Prologue

Some truths, once uncovered, demand blood.

Even with several oil lamps lit in the study, the room still didn’t feel bright. Outside the window, dusk had settled deep, and the last thread of light on the horizon was about to be scattered by the increasingly wild north wind.

General Duan’s forehead sweat had finally dried in the wind. He rose to close the window, then refilled the hot tea for Tao Yao and Luo Xian. As for his own expression, it hadn’t looked good since he’d emerged from the hidden chamber—his hands even trembled slightly as he poured.

Tao Yao paid him no mind, too busy fighting her way through the two plates of decent-tasting tea snacks in front of her. After going hungry for so long, everything tasted wonderful!

Luo Xian nudged Tao Yao.

“What?” she asked with effort, her mouth stuffed like a squirrel’s.

“You… drink some water.” Luo Xian said helplessly. Bearing the name of the Court of Bi’an, her performance earlier had been eye-catching enough, but coming out of that only to behave like this was truly embarrassing.

Tao Yao shook her head, forcing down the pastry: “My stomach’s reserved for food first.”

General Duan lifted his hot tea and took several sips before he managed to steady his nerves. Looking again at Tao Yao devouring food across from him—every bit the gluttonous little girl you’d see anywhere in the streets—it was hard to reconcile her with the figure who had performed so dazzlingly in the hidden chamber earlier.

“The Court of Bi’an truly is full of talent.” General Duan looked at her for a long while before finally speaking. Since coming out of the chamber, he’d been trapped in a silence of wanting to speak but hesitating.

Luo Xian looked a bit awkward, nodding perfunctorily before quickly changing the subject, saying seriously: “General, you’ll need to tell us the full account of this matter in detail. To achieve a swift cure, we cannot afford to miss a single detail.”

Tao Yao swept the last piece of pastry into her mouth and nodded forcefully, saying indistinctly: “Whether it’s easy or hard to say, you have to say it. To treat an illness, you must know its cause. Any concealment or lies will only harm both yourself and others in the end.”

General Duan set down his teacup, frowning slightly, as if something were lodged in his throat. It was a good while before he spoke: “I’m afraid I don’t remember this matter completely myself.”

Tao Yao swallowed her last mouthful and looked him over from head to toe: “General, you look to be in your prime. Even if your sleep has been poor, surely that alone wouldn’t make you forget something so… ‘unusual.'”

“Miss Tao, you already know that Lord Qingyang came to deliver medicine for me. If you’re new to the Court of Bi’an, it’s understandable you wouldn’t know my condition or the medicine’s effects.” Here, he turned to Luo Xian, as if seeking confirmation.

“Don’t be disrespectful to the General!” Luo Xian shot Tao Yao a glance before turning to General Duan. “This girl usually only handles trivial tasks. This is her first time accompanying me out on assignment, so she doesn’t understand the circumstances here. Please forgive her rash words, General.”

“It’s nothing.” General Duan waved his hand magnanimously, his gaze settling on the medicine box on the tea table, growing heavier and heavier, as though it might sink right into that small wooden box. “I was once a man desperate to kick away his past.”

Tao Yao tilted her head, blinking with feigned innocence: “I don’t understand. Please explain in more detail.”

He looked up, glancing around the room: “This Longcheng Manor is the supreme glory of my life, and the envy of countless hearts. As a military officer who’s never considered himself outstanding, receiving such a favor left me constantly uneasy.” A trace of self-mocking laughter surfaced in his slightly clouded eyes. “So, in order to live here with peace of mind, I petitioned the late Emperor. Besides this residence, I asked for one more thing.”

Tao Yao quickly scooted forward, not wanting to miss a single word that followed.

“I asked the late Emperor to order the capable men at court to concoct for me a rare medicine that could erase thirty years of memory. That way, having passed my thirtieth year with a blank slate, I could finally enjoy this imperial favor and live in wealth and glory in peace.” Having kept this secret buried in his heart for so long, saying it aloud now, every word sounded absurd even to himself. “So the late Emperor ordered the Court of Bi’an to take on the task. Once the medicine was made, it was very effective at first—aside from vaguely remembering that I had once been a military officer, I couldn’t even recall my own name. Fortunately, Old Fan stayed constantly by my side, and whatever I was supposed to remember, he would remind and inform me of it. However, the medicine’s potency was ultimately limited. At first I needed a booster dose every three years, then that shortened to every two years. The medicine is precious, and each time it was personally delivered by someone sent from the Court of Bi’an. In recent years, it’s been Lord Qingyang handling it.”

After hearing this, Tao Yao looked him over again and smiled: “It seems those thirty years the General discarded weren’t very pleasant.” Luo Xian glared at her again; she glared back, looking utterly righteous, as if she hadn’t said anything wrong.

“It’s fine, the girl speaks bluntly, but she’s not talking nonsense. If it had been pleasant, why would I need to kick it away?” General Duan waved a hand at Luo Xian.

Since the person concerned didn’t mind, Tao Yao got even more direct: “Well, having obtained such good medicine, the General should have been able to cast aside his worries and enjoy this wealth and status with peace of mind. So why has this mighty General’s Manor fallen into such disrepair, and why does the General himself look so unwell?”

General Duan smiled bitterly: “About two years ago, the medicine seemed to lose its potency. Even though I took my doses on schedule, those thirty years I’d discarded began seeping back into me, like water gradually soaking into brick and stone. I even began to recall the scene of myself petitioning the late Emperor for the medicine, and fragments before that too—scattered pieces, but they still disturbed my mind, threw me into confusion.” He paused, turning to look at the tightly shut window, his face—which had improved slightly—darkening again. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gone to that place that day and brought that demon back with me.”

Outside the window, it was already pitch black, the north wind growing fiercer by the moment, its ferocious force seeming as though it might shatter the window itself. The small study was like a lonely island, weakly guarding the swaying lamplight and the unbearable memories of the past…

Old Fan said tomorrow was the Mid-Autumn Festival.

No wonder the osmanthus trees in the garden smelled even more fragrant.

He’d risen very early—more accurately, he hadn’t really slept at all. His appetite wasn’t good either; the plain porridge and side dishes the servants had brought still sat untouched on the table. But he’d drunk pot after pot of tea brewed dark to the point of blackness—the only method he could think of to drive away sleep while staying alert.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t dare to.

Lately, for some reason, the scenes that had begun appearing in his dreams were each more terrifying than the last. Screams rising one after another and firelight filled his dreams from beginning to end. Each time, he saw more clearly a solid, impregnable city tower, and people who threw all caution aside to leap from it. Even separated by such a tall, thick city wall, he could see everyone struggling and fleeing in the raging fire behind the tower—could even clearly see their faces, twisted and deformed by the flames.

He’d never met these people, had no impression of them at all—so why could he blurt out their names all at once? Who was Huo Qingqing? Who was Bao’er?

The scenes were too tragic. Even though it was only a dream, his heart could hardly bear it.

Every time he was startled awake, his whole body went rigid, his heart pounding like a war drum, cold sweat soaking through the blankets.

When he told Old Fan, the old man grew deeply worried too, but had no good solution—only went out to gather calming, sleep-aiding herbs, carefully brewing them for him to drink. But the effect was minimal.

Last night he’d stayed in the study the whole night, drinking tea and reading, his mind fixed on the foolish notion that if he didn’t sleep, he wouldn’t dream.

He rose and pushed open the door to go out. A maidservant sweeping the garden saw him emerge and quickly stopped to pay respects; several manservants carrying ladders walked past the garden gate, laughing and joking. This summer was especially hot, and even the early morning couldn’t escape the heat. Under the osmanthus tree across the way, Old Fan’s little granddaughter Tang’er sat holding a pinwheel, her small face wearing a sweet smile, innocently humming a children’s song—probably the best sight he’d see all morning.

