Zhezhu almost thought he had heard wrong; a trace of astonishment was suddenly added to his expression.

“How rare, you buy me,” weighing the gold and jade ornaments in his palm, the youth’s handsome brows and eyes became much more vivid, “to kill you?”

“Mm.”

Because of the few inexplicably ambiguous undertones revealed by his seemingly casual words “buy me,” Shang Rong felt somewhat at a loss for a moment. She hurriedly averted her gaze, yet caught sight of the hand with which the youth held the sword.

The joints were pale and slender, beneath the thin skin on the back of his hand the tendons and bones were powerful and beautiful.

“To live is the hardest thing under heaven; to seek death is extremely easy,” a strand of dark, dense hair lightly brushed his cheek. In the piercing wind, his eyes were clean and merciless, “why borrow another’s hand.”

He stuffed those gold and jade ornaments back to her again, the blood-stained soft sword coiling around his narrow, taut waist, “These, just keep them to accompany you in burial.”

His tone was light and calm, yet carried bone-deep indifference.

He turned sideways and walked past her. Shang Rong slowly turned her head; within the snow-white world, the youth’s figure was like pine, like bamboo—upright and lean.

Cold mist blurred, snow fell in flurries.

The youth had just taken a sip of wine when his steps suddenly paused. Expressionless, he turned his head back; the rustling sound of snow being stepped on approached—the disheveled yet not quite disheveled little girl lifted her skirt and ran toward him in small hurried steps.

His intent to kill had already faded, yet she did not know to cherish it.

The thin blade rubbed against the gold clasp at his waist with a clang. Shang Rong had only just stopped in front of him when the soft sword had already precisely pressed against her neck.

The chill on the blade made her shiver, her eyelashes trembled involuntarily. Her eyes looked at him; her lips, lacking color, pressed together. As if hesitating for a moment, she still lifted what was in her palm and presented it before him.

She truly sought death with all her heart.

The youth silently watched her close her eyes. He raised his brows, finding it strange, and also finding it interesting.

Shang Rong held her breath, the heart in her chest pounding violently, yet the blade lying across her neck suddenly moved away. She opened her eyes at once, instinctively following the direction of the sword’s tip toward the frozen river surface.

“If you don’t mind that one just died there, then jump down.”

Beneath the huge ice hole, someone he had killed had only just been buried.

Shang Rong looked at the ice hole, then turned back to look at him. After hesitating for a while, she said softly, “I heard people say drowning is very painful. I want to die in a way that’s not so painful.”

“What else do you want?”

Zhezhu wiped the edge of his sword twice in the snow; cold snow grains fell from midair and melted on his eyelids.

“It would be best if you could also build me a grave.” She had actually begun arranging her own funeral affairs.

Zhezhu lifted his eyes again and sighed with regret, “If you had sought my Eleventh Brother for this transaction, he would certainly have liked it.”

“Where is your Eleventh Brother?”

She looked around.

Zhezhu suddenly sneered. Shang Rong’s chin was suddenly pinched by his icy fingers, and she was forced to look toward the mist-covered river surface.

“Too late.”

His two leisurely words fell beside her ear.

Shang Rong realized that the “Eleventh Brother” he spoke of had already died at his hands.

Zhezhu released her, casually rubbing his fingertips together twice, then put away the soft sword and walked forward with light steps. But after only a few paces, his gaze lowered to a hand whose joints had been reddened by the cold.

His vermilion sword tassel was stirred by the wind between her fingers, spreading out like drifting clouds of sunset glow.

How strange.

She did not know how much blood had stained this tassel she had mustered the courage to grasp at this moment. Ignorant and fearless, she clutched his tassel, saying nothing, quietly looking up at him. Clearly she had come seeking death, yet she seemed instead to be clutching some kind of lifeline.

The howling cold wind stabbed more sharply at Shang Rong’s eardrums. The strength of that mouthful of strong liquor also silently surged upward. As her head throbbed as if about to split, the youth’s face in her eyes gradually blurred into three overlapping shadows.

