Zhezhu knew she was angry.

When she got angry, she was always like this, pressing her lips together without speaking, only glaring at him with a pair of eyes. Only now, her face was wet with water, and the mottled redness made her look much more disheveled.

Shang Rong had just wiped her face hard, but when she raised her eyes, she saw him set down the teacup, lift the quilt, step barefoot off the bed, and walk toward her.

The faint, slightly bitter medicinal scent on his body covered the original fresh fragrance of bamboo leaves. His figure was so tall that Shang Rong unconsciously tilted her face up to look at him as he approached.

Zhezhu did not speak either. He took her hand and led her back to the wooden stand holding the copper basin. Casually rolling up his sleeves, he dipped the cloth into the water and wrung it twice, then lifted his eyelids to look at her.

Droplets of water slid down the back of his well-shaped hand. The damp cloth pressed against Shang Rong’s face. In that instant, she hurriedly reached out to take it: “I’ll do it myself.”

Zhezhu held her wrist. His gaze fell upon her slender, pale fingers. Suddenly, the wind and rain of last night seemed to echo in his ears—someone applying cold compresses for him to reduce the fever, keeping vigil through the midnight.

He said nothing, gently wiping her cheeks. The mottled, vivid redness spread and faded across her pale, delicate face, and the light color somehow suited her very well.

His eyes were full of novelty. Shang Rong turned her face aside uneasily, yet saw him walk a few steps to the dressing table and bring the bronze mirror to her.

The bronze mirror reflected her face dotted with water droplets, lightly brushed with rouge.

“Doesn’t it look much better like this?”

As though he had made a new discovery, he could not wait to share it with her.

Shang Rong turned her face away, refusing to look at her own damp brows and eyes in the mirror. “Rouge is meant to be used sparingly in the first place.”

He did not understand at all.

“Oh.”

He responded carelessly, and came again to wipe her face clean.

Shang Rong was pressed by him to sit at the dressing table, obediently tilting her face up as she waited for him to paste the mask onto her face bit by bit. She turned her head to carefully check in the mirror whether the mask was affixed smoothly, yet he silently reached out again to gather her hair into his palm.

Shang Rong stared blankly at him in the mirror.

On a clear day without wind or rain, the sky’s light filled the windows with extraordinary brightness, illuminating a few sparse shadows swaying faintly. The youth’s robes were snow-white, his long fingers moving through her jet-black hair again and again. Soon he had braided a neat plait. He lifted his brows and held out one hand toward her.

“What?” Shang Rong looked at him in confusion.

The youth did not answer. Instead, he lightly pinched the wide sleeve of her robe with two fingers, revealing a bamboo-green silk thread tied around her fair wrist. He gently removed it and wound it around the end of her braid.

“You really like my tassel.” He said.

Shang Rong’s cheeks grew a little hot. She hurriedly avoided his gaze, but the moment her eyes lowered, she saw in the mirror a spot on his sleeve slowly, slowly seeping with a deep crimson stain of blood.

Her expression froze. Then she heard a knock on the door, followed by Yu-niangzi’s careful voice calling from outside: “Miss, Young Master, it is time to eat!”

Shang Rong immediately stood up, turned, grabbed his hand, and pushed him toward the bed. “Zhezhu, your wound is bleeding again—quick, lie down.”

Only then did Zhezhu notice the mottled bloodstains on his sleeve.

Shang Rong helped him lie down, pulled the quilt over him, and hearing another puzzled call from outside, she hurriedly turned her head and answered, “Yu-niangzi, I know.”

The end of her hair lightly brushed across his cheek. Zhezhu blinked once. Seeing her turn back, he said softly, “Daoist Mengshi said you injured your leg by accident while climbing. The medicine was all bought at Yu-niangzi’s house, it cannot be discovered by her.”

Most people in Taoxi Village made a living by gathering herbs. Yu-niangzi might not be ignorant of medicine. A fall would not cause the kind of blade wounds covering his body.

After Shang Rong finished speaking, she turned and ran to the doorway. She pulled open one of the doors, saw Yu-niangzi standing outside, and stepped out, lowering her head slightly. “I slept rather deeply—please forgive me, Yu-niangzi.”

