Fucang stared at her for a long time, staring until the fine hairs on her back stood on end one by one, before he finally moved, turning to walk into the room and saying in a low voice: “Please come in.”

Xuan Yi hesitated again for a moment, but ultimately slowly walked through the wooden door.

Inside the door, layered green gauze curtains concealed the sleeping quarters. Circling around a landscape screen, there was a small anteroom for receiving private guests. He didn’t seem to particularly like tall tables and chairs—on the floor were meditation cushions, and beside them was a pear wood table with a jumble of miscellaneous items like pearl strings and waist ornaments piled on it.

Before long, Fucang came out carrying a tea table. He hadn’t changed clothes and still wore the loose crow-blue robe, his long hair gathered at his ear. While lowering his head to pour tea for her, he said indifferently: “There is no fresh tea. Please forgive me.”

Now he was being particular about etiquette again.

Xuan Yi held the tea cup in both hands and took a small sip, unable to taste any flavor at all. She didn’t know what kind of ghost tea this was. She simply set the cup gently on the tea table, pondered for a while, then spoke: “Fucang Senior Brother, the matter of the auspicious light beast feathers was ultimately to help me complete my homework, and it caused you to suffer thorn punishment. I feel very guilty. Are you all right?”

High-sounding words—yes, she had always been quite skilled at speaking these high-sounding words.

Fucang rubbed the tea cup, his expression cold and grave, saying: “It’s fine. Thank you for your concern. Mutual love and assistance among fellow students is proper. The princess need not blame herself.”

Oh, as long as he was fine.

Xuan Yi nodded seriously, thought for a long while again, then asked: “The matter of the thousand-year dream—I’m afraid it must wait until after the thorn punishment passes? Will it go smoothly?”

Fucang’s reaction was cold: “This is a private matter. There’s no need to trouble the princess with inquiries.”

Xuan Yi suddenly didn’t want to stay any longer. She fidgeted randomly with her sleeves, sitting on pins and needles. Should she leave? Should she leave? She should go, hurry back—after all, she had already apologized, he looked quite well, and in the future after his thousand-year dream and cultivation breakthrough, he could continue showing off with his sword dance.

She finished that cup of tasteless tea and was about to take her leave when she suddenly caught sight of his crow-blue robe seeming to be damp. Only then did she notice that his complexion had a strange pallor, cold sweat beading on his forehead, though his expression was completely calm, showing no abnormality.

Xuan Yi drew in a breath and said in a low voice: “What’s wrong?”

Fucang, neither short of breath nor trembling, filled her tea again, saying indifferently: “What is the princess saying?”

Xuan Yi saw that in his movements, he occasionally revealed a section of his wrist, covered all over with pitch-black curse marks like vines. She suddenly reached out and grabbed his arm. Ordinarily, with his skills, it would be impossible for her to catch him, but this time he didn’t dodge and was caught by her ice-cold five fingers. She rolled up his sleeve, exposing the curse marks of the thorn punishment.

Seeing her extend a finger to touch them, Fucang immediately stopped her: “Don’t touch.”

But it was already too late. Her ice-cold and soft fingertip lightly pressed on the curse marks, yet it seemed to cause no pain at all. Fucang was stunned for a moment before remembering she was of the Zhuyin Clan—immune to all magic. Naturally the curse marks of thorn punishment had no effect on her.

He silently looked at the golden ring in Xuan Yi’s hair. She lowered her head, staring at the curse marks with particular concentration, while slowly rubbing them with her finger. After a long while, she slowly released his arm, covered it properly with his sleeve, raised her head to look at him, and in her usually calm and waveless gaze was actually a trace of fear.

“…Will you die?” Xuan Yi’s voice trembled.

A thousand steel needles were piercing through his body, yet for no reason he wanted to laugh.

“Mortals are said to die; the divine clan only face obliteration.” This was the third time he’d reminded her.

Xuan Yi used her fingertip to hook his thin, soft robe sleeve, winding it around her finger several times, lowering her head to correct herself: “…Will you be obliterated?”

This vine was winding around him thread by thread again. Fucang remained silent, forcefully pulling his sleeve back. After she’d hooked at it for quite a while without success, she shifted her attack to his waist sash trailing on the ground, winding it around her hand again and again.

