Chapter 336: Back to Earth?
She smelled browned butter.
Caramelizing sugar.
The deep, rich, earthy aroma of freshly roasted espresso beans.
The unparalleled, intoxicating scent of yeast blooming in a warm proving drawer.
Ji’an looked down at her hands.
There were no callouses from wielding a weapon.
There were no burn scars from blocking acidic beast spit.
They were just the hands of a working chef.
She looked around.
She was standing behind the pristine, white-marble counter of a small, sunlit, incredibly cozy bakery.
The walls were painted a soft, warm cream.
Potted pothos plants hung in the large, spotless bay windows.
Through the glass, she could see a bustling, modern city street.
Cars drove by.
Pedestrians walked past holding smartphones, wearing coats against a crisp, autumn chill.
There were no flying swords.
There were no cultivators.
There were no survival matches.
This was Earth.
’I’m home,’ a small, quiet, exhausted voice whispered in the deepest corner of Ji’an’s mind.
"Order up for table three, Chef!" a cheerful voice called out from the back kitchen.
A young, teenage girl wearing a matching yellow apron popped her head through the swinging doors, holding a tray of perfectly laminated, golden-brown croissants.
"The morning rush is clearing out, Boss," the girl smiled brightly. "The almond croissants sold out in twenty minutes. You’re a literal wizard with that pastry dough!"
Ji’an smiled.
It wasn’t a smirk.
It wasn’t a toxic, arrogant sneer meant to intimidate a rival peak lord.
It was a genuine, relaxed, deeply content smile.
"Thanks, Lily," Ji’an replied, her voice sounding perfectly normal, lacking the artificial baritone she used to maintain her male disguise. "Put the fresh batch in the display case. I’ll start prepping the lunch service focaccia."
It was the dream she had chased her entire previous life.
Her own bakery.
Her own quiet, undisputed, unthreatened slice of the world, where her biggest concern was whether the humidity would affect the macarons’ shells.
She walked over to the espresso machine, wiping down the steam wand with a clean microfiber cloth.
Ding-a-ling!
The door chimed again.
"Welcome to Silver Crumb Bakery," Ji’an called out automatically, not looking up from her cleaning. "I’ll be right with you."
"There is no rush."
The voice was smooth, low, and carried a rich, resonant, incredibly familiar melodic hum that sent a pleasant, warm shiver directly down Ji’an’s spine.
She froze.
She slowly looked up from the espresso machine.
Standing at the front counter was a man.
He was incredibly tall, possessing broad shoulders that filled out the tailored, immaculate black wool trench coat he was wearing over a crisp, charcoal turtleneck.
His hair was striking, a cascade of shimmering, pure silver that was neatly tied back at the nape of his neck with a simple black leather tie.
His face was a flawless masterpiece of sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, looking like a high-fashion model who had just stepped off a Parisian runway.
But it was his eyes that stole the breath from her lungs.
They were a deep, radiant, brilliant ruby-red.
And they were looking at her with a soft, unguarded, and tender devotion.
"Wangchen?" Ji’an whispered, the name slipping from her lips like a prayer.
The modern-day look-alike of the Ice Demon smiled.
The terrifying, possessive edge was gone.
He wasn’t an immortal burdened by the Heartless Dao.
He was just a man.
A quiet, simple, and devastatingly handsome man holding a leather briefcase.
"Good morning, Ji’an," Wangchen murmured, stepping up to the counter. He rested his large, pale, pristine hands on the marble. "The usual, if you please. And... perhaps one of those almond croissants, if you managed to save one from the hoard."
"I always save one for you," Ji’an replied, her heart doing a frantic, beautiful flutter.
The illusion didn’t just show her a snapshot.
It accelerated time.
It immersed her completely into the narrative of a life she had been denied.
The days blurred together in a montage of warm, golden sunlight and the smell of vanilla.
She watched Wangchen come in every single morning.
He was a regular.
A quiet, brooding architect who worked at a firm down the street.
He always sat at the small corner table by the window, sipping his Americano, typing on a sleek silver laptop, his ruby eyes constantly, secretly darting over the top of his screen to watch her work behind the counter.
She remembered the first time he finally worked up the courage to ask her out.
It had been raining.
He had lingered until closing time, helping her flip the chairs onto the tables.
He had stood incredibly close, the scent of crisp pine and rain clinging to his trench coat, and asked if she would allow him to cook dinner for her for a change.
The illusion fast-forwarded.
They were dating.
They were walking through a modern park, holding hands, their fingers intertwined.
No assassins were hiding in the trees.
There were no demonic beasts to slay.
When Wangchen pulled her into his arms and kissed her beneath a streetlamp, there was no fear of breaking sect rules, no terror of exposing her gender, no looming apocalyptic tournament to survive.
It was just love.
Simple, quiet, incredibly mundane, and staggeringly beautiful love.
Years passed in the span of heartbeats.
She was wearing a simple, elegant white dress.
They were standing in a small, sunlit courtyard surrounded by their friends and family.
Wangchen was slipping a delicate, silver ring onto her finger, his ruby eyes shining with unshed tears of absolute, unfiltered joy.
They bought a house.
A small, cozy cottage with a massive, state-of-the-art kitchen.
She baked. He designed.
They adopted a grumpy, two-tailed silver cat they named "Fluffball" that slept on the radiator.
They aged.
The silver in Wangchen’s hair remained, but fine, distinguished lines crinkled around his eyes when he smiled.
Ji’an’s dark hair gained streaks of gray.
Her hands wrinkled.
They were sitting on a porch swing in the autumn of their lives, wrapped in a thick, woolen blanket.
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