In less than half a shichen (1 hour), the crowded throng in front of the yamen dispersed. As Shang Rong walked over, she happened to see Cen Zhao and another white-haired old man coming out from inside the gate.

The cold morning mist had already thinned considerably, sunlight edging the eaves in gold. Cen Zhao and the old man were talking as they descended the stone steps. When he lifted his head and saw the young woman approaching with a painting scroll in her arms, he stopped walking. “When did the young lady arrive?”

“I came together with Miss Mingfang.” Shang Rong said.

“Why do I not see that young master?” Cen Zhao looked around, but did not see the youth.

“He did not sleep all night; he is now utterly exhausted.” Shang Rong explained.

“Thanks to him, today’s case was tried very smoothly. I imagine that before long, even the Prefect of Shuqing will be replaced,” Cen Zhao smiled at her. “Tonight I will hold a banquet at my residence. Would the young lady and the young master care to join us?”

“I’m afraid we cannot.”

Shang Rong lowered her head slightly and declined gently, “Many thanks for Mister Qingshan’s kindness. We have already troubled you by staying at your residence these two days. Now that Uncle and Madam Yu and her husband are all unharmed, it would not be proper for us to remain longer.”

“Since that is so, I cannot force the young lady to stay.” To this day, Cen Zhao still did not know the names or origins of the youth and the young woman before him. But he was not one who pried into others’ affairs. Fate—meeting and parting like the wind. If they did not speak of it, he would not ask.

“I have once read Mister Qingshan’s Fu on Heshan at Chongyang yet I have never been to Heshan in Jia County. Now, relying on your descriptions within it, I have painted a scroll of touring Heshan for you.”

“In the past, when I was at home, I relied on your poetry to imagine the mountains and rivers of the world. You have been to many places and endured much hardship, yet between the lines of your writing, I rarely see the word ‘hardship.’ It truly brings comfort to the heart.”

As Shang Rong spoke, she handed over the scroll. A trace of astonishment appeared in Cen Zhao’s eyes. He hurriedly received it, then gazed again at the young woman’s face before him. His voice was gentle and kindly. “This gift from the young lady, I shall surely treasure it well.”

“Since the young lady says Brother Qingshan’s poetry can comfort the human heart,” the white-haired old man beside Cen Zhao spoke. He too looked benevolent and kind. “Then why does the young lady still wear a troubled expression?”

Shang Rong looked at him. She guessed that he must be the head of Yeshan Academy.

“Does the young lady not know? I too was not born so open-minded,” perhaps seeing that Shang Rong did not answer, Cen Zhao spoke instead. “The lilac bears its knots—only, the young lady does not yet know how to untie them.”

He had long seen through the lively exterior of this young girl to the heart within her that was already withering away.

“Susu?”

Before Shang Rong could speak, she heard a call from the steps. She raised her head and saw Mengshi, now changed into prisoner’s clothing, coming out from the gate. As he walked, his legs seemed somewhat unsteady.

“Mister Qingshan, I will go first.”

Shang Rong gave a slight bow, then lifted her skirts and went up the steps to support Mengshi.

Cen Zhao turned to look once more at the little girl’s retreating figure. For some reason, he always felt something unusual stirring in his heart. As he and the white-haired old man beside him walked toward the street on the right, the old man urged him, “Qingshan, quickly—let me see how this young lady’s painting is.”

“You and that impatient temper of yours, you truly cannot change it even in old age.”

Cen Zhao shook his head with a smile, yet, stirred by the inexplicable curiosity in his heart, he slowly unrolled the painting scroll in his arms.

Clouds and mist half veiled the scene, autumn leaves shone golden, mountain walls jagged and steep, towering like celestial palaces above the misty rivers and scattered boats below.

Each stroke calmly outlined mountain light and water hues, gathering beauty and wonder into a single scroll.

“Qingshan, you and Cheng Shubai are in it as well.”

The white-haired old man pointed to the two figures on the steep wild path, wearing zhuyu, holding bamboo staffs, their sleeves billowing as if about to take flight. He could not help but sigh in admiration. “This young lady’s painting skill is truly marvelous.”

Usually, those who paint leave a signature at the end. Yet on this painting in Cen Zhao’s hands, the right side was completely blank—not a single character left behind.

Cen Zhao turned his face again and saw the young woman supporting the uncle who had just been released, walking toward the bustling marketplace across from the yamen.

For some reason, all of a sudden, he thought of that forgotten-year friend far away in Yujing.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

“Uncle Mengshi, are your legs alright?”

