The room fell silent for a moment. Only the dripping sound of melting snow outside the window could be heard.

“I’m thirsty.”

He said suddenly.

Shang Rong came back to her senses, softly acknowledged, and rose to walk to the brazier—yet heard him say again, “Use a cloth to hold it.”

She had already been scalded once by a boiling clay pot in the hunter’s old house.

“I know.”

She had already intended to take the cloth from the table first.

The kettle on the stove was already boiling. Using the cloth, she lifted it and poured the tea into a bowl. She set the kettle back down, touched the outer wall of the bowl to test the temperature, and found it still very hot. Turning her head, she saw him half-opening his eyes in weariness, yawning.

Zhezhu did not hear her footsteps. When he turned his head and glanced up, he saw her seated on the cushion before the low table, one elbow propped on it, one hand tucking the wind-tossed loose strands of hair behind her ear, her head lowered as she carefully blew away the steam rising from the bowl.

Soft light from the full window fell over her entirely—black hair, pale face, smoky blue robe.

Without realizing it, he watched her.

After a short while, Shang Rong felt it was no longer so hot. She rose with the tea bowl in her hands, only to discover that the youth on the couch had somehow closed his eyes.

Her palm was filled with the warmth of the bowl. She gently set it down again.

During the day, the snow in the forest melted under the sun. But in the middle of the night, a sudden downpour struck the window lattice, startling Shang Rong awake from her sleep.

Thunder rumbled dully in the distance. The window flashed with shifting light and shadow. On such a restless night, she keenly sensed faint movement from the other side of the screen.

Throwing off the covers and getting out of bed, Shang Rong took the lamp, lifted the curtain, and walked around the screen. Lightning and dim candlelight intertwined in cold and dark hues, illuminating the person on the opposite bed.

His face was flushed an abnormal red, his forehead covered in sweat. His brows were tightly drawn together without awareness. His eyes were closed, and even his breathing was disordered.

Shang Rong set the lamp aside and cautiously reached out to touch his forehead.

The moment her palm covered his burning-hot brow, his hand instantly seized the soft sword at his bedside and drew it across her neck—his eyes snapping open at the same time.

His fever had turned the corners of his eyes faintly red. Those jet-black eyes were as cold as the blade pressed against her neck—but when he gazed at her face, he froze for a moment.

“Shang Rong?”

The excessive heat in his body had made his voice hoarse. Almost dazed, he called her name. His fingers suddenly slackened, and the soft sword fell to the ground with a clear sound.

Shang Rong, still shaken, touched her neck. Meeting the youth’s barely half-open eyes, she forgot her fear for the moment. She turned and rushed out the door, calling from the steps, “Daozhang!”

She called several times in succession before a drowsy response finally came from the side room. Soon light flickered on inside. Mengshi threw on his robe, opened the door, and looked at her through the curtain of rain. “Miss Susu, what has happened?”

“Zhezhu has a fever!” Shang Rong answered anxiously.

Hearing this, Mengshi hastily tied his robe sash at random and ran up the wooden steps through the rain.

After another round of pulse-taking and examining the wound, Mengshi busied himself. As he decocted medicine with the brazier in the corridor, he said to Shang Rong, “Soak a cloth in cold water, wring it dry, and wipe his face and palms. You can also place it on his forehead.”

“Alright.”

Shang Rong lifted her skirt hem and went back inside. She took the cloth beside the copper basin and soaked it in water. The sound of wringing water dripped softly. When she turned her head, she realized the youth’s closed eyes had opened again.

She walked closer and sat at the edge of the bed.

The damp cloth, carrying cool moisture, moved clumsily across his face. She could not help watching his eyelashes flutter slightly because of her movements.

The cloth moved from his face to his neck. The fine sweat on his pale skin was gently wiped away. Her bent knuckles unconsciously brushed against the youth’s throat.

Just the lightest touch but he reacted like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, suddenly grabbing her wrist.

Under the soft glow of the lamp, their eyes met. Their shadows reflected on the screen opposite.

Shang Rong suddenly grasped his hand in return. The damp cloth lightly dabbed at his curled fingers—yet this only made them curl tighter.

It was a little like the mimosa plant she used to play with as a child.

But remembering Mengshi’s words, she could only pry open his fingers one by one and carefully wipe his palm.

“Zhezhu, I like sleeping when it rains the most. I don’t know why, but it really makes me feel at ease.”

She raised her head and said to him, “Sleep well.”

Her voice was like a dream wrapped in the night rain. Zhezhu stared at her for a moment, his thoughts muddled. Before he knew it, his vision blurred, and his heavy eyelids drooped shut.

Rain dripped steadily from the eaves. Shang Rong folded the cloth after soaking and wringing it again and placed it upon his forehead. In the faintly swaying lamplight, she quietly studied his brows and eyes, then bent down to pick up the soft sword that had fallen to the floor and set it back beside his pillow.

