In the morning, the spring wind was biting, dense fog filled the mountains.

The youth in black held several oil-paper-wrapped bundles in his arms, eating a piece of freshly baked flaky honey pastry as he walked toward the small stone bridge.

The stream beneath the bridge murmured softly. The young man who had been waiting on the bridge for a long time heard his brisk footsteps and turned his head at once, calling out, “Seventeenth Protector.”

“You’re quite idle, aren’t you?” The youth stepped onto the stone bridge, a half-smile playing on his lips.

Jiang Ying choked for a moment, knowing that the youth was still extremely resistant to the advice he had given earlier. Lowering his head, he said, “I did not mean to disturb Protector. It is only that the people this subordinate sent out have brought back news of Daoist Miaoshan.”

Hearing this, the youth indeed lifted his eyelids and fixed his gaze on him.

“Tianji Mountain’s cultivation techniques are famed under heaven, but when passed down to Miaoshan, they vanished from the jianghu sixteen years ago. There are also rumors that Miaoshan failed to grasp the essentials of the final layer of the Tianji technique, suffered qi deviation, and died. But what this subordinate has discovered is that the last place Miaoshan appeared back then was Shenxi Mountain in Yezhou. At that time, for reasons unknown, he had also lost an arm. After receiving treatment from Zhang Yuanxi, the Holy Hand of Shenxi Mountain, there was no further news of him.”

Shenxi Mountain of Yezhou.

Zhezhu leaned against the railing of the stone bridge. His half-lowered eyelids concealed flickering, shadowy glints. The fingers gripping the oil-paper packet unconsciously tightened; layers of the flaky pastry crumbled one after another. Only then, as if waking from a dream, did he loosen his strength—but it was too late, two pastries had already been crushed.

His brows drew together slightly.

“Seventeenth Protector?” Jiang Ying called again cautiously.

In truth, he did not know why the Seventeenth Protector was investigating Miaoshan’s past, but he absolutely did not dare to grow curious and probe deeper.

“Is Xue Nongyu dead?”

Zhezhu returned to himself, but abruptly changed the subject.

“Indeed, nothing can be hidden from Protector. The Tower Lord insists on avenging the Xue family’s use of Zhifeng Tower, but in doing so—even though she erased the words ‘Zhifeng Tower’ from the secret letter delivered into the hands of He Xingjin, Thousand-Household Commander of the Lingxiao Guard—Xue Nongyu, as the instigator, knows everything.”

However, Jiang Ying’s expression remained somewhat grave. “But the news sent back from Yujing says that Xue Nongyu escaped.”

The Second Protector had failed to retrieve his head in Yujing.

“The Tower Lord truly miscalculated this time.”

Zhezhu let out a snort of laughter, his eyes curving, shimmering with rippling light. “Even the death of Eleventh Brother did not ease her anger. In such fury and agitation, she’s only lifting a stone to smash her own foot.”

“She released news of Princess Mingyue’s disappearance to lure Xue Nongyu into taking the bait. But his father, Xue Zhong, is someone who has weathered years in officialdom. He must have sensed something amiss and, to preserve Xue Nongyu, made preparations early on.”

Zhezhu bit into a piece of pastry. “Now, to kill Xue Nongyu again will likely not be easy.”

“This subordinate guesses that the Tower Lord might have you go to Yujing to join the Second Protector in killing Xue Nongyu,” Jiang Ying said.

“No, she will never send me to Yujing.”

Zhezhu shook his head. The smile on his face faded considerably. His voice was calm, yet carried a trace of mockery. “After all, she listens to my master’s words even more than I do.”

Jiang Ying fell silent at once, not daring to speak further.

Within Zhifeng Tower, aside from this youth, no one dared to rashly discuss the Tower Lord’s affairs.

“But since the Xue family is risking everything to protect Xue Nongyu, he should learn to cherish his life,” Zhezhu fed the last small piece of pastry into his mouth. “Now the Lingxiao Guard wants to capture him, Zhifeng Tower wants to kill him—within a short time, he will absolutely not appear.”