“Good morning, Uncle Duan.” Tang’er had a sweet mouth; seeing him from a distance, she bounded over.

He smiled, crouching down to pick her up, and asked: “Did you eat your breakfast properly?”

“I did.” She patted her little belly cutely. “If I don’t eat well, Grandpa will scold me.”

“Good.” He patted her head.

“Uncle Duan, it smells so, so good here!” She pointed at the osmanthus tree. “And it’s got so many flowers, they’re so pretty!”

He looked up at the tree full of crimson-red blossoms. Ever since this osmanthus tree had bloomed in this color, the household had been abuzz with talk, saying it was a strange omen, unlike anything ordinary. Even Old Fan had suggested cutting the tree down.

He couldn’t bear to.

In his limited memory, his life had begun when he moved into Longcheng Manor. Shortly after moving in, he’d personally planted this osmanthus tree in the garden. He remembered everyone praising it at the time—osmanthus, “gui,” sounds like “precious”—planting an osmanthus tree when moving into a new residence was about as auspicious as it got, wealth and glory blooming eternal, as the saying went. Only about ten years had passed; the tree was still in the same spot, but people had grown vicious. That year’s “wealth and glory” now faced ruin simply because its color was wrong. Ha, how ridiculous. If they wanted to cut down this tree, it would be over his dead body—that had been his exact words at the time. So no one dared speak of it again.

It wasn’t only this tree he couldn’t bear to part with, but also the life he’d started anew.

“Mm, osmanthus flowers are pretty, and fragrant too. You can even make osmanthus cake from the picked flowers.” He smiled, tapping Tang’er’s nose. “I’ll have the kitchen make some for you to try.”

“Is it tasty? Can you eat flowers?” Tang’er’s eyes widened curiously. “I’ve never eaten them before. Grandpa only lets me eat lots of vegetables, but vegetables aren’t tasty at all.”

“Haha, your grandfather is right. Eat plenty of vegetables so you can grow up big and strong.” He carried her over to the tree and picked a small sprig of osmanthus to tuck into her hair—red blossoms against black hair suited each other perfectly. “Osmanthus cake is tasty, but eating too much will ruin your teeth. But wearing osmanthus flowers doesn’t matter at all. How about Uncle Duan braids you a nice osmanthus flower crown later?”

“Yes, yes! Tang’er wants a flower crown!” The little girl clapped happily.

The morning breeze drifted gently; beneath the osmanthus tree, the smiling faces of one adult and one child temporarily overcame the gloom left by last night’s nightmare.

He was probably, aside from Old Fan, the person who doted on Tang’er the most. Sometimes he thought that if he’d followed the ordinary course of things, he’d have a wife and children by now. Over the years there’d been no shortage of matchmaking proposals; even Old Fan had scouted out several candidates for him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care—wouldn’t even glance twice at their portraits, only saying that things were fine as they were, peaceful. As for the women who’d had the fortune to meet him, every one had secretly fallen for him—not to mention his handsome features, his status and wealth alone were enough to attract anyone. Becoming mistress of Longcheng Manor would mean a lifetime of ease and prosperity. But he refused to satisfy anyone’s wishes, entirely unbothered by living past forty still alone. Fortunately there was Tang’er, giving his tender heart somewhere to settle.

“You little thing, you should be resting after eating, not running off to bother Uncle Duan again!”

Old Fan entered the garden carrying a bowl of steaming medicinal broth, scolding before he’d even reached them.

“Don’t be so strict with her. The heat is unbearable, and my garden here is cooler than most places—let her come play if she wants.” He set down the pouting Tang’er, patting her head. “Go play.”

Tang’er nodded, picked up her pinwheel, and ran off, not forgetting to make a face as she passed Old Fan.

“This child! Slow down! Don’t fall!” Old Fan called out loudly in warning, then shook his head helplessly. “Still so small, and already so hard to manage.”

“That’s just a child’s nature, don’t restrain her too much.” He looked at the medicinal broth in Old Fan’s hands, frowning. “More of this?”

“The physician’s orders—three bowls a day, not one less, or it’s wasted.” Old Fan held the tray up to him. “This recipe is a folk remedy, remarkably effective for calming the mind, steadying the nerves, and easing insomnia. Don’t mind an old man’s nagging, General, but poor sleep, while not a serious illness in itself, can harm the body worse than one if neglected. You’re still in your prime now and can’t feel it much, but once you’re older, you won’t be able to afford the toll.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll drink it.” He took the bowl and downed it in one go, wiping his mouth. “If I don’t, you’ll nag me all day.”

Old Fan smiled with satisfaction: “When it comes to taking medicine, you and Tang’er react and complain in exactly the same way—no wonder you two get along.” Then he looked up at the sky and said: “Tomorrow’s Mid-Autumn Festival. Is there anything in particular you’d like to eat or drink? I’ll have it arranged.”

“Mid-Autumn again already… the year’s gone by so fast.” He belched, a wave of medicinal taste rushing straight to his head, an indescribable nausea hitting him. Suddenly dizzy, his body swayed several times before he quickly grabbed the tree trunk to keep from falling.

“General!” Seeing something was wrong, Old Fan hurriedly set down the tray and rushed to support him, asking anxiously, “Are you unwell somewhere?”

He took several deep breaths, waving a hand: “It’s nothing. Probably drank the medicine before breakfast and my stomach’s churning a bit.”

“Ah, you skipped breakfast again.” Old Fan looked anxious. “Please, at least have a couple mouthfuls of porridge—taking medicine on an empty stomach isn’t wise.”

“You really do treat me like a child. I just skipped breakfast, and you make it sound like a matter of life and death.” He wiped away the fine sweat that had beaded on his forehead, promising before Old Fan could nag further, “But don’t worry, I’ll eat breakfast on time tomorrow.”

“You’d better remember.” Old Fan sighed, unable to help muttering, “Skipping breakfast for years on end is practically a matter of life and death too.”

“Alright, alright, go on about your business. Bring me a chair to put under the tree—I’ll rest a while.” He instructed, eager to send Old Fan off quickly.

“Yes, sir.”

Soon, a bamboo reclining chair and a small table were brought over, along with deliberately weak flower tea and a book he often read, both placed on the small table.

Old Fan was always this thoughtful and thorough, no matter the occasion.

He took a sip of tea, picked up the book, and lay down. The servants finished their chores and withdrew, leaving him alone in the garden. Waves of osmanthus fragrance drifted, a breeze lifted his hair, the air warm but not too hot—this, surely, was what one called contentment.

The pages turned slowly; though he’d been quite alert just moments ago, his eyelids grew heavy. He tried to hold on for a while, but ultimately couldn’t resist the drowsiness—finally, he didn’t even have the strength to hold the book, and fell asleep with it in his arms.

Daytime dreams were very different from nighttime ones. He was riding a horse, galloping swiftly across open country, not a single bad sight in view—clear mountains and waters, flowers scenting the air. A city came into view before him in an instant, people streaming in and out through the gates without end, the guarding soldiers dutifully checking those entering and leaving, occasionally greeting familiar faces with a friendly word—amid the bustling prosperity, not a single discordant note.

He looked up at the top of the city gate; the sun was so bright, its direct rays just obscuring the large characters on the gate. His eyes ached from looking, and he lowered his head to rub them.

“Lord Duan, you’re back? I picked up that fragrant powder you wanted last time—the style all the young ladies in the capital love. Should I bring it to you, or will you come collect it?”

Someone passed beneath his horse—a man; the sunlight was still blinding, and he couldn’t make out this person’s face, only caught the scent of rouge and powder on him.

Who was that? Did they know each other?

