In the first half of the night, Yao Ying’s body burned like fire, unable to even drink water, let alone eat the bowl of vegetable soup and bread.

She felt someone gently lifting her, bringing a bowl to her lips. Though the light sweet fragrance wafted to her nose, she felt nauseated and raised her arm to push the bowl away.

Soup splashed out, and the bowl was immediately withdrawn.

The bed was warmly cozy as if hiding a brazier of bright coals. Yao Ying felt unbearably hot all over and couldn’t help pushing away the covers pressing down on her.

As soon as she pushed them off, they were pulled back up. She pushed them away again, and shortly after, the covers gently returned to their place. In her feverish state, she grew petulant, making dissatisfied whimpering sounds as her feet kicked forcefully at the covers, pushing them down repeatedly.

Like a temperamental cat.

The figure by the bed froze for a moment.

As the heat dissipated, Yao Ying felt somewhat better. She sprawled out and turned over, sleeping curled up with her arm as a pillow. Her black hair spread over her shoulders, delicate feet exposed, her instep slightly arched—pitifully fragile, her figure delicate, completely different from her earlier tantrum.

A moment later, the covers were drawn over her again.

A hand with distinct knuckles gently pressed down the corners.

Yao Ying suddenly opened her eyes and looked up, her thick lashes wet.

This gesture felt familiar and comforting.

…

When she was young, Yao Ying took medicine daily and spent countless sleepless nights. Especially during the year she first learned to walk, her legs were unbearably painful. She would lie in bed tossing and turning, every position causing pain.

She didn’t want to cry from the pain, but tears still fell, dampening her pillow.

Hearing sounds, Li Zhongqian would enter the inner chamber with a lamp: “Little Seven?”

Knowing his quick temper and not wanting to worry him, she would immediately hold her breath, staying perfectly still, pretending to be asleep.

Li Zhongqian would bend down, pull up the covers that had slipped beneath her shoulders, gently press them down twice, then press the bottom of the covers, stand by the bed for a while, and leave.

Though Yao Ying’s legs still hurt, her heart felt much more settled. She would turn over and continue sleeping.

…

Years had passed, and Yao Ying had long forgotten those pains that once kept her awake all night, remembering only the gentle pressure of her brother’s clumsy hands tucking in the covers.

The lamplight was dim and faint.

Yao Ying stared at the slender hand by the bed, her gaze slowly moving upward to see a fierce yaksha mask.

She froze, thinking hazily that this dream was somewhat frightening.

Her gaze continued upward to meet a pair of deep jade eyes quietly watching her, their light clear and mild.

Yao Ying’s eyes grew warm.

The grievances, fears, helplessness, and loneliness compressed in her heart suddenly surged forth like rolling river tides, bursting out.

“Brother…”

As she called out these words, her nose stung and tears welled in her lashes as she grabbed the hand that was about to withdraw.

“Brother, I feel terrible.”

Knowing it was a dream, she didn’t need to hide, and could freely act spoiled and voice her grievances.

Her burning hand grasped the cool one, as if electricity passed between them.

The hand in her palm tried to gently pull away.

Yao Ying held on tighter, like when she used to grip those hands that had countless times pulled her up and taught her to walk step by step. She moved her small face closer, nuzzling dependently, silently acting spoiled.

The hand she gripped tightly stopped moving, allowing her to press her burning face against it, the skin beneath the clothes pleasantly cool.

“Brother…” Yao Ying tilted her face up, speaking softly and coquettishly, “Can you take off the mask? The demon face is a bit scary.”

The man looked down at her.

Yao Ying’s face was burning red, her eyes slightly intoxicated, showing a spring-like charm as she stared steadily at him. Having mistaken his identity, she was especially righteous, both coquettish and willful.

“Brother.”

She urged, her voice thin, her breath weak, brows tightly knitted as if enduring pain.

The man made no sound but slowly removed his mask.

Under the Yaksha’s face was a face covered in scars.

He held the mask, preparing to put it back on.

Yao Ying pressed down his arm, her eyes curving as she gave him a sweet smile, joy suffusing her eyes and brows, seemingly completely unnoticing the scars on his face.

“That’s much better.”

Yao Ying said softly, now feeling secure. She hugged his arm, closed her eyes, and fell back asleep.

The man froze slightly.

In the latter half of the night, Yao Ying began to feel cold.

Thread-like chills crept through her bones, spreading throughout her body. Her hands and feet turned ice-cold as she hugged herself tightly, curling into a ball.

The hand she had been gripping tightly slipped from her grasp.

A weight settled on her shoulders as someone added another layer of covers, again gently pressing down twice and tucking in the corners.

Yao Ying shivered, saying softly, “Brother, I’m cold.”

The figure by the bed left for a moment brought back more bedding, spread it over her, and pressed it down. The charcoal brazier was dragged beside the bed with a slight creaking sound.

Yao Ying still felt cold, her teeth chattering.

The tall figure sat down by the bed, lifted a corner of the covers, and reached in to press fingers against her wrist.

The slightly calloused fingertips brushed across the back of her hand, making her whole body tremble. Then, a warm current spread from where their fingers touched.

Where the fingertips pressed felt warm, and Yao Ying felt a bit better. Unconsciously, she moved closer to the figure, pressing tightly against his side until gradually her delicate body was completely leaning against him.

The figure remained motionless, like a statue.

After a night of struggle, the oil lamp burned out, sending up wisps of smoke.