If he does not appear, the Lingxiao Guard will never know that the person he entrusted is an assassin of Zhifeng Tower.

Jiang Ying was still listening when Zhezhu’s voice suddenly stopped. He raised his head and met the youth’s clear, bright eyes.

“Anything else?”

Zhezhu realized that the oil-paper packet in his hand was no longer so warm.

“…No more.”

Jiang Ying replied awkwardly. Then he watched as the youth straightened his body and walked past him, about to go down the bridge. He could only turn and head in the opposite direction.

But after only a few steps, he heard the youth call, “Jiang Ying.”

Jiang Ying immediately turned around. Amid the vast whiteness of fog, the youth’s dark black robes fluttered in the morning wind.

“Tell me, how can one know whether she likes me?”

The sound of flowing water beneath the bridge continued. The youth’s voice carried a trace of vexation.

“…Uh.”

Jiang Ying froze for quite a while. Seeing the youth’s expression gradually grow impatient, he racked his brains and only managed to squeeze out one sentence. “This… is hard to say.”

A girl’s thoughts are all different. For the moment, Jiang Ying had not yet found the right words to explain such things to this youth who had just awakened to love. He had only pondered for a moment when he heard the youth let out a soft scoff.

Zhezhu glanced sideways at him, his voice clear and cool. “It seems that even if you have two or three, they’re of no use.”

“……”

Jiang Ying’s mind went blank for a moment.

The youth turned and walked down the bridge. Jiang Ying watched as his dark black figure was about to be swallowed by the fog, and hurriedly called out, “Protector, at least tidy yourself up a bit. You are already extremely good-looking—surely if you dress up just a little more, she will definitely stare at you without blinking!”

Since the youth was determined to plunge headfirst into the sea of love and desire, Jiang Ying knew he could not persuade him, nor did he dare to try again.

In any case, within Zhifeng Tower, only by following this Seventeenth Protector could he live long. Over the past three years, he had grown accustomed to obeying this youth’s every command.

Zhezhu heard Jiang Ying’s words but did not turn back. Yet as he walked into the mist-damp bamboo grove, he could not help lowering his eyes to glance lightly at his own robes.

Dress up?

How should one dress up?

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The sky was dark and overcast, the sunlight always blocked by thick clouds. Inside the room, Shang Rong, sleeping peacefully, vaguely heard some faint rustling sounds.

But her eyelids were heavy. Wrapped in drowsiness, she gradually could no longer hear those sounds.

When she finally woke, the room was quiet. She looked toward the pale turquoise curtain for a long while before getting up to dress and wash.

The couch opposite was empty. Shang Rong found two oil-paper packets on the table. She picked them up and opened them, discovering flaky pastries inside.

She took one and bit into it. The honey within was fragrant and sweet.

Pushing the door open, the courtyard was empty. There was no more of the clear, tinkling sound of water—the canal had already been filled in by workers Lady Yu had hired before they returned.

Shang Rong knew that Mengshi had probably gone to the small school in Taoxi Village.

Then where was Zhezhu? Where had he gone?

Shang Rong walked down the steps. In the hazy distance, she seemed to hear some sounds. She left the courtyard, the damp, cold spring wind rushing toward her, the bamboo grove rustling.

At the end of the stone path, wild grass grew thick. She saw no one, yet heard a cry of pain.

But that was not Zhezhu’s voice.

In an instant, Shang Rong grew alert. She turned to run back, but before she could, a figure swept toward her like the wind. His arm wrapped firmly around her waist, carrying her as he leapt up to the treetops.

She caught the faintly bitter medicinal scent on him, threaded with the fresh fragrance of bamboo leaves. The taut string in her mind loosened for no reason. Within the thick white mist, green bamboo branches appeared and disappeared. Moist dewdrops fell from the leaves onto the youth’s eyelashes—one crystal bead clung there, and with a single blink, it dampened his already thick and long lashes.