“You—” he’d just started to speak when the man had already walked off, only tossing back the words: “Never mind, I’ll just bring it to you!”

He tugged the reins, and just as he was about to ride through the gate, someone else spoke to him from below his horse.

It was a guard at the gate, bowing with cupped hands: “My lord, Zhang Xin and the others who gathered to gamble have received twenty strokes of the cane and a month’s stipend deducted, and per your orders, have been sent to repair Old Lady Xu’s roof in the south of the city.”

He froze, not knowing what to say. Was this his order? He didn’t remember, didn’t remember at all.

“Brother Duan, Brother Duan! You’re back! Did you buy me that little wooden ox that can move? Did you buy it?”

Someone else burst out from the city gate in delight, small and pudgy, waving his arms vigorously at him.

“Bao… Bao’er…” he blurted out a name unconsciously.

Though his mouth could call out the name, his mind held nothing connected to it at all.

The light grew ever more blinding, stabbing until his head split with pain, an unbearable tearing sensation erupting in his chest, as though something as heavy as iron and stone were forcing its way out.

Where exactly had he run to, and what was this city—why could he never make out the characters on the gate?

The more he thought, the more anxious he grew; the more he looked, the more panicked he became. His body tilted, and he fell from his horse’s back entirely.

With a “clatter,” the book that had been resting on his chest slid to the ground from his suddenly upright body.

He sat dazed in the chair, the tea beside him still faintly warm.

Only a moment had passed, yet he still couldn’t escape the dream’s grip. Though there’d been no raging fire or screams this time, everything in that dream carried an indescribable strangeness. In the dream he’d rushed desperately in one direction, his destination that very city; even awake, he could still smell the grass and flowers along the way, could still feel the heat of sunlight pouring down on him—everything real enough to not feel like a dream at all.

He sat dazed a while longer, and was just reaching for his teacup when he changed his mind—not even bothering with the tea, leaving the fallen book on the ground, he rushed out the door.

Before this dream’s sense of reality faded, he felt he had to go somewhere.

He chose the fastest horse in the manor and rode straight south out of the city gate.

He didn’t need to think even a little about which way to go, where to turn—the direction he needed was already in his instincts.

The scenery along the way was nearly identical to the dream—the scent of grass and flowers, even the contours of the hillsides along the route bore an uncanny resemblance… or was it, perhaps, the very same mountain, the very same river?

He whipped the horse onward, this sudden, urgent feeling refusing to let him slow down even slightly, wishing he could sprout wings and fly.

Behind him, someone on horseback caught up from a distance—Old Fan, his expression grave.

He didn’t know, and didn’t care about what was happening behind him, only pressing forward, feeling that if he just ran a while longer, that city from his dream would appear before him.

He couldn’t explain why he suddenly needed to find a place from a dream—he simply had to go.

The sun overhead moved slowly, its intense rays shining mercilessly on the pair of horse and rider racing madly below, until it shifted to the west, when a long whinny sounded and he reined in his horse.

This was it. It had to be.

But—where was the city?

He sat frozen on his horse, before him only a vast expanse of wasteland, tall and short weeds sprouting among broken stones and shattered tiles, bowing and swaying servilely in the occasional passing breeze.

No towering city gate, no crowds coming and going—only fragmentary foundations hidden among the weeds barely proving that people had once lived here. Looking more carefully, one could find broken cart wheels and shattered porcelain bowls scattered about.

This certainly wasn’t the place from his dream, but then why was it the destination of this inexplicable journey?… Shock, regret, confusion tangled into a knot in his chest.

He dismounted, looking around blankly. It seemed only upon arriving at the destination did he lose his sense of direction.

Rational judgment no longer functioned; every step he took now was purely instinctive.

There should have been a tree here, he thought—as he walked, an illusory tree shadow appeared in his field of vision from some direction, but vanished in an instant. His head buzzed; he couldn’t tell whether it was imagination or memory, but that direction pulled at him like a magnet, firmly controlling the way he moved forward.

But the ground underfoot was too uneven; he nearly twisted his ankle several times, yet refused to stop—he had to keep walking.

Under the setting sun, a hungry crow cawed as it flew past, seeming to despise this place too much to even glance at it twice.

His luck finally ran out—he stepped into a pit hidden by weeds. Fortunately it wasn’t deep, only reaching his waist, and the bottom was just soft mud, so he wasn’t hurt falling into it, only got his clothes dirty.

“Damn it…” He was still angry—angry at himself for not watching his step more carefully, and angrier at this wasteland before him that offered no answers at all.

He climbed out, brushing the mud from himself, when his gaze was caught by a half-broken stone statue not far off.

It should have been a solemn, majestic Buddha statue, but now only half its body remained, tilted amid the ruins—a sight both desolate and pitiful.

He sighed, murmuring a silent apology in his heart.

Wuuu wuuu wuuu!

Suddenly, a wronged, sobbing sound reached him—not loud, cried very carefully.

His heart jumped. Surely it wasn’t just his eyes that had problems—had his ears gone bad too?… Listening more closely, he confirmed the sound came from behind that half-statue, which was large enough to have blocked his view.

He instinctively reached toward his waist, only to find he hadn’t brought his sword when he’d left.

The crying continued in fits and starts, showing no sign of stopping.

He clenched his fists and finally, softening his footsteps, walked toward the statue.

The crying grew closer. He carefully peered around one side of the statue, then let out a breath of relief.

A small child of four or five, wearing a light yellow tunic that was still clean despite everything, his once fair, adorable little face now smeared into a little spotted cat by tears and dirty hands.

His shifting left foot stepped on a dry branch. Hearing the sound, the child turned his head, staring at him wide-eyed for a moment before crying even harder, even more wronged—an expression that was genuinely endearing.

He walked up to the child and crouched down, asking as gently as he could: “Whose child are you? Why are you alone in this wasteland?”

The child only sobbed and shook his head.

“Don’t be afraid.” He gently stroked the child’s head. “Do you have a name? Have you lost your way home?”

The child cried for a good while longer before finally stammering: “Ao… Ao…”

Seeing the child stuck on “Ao” without continuing, he interrupted: “Is it Xiao Ao?”

The child neither shook nor nodded his head, tears still falling drop by drop.

“Well then, Xiao Ao, tell uncle—is your home nearby?” he asked patiently. “Do you remember the direction? Point it out for uncle, and I’ll take you home.”

Xiao Ao shook his head again, still crying.

After that, no matter what he asked, Xiao Ao wouldn’t speak again.

At a loss, he stood up: “If you won’t tell me anything, uncle has no way to help.” He made as if to leave, but Xiao Ao grabbed his hem, crying even louder, as if this person were about to abandon him here.

What business was it of his, anyway? He didn’t even know this child—the fault lay with the child’s parents for their negligence. But seeing this boy’s adorable, shameless little display, his heart couldn’t help but soften again. Besides, it was getting dark, and leaving such a small child alone here was simply not right, however you looked at it.

He thought for a moment, found a stone on the ground, and wrote on the earth: “A child is at Longcheng Manor; parents please come quickly.” Then he bent down and picked up Xiao Ao, saying helplessly: “Why don’t you come home with uncle for now?”

Xiao Ao sniffled and nodded.

He smiled and shook his head, carrying Xiao Ao back the way he’d come, saying, “Then it’s settled—once we get to uncle’s home, no more crying, alright?”

Xiao Ao only pursed his lips, holding onto him even tighter.

Not far off came the sound of urgent hoofbeats—a plump horse carrying Old Fan, finally catching up to him, gasping for breath.

“Sir… you… you… why did you suddenly run off here?” Old Fan, being of advanced years, dismounted clumsily, hurrying toward him in a fluster.

