The lights of the brothel burned all night long. A newly pasted couplet on the door gleamed brightly:

"Pluck the flowers while they bloom; do not wait until there are no flowers left, only bare branches."

Shi Qingxuan stared blankly at those words, as if each stroke carved into his heart with a blade. The bright lights stung his eyes, reflecting like a raging firestorm that burned away every last shred of his former dignity and purity.

Shi Qingxuan had been abducted by human traffickers. At first, he still had the strength to resist, but no amount of Daoist magic could withstand three days and nights of starvation and abuse. Besides, he was no longer a divine priest - his powers had long since faded. He was forced into a garish azure robe, his face thick with rouge, bracelets jingling at his wrists - things he once scorned, now become shackles he could not remove.

On the first night, he was forced to kneel on the carpet of the flower hall. A brutish man gripped his wrist, grinning obscenely:

"I heard you used to be some kind of immortal? How rare. Come on, smile for me!"

Shi Qingxuan said nothing, quietly gathering a sliver of spiritual energy in his palm. But before it could form, a harsh whip shattered it. The brothel madam stood coldly to the side, a dry pipe in her mouth, her face twisted with contempt.

"Can't understand human words? A disobedient slave is worthless!"

As the whip fell, Shi Qingxuan clenched his teeth, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. He didn't make a sound, nor did he beg. If this was his fate, he would accept it. But if it meant kneeling in supplication - never.

That night, he narrowly escaped abuse - not because he resisted successfully, but because someone found his body "too frail," like a wild cat pulled from a dry well, lacking flavor. But the second night, the third - there was no such mercy.

"Shi Qingxuan, be smart. Stop bringing this on yourself," the madam said, tapping her pipe on the table, her voice like ice-carved blades.

"The more stubborn you are, the less they'll let you go. That's how the world is - the prouder you are, the harder you're crushed."

Shi Qingxuan only gave a cold, hoarse laugh like dry leaves:

"The more they crush me, the less I'll bow my head."

Finally, one day, chaos broke out in the brothel - before everyone's eyes, Shi Qingxuan took a broken knife he had stolen from a woodcutter at a nearby tavern and slit his own throat. Blood splattered across the floor like winter plum blossoms - cold and beautiful to the extreme.

There were screams, there were curses, but by the time He Xuan arrived, all he saw was the body lying in a pool of blood.

He knelt down, trembling, and reached out to touch Shi Qingxuan's face - only to feel coldness.

"Qingxuan?" He Xuan's voice was dry and hollow, like wind through dead branches. "Why? why did you die?"

The sky cracked. The earth turned. He Xuan burned the entire brothel to the ground. His mad laughter mixed with howling sobs, thunderous as a storm, nearly deafening. Not a single person who had harmed Shi Qingxuan escaped - their souls were crushed to dust in He Xuan's hand.

But none of it could fill the hole in his heart. Shi Qingxuan had once been a gentle breeze and bright moon in the heavens. Now, it was He Xuan who had personally pushed him into the abyss.

Among the brothel's ruins, He Xuan knelt, cradling Shi Qingxuan's corpse, unmoving for a long time. The wind stirred the ashes, reddening his eyes with its heat. He murmured:

"Qingxuan? won't you come back?"

From then on, a legend spread in the ghost market:

A ghost king wandered the underworld day after day, searching for a single scattered soul. Even if that soul could never be pieced together again, he waited - stubbornly, lovingly.

A breeze stirred, as if someone whispered by his ear:

"Don't cry. I've come back."

He Xuan looked up sharply - but saw only empty moonlight, and a chill in the wind, as if it carried Shi Qingxuan's final sigh.