The rain lasted deep into the night. Shang Rong was utterly exhausted. Without even noticing the light outside the window, she returned to her own bed at some unknown hour like a walking corpse, and the moment her head touched the pillow, she fell asleep.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

“Seventeenth Protector, when this subordinate searched Liu Xuanyi’s body last night, this was found.”

The cold morning mist concealed everything. Jiang Ying spoke in a low voice beneath the trees.

As he spoke, he took a letter from his robes.

A trace of faint bluish weariness pressed beneath Zhezhu’s eyelids. He took the letter Jiang Ying presented, opened it, and glanced at it casually—but his gaze suddenly halted.

“Should this letter be taken back to Zhifeng Tower?” Jiang Ying had already read its contents. It was merely someone signed “Xin Zhang” making a deal with Liu Xuanyi, instructing him to find some sort of treasure box.

Jiang Ying did not think it anything special. But the rules of Zhifeng Tower required that anything related to a target be presented to the Protector.

“It’s of no consequence.”

Zhezhu lowered his eyes, his expression indistinct. His fingers curled, crushing the letter into a small paper ball. His voice still carried a trace of illness-hoarseness. “Zhifeng Tower is not some filthy place that takes everything into its grasp.”

“Yes.”

Jiang Ying harbored no doubts. He cupped his hands and added, “This subordinate will now bring back the news of Liu Xuanyi’s death to the Tower.”

The matter of killing Liu Xuanyi was already finished. Zhezhu did not need to return to Zhifeng Tower, but people like them had no choice but to go back.

“Wait.”

Just as Jiang Ying turned to leave, the youth’s cold voice sounded. He hurriedly turned back. “What further instructions does the Seventeenth Protector have?”

“You do not need to return.”

Zhezhu looked at him.

Jiang Ying froze for a moment. Then delight burst into his eyes.

“But I need you to inquire about someone for me,” Zhezhu continued.

“Who?”

“A Daoist with the religious name ‘Miaoshan.’” Thinking of how Liu Xuanyi had revealed in passing the night before that Miaoshan had been missing for sixteen years, he added, “He has likely already vanished from the martial world. You only need to investigate his life history.”

“Yes. This subordinate will certainly accomplish it.”

Jiang Ying responded respectfully. Then he remembered something in his robes. Just as he reached in to take it out, the youth suddenly let out a soft “Ah,” turned his head slightly, and said, “There is also another Daoist.”

“…?”

Following his line of sight, Jiang Ying looked toward the side room. The door was tightly shut, and no one was inside at the moment. He immediately understood and said, “This subordinate will also send people to Tingzhou, to Baiyu Zichang Temple.”

After speaking, he finally took out a small carved wooden box from his robes and handed it to Zhezhu, somewhat uneasy. “Seventeenth Protector, this is the same as the one from the night before.”

At this, Zhezhu lowered his gaze to look.

Indeed, it was the same. A trace of interest instantly appeared in his listless brows and eyes.

In her sleep, Shang Rong always felt as though a hand was brushing across her face, but the movement was so light it seemed like nothing more than a vague illusion. Heavy drowsiness wrapped around her fleeting thoughts and soon dispersed them. She never managed to open her eyes to tell whether it was real or not.

By noon, the fragrance of food filled the entire courtyard and drifted into the room through the half-open window. Shang Rong woke from hunger.

She stared blankly at the ceiling beam for a moment, then remembered that today Mengshi would be going to Taoxi Village to teach the children to read. That meant the one busy in the kitchen now must be Madam Yu.

She must not let Madam Yu discover Zhezhu’s injury.

She instantly became much more alert and hurriedly sat up. Yet she inadvertently noticed that a rouge box had appeared by her pillow at some unknown time. After staring at it in a daze for a moment, she picked it up and examined it, then abruptly looked toward the gauze screen concealed behind the curtain.

After changing into another dress, Shang Rong lifted the curtain and stepped behind the screen. Raising her eyes, she saw that the youth who had burned with fever and slept in a daze last night was now leaning against the couch, slowly drinking a bowl of hot tea.

His complexion was still pale, and his lips held no color. His thick dark lashes lifted, and the eyes that looked toward her were clear and bright, light rippling within them.

Even the curve of the flesh beneath his eyes seemed a little deeper.

Shang Rong did not understand why he suddenly seemed so happy, but then she heard him say, “If you think it’s not good, I will buy something else for you.”

“No need.” Shang Rong gently shook her head. She knew he was referring to the rouge box. “It is already very good.”

In any case, she had never cared much to use such things.

Madam Yu was still outside. Eager to put on her mask, Shang Rong went to wash at the wooden stand. She had just scooped up water from the copper basin, and the moment it dampened half her cheek, she realized something was wrong. Looking at her palm again, it was already smeared with an inexplicable red.

Shang Rong’s eyes widened at once. She hurried to the dressing table. The smooth bronze mirror reflected mottled red patches on her pale cheek.

After touching water, it looked even more ridiculous.

“You see,” Steam rose from the hot tea, softening his features. Zhezhu’s voice still carried a trace of weakness. “You just don’t like it.”

Jiang Ying truly did not know how to buy things.