These eight days, the assassination attempt on the Second Prince had already spread throughout the imperial palace.

Such an event could well be called a court scandal — whether it arose from a riot caused by natural disaster, or from someone’s deliberate plot to harm a royal prince — no matter the reason, the imperial family did not wish for the news to leak.

However, there had been far too many young masters and ladies who went hunting on Qiuyan Mountain that day. Though all of them appeared tight-lipped on the surface, letting not a single word slip, in private the matter had already been passed around.

The Emperor was furious upon hearing of it. He hastened to send the Imperial Guards to investigate and dispatched an imperial physician to treat the Second Prince.

When the imperial physician examined him, he dipped a finger into the medicinal powder on the prince’s chest wound and carefully sniffed it under his nose. Suspicion stirred in his heart, though his face bore a look difficult to describe.

The Second Prince had lain in bed for several days; the nearly heart-piercing wound on his chest had already healed by almost half. Yet he still looked weak and frail as he asked, “Imperial Physician Xu, have you discovered anything?”

Physician Xu replied, “Your Highness, to speak frankly, this powder’s composition should be similar to the trauma medicine used in the Imperial Infirmary — made of hibiscus leaves, borneol, and such things. But I cannot fathom why this medicine is so miraculous, allowing your wound to recover so swiftly!

“I have never seen any medicine with such restorative effect. There must be some other secret ingredient within this powder — but I am incompetent, unable to discern what it is.

“The one who treated you must surely be a divine physician!”

Even if he hadn’t said it, the Second Prince himself felt it was exceedingly strange. That arrow he had driven into his own flesh had sunk deep — a little further, and he would have gone to meet the King of Hell. According to his original plan, this wound should have taken at least three to five months to heal.

Yet now, because of that inexplicable commoner who appeared on Qiuyan Mountain and saved him, he could already get out of bed in just a few days!

His plan was ruined — naturally he felt some anger, but even more, suspicion.

Who was the one who saved him? Why save him? A person capable of producing such miraculous medicine could not be ordinary.

“Physician Xu, you have seen much of the world. Can you guess whose hand this trauma medicine came from?”

Physician Xu said, “Your servant is ashamed — I have no clue. But some days ago, I heard that someone in the capital has been healing the common folk at Yong’an Temple. Many suffering from chills recovered overnight. I wonder, could that divine physician at Yong’an Temple be the same person?”

The Second Prince had heard of this as well. Yet, from this single bottle of medicine alone, it was impossible to connect his savior to that healer from Yong’an Temple.

He frowned and instructed Physician Xu, “You may withdraw. And, do not let word spread that I am nearly recovered.”

Physician Xu, being aligned with the Second Prince’s faction, immediately agreed and withdrew.

While the Second Prince remained bedridden, claiming illness, the imperial audience hall had already fallen into chaos.

The court officials were arguing heatedly over the frost disaster at the northern border.

This year’s end-of-year frost had swept across the entire Yan Kingdom. The capital had only suffered rising grain prices, with people’s livelihood not yet greatly affected — but Beizhou, ever cold to begin with, was struck by this disaster as if frost upon snow.

What was worse, yesterday came an urgent report from the troops stationed in Beizhou: because of food shortages, three months of drought without rain, and resulting famine, rebel forces had been gathering and growing ever stronger. If the situation were not contained soon, those rebels might truly press toward the Beizhou garrison city.

The Emperor was at his wit’s end, and for the moment, the matter of the Second Prince’s assassination was set aside.

The present crisis lay before him — the frost disaster, the drought, and the rebellion in Beizhou — three urgent calamities at once.

Who would handle them? And how?

The Minister of Revenue and the Fifth Prince’s faction naturally stood up to recommend the Fifth Prince for the task.

Upon seeing this, the Empress’s faction immediately proposed the Crown Prince instead. The Crown Prince broke into a cold sweat—just thinking of those rebel troops filled him with fear. He refused three times in succession, angering the Imperial Uncle so much that his beard trembled and his eyes bulged in fury.

Apart from them, General Zhenyuan—aligned with the Second Prince’s faction—saw that the Second Prince was claiming illness and had no wish to let the Fifth Prince seize another merit. Thus, he stepped forward of his own accord to volunteer.