“It’s nothing, just a sudden whim, wanted to get some air.” He smiled at Old Fan. “Let’s go back, it’s getting late.” With that, he walked to his horse, first placing Xiao Ao on it, then mounting himself, and said to Old Fan: “This child seems to have gotten lost. I’ll take him back to the manor for now and figure something out tomorrow. When we’re back, have the kitchen prepare some mild, soft food for him.”

“Ah?” Old Fan blinked in confusion.

“Don’t ‘ah’ me, let’s hurry back. You’re too slow.” He pulled the reins, and the horse neighed, galloping back the way they’d come.

Not until his figure had nearly vanished from sight did Old Fan snap back to himself, hurriedly mounting his horse. As he turned the horse’s head, he suddenly glanced back at the wasteland behind him, and an inexplicable trace of sorrowful chill surfaced on his sweating old face.

No one accompanied them on the way there, moonlight lit their path home—the two horses ran one after the other on the road back to Longcheng Manor, the night wind finally carrying some coolness.

By the time they returned to the manor, it was already midnight, and the Xiao Ao in his arms still showed no sign of sleepiness, his eyes wide as he sized up the enormous estate before him.

He set Xiao Ao down from the horse, took his hand, and walked inside, asking as they went: “You look quite lively, not tired?”

Xiao Ao looked around, but there wasn’t much curiosity in his eyes; though he’d stopped crying, he showed no smile either.

“Hungry?” He touched Xiao Ao’s head. “It’s so late now, I’m afraid we can only find you some pastries to fill your stomach.”

Xiao Ao still didn’t answer, all his attention fixed on this place that was, to him, both enormous and foreign—that serious expression hardly seeming like that of a child who only knew how to cry.

They walked all the way to the garden. He’d already decided: tonight he’d settle the child in the study, and tomorrow he’d think of a way to find his parents. It was just a pity—this child seemed clever but wasn’t fond of talking; if he couldn’t get any useful clues from him, sending him home would prove quite a headache.

Just as he was thinking about how to proceed tomorrow, Xiao Ao suddenly refused to walk any further, standing in the garden, staring fixedly at the osmanthus tree—even at night, the crimson blossoms among its branches were especially striking.

Now it was his turn to be curious. A child with no interest in sleep, no interest in food, yet particularly drawn to a tree—could it be the tree’s fragrance that appealed to him?

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

Xiao Ao didn’t answer, instead pulling his hand free and walking a step closer to the tree, looking even more intently.

Could it be this child’s family had a similar osmanthus tree at home, and seeing something familiar made him want to look more? He thought of another possibility.

“Sir…”

Hurried footsteps sounded behind him, along with Old Fan’s breathless voice.

He turned around, looking helplessly at this loyal servant who’d followed him for so many years, and smiled: “I’ve reminded you before to exercise a bit more regularly—you’re not that old, yet riding a horse tires you out this much.”

“Well, I am sixty now, more than half my body’s already in the grave.” Old Fan shook his head helplessly, pressing a hand to his chest. “Sir, from now on, please don’t run off so suddenly—running off just like that. At least spare this old life of mine. Riding so fast, going to such a remote place—if anything had happened to you, what would become of Longcheng Manor?”

“You worry too much.” He waved it off. “Nothing will happen to me.” Then, remembering something, he said to Old Fan: “It’s too late today. Tomorrow, be sure to have the kitchen prepare some tasty food, along the same lines as what Tang’er likes—children’s tastes are probably similar. And send more people back to that place today, ask around the households nearby, see whose family is missing a child. Well, that’s all we can do—hopefully we’ll find his parents.”

Hearing this, Old Fan’s face showed difficulty, unable to speak for a long moment.

He noticed Old Fan’s strange expression and asked, puzzled: “What is it? Did I say something wrong?”

Old Fan hesitated, the words on the tip of his tongue as he looked at him, wanting to speak but seemingly held back by something.

“What’s the matter with you? Why so hesitant all of a sudden?” He grew even more puzzled. “If you have something to say, say it quickly, then go to sleep.”

“Sir… you asked me to prepare food the child likes?” Old Fan finally spoke.

“What else would I mean? You know better than anyone what a child this age likes to eat.” He asked back, confused—such a simple instruction shouldn’t need repeated questioning; this really wasn’t like Old Fan’s usual manner.

“It’s not that…” Old Fan wrung his hands uneasily, glancing around him twice more, finally steeling himself. “I never saw you bring a child back with you.”

He was stunned for a moment, then burst out laughing: “Old Fan, oh Old Fan, are you trying to prove you’re getting old this way? You’re only sixty—how could your eyes be failing that badly already?”

Old Fan grew somewhat anxious, stepping forward: “Sir, there really was no child! From start to finish I only saw you alone!” He looked as though he might reach out to feel his forehead for a fever.

“What kind of joke is this? Just now in the wilderness, didn’t you see me lift the child onto the horse!” He grew agitated too, turning to point at the osmanthus tree. “The child is right…”

A gust of wind blew past. He narrowed his eyes, and the rest of the words became impossible to say.

Behind him, aside from the tree, there was no sign of any child.

His heart lurched with panic. He quickly circled the tree several times, looked up into its branches, then scanned every visible corner of the garden—there was truly no trace of Xiao Ao. A perfectly real child, and he’d simply vanished into thin air before his eyes?

His palm still held the memory of that soft little hand—it wasn’t possible, absolutely not possible… He’d occasionally had some hallucinations lately, but Xiao Ao definitely wasn’t one of them—he’d had weight, warmth, had stayed alive and real in his arms for so long!

He refused to believe it, searching the garden again for a good while, but still couldn’t find a shred of evidence to support what he knew to be true.

Xiao Ao seemed as if he’d never appeared at all—had their encounter, as real as the daytime dream had been, also never actually existed?

He stood in the garden, breathing lightly, at a loss for what to do.

Old Fan approached cautiously, saying with concern: “Sir, you’ve been through so much today. Let me go heat your medicine—drink it and get some good rest. Everything will be fine tomorrow.” His eyes held the exact expression of someone tending to a patient not quite right in the head.

He remained dazed for a long while, then said: “No medicine tonight. You go on down.”

Old Fan wanted to urge him further, but hearing the resolve in his voice, didn’t dare say more, retreating worriedly.

He stood alone in the garden for a moment, glancing at the osmanthus tree a few more times, frowning, then silently returned to the study.

The garden returned to complete silence once more, only the osmanthus branches occasionally rustling in the night wind.

He lay in bed, repeatedly replaying every scene from that day in his mind, his heart insisting again and again that it hadn’t been a hallucination, hadn’t been a dream—he believed that if he went back to that wasteland tomorrow, he’d still find the words he’d written on the ground. He had truly, genuinely spent most of the day together with Xiao Ao!

But then, why had Xiao Ao vanished?

The headache struck again. He gritted his teeth, and after a good while, managed to endure it through.

If Xiao Ao had really vanished like air—then what was it he’d so kindly brought home?!

“So the demon even has a name?!” Tao Yao burst out laughing, and her lack of decorum earned another cough from Luo Xian, though it wasn’t clear which part of this eerie, unsettling account was supposed to be funny.

“Laughable, isn’t it.” General Duan, ever tolerant of them, smiled self-deprecatingly. “Who would have thought that a moment of kindness on my part would bring such calamity upon Longcheng Manor.”

“Have you seen Xiao Ao again since that night?” Luo Xian asked.

General Duan shook his head firmly: “Never again.”

Luo Xian said directly: “Then how can you be so certain the ‘demon’ in your household is this child?”

General Duan’s gaze shifted to the flickering shadows on the window, every word he spoke ironclad: “He’s been in this house the whole time. The whole time. Only no one can see him.” He took a deep breath. “He could be under the tree, or in some corner of the garden… even right outside our window.”