He carried her lightly across the bamboo joints and finally seated them on the thick, withered trunk of a great tree in the forest. The wind lifted a strand of his dark hair. The daylight seemed to be broken apart by the swaying bamboo, scattered across his pale face.

“Is it good?”

In her daze, Shang Rong heard him suddenly ask.

She barely came back to herself. Following his gaze, she looked at the half piece of flaky pastry still in her hand and finally found her voice. “It’s good.”

“You woke too late. When it just came out of the pan, the outer layer was very crisp, and the honey inside would flow out as soon as you bit into it.” He lifted the corners of his lips, yet there was a trace of regret between his brows and eyes.

“You could have woken me.”

Shang Rong felt her face grow warm and spoke softly to him.

“You were sleeping very soundly.”

Zhezhu had hurried back precisely to let her eat the pastry while it was still warm. But when he lifted the curtain and walked to her bedside, seeing her brows relaxed, deep in sleep, he thought for a moment and still did not wake her.

“You rarely sleep as peacefully as you did last night, don’t you?”

Zhezhu turned his face slightly to look at her. Without waiting for her reply, a silver leaf in his hand flew out. Shang Rong’s gaze followed it, easily piercing through the mist to see several figures in the distance.

A pebble struck the back of one man’s knee. His body tilted, and he fell straight into the grass, rolling and covering himself in mud.

The man cried out in pain, trembling, unable to stand for a long while.

“Who are they?”

Shang Rong turned her face to look at him.

“Hu Linsong was imprisoned and convicted. The Hu family bears a grudge against Mengshi. Knowing we’ve returned,” Zhezhu toyed with the slender silver leaf in his hand, “they came to settle accounts.”

Hearing this, Shang Rong looked again at the people lying on the ground.

They struggled to their feet, supporting one another, each clutching their injuries. As though they had seen a ghost, they stumbled hurriedly toward the end of the forest.

The person in front did not notice something underfoot and tripped. The ones behind pitched forward as well, and all of them tumbled down in a heap again.

Shang Rong heard the youth beside her let out a light laugh.

She could not help but look at him.

The youth’s clear eyes curved, flickering fragments of light rippling within them.

Only then did she notice that today he wore a wide-sleeved robe of deep crimson. From within the crimson outer lapel showed a glimpse of snow-white, lustrous inner robes.

His narrow waist was bound by a crimson silk sash threaded with gold. Hanging from it was his small jade gourd, the gold beads and jade pendants upon it occasionally colliding, producing a clear, pleasant sound.

Such a vivid red made his cold, flawless pale skin stand out all the more.

Shang Rong stared at him blankly.

“You…” Zhezhu’s lashes trembled faintly. The fingers hidden within his sleeves curled without reason. The beating in his chest grew louder and more rapid in his ears. The utterly unfamiliar feeling seemed to toy with him. The rims of his ears gradually reddened, and he could not help but turn his face away. “What are you looking at?”

Hearing his clear, cool voice, Shang Rong finally came back to herself. Her cheeks flushed for no reason. Not daring to look at him any longer, she hurriedly lowered her head, pressed her lips together, and said, “I just… have never seen you wear this outfit before.”

“The ready-made clothing shop’s proprietor chose it for me.”

Yesterday in the city buying clothes, he had only carefully selected her dresses. As for his own, he had let the shopkeeper pick them at will.

Shang Rong’s gaze fell upon the swath of the youth’s crimson, lustrous sleeve. The wind in the forest grew stronger, the rustling sound unceasing. After quite a while, she softly said, “It looks very good.”

It truly looked very good.

She could not help but secretly lift her head again to glance at the youth’s profile.

The youth said nothing, yet the biting cold wind could not dispel the faint redness at the rim of his ears. His curled fingers slowly loosened, the cool silver leaf already soaked through with the warmth of his palm.

Silently, he lifted the corners of his lips.