The Emperor, seeing that everyone harbored selfish motives and not one truly cared for the people or the disaster relief, felt his head ache from their clamor and finally barked in anger, “Silence, all of you! As to who will go—let Us (Zhen) deliberate before making a decision.”

After such a chaotic debate, court was finally dismissed.

Inside the imperial palace, many things were taking place; but over at the Prince of Ning’s residence, these past few days had been unusually peaceful.

The Old Madam had been busy selecting clothes and jewelry. In two days’ time, a banquet would be held in the palace to celebrate the hunt on Qiuyan Mountain, during which Lu Huan, who had slain the Snow Wolf King, would be granted audience with the Emperor. The Old Madam and the Princess Consort of Ning, as his family, would enter the palace as well.

This would be the first time in years—since the decline of the Ning Prince’s foreign-born household—that the Old Madam could attend a palace banquet. Naturally, her spirits were high. She not only sent her attendants to deliver many furnishings to Lu Huan but also rewarded the servants of the Prince of Ning’s manor.

───♡───

All of these events had occurred over the course of those eight days. Su Xi hadn’t logged on during that time, so the system automatically pulled up the record for her to review quickly.

But at the moment, as she looked at her little avatar on the screen, she had no mind to care what had transpired in the imperial palace or in the Prince of Ning’s residence. She swiped the animation to the upper right corner of the screen and minimized it.

Meanwhile, Lu Huan naturally had no leisure to think of such matters either.

He gazed at the dishes left behind by that person—the steam rising in thin white curls through the winter night, real and warm, reminding him that all of this was no dream.

Once that suspicion had arisen in his mind, his heart began to beat rapidly; his blood surged through his veins—not from fear, but because it felt as though, at last, he was peeling away layer after layer of mist, drawing near to that person’s true identity.

And that mattered to him more than anything.

Lu Huan restrained his quickened breath, forcing himself to calm down, and carefully reviewed in his mind every event that had occurred since that person first appeared by his side.

From the very beginning—when that person had, without his noticing, sent various things into his house: long boots, a brazier, mended robes; when chickens, crops, and cold-weather shelters appeared in his courtyard—he should have guessed it then.

But at that time, Lu Huan had only thought that person must be some worldly master—someone powerful, free to come and go, skilled in martial arts.

Later on, when people were healed at Yong’an Temple with medicine for chills; when he received an estate and farmland from Zhong Ganping; when he met with the Minister of Revenue; when he was sent by the Old Madam to hunt on Qiuyan Mountain—through all these affairs, that person had seemed to know everything, as though always standing right beside him!

Back then, though he had felt suspicion, he refused to think of anything supernatural, merely assuming that the person had vast sources of information and spies throughout the capital—so well-informed that they knew every event, great or small.

Beyond that, the person had once sent over two hundred chickens to his farm overnight, and had somehow left drawings in the Princess Consort of Ning’s chamber to play tricks on her—things no ordinary person could accomplish.

…Thinking back carefully now, no matter how capable one might be, such feats were impossible for any mortal.

So then…

Was that person truly some kind of divine or ghostly being?

And the notes he left every night—though that person replied, not a single written word was ever left in return. When he had asked whether it was because of some reason that prevented them from leaving written words, the person had answered “Yes.” — So it was because of this!

Could it be that ghosts and spirits truly could not leave writing behind?

Lu Huan went over everything once more from beginning to end. Then, looking at the dish before him, the rush of blood to his head made his heart pound—he could almost completely confirm the thought in his mind.

That person who appeared by his side… was in fact a ghost or divine being.

Wait—

Then… could that person still be by his side right now?!

The instant this thought flashed across Lu Huan’s mind, his dark eyes froze slightly, and his fingers unconsciously tightened their grip.

The youth’s whole body tensed. His pupils—black and bright—flickered with subtle, indistinct emotions, ones even he couldn’t name. Perhaps joy, expectation, unease, nervousness… He instinctively glanced around, but the room was empty. Under the eaves, the rabbit-shaped lantern quietly burned, the candlelight steady and soft. There seemed to be no one near him—yet what if…?

