Shang Rong had long known he was different.

In the small mountain courtyard within Nanzhou, she had dressed his wounds for him, and in the medical hall of Yuling Town, she had also heard that physician swallow half a sentence, vague and unfinished.

But in this world… are there really people who are born unable to feel pain?

“This condition exists only among a very small number of people. Those afflicted with it are mostly born that way. Because they cannot perceive pain, they cannot judge whether any given wound brings them minor or great harm,” Mengshi said, unable to stop himself from glancing at the door behind him. His expression grew complicated. “And he—just how did he learn all this martial skill?”

Killing and drinking blood, and he had lived for sixteen years.

As the sky grew brighter, Mengshi did not delay. After hastily explaining a few things to Shang Rong, he went to Taoxi Village to look for medicine. When he had previously gone to Madam Yu’s house to catch a chicken, he had spoken with her husband—Taoxi Village was not a place where just anyone could build such a mountain dwelling for refined scholars to stay.

The people of Taoxi Village mainly made their living by gathering herbs. Even Madam Yu’s family had never abandoned this trade. Thus Mengshi did not need to make a trip to Shuqing City for it.

The room was silent. Only the basin of burning charcoal occasionally crackled. A piercing wind blew in, making the wooden prop of the window sway slightly. Shang Rong sat quietly to one side. She took a bite of the pastry Mengshi had left but had no appetite to continue eating. She could not help glancing toward the person on the couch, only to find his forehead covered in fine beads of sweat.

She rose with the lightest movement, found a handkerchief, and wiped the thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. Back in the palace, she had known best how uncomfortable it was to sleep with things worn upon the head. So after wiping the sweat, she carefully removed the silver crown from his hair knot and set it aside.

She sat down on the wooden footstool, listening to his steady breathing. After watching him for a while, she began to feel drowsy.

He had not returned for a full day and night. Shang Rong had not slept well the previous night. When she awoke at midnight, she had remained alone in this silent room, keeping watch over a single candle, enduring the long hours.

Before dawn, she heard faint movement in the courtyard and ran out of bed. Yet the moment she opened the door, he collapsed heavily against her, dragging her down with him as they both fell to the ground.

Her hands rested on the edge of the bed. She turned her face sideways and leaned against it. On the verge of drifting off, her half-open eyes unexpectedly settled on a section of wrist bone revealed between his sleeves.

On the inner side of his cold, pale wrist was an old scar, years in the making—deep and savage.

Her drowsiness vanished at once. Shang Rong sat upright abruptly, staring blankly at the youth’s pale, bloodless face. After a moment, she took that hand in hers.

Sunlight filled the window, illuminating the faintly pink scar along the inside of his wrist. Looking at it this way, one could imagine just how ruthless the force must have been when that wound was carved.

Yet he usually wore wrist guards. Hidden beneath them, the scar was extremely difficult to notice.

When Mengshi returned from Taoxi Village and heard no movement inside, he looked through the window and saw the young girl sitting on the wooden footstool before the bed, leaning against the bedside, asleep in quiet stillness.

The youth on the bed showed no sign of waking either.

Mengshi did not disturb them. He turned away to take out the medicinal herbs he had exchanged for Shang Rong’s few pearls. There was a barefoot doctor in Taoxi Village who could slice herbs. Mengshi had gone to find him to have the herbs cut and prepared—that was why he had been delayed.

He lit a brazier of charcoal to decoct the medicine. Sitting beside it, Mengshi fanned the fire with a palm fan. He had been busy for so long he had no time to eat—only now did he eat two pieces of pastry to stave off hunger.

Pouring the medicinal broth into a bowl, he carried it up the steps and pushed the door open. The curtain was hung on Shang Rong’s side, while Zhezhu’s side lay fully exposed. The moment he entered, he saw that the youth on the couch had already opened his eyes. Perhaps because he saw Shang Rong’s face uncovered, the youth’s gaze toward him was extremely alert.

“Though it was unintentional,”

Mengshi smiled calmly, “I have indeed already seen the young lady’s true face. But just as I promised you, Young Master, I will keep well the secret you wish me to keep.”

This morning he had returned suddenly—and fallen unconscious just as suddenly. Shang Rong had not had time to cover her face with the mask.

Mengshi’s voice was very soft. Shang Rong was completely unaware of everything. She slept deeply, faintly catching a trace of bitter medicinal scent, yet not knowing whether it was dream or reality.

After Mengshi left, the room returned to silence. Zhezhu lowered his gaze lightly, staring at the hand that, in her sleep, unknowingly clasped his fingers.

The medicine was still too bitter.

He caught sight of a small bottle of sugar pills lying across the folded robe placed nearby—he had bought them yesterday.

Zhezhu was about to withdraw his fingers, yet her soft, warm palm unconsciously curled tighter. His eyelashes trembled. For some reason, he suddenly stopped.

He silently observed her sleeping face. A light breeze brushed the fine soft hair by her ear. He noticed that her cheeks were pale with a faint blush, and her lips were red—like the color of the rouge he had failed to bring back.