“The young master is injured, so the young lady must also be exhausted in both mind and body,” Yu-niangzi saw that this young lady was polite and well-mannered, so she returned the courtesy with a slight bow and a smile. “I only wonder whether the young master is awake now? The food has been prepared lightly—please have him eat at least a little.”

Shang Rong shook her head. “He hasn’t woken yet.”

“Then I shall keep the porridge warm on the stove and let him eat when he wakes.”

As Yu-niangzi spoke, she added to her, “I will first serve the young lady a bowl.”

“Thank you.”

Shang Rong said softly.

Dazzling sunlight filled the courtyard, warming the body somewhat where it fell. Perhaps it would never snow again. Shang Rong thought this while drinking porridge at the table.

Once Yu-niangzi left, she carried a bowl of porridge and pushed the door open to enter the room.

At some unknown time, the youth had already sat up. His sleeves were dotted with specks of blood, yet he paid no attention to them at all, only staring at a small paper ball in his palm. Hearing the door open, he immediately lifted his eyes and, without a trace of expression, slipped it into his robe.

Shang Rong had intended to hand him the bowl, but when she drew closer, she stared at his pale face for a moment. In the end, she pressed her lips together, sat down at the edge of the bed, scooped up a spoonful of porridge, and tentatively brought it to his lips.

The youth’s eyelashes lowered slightly, his gaze silently falling on the fingers with which she held the spoon.

“You’d better not move.”

Shang Rong murmured, pushing the spoon a little closer.

The youth said nothing. At the moment she hesitated over whether to withdraw her hand, he leaned forward slightly, his bloodless lips parting as he lightly bit onto the white porcelain spoon.

A strand of black hair fell against the side of his face. The curve of his under-eye hollow was deeper, and a small beauty mark stood out.

At dusk, Mengshi returned from Taoxi Village, bringing several pieces of pastries sent from the school. He immediately handed two to Shang Rong. “Miss Susu, these are red bean cakes—very sweet.”

“Also, I remember you wanted brush, ink, paper, and inkstone. I brought these back for you. If you run out of xuan paper in the future, just tell me.”

“Thank you, Daozhang.”

Shang Rong accepted the red bean cakes and the bundle containing the writing materials, lowering her head in thanks.

Mengshi smiled and waved his hand. Then he rolled up his sleeves, carried the hot water from the copper basin into the room, and changed Zhezhu’s medicine.

“How has the wound on the young master’s arm bled again?”

He had just untied Zhezhu’s sash and pulled down half his robe, and upon seeing the state of the wound, he frowned. But then he thought of the neatly braided, beautiful hair of the little girl outside, and suddenly understood. He shook his head and smiled, saying, “Your arm injury is serious now—why trouble yourself so?”

Zhezhu did not respond. Instead, he asked, “Daozhang, do you intend to spend the rest of your life here in peace?”

“I am used to drifting—how could I settle down anywhere?” Mengshi poured medicinal powder from a porcelain bottle onto his wound. “Young Master Zhezhu also knows that I still have an unresolved grudge.”

“If not for the fact that I am now at the center of a storm—before me the Transport Commissioner of Jinyuan, behind me the Prefect of Rongzhou, Qi Yusong—two great mountains pressing upon me—why would I need to hide here?”

“Then how about I make a deal with Daozhang?”

Zhezhu’s voice carried a trace of drowsiness, somewhat languid.

When Mengshi heard this, the hand with which he was wrapping the youth’s wound with fine cloth paused. He lifted his eyes. “Could it be that the young master is willing to help me find that last enemy? If that is truly so, then I, Mengshi, will certainly do everything in my power to repay the young master—”

“I am not very good at repaying kindness, but when it comes to revenge, I have hundreds of methods,” Zhezhu interrupted him, unhurriedly drawing his robe closed. “You have already seen her true face. I originally had a once-and-for-all method to make you keep your mouth shut forever.”

Zhezhu supported himself on the edge of the bed as he rose. His handsome brows and eyes were sharp and distant. “But unfortunately, she would not permit it, so I can only make this exchange with you.”

