gong Qi leans against the wall, arms folded, eyes sharp but tired.

They all straighten when Merin enters.

“Lord,” Zhang Shan says, bowing deeply.

Merin returns a brief nod.

Before any of them can speak further, a woman emerges from the inner room.

She is thin, her hair loosely tied, dark circles shadowing her eyes. Worry clings to her like a second skin.

The lady of the house.

She forces herself to bow, though her hands tremble.

“Lord Duan,” she says, voice strained, “thank you for coming.”

Merin looks at her calmly.

“Your husband will be fine,” he says evenly.

The words are simple.

They hit harder than any comfort.

Her eyes redden instantly.

She bows again, deeper this time, then steps aside.

Merin enters the inner room.

The air inside is heavy.

A man lies on the bed, his body thin to the point of gauntness, cheeks hollow, lips pale. His breathing is shallow, uneven, as if each breath costs effort.

He is asleep.

Or something close enough to be mistaken for it.

Merin steps closer and studies him in silence.

Malnourished.

Spirit drained.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep