The Puppet Emperor and the Returning God

General Lan was the eighth official to die for speaking up.
The previous seven had their skulls crushed by Tu Xin;
the eighth, thanks to Gu Yi’s lingering influence, was spared that fate—
Tu Xin left him a whole body.

“It’s the same principle as your fusion with Qiao Qiao,”
Tu Xin said casually, lifting his cup.
“When two souls merge into one, they begin to affect each other.
But there’s always a dominant will and a passive memory—
one becomes the master, the other, the echo.”

As he spoke, he wiped the rim of the teacup before drinking—
a small, familiar habit.
Gu Yi’s habit.

I drew a slow breath.
“Master,” I said, “may I ask you something?”

“Ask,” he replied.

“Why did you go to such trouble to bring me back?”

He raised a brow, smiling faintly.
“You already know the answer.”

“Is it… just because I’m a nine-tailed fox?”

“Because you are the last nine-tailed fox in this world.”
Tu Xin set down the cup and turned toward the sunlight.
“There are things only you can do.”

“What things?”

“You’ll know in time.”

The conversation ended in silence.
No real answers, only the sense that I must hide something—
that Tu Xin must never know
it wasn’t Bai Xi who absorbed Qiao Qiao,
but Qiao Qiao who absorbed Bai Xi.

Life in the palace was dull for Tu Xin.
He quickly returned to his eccentric ways,
turning the entire imperial complex into a patchwork of flower fields and vegetable gardens.
Anyone who complained was buried the next day—
fertilizer for his blooms.

His power was immeasurable.
Even within Bai Xi’s memories, one could glimpse its depth.
Though only a wandering immortal,
he had once withstood heavenly lightning with his own flesh to protect Bai Xi.
Now reborn, his aura was denser, purer—
almost suffocating.

He glanced at me once and said lightly,
“Same-Life Curse?”

I nodded.

“You really are cruel to yourself,” he mused.
“Still haven’t found Jinxiu?”

“I sensed her yesterday in Nanchuan,” I replied, frowning.
“But by the time I arrived, she’d vanished again.
Someone—some higher power—is helping her.”

Tu Xin smiled, digging another patch of soil.
“She merely reclaimed her true form.”

Jinxiu was born of divine blood—
her true body, a snow lotus from the Jade Pool.
When deities descend to the mortal world,
it is said they come to experience the suffering of all beings.
But truthfully, few can endure true suffering.
They always leave themselves a safeguard—
a relic, a fragment of power, or even their divine form—
so that in crisis, they can reclaim it.

I had driven Jinxiu into a corner;
without her true form, she would’ve already perished beneath my hand.
She might not break my Same-Life Curse,
but concealing her aura was well within her reach.

Tu Xin chuckled.
“Need my help to track her down?”

I shook my head.
“No. Revenge tastes better when you serve it yourself.”

He was about to reply when a small bird fluttered down from the sky,
chirping at his ear.
After a moment, Tu Xin’s lips curled into a thin smile.

“The Ghostmen have been defeated.”

My brow furrowed.
“Defeated? Impossible.
Against mortals, the Ghostmen are invincible.”

Tu Xin flicked his fingers.
The bird vanished.

“A celestial intervened on Qin An’s side—
one who knows the Ghostmen’s weakness,” he said,
his expression darkening.
“Seems I didn’t hurt him enough last time.”

My thoughts raced.
“Could it be… Zhuo Hua?”

Tu Xin nodded.

Qin An—aloof, distant,
with few friends even in Heaven.
If anyone would intervene for him,
it could only be Zhuo Hua.

Tu Xin smiled slyly.
“You’ve always wanted to kill him yourself.
Well—now’s your chance.”

Qin An sat upon his throne,
eyes fixed on the battlefield reports before him.

The scout, still covered in blood and sweat,
bowed low and shouted with trembling joy:

“Your Excellency, in the recent battle,
fourteen Ghostmen were slain!”

Qin An listened quietly, his brow furrowing slightly.
If one ignored the losses,
it was indeed a small victory.
After all, fourteen Ghostmen for two thousand soldiers—
a costly but meaningful trade.

The Ghostmen numbered barely a hundred in total.
Kill them all, and Dongyi would crumble.
It meant—
Xihan might yet be saved.

For the first time in days, Qin An allowed himself to exhale.
His mind finally loosened its grip on despair.
He knew well to whom this victory belonged—
Zhuo Hua.

Zhuo Hua, the immortal who had stolen away Princess Haiqing.

Qin An had never believed the rumors—
that some celestial had taken a liking to that spoiled, lazy girl.
Until the day a blinding light filled his study,
and a bloodied man collapsed before his desk—
Princess Haiqing cradled in his arms.

“Master! Master, please don’t die!”
Haiqing sobbed, her face streaked with tears.
Then, spotting Qin An,
she threw herself at his legs, crying,
“General Qin! Please—save my master! Save him!”

Qin An blinked in utter bewilderment.
Still, he helped carry the man—Zhuo Hua—onto a bed,
and fetched medicine to tend his wounds.

But when he inspected him,
there were no wounds to be found.

Zhuo Hua gave a faint, wry smile.
“I’m fine. Just hungry.
Little one, go fetch me some fruit.”

Haiqing wiped her face and hurried off.

Qin An folded his arms.
“So you’re the so-called immortal who abducted our princess?”

Zhuo Hua arched a brow, pale as moonlight.
“Do conmen wield power like mine?”

To prove it, he lifted his hand—
and several scrolls flew from the table to his grasp.
With that single gesture,
Qin An grudgingly accepted his claim.

“So,” Qin An asked coolly,
“what brings a celestial to my palace?”

Zhuo Hua smiled faintly.
“To ease your burdens.”

“You?” Qin An scoffed.
“Half-dead as you are,
how do you plan to do that?”

The immortal sighed, eyeing him up and down.
“Still as uncharming as ever.”

A vein pulsed on Qin An’s forehead.

Zhuo Hua went on,
“You never wanted to be regent.
Now that I’ve brought Princess Haiqing back,
you can rest easy.”

“I can’t hand over a country at war
to an eleven-year-old girl.”

Zhuo Hua’s eyes glimmered.
“Then allow me to help you end this war.”