Earlier, when Shang Rong saw Mengshi in the crowd inside the hall, he had been kneeling, so she had not noticed that his legs were injured.

Mengshi froze for a moment at her address of “uncle,” then smiled and shook his head. “When I had just entered the prison, I was beaten by the jailers. The whip happened to strike my legs, but it did not injure the bones or tendons.”

“I have thought about it. You are no longer a Daoist now, and it would not be proper to call you Daozhang in front of others,” Shang Rong said as she supported him while walking. “From now on, like Zhezhu, I will say you are our uncle.”

Not far away, beneath the shade of a tree, stood a carriage. Seeing the two of them approach, Zhezhu lowered the curtain.

But soon the curtain was lifted again from outside, and a bright shaft of light slipped in with it. The young woman bent to enter, and he saw the crystal earrings at her earlobes glimmering with clear light.

As soon as Shang Rong came in, she saw the youth leaning against the carriage wall, his face pale, his expression weary.

“I will drive the carriage.”

Mengshi lifted the curtain and, seeing him, asked, “Shall we return to Taoxi Village?”

“Go to the inn first.”

Zhezhu sat upright, speaking lightly.

“Are we not leaving?” Seeing Mengshi lower the curtain, Shang Rong turned her head and asked him.

“Since he walked out of the yamen openly and properly himself, why should we hurry to leave?” Zhezhu said carelessly.

At this moment, Mengshi, separated by a curtain outside, tugged on the reins. At once the wheels rumbled, and the carriage swayed lightly.

Sitting beside him, Shang Rong kept feeling an extremely faint scent of blood lingering in her nose. She could not help glancing at his arm, then reached out her fingers to lightly touch his sleeve.

As expected, her fingers came away with damp traces of blood. She immediately opened the bundle at her side, rummaged inside, and took out some wound medicine. “At least we must stop the bleeding first.”

Even if Zhezhu’s wound tore open again, he did not feel pain, only a bit more fatigue. He was too lazy to bother with it. But Shang Rong feared that the repeated tearing would worsen the injury, so she went to untie his xiedie belt.

“Shang Rong.”

Zhezhu had just raised his wrist to block her hand, but it was already too late—she had touched the golden clasp on the belt.

The carriage rocked and swayed, the curtain lifted by the wind. The youth watched as her brows gradually knit together.

“It really hurts a little.”

Shang Rong opened her palm and looked up at him.

“Did I not tell you before, do not touch me casually?” The youth’s eyes were black, like a deep abyss. “There is no water in the carriage. You can only endure it for now.”

The golden clasp had only been smeared a little by the sword hilt. Shang Rong was not in much pain—only a slight sting. She pressed her lips together. Taking advantage of the fact that he could not stop her at this moment, she forced open his robe and, through the thin cloth soaked with blood, hastily applied the medicinal powder.

She was very close. Zhezhu could not help turning his face away, avoiding her breath so near at hand. Yet with each rise and fall of his breathing, a strand of her hair lightly brushed against his collarbone.

A faint ticklish sensation.

Yet his fingers silently curled and tightened.

Then his gaze dropped to the scattered items in the opened bundle. Aside from sugar pills, wound medicine, and the mask box, there were only gold and jade ornaments, along with robes and skirts.

“You gave all your pearls away?”

Suddenly, Shang Rong heard his voice.

She did not look up, only gave a soft response, saying, “I secretly tucked them into the hidden pocket in Miss Mingfang’s sleeve.”

Tian Mingfang was leaving Shuqing; she would surely need those pearls for travel expenses.

Zhezhu was just about to say something, when a faint, gentle breath of wind brushed across his arm. His back stiffened. Lowering his eyes, he saw her puffed cheeks.

In that mountain courtyard in Nanzhou, she had done the same.

He bent his knuckles and lightly tapped her forehead.

Shang Rong immediately raised her eyes and explained dully, “I know you don’t feel pain. I was blowing on my own hand.”

When they arrived at the inn, Mengshi first asked for a basin of water so Shang Rong could wash her hands, while he helped Zhezhu clean the wound on his arm again.

For the three of them to sit together at one table for a meal again was already no easy matter.

“This is the second time Young Master Zhezhu has saved me,” Mengshi lifted a bowl of hot tea. “I use tea in place of wine, to thank Young Master for your great kindness.”

Outside the eaves, rain had begun to fall again at some unknown time, the mingled sounds unceasing.

“You also seized the opportunity yourself.”