Tao Yao felt that if she didn’t show at least some fear or worry now, she wouldn’t match the mood of the moment. She cleared her throat and said solemnly: “General, that’s a bit frightening to hear. But since you can’t see him either, how can you be so certain? If a demon really did enter the house, there must be some signs of its arrival, right?” Turning to Luo Xian, she added, “Isn’t that right, Lord Qingyang?”

Luo Xian only looked at General Duan, saying nothing.

General Duan was silent for a long while, then said: “These past two years have truly been beyond strange.”

“Please, do go on.” Luo Xian’s gaze remained fixed on him.

“The first few months, nothing particularly out of the ordinary happened. Occasionally servants would complain that pickled dishes made just a couple days before had already spoiled, when normally they’d keep fine for months in the jars. But no one thought much of it, assuming it was just the ingredients themselves. After that, more and more problems gradually appeared in the manor. Perfectly fine walls would develop cracks overnight; roof tiles laid out neatly would frequently fall, nearly hitting someone a few times; flowers that had been blooming well in every courtyard began dying one after another, no amount of watering or fertilizing helped, and new seeds planted afterward simply refused to sprout, as if dead. Even the books and papers in my room, which had always been fine, suddenly grew moldy, and corners that never saw sunlight began emitting foul odors from time to time—the servants washed everything countless times and burned incense for ages before managing to barely suppress it. During that period, there were far more dead rats than usual, and birds flying over the manor would inexplicably drop dead too.” He said all this in one breath, looking at them. “When enough of these things happened, I began to realize something was wrong. There was some force I couldn’t see, destroying this household.”

Tao Yao thought for a moment and smiled: “Maybe it’s just bad feng shui?”

“I don’t believe in feng shui.” He said firmly, looking toward the window again, the fear he couldn’t dispel finally breaking through the conflict in his eyes. “I heard crying.”

“Crying?” Luo Xian frowned.

He nodded: “A child’s crying. It was that child’s crying! I couldn’t possibly be mistaken!”

“Ee! This keeps getting scarier!” Tao Yao deliberately shivered, quickly taking a sip of hot tea to calm herself. “Can you hear it any time?”

“Not during the day. Only when I’m alone late at night—once midnight passes, it’s especially clear.” He pressed at his aching temples. “Every day like this. Sometimes it cries until dawn, sometimes only an hour or two. Perhaps even this demon gets tired of crying sometimes.”

“No wonder you look so exhausted.” Tao Yao clicked her tongue. “Surviving such a terrible environment this long, you must have a strong constitution—anyone else would have gone mad or died.”

Luo Xian kicked her under the table—so much for being invisible, she’d stood out more than anyone from start to finish.

“In your letter to the Court of Bi’an, you wrote ‘demon has entered the household, if untreated there will be a calamity beyond salvation’—but from what you’ve told us so far, while strange, it doesn’t seem to reach the level of a calamity beyond salvation.” Luo Xian sat up straighter, waiting for the crucial answer.

General Duan’s gaze shifted to Tao Yao: “Earlier in the hidden chamber, you said someone in this household must be having an extraordinary dream. I won’t hide it from you—these past two years my spirit has grown worse and worse, often unable to sleep through the night, and even when I do manage a few hours by luck, I can’t find peace amid the nightmares. I always have the same nightmare, and as time passes it grows clearer each time—a tightly shut city gate, high and solid walls, a city engulfed in fire and screams, and in the dream I’m on horseback…” He stopped, his brow furrowing so tightly it trembled slightly, as though he’d reached the part he least wanted to say. “I take up a bow and arrow, and shoot at those trying to climb over the wall. The soldiers around me are all panicking—perhaps more afraid than those trapped in the city, treating me as their only pillar of support. And I truly stand there like a pillar, unmoving no matter what happens within the city. Not until the fire dies and the city is destroyed do I enter—only to find corpses scattered everywhere, no survivors…” His voice grew lower and lower. “I stand frozen amid the ruins, when suddenly countless pitch-black humanoid monsters, their eyes blood-red, close in on me…”

Tao Yao smiled but didn’t respond. Luo Xian was more considerate than her, refilling General Duan’s teacup with hot tea: “No rush, take your time.”

He took a sip of tea, steadying his nerves before continuing: “At first, being startled awake by this nightmare was the worst of it. But later, something happened.” He set down his teacup, his expression more grave than ever before. “Those monsters from my dream began appearing in the manor after I woke up! At first there was only one, but later the numbers grew, up to seven or eight at a time. They didn’t just come after me—they wanted to kill me, and showed no mercy to anyone else in the household either. I exerted great effort just to barely protect everyone in the manor, but some were still fatally wounded. Even Tang’er was hurt by them!” He suddenly clenched his teeth, unable to contain the anger that surfaced: “Not sparing even a child like Tang’er—if that’s not a demon, what is? Miss Tao, didn’t you yourself say the thing in the hidden chamber was a demon? My Longcheng Manor was peaceful for over ten years—if not for that demon’s mischief, how could a demon possibly have appeared!”

“Not even sparing a child, truly hateful.” Tao Yao scratched her forehead. “If Tang’er hadn’t been hurt, would you have kept enduring it alone without asking anyone for help?”

He nodded slowly.

“Every time you have the nightmare, does a monster… come out?” Luo Xian himself found the phrase “come out” rather awkward.

“If a monster came out every single time, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be here to meet the two of you today. The nightmare is terrifying enough, but not knowing which nightmare will produce one of those things is the most terrifying part of all. I haven’t found any pattern to their appearance.” He smiled bitterly. “Being able to handle these several dozen is already near my limit. If not for that, I wouldn’t dare trouble the Court of Bi’an. As you can see, I’ve dismissed most of the household staff—the manor is too dangerous, and keeping them here risks throwing away their lives for nothing. I even wanted to send away Old Fan and Tang’er, but Old Fan swore he’d never leave, and Tang’er has no other family besides Old Fan and refuses to live outside the manor, so I had no choice but to give up on that. I worry about their safety every single day, yet feel utterly powerless—I can’t hold on much longer.”

“General, you’ve already done remarkably well.” Tao Yao gestured toward the window with her chin. “Not only did you go to the trouble of digging that enormous trap, you even used the Blood-Binding Curse, which most ordinary people have never even heard of. You’re trying to trap them like turtles in a jar, aren’t you—determined not to let them escape Longcheng Manor and harm anyone else, even if it costs your life?”

“Blood… Blood-Binding Curse?” He looked momentarily confused. “I won’t hide it from you, Miss—I didn’t even know that was what it was called. I simply found this method for warding off demons and evil spirits in an old book on magic techniques. According to the text, once the walls of the courtyard were covered in incantations, these monsters would indeed be bounced back the moment they approached the edge of Longcheng Manor, unable to get out no matter what. You’re right, I was indeed worried about them escaping and harming innocents. As for the trap, at first, one or two of them I could handle with just my sword, but once the numbers grew, I needed outside help or it became too dangerous. Fortunately, though these monsters are ferocious, they’re not particularly clever—a bit of strategy is enough to lure them into a trap.” He sighed, cupping his hands toward the two of them, earnestly saying, “The situation is urgent—I beg the two of you to lend your utmost effort to resolve this calamity in my household!”

“I can see the General is usually a proud man—if you weren’t truly out of options, you wouldn’t be pleading like this.” Tao Yao smiled, patting Luo Xian’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, with our Lord Qingyang here, I guarantee you a swift cure!”

Luo Xian twisted his shoulder to shake off her hand, asking him only: “Are you certain all this calamity stems from that invisible Xiao Ao?”