Without any warning, she collapsed.

The snapped vermilion tassel lay quietly in her fingers. Goose-feather-like snowflakes swayed as they fell onto her body. Before completely losing consciousness, her eyes half-opened—she only managed to see the thin hem of the black-clad youth’s garment sway slightly as he turned and left.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Shang Rong woke from the heat.

She stared blankly at the dull gray quilt. There were three whole layers of it, tightly wrapping her inside. Fine charcoal burned in this room; the warm, melting heat had already made her break into a thin sweat even in her sleep.

She pushed aside the quilt and got out of bed, surveying this not-so-spacious room. The furnishings were simple, and in her breath she could still smell a trace of dampness not yet dried by the charcoal fire.

On the bamboo-woven luohan couch by the window sat a small table. On it, a brazier burned with glowing red charcoal. The medicinal decoction, boiled to a rolling simmer in a clay pot, bubbled noisily; white steam curled upward, and the bitter smell of medicine filled the air.

——“Creak.”

The sound of the door opening. Shang Rong instinctively turned her head. Wind and snow surged in from outside, lifting the hem of the youth’s smoke-blue robe slightly. The wooden door was swiftly shut by him. He turned around, glanced at her, then sat down on the luohan couch as if unconcerned.

He poured the medicinal decoction from the pot into a bowl. Warm mist rose from the rim. His sharp and refined brows lifted slightly. “Come drink the medicine.”

Shang Rong was distracted for a moment. When she came back to herself and saw the bowl of dark medicinal soup at his side, she pressed her lips together and did not move a single step.

“You may not know the methods by which I kill people,”

Zhezhu slowly took a sip of hot tea, “if you don’t want to die in a grotesque and extremely painful way, you should listen to me.”

Shang Rong lifted her head at once. She stared at the youth’s cold pale profile for a moment, then without a word walked over. Her steps were light. When she sat down opposite him, she did not forget to smooth her wrinkled skirt, and only then obediently picked up the spoon. The medicine was too hot; she was scalded and immediately lifted her head to secretly glance at him.

The youth looked down at her, his expression calm and indifferent.

Shang Rong said nothing and lowered her head again.

Outside the window the wind and snow were heavy. The sound of snow grains striking the window lattice was faint and difficult to hear; only the howling wind was unceasing. Zhezhu propped his chin with one hand, watching her in boredom as she puffed her cheeks to blow on the medicine, wrinkled her nose, and drank it in small mouthfuls.

The room was warm at this moment. Color had returned somewhat to her cheeks. Her delicate skin was white tinged with red, her eyes dark and beautiful, her lips also rosy.

She looked much more alive now, Zhezhu thought absentmindedly.

He took several items from inside his robe and placed them on the table. The clear sound of them striking together made Shang Rong lift her eyes.

They were all her hairpins and ornaments. But with a brief glance, she knew one piece was missing—the golden butterfly pearl hairpin.

“That golden butterfly of yours,” Shang Rong saw his beautiful pale fingers curl slightly, lightly tapping the table, “was exchanged for this courtyard.”

Before she could speak, she saw his eyes curve slightly into a smile. He then told her, “The person I killed this time was somewhat troublesome. I need a place to hide and lie low for a while.”

“Don’t worry. In a couple of days, I can redeem your golden butterfly,” Zhezhu said, taking another sip of tea.

As night fell, the wilderness was pitch-black in every direction. Only a lantern beneath the eaves swayed gently, illuminating this night when both wind and snow had ceased.

Shang Rong lay on the bed, quietly leaning over to look—by the faint light coming through the window—at the youth sleeping on the bamboo-woven luohan couch.

His breathing was extremely light. Even when she deliberately listened in stillness, it was difficult to hear his breath clearly. She did not know how long she had waited. Waiting made her gradually drowsy, until she suddenly startled awake again, eyes wide as she shook her head.

He should be asleep, right?

Shang Rong lifted the quilt and carefully sat up. In the dim light, she stared at the embroidered shoes beside the bed. The soles were too thin—during her escape along the way, they had already worn through.