What if that person was inside this very room?

Lu Huan’s throat felt a little dry. He fought to suppress the tangled emotions in his chest, lifted his head, and—without knowing where to look—let his gaze fall upon the flickering lantern. He spoke softly.

“You… are you still here?”

This time, it wasn’t a white thought-bubble.

It wasn’t the little avatar’s inner monologue.

It was a dialogue box that popped up directly.

Outside the screen, Su Xi’s eyes widened—her mind instantly flooded with a single thought, repeating over and over: Holy crap—holy crap, holy crap, my Zai Zai is talking to me?!

On the screen, the little avatar lifted his head to look out the window, his gaze seemingly resting beneath the eaves. Clearly, he wasn’t looking at her—yet Su Xi felt as though he was, as though his eyes pierced straight through the screen to meet hers.

That pair of black-and-white eyes on his soft, round face were beautiful and clear.

In that instant, Su Xi’s skin broke out in goosebumps.

For a fleeting moment, she truly felt—it was no longer just a game.

It was two worlds, two timelines, converging through a single screen.

Su Xi’s heart pounded wildly.

Almost before she could react, the little avatar on the screen spoke again, one line after another.

“Are you here?”

“If you are still here… could you let me know…?”

Lines of text appeared one after another, as though he were directly speaking to her.

He held his breath, body taut, staring into the endless night sky. The lamplight fell across his face—bright and dim in turns—like the faint trace where two times overlapped.

In his expression were faint signs of hope and yearning, but that was merely the tip of the iceberg. The surge of emotion within him could only be glimpsed from his tightly clenched fingers, pale from the force of his grip.

He waited for a long time, yet no one answered.

Lu Huan parted his lips again and spoke softly.

“You cannot make a sound, can you? If you are still here… could you tug my sleeve, just once?”

When his voice faded, he lowered his head, waiting nervously for his sleeve to be pulled.

His white sleeve glowed softly under the candlelight, casting a pale shadow on the ground.

But that shadow remained still—silent and unmoving.

A second passed.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

A faint disappointment swept across Lu Huan’s heart. He pressed his lips together, thinking to himself involuntarily—could it be that person, no—that ghostly being, was not here this time? Then… when would they return again?

In front of the screen, Su Xi hesitated for only a moment.

Her little Zai Zai was so brave, was he really not afraid at all?

Then… could she really touch him while he was awake?

After a brief hesitation, Su Xi reached out and brushed her fingers over the little avatar’s hand.

Lu Huan was still staring at the corner of his sleeve.

But then—his fingers, hanging loosely at his side, seemed to be touched ever so slightly.

Lu Huan: “……”

It was a touch incredibly soft, unlike anything he had ever felt.

No sensation of skin, no warmth—just the faintest trace of wind.

It brushed against his hand, then vanished in an instant.

Yet soon after, that breeze seemed to steady itself, as though trying to control its strength—to make sure it wouldn’t hurt him—and carefully, tentatively, it brushed across the back of his hand again.

A second touch. Then it drew back once more.

Lu Huan’s breathing grew gradually uneven.

He stared fixedly at his own hand and said in a low, hoarse voice, “It doesn’t hurt. It’s fine… your strength isn’t too much.”

At those words, the breeze seemed to ease—wrapping softly around his hand, gently tugging at his fingers, as though holding his hand, swaying it lightly.

On the ground, the shadow of Lu Huan’s right hand swayed as well—it looked as though a single person’s hand had moved.

But Lu Huan knew.

It wasn’t one person.

Someone—that one—was holding his hand.

It was an indescribable feeling.

Though it had neither warmth nor form, the touch was tender and intimate. When it fell upon his skin, it was like a spark of electricity—racing from his fingertips straight into his heart.

His fingers gave a faint twitch, and his heart gave a heavy thud in response.

A dim redness welled around Lu Huan’s eyes.

So it really was the ghost who appeared by his side.

So he had been accompanied all along?

All around him, the world was utterly silent; the earth itself seemed still. Lu Huan didn’t move—he simply lowered his gaze, staring at his own hand.

The only sound was the pounding of his heartbeat in his chest.