“Certain!” General Duan gritted his teeth. “Ever since I brought him back to the manor, there’s been no peace. I’m not a man who believes in ghosts and spirits, but I’ve also heard that wild, deserted lands often harbor spirits and demons, some of which bear ill will toward passersby. Perhaps my luck was simply bad, and I happened to encounter one. Feeling wronged now serves no purpose—since this thing won’t leave me be, I can only fight it to the death.”

“Since I’ve come at their command, there’s no need for you to fight to the death, General.” Luo Xian closed his eyes, silently counting the time in his mind. “You said it’s usually after midnight that you hear the child’s crying?”

“Precisely!” He confirmed firmly.

“Then it’s about time.” Tao Yao’s eyes suddenly turned icy cold, a faint killing intent surprising the other two greatly. “And here I still haven’t had dinner at this hour!”

The tense atmosphere was abruptly broken. Luo Xian pressed a hand to his forehead, saying nothing, while General Duan, amused despite himself, apologized: “How remiss of me—I was so absorbed in my own affairs, I’ll arrange it right away…”

Before he finished speaking, someone knocked lightly at the door.

“Sir, I’ve prepared some food. Would you and the two lords like something to eat?” Old Fan’s voice came through the door.

“Yes!!” Tao Yao’s eyes lit up.

The door opened, and Old Fan entered carrying a tray laden with food, bringing a chill in with him, a few snowflakes still clinging to the top of his head.

“I knew you were discussing important matters and didn’t want to disturb you, but I figured you hadn’t eaten in most of the day, so I took the liberty of preparing something.” Old Fan carefully set the food from the tray onto the tea table. “It’s gotten colder since nightfall, and there were even a few scattered snowflakes just now—the second half of the night will likely be worse. The food is simple, please don’t mind it.”

Before he’d even finished speaking, a chicken leg had already vanished into Tao Yao’s mouth; she gave him a thumbs up while chewing. “You’re the considerate one—if you hadn’t come, I’d have starved to death.”

Neither Luo Xian nor General Duan touched their chopsticks—one wasn’t hungry, the other’s mind was probably too troubled to eat—leaving all the steaming food to Tao Yao’s benefit alone.

Watching Tao Yao devour her food, Old Fan couldn’t help but laugh: “The way Lady Tao eats reminds me exactly of Tang’er when she’s starving.” With that, he took out a steaming white porcelain bowl from the tray, presenting it to General Duan with both hands: “Sir, drink this while it’s hot.”

Tao Yao set down her chicken leg, sniffing hard, her eyes brightening further: “What’s that soup? It smells wonderful!” Before she’d finished speaking, she’d already stood up and snatched the bowl right out of Old Fan’s hands, taking a gulp straight away. It happened so suddenly no one had expected her to be so ravenous as to abandon even basic manners entirely—General Duan looked utterly astonished, and Old Fan’s hands, still raised from holding the bowl, hadn’t even had time to lower.

“How outrageous!” Luo Xian shouted, though he’d lost count of how many times he’d said that word today.

Perhaps startled by the loud voice, Tao Yao jumped, spraying out a mouthful of the soup with a “pfft,” then smacked her lips: “This isn’t soup at all… it smells better than it tastes.”

“Oh, my dear Lady Tao, that’s medicine!” Old Fan winced, taking the bowl back. “The calming medicine the master drinks every night.”

Faced with everyone’s awkward looks, especially Luo Xian’s murderous glare, she wiped her mouth in embarrassment and sat back down, obediently picking up her chicken leg: “Sorry, I was just so hungry!”

“Never mind, never mind, it’s fine.” General Duan waved a hand before Luo Xian could scold her, even managing a rare smile. “It’s fine, she didn’t drink it all. Not many people would mistake medicine for a delicacy—clearly she was famished, don’t be too hard on Miss Tao.” With that, he moved to drink from the bowl.

“You’re still drinking it? I left quite a bit of spit in there, pretty disgusting.” She stood up again and snatched the bowl from him, handing it back to Old Fan, laughing. “Looks like a lot of effort went into brewing that medicine—why not brew another bowl? If there’s not time tonight, just drink it tomorrow. It’s not like one bowl more or less makes any difference.”

“This…” Old Fan looked quite troubled.

“Then I won’t drink it tonight, as Miss Tao suggests.” General Duan said to Old Fan. “It’s already deep into the night, go rest quickly, and be careful not to catch a chill. You don’t need to attend to us here anymore.”

Old Fan hesitated a moment, then nodded: “Yes. I’ll take my leave then.”

Before leaving, Old Fan glanced back at them once more, his face carrying an indescribable loneliness and disappointment.

The faint sound of the midnight watch drum drifted in from outside, and the snow outside had indeed grown heavier.

Luo Xian extinguished all the lamps; the study fell into darkness.

General Duan gripped his sword, watching nervously the window that Tao Yao had deliberately left half-open, as if something terrible might rush in with the howling north wind.

“Unnecessary.” Luo Xian was referring to the window.

Tao Yao whispered: “How else would we hear clearly without the window open!”

“I’d hear it even with the window closed.” Luo Xian sat closed-eyed, meditating quietly by the window, the bronze staff freed from its cloth sheath gripped firmly in his hand—light or no light made no difference to this divine weapon’s presence.

Tao Yao didn’t bother rolling her eyes at him, instead crouching by the window on her own, chin propped on her hands, watching the thickening snowfall outside.

At times like this, sounds seemed infinitely amplified. Aside from the three of their differently-paced breaths and the soft rustle of falling snow, in what should have been an empty garden, it seemed someone else had come to watch the show—the sneaking footsteps couldn’t hide from her.

Tao Yao’s brow arched slightly, quietly scheming in her mind.

But there was still no crying.

The longer this went on, the more anxious General Duan grew, muttering to himself in the dark: “Why hasn’t it come yet… could it have sensed something and not dared to come…”

“General, no need to worry. As long as that demon truly exists, it will reveal itself. Just be patient.” Luo Xian said in a deep voice.

“What’s meant to come will come.” Tao Yao turned back with a smile, not caring whether General Duan could see it clearly in the dark.

“You’re both right, I was too anxious.” General Duan took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down.

The night deepened, the wind and snow grew heavier, the howling wind sweeping through every corner of the manor.

Before long, Tao Yao’s ear twitched: “Eh, it’s here!”

Luo Xian opened his eyes.

Amid the wind, there was indeed a faint crying sound—not quite wailing, but unmistakable beneath any other noise.

General Duan’s expression changed; he shot to his feet: “It’s it!”

Luo Xian didn’t even bother with the door, leaping straight out through the window.

Beneath the heavy snow, he stood in the middle of the garden, his brows and eyes cold as ice. His right hand tightened slightly around the bronze staff as he uttered a low command: “Come out!”

At its master’s command, the Buddha Eye lit up instantly, brilliant white light blazing forth, the golden-red eye at its center slowly opening, illuminating the entire garden in strange light, mingling with the swirling snowflakes into a scene both dreamlike and touched with Buddhist radiance—an extraordinary sight rarely seen in this world.

General Duan, who’d hurried out after him, stared in astonishment, while Tao Yao, quite used to such sights, only huddled with shoulders drawn in and hands tucked away, looking thoroughly displeased with the weather.

Suddenly, everyone’s gaze turned to the same spot—

Beneath the osmanthus tree, a small boy of four or five had appeared from nowhere, in a yellow tunic with hair worn in a child’s style, his features delicate, but his clothes tattered, exposed skin covered in wounds, even his face bearing marks of injury. Small as he was, he sat curled against the tree, arms wrapped around his knees, crying without end.

General Duan’s face changed drastically; he pointed at the child: “It’s him! It’s him! I told you this demon has been in the manor the whole time!” Relief mixed with long-suppressed fury in his identification, his sword-gripping hands trembling violently, killing intent rising.