On a night without falling snow, the door was gently opened, then gently closed again.

Yet it was still a cold winter night.

Shang Rong draped a smoke-blue outer robe over herself, softly exhaling a breath of warm air. Carrying the lantern she had taken down from beneath the eaves, she ran without direction toward the dark end of the mountain wilderness.

Warm light shone upon the frozen snow, refracting into distinct crystalline sparkles. This forest was far larger and deeper than she had imagined.

Tall, thick trees stood one after another. Snow-laden branches twisted and bent like writhing snake shadows, interweaving to cover vast stretches of sky, leaving only slivers of pale light filtering through.

Shang Rong tripped over a withered branch hidden beneath the snow. The lantern fell to the ground and burned before her eyes. The firelight slowly grew bright within her pupils, then slowly faded away.

Until the last spark was extinguished by melting snow water, darkness enveloped everything. Shang Rong sat up, feeling her way to lean against a tree, curling her body tightly.

Suddenly, she heard a faint rustling sound in the distance.

Shang Rong lifted her head. Across the boundless snowy ground, she saw someone carrying a lantern, arriving beneath the stars.

The person wore a single snow-white robe, wide sleeves swaying slightly, with a cloak trimmed in rabbit fur draped over his shoulders. The hem of his garment moved gently with his steps. The lantern in his hand illuminated eyes like a lake of stars. Only when he came closer did Shang Rong realize—he had come walking barefoot through the snow.

Shang Rong stared blankly at his feet, while his gaze also fell upon the black boots on her own feet. She wore a pair of men’s boots clearly far too large for her; it looked rather amusing.

“I left a bracelet for you.”

She was somewhat uneasy, not daring to meet the youth’s half-smiling gaze.

“Did I say I wanted it?”

He scoffed.

Shang Rong pressed her lips together and said nothing more. But the lantern in the youth’s hand moved closer toward her. The sudden nearness of the firelight made her shut her eyes tightly at once.

And so the tears that had gathered in her eyes for so long, on the verge of falling, slid down her cheeks—shining crystal-clear in the lantern’s glow.

Shang Rong felt somewhat embarrassed. Her eyelashes trembled, and she quickly turned her face away, curling into the shadow beneath the tree that the lantern did not clearly illuminate.

“Why are you crying?”

The youth’s voice was clear and calm. He suddenly bent down, examining her with a pair of limpid eyes.

Shang Rong had nowhere to hide. The moment she lifted her head, the youth’s finger suddenly brushed lightly against her cheek—very light, like the soft touch of a feather.

She stared at him blankly.

The youth pulled off the cloak from his body and tossed it onto her rather casually. “Put it on properly.”

Shang Rong slowly pulled the cloak off her head. At that moment, between the lantern’s glow and the whiteness of the snow, the youth had already turned around, his back facing her.

She looked at his back. Within the soft rabbit-fur cloak lingered the youth’s warm, gentle heat.

The lantern’s shifting light illuminated the youth’s thin robe as he walked barefoot through the snow, carrying a girl on his back across the silent wilderness.

“I’ll return your shoes.”

Shang Rong’s arms were wrapped around the youth’s neck. The lantern swayed, and the shadows on the snow moved with it. She spoke softly.

“No need.”

The youth replied in two brief words.

Shang Rong fell silent for a while, lowering her head to look again at their shadows. The youth’s slightly cool hair brushed lightly against her cheek. She lifted her eyes and stared at the curve of his ear.

“May I know your name?”

She suddenly asked.

“Zhezhu.”

The youth’s voice was clear and cool.

Zhezhu?

Shang Rong repeated it once in her heart, then asked him, “Is there a surname ‘Zhe’ under heaven?”

“No.”

The youth suddenly stopped, turning his face slightly to look at Shang Rong who lay against his shoulder. His eyes curved, and at the end of the soft swell beneath them was an extremely small mole.

She heard him say:

“In this world, there are many people who have a name but no surname. I am one of them.”