Time seemed to halt.

He had, at last, truly felt that person’s presence…

The emotions surging through him were beyond words.

Since childhood, he had grown up in loneliness.

To live at all was already enough; he had never dared to hope that anyone would appear beside him—to stay with him, speak with him, or show him kindness.

Playmates, family, friends—he never yearned for them, nor did he care much.

He had never imagined that one day, someone would appear in his life—carrying a dim rabbit-shaped lantern—and gently part the endless darkness surrounding him, coming to guide him through it, unlike any mortal in this world.

…So that person had been beside him all along?

Watching over him? Accompanying him?

That person… no, not a person—but even if it was a ghost, it was his, and his alone.

Lu Huan lowered his head quietly. The skin of his neck was pale and cold, yet within him, his blood surged fiercely. His obsidian eyes shimmered with a brilliance they had never held before.

He felt the wind at his fingertips and tried with all his might to contain his joy—but still, he couldn’t. The corners of his eyes and brows were bright with light, with emotion.

…Like someone who had wandered alone through the long, dark night—always chasing the faint glimmer of light—and finally, finally, touched it.

He thought of something, lifted his head, and looked toward the empty space beside him. His voice was soft as he asked:

“No wonder you didn’t come that day. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to—it was that you couldn’t appear, wasn’t it?”

“If it’s true, tug my left hand. If it’s not… tug my right.”

Lu Huan spoke with restraint, though for some reason, the tips of his ears were slightly red.

Outside the screen, Su Xi hadn’t expected that they could actually communicate like this—Didn’t that mean she could finally explain why she’d stood him up that day?!

Excitement bubbled up inside her. Of course, she immediately tugged the little avatar’s left hand.

His soft, tiny hand—she couldn’t really feel it, but even pretending to poke it made her motherly heart melt into a puddle!

Sure enough, the little avatar inside the screen instantly changed expression. Gone was the melancholy figure gazing skyward at a forty-five-degree angle by the doorway; in its place, he visibly brightened. Though he tried to suppress it, keeping his face carefully composed, a small, sparkling heart suddenly popped up above his head with a soft “piaji.”

Lu Huan cleared his throat and asked again, “So… you did not blame me for suddenly requesting to meet, did you?”

His left hand was gently scratched.

The heart that had been hanging in suspense for eight whole days finally settled back into place. Relief loosened the tension in his chest, and encouraged by that, he pressed on with another question—

Before asking, he paused, doing his utmost to sound casual, as though it were a passing remark.

“Mn… Why did you save the Second Prince? Was it to lend him your aid?”

His right hand was tugged.

No.

Lu Huan’s heart sank slightly; his voice grew hoarse. After a moment’s hesitation, he asked again, “Then… was it out of kindness? The Second Prince is indeed a dragon among men—”

Before he could even finish, again, his right hand was pulled.

Su Xi nearly slapped the little avatar’s right hand right off the screen.

Lu Huan blinked, startled by the sudden force. And then, an idea struck him—sudden and bright. His eyes lit up, growing brighter and brighter by the moment.

“It was because…” Lu Huan didn’t finish his sentence.

But then—the writing brush on the desk suddenly turned on its own, spinning sharply before pointing straight at him.

“…Because of me?” Lu Huan’s voice was quiet when he spoke.

The brush smacked twice against the desk—pa pa—clear and decisive: Exactly. You’re right.

Lu Huan had never considered that it might be related to himself. Though he had long wanted to enter the Imperial Academy, he had never mentioned it aloud. Could it be… that the ghost had somehow guessed what lay in his heart, and had saved the Second Prince only to ensure he would not lose his chance to enroll?

So—it was all for him.

Lu Huan fought desperately to keep his expression neutral—fought and failed.

He tried to hold it in with all his might, but the corners of his mouth kept lifting higher, and higher, until they could no longer be restrained.

Outside the screen, Su Xi watched as a whole row of tiny hearts burst above her Zai Zai’s head, bouncing wildly as if about to explode.

The little Zai Zai was so happy.

And Su Xi, finally having cleared up the misunderstanding, covered her face, utterly overjoyed.

Her damn maternal heart was melting!