Tao Yao stepped in, promptly blocking his way, smiling: “Calm down, leave everything to us.”

Luo Xian looked at the child, calling out sternly: “What manner of demon lurks here—state your name!”

The child seemed not to understand, only crying.

Luo Xian frowned: “The demon in Longcheng Manor—did you lure it here?”

Behind him, Tao Yao secretly yawned.

The child cried harder still, his gaze toward everyone filled with hostility, still not saying a single word.

Luo Xian shook his head: “Very well. Since you’ve harmed lives, I now carry out the Court of Bi’an’s order to rid Longcheng Manor of this menace!”

Before he’d finished speaking, the bronze staff had already left the ground, about to strike the child beneath the tree into pieces—but before the staff could fall, a thin shadow shot out from behind Luo Xian, instantly striking the child between the brows. With a soft “pop,” like a bubble bursting underwater, the child, without any chance to defend or retaliate, dissolved into a splash of clear water, vanishing without a trace upon hitting the ground.

Luo Xian abruptly halted the staff, turning around—Tao Yao’s hand still held the posture of having flicked something out.

General Duan was even more astonished, his words coming out unsteady: “Miss… Miss Tao, what did you just… do?”

“What else would I do but help you clean up the demon.” Tao Yao grinned, lowering her hand and walking up to Luo Xian, looking at the weapon in his hand with satisfaction. “Your official business is done—don’t go back on our deal now!”

Luo Xian looked at her, then toward the tree—the Buddha Eye still lit, and indeed there was no trace left of the child in the area it illuminated.

“You…”

Tao Yao quickly cut him off: “Don’t ask, I’ll tell you everything! If you’d struck it with your weapon, that thing would’ve splattered blood and gore everywhere—what a mess that would’ve been! It would’ve wrecked the poor man’s garden too, not good at all.” She rose on her toes, lowering her voice: “Once the Buddha Eye revealed that thing, all I needed was one demon-transformation pill to handle it—why bother you with the effort?”

“Demon… transformation pill?” In Luo Xian’s eyes, she seemed more like a demon herself at this moment. “Are you really just a stablehand at the Lord’s estate?”

“Sometimes I feed the cats and dogs too.” Tao Yao kept her eyes fixed on the Buddha Eye. “Go on, make it spit out what I asked for!”

Luo Xian pondered for a moment, then said: “How can you prove the demon is truly dead? Perhaps it merely fled.”

“Demon-transformation pill—just from the name alone, you should know the outcome.” Tao Yao said helplessly. “If not to save you time, I wouldn’t have wanted to use this—it takes so much effort to refine even one! You’ve studied magic techniques yourself, surely you know nothing could survive being shattered like that?” With that, she dropped all her playful expression, saying earnestly: “This concerns human lives. I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

Her expression had never looked so serious before; caught between believing and doubting, Luo Xian ultimately chose to trust her.

The Buddha Eye gradually dimmed, and the garden returned to normal.

General Duan, recovering from his shock, walked to the spot where the child had vanished, murmuring: “It’s… it’s over?”

“Did you expect a life-and-death battle?” Tao Yao smiled, her words carrying a hidden meaning. “There was indeed a moment concerning life and death, but it wasn’t just now—it was an hour ago, when I drank your medicinal broth.”

Luo Xian froze, not knowing what scheme she was up to now.

General Duan was even more confused: “Miss Tao, what do you mean by that?”

“That medicinal broth of yours smelled far too fragrant. Adding too much Soul-Recall Reed does that—makes it especially fragrant.” She smacked her lips, as if savoring the memory. “It’s originally an herb meant to sharpen the mind and preserve memory, but taken in excess—like the dose in tonight’s broth—within half a month, without fail, it would cause splitting headaches and death by hemorrhage through all seven orifices. With medicine, dosage is everything—the right amount is medicine, too much is poison.” She looked at General Duan. “You said you’ve taken medicine for years to kick away your past. The Court of Bi’an isn’t incompetent—the medicine they made, while not comparable to divine elixirs, wouldn’t be too shoddy either, yet it happened to lose its potency two or three years ago. In my experience, Soul-Recall Reed is commonly used on those who’ve lost their memories, and it’s directly opposed to any medicine that suppresses memory. These past two years, your mind’s been unstable, able to recall fragments of the past yet never the full picture—that’s the result of these two medicines fighting each other.”

Even someone as literal-minded as Luo Xian caught the implication, asking with confusion: “You’re saying that starting two or three years ago, someone’s been feeding General Duan this Soul-Recall Reed you mentioned, which caused the Court of Bi’an’s medicine to lose its effect, and that’s why the General’s been plagued by nightmares?”

“Not even delicious food escapes my nose—I know herbs of this world well, rarely make a mistake.” Tao Yao confidently pointed at her own nose.

“This… how could this be…” General Duan stood frozen, somewhat incoherent. “When did I ever eat this… who is it?”

Tao Yao only glanced toward the shadows, smiling coldly.

The wind grew fainter, the falling snow dusting all three of their heads white, looking somewhat comical.

In the sudden stillness, footsteps sounded.

Old Fan, hands tucked in his sleeves, walked out unhurried from the shadows.

He stopped across from Tao Yao, bowing respectfully with cupped hands: “Lady Tao truly is as knowledgeable as they say, accomplished at such a young age—I’m utterly convinced.”

“Old Fan…” General Duan seemed to have already guessed something, but suddenly grew afraid of his own guess, unable to continue.

“The Soul-Recall Reed was placed by me—it’s what’s in that ‘folk remedy,’ three bowls a day.” Old Fan’s expression was relaxed. “Every bowl, I brewed with my own hands, watched you drink down with my own eyes.”

General Duan’s complexion at this moment was, in the truest sense, deathly pale. Old Fan’s single sentence was more terrifying than dozens of “Xuanyou” emerging from his dreams—it was a destruction and tearing from the very depths of his heart. Not some stranger, but Old Fan—the man who’d followed him for so many years, never once abandoning him, who in his incomplete life had been like a loyal, steadfast cane. If this cane broke, he’d do far worse than merely fall and injure his head…

He walked up to Old Fan, a man of decades suddenly reduced to a wronged child, nearly on the verge of tears, his voice trembling as he asked: “Why?!”

Old Fan calmly drew a piece of paper from his sleeve, and with a flick of his hand, let it drop to the ground—the three characters “Huo Qingqing” written on it in his own hand, snow falling upon it, quickly dampening and blurring the strokes into a chaotic smear of ink.

No one understood Old Fan’s intent.

Old Fan stared blankly at that name, slowly saying: “Qingqing was my niece. My sister and her husband died early, and I raised Qingqing myself, as close as my own child. Our hometown was an ordinary small city, its people simple and honest, its scenery beautiful—perhaps thanks to good feng shui, it suffered no great losses even in years of war. When the new dynasty was established, the court dispatched a new army there, tasked with guarding the city and pacifying the people. This army maintained strict discipline, and when off duty, often helped the townspeople with various chores—mostly kind children who cared for the old and weak. Especially the commanding officer of the troops, upright and unyielding, hating evil as if it were his enemy—whenever any family in the city faced hardship and sought his help, he never once refused. He truly deserved to be called one who loved the people as his own children.” Perhaps the more distant memories only grew more beautiful with time, for Old Fan found himself smiling as he spoke. “We later learned this lord had actually been born in this very city, only moving away with his parents in early childhood. Now, after all these twists and turns, he’d returned to his hometown—even he called it fate. He was handsome, and the young women of the city, both great and small, all lost their hearts to him. And of all people, he got along best with my Qingqing—Qingqing had a real talent for growing flowers and trees, and though he had no skill in such matters, he loved asking her for advice, saying that everything he’d ever tried to grow had died. Poor plants, Qingqing would tease him, calling him a clumsy oaf, but she had endless patience teaching him various flower-growing techniques. I often saw the two of them crouched before seedlings or wildflowers, laughing together, and that natural, easy intimacy put my mind at ease—I thought, if Qingqing and this lord could be joined in marriage, not only would I be happy, but my sister and her husband could rest in peace too.”