Zhezhu lifted his tea bowl perfunctorily and took a sip.

“That Tan Jiezhi kept remembering that I saved him and set his bones, so he spent money in the prison to have people look after me. I did not suffer much hardship. Only that Hu Linsong always wore a bitter, hesitant expression. I could tell he must know some inside details,” Mengshi drank an entire bowl of tea in one go as though it were wine. “Thanks to you, Young Master, for having someone come to the prison to remind me. I used a small trick, and made Tan and Hu both firmly believe that the fall from the mountain path in the bamboo grove of Taoxi Village that day was because Qian Xiyuan tried to kill to silence us.”

“Thus, I reasoned with him and appealed to his emotions,” Mengshi shook his head theatrically, his chopsticks lightly tapping the rim of the bowl, “and Hu Linsong confessed that he had previously done business with Qian Xiyuan. The two of them bribed local officials for convenience, but the ledger recording all their dealings was kept solely in Qian Xiyuan’s hands. Hu Linsong did not speak before because he feared the matter would be exposed.”

But Zhezhu had found the ledger last night, removing Hu Linsong’s worries. That was why he dared to tell the truth in court today.

After all, the crime of helping hide a corpse was far lighter than bribing officials.

Moreover, he also believed that Qian Xiyuan intended to kill him.

“What about the ledger?”

Shang Rong raised her head and asked.

“Of course it was handed to Old Mister Cen,” Mengshi’s face showed a faint smile. “Since he, Hu Linsong, committed such deeds, why should I help conceal them?”

Up to now, neither Tan Jiezhi nor Hu Linsong knew that this Mister Mengshi who had saved them was in fact the very person who had caused them to lose an extra hand.

Mengshi had roamed the jianghu for many years. He had never been a purely kind man who yielded in everything; he too had his dark moments.

Because Mengshi had been anxious for Shang Rong to find a place to wash her hands, he had not carefully chosen the shortcomings of this inn. Even in the upper rooms, there were no extra beds.

The night grew deeper. After bathing, Shang Rong only wiped her damp hair a few times before lying down.

Their three rooms were not together—there were other guests between them. With her hair still wet, Shang Rong could not fall asleep, so she simply got up, supported the lamp, and went out.

The orange-yellow lamplight flickered faintly through the window gauze, and inside, the youth immediately woke with alertness and opened his eyes.

Shang Rong stood in the cold, dim corridor, hesitating over whether to raise her hand and knock. Yet the door before her suddenly opened from within.

She lifted her head and saw the youth’s face.

“You are far from me, I cannot sleep.”

She had not spoken at all, yet Zhezhu inexplicably recalled that very sentence she had said to him yesterday morning atop the pavilion at the Cen residence.

At that moment, Shang Rong was just about to speak when she saw the youth suddenly turn sideways. His sparse, cold eyes looked at her, his voice calm: “Come in.”

Shang Rong hardly hesitated. She stepped across the threshold at once.

“You didn’t even dry your hair?”

By the candlelight in her hand, the youth clearly saw her damp hair—such dense blackness, making her face appear like congealed snow.

“I’m too tired.”

The little girl lowered her eyes and brows, listlessly saying to him.

“Sit over there.”

The youth slightly raised his chin.

Shang Rong looked at him, then set the candlestick aside and sat at the edge of the bed. The next moment, she saw the youth take a cloth and walk toward her.

She stared blankly at him.

In her heart, she already knew what he might do.

Sure enough, he sat down beside her. His distinct-knuckled fingers gathered all her hair and drew it behind her shoulder, then slowly and methodically wiped it dry with the cloth.

In the past, no matter what she did, palace maids had helped her. He was not the first person to dry her hair.

And yet…

She stared at that flickering candle flame, her thoughts like droplets of water set above the fire, boiling into vapor.

At last he finished drying her hair. The weariness in his eyes was undisguised. He yawned, his eyes seeming to carry a damp mist. His finger poked the back of her head. “Sleep.”

Shang Rong came to herself as if waking from a dream. Turning her face, she saw him rise and sit at the table. She knew that she had taken his bed, and he would sit at the table the entire night.

“Zhezhu.”

She stood and called him.

The youth rubbed his eyes, propping his chin with one hand as he looked at her.

“I will go back to sleep.”

She picked up the candlestick again and said.

The youth silently watched her turn and walk toward the door. The dim, wavering lamplight illuminated his expressionless face. Just as she reached out to touch the door, he suddenly spoke:

“Wait.”