Is Everyone Else's Eldest Disciple Like This? | Chapter 113 | A Night of No Regrets | Novela.app

Chapter 113 - A Night of No Regrets The lamp outside the bed curtains flickered as Zhou Fuxue’s fingers brushed against it, extinguishing the light with a soft, decisive snap. In an instant, the room was swallowed by a heavy, velvet darkness. Ming Zhu felt the sudden shift in the air, the scent of pear blossoms—so characteristic of Zhou Fuxue—thickening as the younger man leaned over him. The heat radiating from Zhou Fuxue’s body was a stark contrast to the cool night air of Rizhao Mountain. Ming Zhu’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that betrayed his outward composure. He had spent years playing the role of the aloof, peerless First Senior Brother, but in this suffocating silence, that mask was crumbling. "师兄 (Senior Brother)..." Zhou Fuxue’s voice was a low vibration, barely more than a whisper, yet it carried a weight that made Ming Zhu’s breath hitch. Ming Zhu reached up, his fingers tracing the line of Zhou Fuxue’s jaw, finding the heat of his skin. He could feel the tension in the younger man, a coiled spring of desire and restraint. "I told you," Ming Zhu murmured, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears, "I never do anything I regret." The darkness seemed to amplify every sensation. The rustle of the silk robes, the synchronized hitch of their breathing, and the overwhelming proximity of another soul. Zhou Fuxue’s touch was tentative at first, as if he were handling a piece of fragile porcelain, but as Ming Zhu pulled him closer, that hesitation vanished. It was a night where the boundaries of the sect, the weight of their pasts, and the looming shadows of the Five Provinces ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of the bed, the tangled sheets, and the silent promise made in the dark. Ming Zhu allowed himself to sink into the feeling, letting the "Red Lotus" within his meridians settle for the first time in decades. For this one night, he wasn't the cursed son of Ming Zhao or the master of the "Buhui Woods." He was simply a man being held by the one person who saw past the legend. As the hours bled toward the fifth watch, the intensity of their union gave way to a quiet, exhausted peace. They lay entangled, the silence no longer heavy but comfortable. Ming Zhu watched the faint grey light of pre-dawn begin to filter through the window lattice, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. He looked at Zhou Fuxue, who had fallen into a light sleep, his features softened and devoid of the usual sharp determination. Ming Zhu felt a pang of something he couldn't quite name—a mixture of affection and a deep, underlying dread. He knew the world outside this room was waiting. He knew that the peace they had found was a fragile thing, a "Yellow Millet Dream" that would inevitably be shattered by the rising sun. He reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Zhou Fuxue’s forehead. "Little Thirteen," he whispered so softly it was meant only for the shadows. "If only the world were as simple as this room." But the world was not simple. The "Spirit-Suppressing Lamp" was still missing, the "Kingdom of Jianglou" was in turmoil, and the shadow of "Na Lian" loomed over them all. Ming Zhu knew that the path ahead was paved with blood and sacrifice. He had spent his life "sinking into water and entering fire," and he knew that his destiny was rarely kind. Yet, as he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Zhou Fuxue’s shoulder, he decided that for this moment, the future could wait. The "Concentric Knot" they had tied tonight was not made of silk, but of something far more enduring. Even if the galaxy replaced the sun and the mountains crumbled to dust, this night would remain—a single, perfect point of light in a life defined by darkness.