Immortal Island

Motu stared at Chisha, his pupils shrinking warily as he said in a low voice, “Sea demon.”
“Yes, I am a sea demon,” Chisha admitted frankly, raising her brows and retorting, “Then what are you?”
Qingyin interjected, “He’s a divine beast, the three-tailed Xie cat. Chisha, I’ve told you about him before.” As she spoke, she lovingly ruffled his black hair, her affection overflowing.
But Motu’s eyes were shadowed; he glanced coldly at Chisha and replied, “I am myself.”
His voice was especially indifferent, faintly rejecting Qingyin’s introduction, which made her pause in surprise.
A searing pain struck her chest without warning, as if a blade had suddenly twisted in her heart! Her whole body collapsed onto Motu, shivering violently, her throat seemingly clamped so tightly that not even a moan of pain could escape. Motu was startled, holding her and asking in panic, “What’s wrong?”
She curled up, clutching her chest, unable to utter a single word.
Chisha frowned and said, “It’s the Soul Capturing Art. The Star Lord took her heart-soul six days ago; when the seventh day arrives, her heart will shatter and she will die. He’s forcing us to return.”
Motu’s face turned pale, hatred flaring suddenly in his eyes as he gritted his teeth, “How vicious!”
Watching Qingyin struggle in agony, yet utterly helpless, his heart was wrenched to pieces. All he could do was slip his arm into her mouth for her to bite, lest she injure her tongue. He trembled all over, not from the pain, but from his powerlessness in the face of her suffering.
In truth, the pain only lasted a short while, but it felt endless. By the time it subsided, she was exhausted, her clothing soaked in cold sweat, drifting in and out of consciousness in his embrace. He breathed a little easier, yet his heart still ached terribly, his eyes red with hate, damp with tears. As the seventh day’s deadline loomed, he realized that, apart from surrendering themselves, there was no other way. Hesitation showed in his eyes.
Chisha remained unusually calm and said, “We must find a way to suppress this art.”
Motu replied anxiously, “Who in this world could have such power? The Star Lord can’t be coerced. If there’s truly no other way, we’ll just have to go back.”
Chisha pondered for a moment and said, “I know someone.”
When Qingyin gradually regained consciousness, they were drifting among the clouds. Motu held her close, wrapping her tightly in his wide robe to shield her from the wind.
She stirred slightly, a dull ache lingering in her chest from the last episode, her body limp and powerless.
Sensing her movement, Motu lifted the corner of his robe and whispered, “Don’t move.”
She asked, “Where are we going?”
“To find someone who can suppress the Soul Capturing Art. Don’t worry, there will be a way,” he said, tightening his hold on her.
“Who are we seeking…?”
“For now, don’t trouble yourself over it. Just rest. The pain may return. If it does, don’t be afraid; remember, I’m here with you. We’ll find someone to cure you soon.”
She was indeed very drowsy. As he spoke softly, the tide of sleep, which had just receded, swept over her again. Yet she forced herself to stay awake, wanting to ask more. “Motu, your injury…”
“It’s healed, completely healed. I’ve never felt better. Don’t worry about anything now, just sleep.”
Relief washed over her, and her body relaxed. She sank into deep, dark sleep.
But not long after, agony wrenched her from her dreams, as if an unseen hand was dragging her into hell. All she could do was cling tightly to his waist, like a drowning person grasping a piece of driftwood in a whirlpool of despair. Darkness filled her vision; Motu’s voice whispered faintly in her ears, but it quickly faded into a sharp ringing.
Time slipped by rapidly, and the seventh day—the death’s deadline—drew near.