Yao Ying alternated between hot and cold, half-asleep and half-awake, then opened her eyes.

The bedside was dim, a beam of cool moonlight filtering through the window into the room, falling on the man beside the bed. The moonlight cut across his face, softening the scars, and outlining deep elegant features. His eyelashes cast faint shadows, making his jade eyes appear even more clear and profound.

His eyes lowered, his full lips moving slightly as he murmured, reciting scripture.

Yao Ying only knew a few simple Sanskrit phrases and couldn’t understand what sutra he was reciting, but vaguely understood a few words: relieving illness and suffering, free from all ailments.

Su Dangu truly was a Buddhist disciple—when he put down his blade, he would also recite sutras.

His recitation tone was cool and melodious. Though Yao Ying couldn’t understand a word, knowing he was praying for her made warmth flow through her heart, bringing comfort. Her body gradually felt less uncomfortable, her eyelids grew heavy, and she fell into deep sleep.

This time, Yao Ying slept peacefully.

When she next opened her eyes, it was already the next morning.

The early sunlight poured down, reflecting off the snow, and casting a pale, floating blue light before the window.

The medicine’s effects had worn off. Yao Ying moved her arms, feeling weak and sore all over. She glanced around the room and froze.

Su Dangu sat leaning by the bed, eyes tightly closed, appearing to be asleep.

Had he watched over her all night?

Yao Ying was stunned, remembering her various embarrassing moments from the night before. Afraid of waking Su Dangu, she didn’t dare get up and just wiggled her feet under the covers.

As strength gradually returned to her limbs, she felt refreshed and comfortable, full of energy, ready to bounce around again.

Yao Ying quietly shifted under the covers, slowly moving to the other side of the bed, her gaze returning to Su Dangu.

He sat leaning back, still in his sutra-reciting posture, shoulders tense, with what appeared to be dark circles around his eyes.

This man who could kill without blinking had shown such thoughtful care.

Yao Ying gazed at Su Dangu, lost in thought.

…

Born beautiful, countless young men had admired her looks. Just her smile could make them willing to risk their lives for her.

But that passionate ardor was merely youthful impulse—they admired the beautiful, lofty princess, the great beauty. She couldn’t take it seriously.

Yao Ying knew Zheng Jing liked her, Xue Wu liked her, and Young Master Pei liked her.

Their affection was genuine, but when forced to choose between her life and their future, how many would dare to risk everything for her?

Even Zheng Jing, who truly loved her, only offered to take her away in a moment of impulse.

Yao Ying could even be certain of one thing: if Li De or Li Xuanzhen killed her in front of everyone, those young men of the capital would be angry at Li De’s cruelty, would mourn her, shed tears for her, draw swords for her—and then what?

After coming to their senses, they would continue serving the Li father and son as if nothing had happened.

One day, when those young men grew old, surrounded by children and grandchildren, with multiple wives and concubines, they might remember her tragic death and feel momentarily melancholic.

It wasn’t that the young men were heartless—Yao Ying had barely spoken with them, she couldn’t expect more.

In this world, when she faced desperate situations, the only person who would come thousands of miles without hesitation to save her was her second brother, Li Zhongqian.

The only person who would stop at nothing to avenge her was also Li Zhongqian.

So when Yao Ying was running around for Li Zhongqian, she didn’t cry and beg Zheng Jing for help but used the Xie family fortune to negotiate with the Zheng family.

When corresponding with Du Sinan, she used the fame and status he craved as bait, listing prospects that would tempt him.

When cornered by Haidu Aling with nowhere to escape, and forced to seek help from Dharmārāga, Yao Ying had also schemed, every word carrying hints, trying to move Dharmārāga with benefits.

Dharmārāga had saved her.

But not because of the benefits she promised, nor because he wanted to ally with Great Wei.

At that time, she couldn’t guarantee anything—he hadn’t taken her words seriously at all.

Yao Ying had later thought carefully about why Dharmārāga had protected her. It wasn’t because she had helped Mundadhiva, coincidentally bringing him the water grass.

He saved her simply because he could save her.

Even with his days numbered, Dharmārāga would still readily save a stranger like her.

He promised to protect her, and truly announced it to the world, letting her stay in the temple under the guise of emulating Matangi to escape Haidu Aling’s designs.

Now he had even sent Su Dangu to escort her to Gaochang, helping her return to court sooner.

From beginning to end, he hadn’t needed her gratitude, much less anything in exchange.

…

Yao Ying sat up, remembering Dharmārāga’s gaze when he looked at her while sitting in the Buddhist hall during morning prayers.

His gaze had been clear and otherworldly.

Yao Ying smiled, her cheeks warming.

Su Dangu’s movements were mysterious, Ashina Bisuo was peculiar, and Dharmārāga’s trust in Su Dangu was noteworthy.

She had a keen intuition that Su Dangu’s scarred face didn’t match his eyes.

She suspected Su Dangu’s identity and had deliberately tested him several times these past days.

He must have noticed, yet still treated her the same as always. Dharmārāga had sent him to protect her, so he guarded her well.

Yao Ying slowly exhaled the stale air in her chest.

Whatever secrets lay between Dharmārāga, Su Dangu, and Brother Bisuo, whatever Su Dangu’s true identity might be, those were their affairs—she shouldn’t pry into their mysteries.

They had treated her with sincerity; she should respond in kind.