As he spoke, the corners of his lips lifted slightly as he met Mengshi’s gaze. “Perhaps someday the wheel of fortune will turn, and Daozhang will truly have a chance to repay someone. Do not remember it wrongly—the one you should repay is not me, but her.”

Though Mengshi had drifted half his life and seen many people, at this moment he still had no way of guessing even a trace of what this sixteen-year-old youth before him was thinking. He even sensed a piercing chill in the youth’s words.

Mengshi came back to himself and said, neither servile nor overbearing:

“If I can avenge this grievance, I, Mengshi, will certainly not forget the young master’s words today.”

When night fell, all the carved wooden lotus lanterns in the courtyard were lit, making the place exceedingly bright. During the day, Mengshi had taught children to read in the school of Taoxi Village, and after returning, he had changed Zhezhu’s medicine. He was already very tired, so after dinner, he washed and went to sleep first.

The courtyard was quiet. Shang Rong sat by the window in the room, writing stroke by stroke on the snow-white, clean paper with great seriousness. The faint rustling of the brush tip could be heard.

Zhezhu lay on the couch with nothing to do. He closed his eyes, then opened them again after a short while. He simply got up and went down from the bed.

Hearing the movement through the curtain, Shang Rong immediately set down her brush and ran over, only to see the youth holding a bowl of tea and pushing open a window. The wavering shadows of the lanterns outside the eaves fell upon him.

“In a few days, I’ll take you to play in Shuqing City.”

He heard her footsteps but did not turn around, suddenly speaking on a whim.

“Your injury won’t heal in just a few days.”

Shang Rong walked closer and reminded him.

“As long as it doesn’t bleed, that’s enough.” He answered carelessly. His profile, outlined in the half-light and half-shadow, was all indifference.

On a winter night without snow, even the wind that blew in was cold. He did not speak, yet turned his face and accurately caught her gaze lingering on his wrist.

“Zhezhu.”

Shang Rong was unaware, still looking at his hand. The lamplight flickered in her eyes. She had held this thought in her heart for a long time, and finally could not help asking, “You… have you tried to kill yourself?”

The wind brushed past the ear, but it was very light and could not conceal her voice.

Zhezhu’s expression did not change in the slightest. He still looked at her just as calmly. After a moment, he slightly lifted his chin.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Shang Rong stared at him without blinking. “Can you tell me?”

“No.”

Zhezhu took a sip of hot tea, his voice even.

He leaned against the window frame. Seeing that she made no further movement for quite a while, he slightly curved his eyes. “You’re not asking anymore?”

Shang Rong looked at the hem of his robe lifted by the wind. She shook her head and said, “Everyone has secrets they do not wish to tell others. Like me—I also have things I have not told you.”

She looked at him again and said seriously, “I’m sorry, Zhezhu.”

Though she herself still had secrets she could not tell him, she had nonetheless found herself asking about that old scar of his.

Zhezhu silently glanced at her clean, delicate brows and eyes. The bowl of tea had been blown half-cold by the night wind. He set it aside casually and turned his face toward the dense shadows of the bamboo grove illuminated by lantern light.

“I once wanted to escape the fate of bearing something on my back,” his voice held no ripple of emotion, as though he were merely speaking of someone else’s matter. “Utterly weary, utterly exhausted. After thinking it over again and again, the only way was to die.”

Zhezhu lightly raised his right wrist. That old scar came into view. He gave a short laugh. “Now that I think about it, rather than me becoming that lonely wandering ghost, it would be better to let someone else.”

Under the lamplight, Shang Rong looked at his wrist. She suddenly said, “It must have hurt a lot.”

If it were her own wrist, it would certainly hurt a lot.

“Didn’t you already know that I…”

Zhezhu did not know what she was thinking. He had just begun to speak when his eyelashes trembled for a moment, and his words abruptly stopped.

The green gauze curtain was lightly lifted by the wind, swaying slowly. Several lamps cast a dim yellow glow inside the room, silently stretching the shadows on the ground.

She lowered her eyes, her fingers very light, very light, as they touched his ferocious scar.