*
She did not know how long had passed. When her awareness slowly returned, she felt as if her body were hollow, weightless, floating in midair. Gradually, she regained substance, accompanied by a wave of dizziness, and slowly descended.
She opened her eyes, seeing layers of smoky gauze curtains, light and airy. Her body felt dull, not in pain, but weak and powerless. After lying for a while, she slowly sat up. She found herself in a beautiful bed, the smoky gauze the drapes hanging from the bed frame. Beside her pillow was another pillow.
Whose could it be...?
She was now dressed in clean underclothes, soft and cool, of a material she did not recognize. Pulling aside the bed curtains, she looked around; the room was furnished with elegant tables and chairs, and several rare porcelain and jade pieces were arranged about.
After resting, she gained some strength, got off the bed to look for her shoes but found none. She had no choice but to go barefoot to the door and push it open.
A dreamlike scene greeted her eyes. The house seemed perched on a celestial mountain. All around, similar houses dotted the slopes and valleys, green hues stretching as far as the eye could see, mist curling, the fragrance of orchids in the air, and a few immortal birds gliding by.
Had she returned to the immortal realm once more?
Had Motu brought her back to spare her the torment of the Soul Capturing Art? Where was Motu?!
In her anxiety, she stumbled on the threshold and fell forward.
Arms caught her. She looked up in alarm, only to see a familiar face.
“Motu!” she cried, leaping up to wrap her arms around his neck.
“This is Slanting Ferry Island,”
Standing in the center of the room, Motu spoke as he helped her into a garment of shimmering white. She curiously pinched the sleeve, examining it. She had never seen such fabric—soft, cool, with a pleasing weight, the jade-white threads woven so finely, the collar and cuffs embroidered with golden patterns, both splendid and refined.
He brushed her loose hair behind her ear, cradling her thinner face in his hands, gazing for a long while, his eyes misting with emotion, unable to look away. In a gentle voice he asked, “Does your chest still hurt?”
“No,” she said, covering her chest with her hand, hesitating, “It just feels empty, as if my heart is missing.”
“Because your heart-soul is still with the Immortal Lord. Now, the master of Slanting Ferry Island has placed a pearl in your heart in its stead. The seven-day limit no longer applies; even with your heart-soul, the Immortal Lord cannot harm you.”
“To replace it with a pearl… that’s incredible! Is this immortal magic?”
“I suppose it must be.”
“This master of Slanting Ferry Island is so powerful—who is he?”
“This place is called Slanting Ferry Island, in the heart of the Southern Sea. The island master is its lord—and Chisha’s father.”
“Chisha’s father!” Qingyin was genuinely shocked. “Chisha is a sea demon, so her father must be…”
“Whether demon or immortal matters little. All I know is that he saved you, so he is our benefactor.” His fingers traced her cheek, eyes glowing with embers of light.
Even if the world were to fall, as long as Yin’er was safe, he feared nothing and desired nothing else.
Qingyin looked up at him, warmth welling in her heart. Yet there was still a faint unease she could not explain.

A woman in a gauzy robe knocked on the door, saying that a meal was ready under the banyan tree and that Miss Qingyin could come eat whenever she woke. Qingyin thanked her hurriedly. The woman smiled sweetly as she left, graceful and light, her robes floating like clouds. If not for the faint, fine scales peeking from her slender ankles, Qingyin would have mistaken her for a celestial maiden.
Not far from the door stood a huge banyan tree, its single trunk spreading into a forest, branches full of birds with brilliant plumage, chirping and cooing. Beneath it was a stone table and benches, set with a simple, appetizing meal.
Fearing she might catch cold, Motu carried her on his lap.
She did not know how long she had gone without food—so long that her stomach seemed to have shrunk and she had no appetite at all.
“You must eat something. You’ve been asleep for twelve days. All we managed to feed you was thin porridge; you’ve become skin and bone.” Motu half coaxed, half forced her to eat a little.
As Qingyin ate, she pressed the question that had long been on her mind: “Motu, after we were separated, what happened to you?”
Motu replied, “The day I broke through the mist, I was surrounded by heavenly soldiers. I was quickly defeated and captured.”
“Were you hurt?”
“A little.”
“Where? Was it serious?” She reached out to feel his body for injuries.
He guided her hand below his collarbone. “Here.”
Her fingers found a hollow, and reaching around his shoulder, another. He had been pierced through by a spear or something similar. To think he had taken such wounds on top of his previous injuries—it was too pitiful to contemplate. Her hand trembled, her heart aching too much for words. Motu pouted, “Without Yin’er by my side to tend me, I was left with scars.”
The sorrow that had just welled in her eyes was quickly dispelled by exasperation. “Even after such wounds, you still care about your looks.”
He nuzzled her neck, mumbling, “Scars aren’t pretty; I was afraid you’d mind.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Scars or not, you’ll always be handsome to me.”
He had pouted for so long to win her sympathy and praise, and now, having succeeded, a bright smile curved his lips, his dark eyes glimmering with tenderness.
Qingyin’s heart softened like water. This was the Motu she remembered; all her earlier doubts were nearly swept away by his smile. Stroking his hair, she studied his face. “So, are you fully healed now?”
“You’ve asked several times—yes, I’m completely healed.”
“How did you recover? Did you eat more of those spirit mice? And how did you escape from the heavenly soldiers? Is Jiuyu all right…?” Her questions tumbled out.
Motu was silent for a moment, then said, “It was Yunye who rescued me and Jiuyu.”
“Who?!” Qingyin could hardly believe her ears.
“Yunye. That half-serpent boy.”