He was powerless to stop her. As if evading, he didn’t look at her, saying in a low voice: “It only flares up briefly morning and afternoon each day. I won’t be obliterated.”

“Really?” she asked with rare innocence.

The invisible vines pulled at him. Fucang couldn’t help but turn his head back. Perhaps it was the light from outside, perhaps the misty vapor from the tea—in her eyes there seemed to be a glimmer of tears flashing by, too quickly for him to catch any trace.

Why did she have to look at him like this again? She had already trampled him from head to toe once—did she want a second time? He already knew her nature thoroughly, yet he still hadn’t gone into the thousand-year dream, didn’t know what remaining thread of thought had brought him back to Mingxing Hall, only to immediately encounter her intimately entangled with Shao Yi.

“To dispel your emptiness, you should go find someone as depraved as you are”—that’s what he’d said that day, and she had indeed done exactly that to show him.

If that was the case, why did she still ask about his thousand-year dream? Why did she come to the Azure Emperor Palace today?

He was powerless against his own fragility. This moment of silence was his only remaining dignity. Give him the fatal blow, let him give up completely—wouldn’t that be good?

Xuan Yi clutched his waist sash tightly, her voice so low it was almost a sigh: “May I wait until it’s over before I leave?”

Fucang quietly looked at the hand grasping his waist sash. Today the rouge on her nails was red as blood, making her fingers appear even more pale. The dragon princess’s entire person was also extremely pale, as if piled up from the Zhuyin White Snow in her hands. He could no longer forget how she had waited alone at Ziyuan’s Weaving Maiden Manor—she had been waiting for him.

Those steel needles seemed to pierce into his chest, making him alternately burning hot and ice cold. So this was what heartbreak felt like.

Fucang raised his hand extremely slowly, placed it on her shoulder, and suddenly used force to pull her into his embrace, holding her tightly.

If she wouldn’t give him the fatal blow, then she should drag him down with her. He had long been pulled by her into the dust—whether he’d shatter into fragments or be held in her hands, he didn’t know.

The body in his arms was very quiet and very docile. The cold aura from her body relieved much of the pain brought by the thorn punishment.

Fucang used his thumb to trace her slightly cool cheek. She hesitated and dodged once, but finally stopped moving, letting him pinch her chin and lift her face up.

Their four eyes met. The dragon princess’s gaze seemed hesitant, seemed triumphant, and seemed wary, as if saying: See, you’ll still fall.

Yes, he would still fall.

Why did it have to be him? Seasoned yet naive, with light yet vicious methods—his dragon princess—why him?

Fucang lowered his head with a trace of resentment, opening his mouth to bite her hateful yet lovable lips. She seemed to freeze, but soon began to struggle, wildly tearing and pulling at his hair and neck. His arms and hands tightened around her, one hand pressing down on her wildly moving head, pushing her toward himself.

The lip between his teeth was ice-cold and soft. He gradually loosened his teeth, using his lips to rub and entangle. Her panicked, rapid breathing sprayed on his face. The entire world was her scent—the clear fragrance of tea, the incense of the Zhuyin Clan, and that trace of indescribable scent that belonged only to the dragon princess, making him reject her, making him obsessed.

The entanglement between their lips couldn’t satisfy him. Fucang suddenly drew back a few inches, breathing slightly, looking at her rarely flushed cheeks. He covered the flickering thoughts in her eyes with his hand.

“…Once more.”

He kissed her lower lip gently, opened his mouth to take it in, as if suddenly knowing how to kiss—meticulously picking and slowly sucking, leaving no escape for all the shrinking and trembling between her lips and teeth. With some exploration, he licked her trembling tongue. A sound emerged from her throat that seemed angry, seemed like a cry, and she struggled more forcefully, biting down hard on his lip.

Fucang turned his head to avoid it, suddenly picked her up, turned and pressed her against the bookshelf, continuing to cover her eyes. She was about to speak when her lips were blocked again.

There was nothing to say. Right now he didn’t want to hear anything.

He bit her lips slowly and lightly, then it was as if their lips began to fight again, entangled and unyielding.

The pain of the thorn punishment made him incomparably lucid and incomparably persistent. His dragon princess. He wanted to crush her into fragments, but he couldn’t. He wanted to push her away ten thousand miles, but he couldn’t do that either. Then kiss her—don’t look at him, don’t speak, just let him sink down like this.