In the end, Zhezhu used his other hand to take the porcelain bottle, opened the stopper with one hand, poured out a sugar pill, and tossed it into his mouth.

After thinking for a moment, he poured out another one, propped himself up slightly, and slipped it through the parting of her lips. Yet when his fingertip touched her soft lips, he paused for an instant—then saw her eyelids tremble as she suddenly opened her eyes.

For a moment, their gazes met.

Zhezhu withdrew his hand. A trace of lingering drowsiness still clouded Shang Rong’s eyes. She had been dreaming of a pot of steaming pickled fresh bamboo shoot soup, yet what entered her mouth was cool, faintly sweet. The moment she opened her eyes, she instinctively bit down and crushed the sugar pill between her teeth.

“Zhezhu, you…” Shang Rong sat upright. Before she could finish speaking, her gaze fell upon the dark red blood soaking through the cloth at his left shoulder.

Her voice cut off halfway. Zhezhu followed her line of sight and glanced sideways. His pale, handsome face showed little expression, and his tone was calm. “It will be fine in a while.”

The medicinal powder remaining on the wound would soon stop the bleeding again.

Shang Rong tried to stand, but the moment she exerted force, her legs felt unbearably numb. Seeing Zhezhu extend a hand toward her, she abruptly dodged, and in an instant tumbled off the wooden footstool.

The numbness had not yet faded. She clenched her teeth and looked up, seeing confusion on his face—yet her gaze could not help but fall upon the hand he held suspended at the edge of the bed.

From this angle, the old scar on the inside of his wrist could not be seen. But the youth narrowed his eyes slightly, as though sharply sensing something. He withdrew his hand, the snow-white sleeve covering the trace. “What do you know?”

“Why you always smear that strange herb juice on your sword hilt.”

The numbness in her legs finally eased somewhat. Shang Rong forced herself up, sat at the edge of his bed, and said this to him.

“What reason?”

Zhezhu lowered his eyes and asked deliberately.

“Zhezhu, you are curious about the feeling of pain.”

Shang Rong looked at him and spoke seriously.

Zhezhu froze for an instant. He raised his head, and in his jet-black pupils, a trace of astonishment he could not conceal surfaced.

Because he did not know pain, that was why he dared smear that herb juice around to toy with people at will.

He had thought—he had thought she would answer like that.

“But Zhezhu, the feeling of pain is not good at all,” Shang Rong raised the back of her hand, reddened from being scalded by dripping candle wax while supporting the lamp last night. “I was only burned twice by wax, and it already felt very unpleasant.”

For those who can feel pain, no one likes such a sensation.

Zhezhu stared at the reddened back of her hand. Yet his eyes silently shone with a bright, lively gleam. The corners of his lips faintly lifted as he said, “Isn’t everyone like this? The less one knows, the more curious one becomes.”

“Shang Rong.”

He suddenly fixed his gaze on her. His clear, cool voice carried a faint, inscrutable smile. “Are you curious about me?”

Shang Rong stared blankly at him. She parted her lips, yet for a long while said nothing.

But Zhezhu did not need her reply. His long eyelashes lowered as he casually glanced at the old scar on his wrist, as though mocking her. “It seems you are not uninterested in everything either.”

At that moment, Shang Rong felt as though he had seen through emotions she herself had not even noticed. The feeling of being seen through made her uneasy. She lowered her head at once. A strand of her loose black hair fell before her shoulder, and her well-shaped brows unconsciously furrowed slightly.

“You clearly know your own body,” she spoke again, choosing her words carefully. When she lifted her head, she saw the youth’s expression relaxed—there was even a faint hint of happiness. She did not understand, and her speech slowed, hesitant. “Then why do you always insist on doing dangerous things?”

“You don’t understand. Killing has its own kind of pleasure.”

Zhezhu’s refined brows lifted slightly. “I don’t know pain, but every person I kill does. After testing it again and again, watching the way they suffer, I learn how I should guard against others treating me the same way.”

He laid bare the blood on his hands before her so directly, and as he wished, he saw that beneath her wide-eyed shock, there was a trace of fear hidden.

She was just like this—fragile and pitiful, easily frightened. Zhezhu thought.

Shang Rong noticed the teasing glint in his eyes. She turned her face aside. “What you said… I truly cannot understand.”

“Besides, I make a living this way. I need to buy wine, buy sugar, buy all sorts of amusing things,” the boy’s black-and-white eyes seemed filled with the clearest light and shadow in the world. “Don’t you need clothes and rouge, and meat at every meal?”

As he spoke, he looked at her again. “You don’t like this, you don’t like that—you’re not easy to keep at all. I need money very much.”

Shang Rong turned back, only to find that he did not seem to be joking at all. She murmured hesitantly, “Whether I like something or not is my own matter. You actually… don’t need to mind me.”

But the boy frowned slightly and asked in confusion, “If you don’t like it, then why would I buy it for you?”

“But Zhezhu,” Shang Rong turned her face slightly. A windowful of bright daylight fell across her features. Her clear, dustless brows and eyes seemed forever tinged with a quiet gloom. “I am not important at all. You don’t need to care about any of my preferences.”