Snowflakes fell onto Old Fan’s eyebrows and beard, even onto his eyelashes, blurring his vision, but he didn’t notice at all, not even bothering to wipe them away.

General Duan kept staring at the paper on the ground, until the writing on it had become nothing but a smudge of ink, listening carefully to every word Old Fan said. But no matter how carefully he listened, it seemed to do no good—he simply couldn’t understand it, only registering that there truly had been a person named Huo Qingqing in this world.

“From the sound of it, the marriage never happened.” Tao Yao commented with a look of regret, spoiling the mood with her interjection.

Old Fan seemed jolted awake from a fond dream, the wrinkles on his old face seeming to deepen all at once: “That year, I’d gone south to trade goods. When I hurried back, what greeted me wasn’t the guards’ warm welcome, nor the neighbors’ friendly chatter, nor Qingqing’s smile…” He paused, as if needing to draw in a breath before continuing. “Before me, there was only fire raging to the sky and the city gates shut tight. The screams from within those gates—I still can’t forget them, even now.” His sorrowful, uncomprehending gaze shifted to General Duan’s face. “I wept, grabbing your robe, asking what had happened. You wouldn’t say. I knelt on the ground, begging you to open the gates. I said Qingqing was in there too. I bloodied my forehead from kowtowing, and you acted as though you couldn’t hear me, even had me dragged away and locked up.” He laughed as he spoke. “What good did locking me up do? With a fire that big, locked up or not, I could still see it.”

Luo Xian frowned but said nothing.

General Duan’s expression grew even worse, rushing forward to grab Old Fan by the shoulders: “What are you talking about? What fire, what screams! What place are you even talking about!”

Old Fan let him grip his shoulders until they ached, staring back coldly, as if numb to it: “I’m talking about you—the Lord Duan of back then, the General Duan of now. Did you think those scenes were just a dream of yours?” He laughed. “That was the past you were so desperate to kick away!”

General Duan froze, his grip on Old Fan’s arm growing weaker.

“You people only said that a demon had suddenly appeared in the city, endangering the innocent, and that under no circumstances could the demon be allowed to step outside the city gates.” Old Fan’s eyes reddened. “You really were that dutiful Lord Duan through and through—right to the very end, you never opened those gates.”

General Duan clutched at his own head with both hands, gritting his teeth: “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Old Fan laughed coldly: “If I hadn’t watched you rise steadily in rank after that disaster, I might have been sad, but I wouldn’t have blamed you—as a soldier, you had your duty, your helpless circumstances. But…” He looked around, spinning in place several times like a madman, “look at this estate—so grand, so magnificent! You were made a general, and in your heart you were happy about it too, weren’t you? I followed you the whole time, watched you move to Luoyang, watched you live in glory, watched you walk with head held high into this Longcheng Manor… The day I found your estate, I’d hidden a knife on my person. I wanted you dead.” He suddenly grabbed General Duan’s collar: “I truly went to find you intending to die together with you! When you saw me, you treated me as an honored guest, said you’d been searching for me ever since that incident, hoping I wouldn’t blame you, said you knew I had no one left to depend on, and wanted me to stay at the estate. Do you know how many times I fingered that dagger in my sleeve, yet in the end never struck? Then I pretended nothing was wrong and agreed to stay by your side. Do you know why?” The fury in his eyes finally surpassed everything else. “Because I couldn’t accept it! I didn’t even know what demon had struck that city! Everyone who knew anything perished in that great fire! The soldiers who followed you afterward all became impossible to trace as well! The only one I could find, the only one who knew the truth, was you! So until I learned the truth, I couldn’t kill you. Staying by your side, I might have a chance to find that truth! But… but…”

He seemed about to leap up and strike General Duan, but instead suddenly lost all strength, sitting down hard on the snow-covered ground, striking his own head in despair.

Tao Yao sighed, looking at him with sympathy: “But you never expected your General would get, along with his reward, the chance to kick away his past too.”

Old Fan closed his eyes, his heart full of resentment with nowhere to release it: “I truly never expected this turn of events. I watched him take the medicine, until he didn’t even know his own surname anymore. I tried every method to test him, and finally confirmed he really had kicked away his past. I had no way forward—either kill him using my position as his trusted confidant, or stay by his side, hoping that one day the medicine would lose its effect and let me find the truth.”

“Over a decade living side by side, even a cat or dog would form some attachment.” Tao Yao crouched down before Old Fan. “You grew more and more hesitant too, didn’t you? Someone driven only by hatred can hardly maintain such a flawless pretense of trust toward the object of their resentment—that’s not a disguise you keep up for a day or two, but over a decade. Even I, a newcomer to all this, can see you served him with genuine devotion.”

Luo Xian glanced at her, knowing he himself could never have said such words—analyzing people’s emotions had never been his strength.

Struck at the very core of his inner conflict, Old Fan tugged despairingly at his own hair: “I was useless, that’s all. Countless times I reminded myself not to soften, that he was the one who’d killed Qingqing. But every time I saw that osmanthus tree, my burning hatred toward him would fade by two parts.”

“Why?” Tao Yao asked.

“After he took the medicine, he cast aside the past as he’d wished. Even when I told him the old stories, he’d forget them again the next day—the Court of Bi’an’s medicine was that potent. He hadn’t lived in Longcheng Manor long when one day he suddenly said the garden felt too bare with just a few bamboo stalks, that a tree would suit it better, and so he dragged me out to buy an osmanthus tree. There were so many other choices, yet he insisted on osmanthus.” Old Fan sighed, forcing back tears threatening to spill. “Osmanthus was Qingqing’s favorite—back then, the two of them often sat beneath the osmanthus tree in my courtyard, talking of everything under the sun… At the time, I thought, even though he’d given up the past entirely, somewhere deep in his soul there remained an attachment he couldn’t shake off—no medicine, however potent, could erase it.” He smiled bitterly. “Perhaps he had his own unavoidable reasons too… no, he was still, in the end, the murderer who watched an entire city’s worth of lives perish in flames! I was trapped in this contradiction for over ten years in this estate. Cut off from that stretch of the past, he was a genuinely good man—generous, kind, considerate of others. The longer time went on, the more distant learning the truth seemed, and I even considered simply taking his life to avenge Qingqing, not caring about the truth anymore, since he was guilty regardless—but in the end, I could never bring myself to do it. The day I picked up Tang’er, still an infant, from outside Longcheng Manor, he—who’d always shown such care for the old and weak and the sick—doted on this child immensely too, insisting I keep her before I’d even asked, saying that since I’d found her by chance, I should treat her as my own granddaughter, saying this was heaven taking pity on me, unwilling to let someone as good and loyal as me spend my old age alone.” He rubbed his eyes, continuing, “Tang’er’s arrival dissolved much of the resentment in my heart, and I’d even resolved that if he lived his whole life this way, never remembering the past, I would simply consider that bastard from back then already dead.”

Luo Xian, puzzled, asked: “If you’d already resolved to let go of your old grudge, why did you then use the herb to harm him?”

“Heaven, it seems, wouldn’t let me let go.” Old Fan smiled. “A little over two years ago, while tidying a room, I found a box on a bookshelf, faintly exuding a strange fragrance. I thought someone had left behind some perfume, but opening it, I found instead a bundle of herbs tied with silk thread, an unusual bluish color unlike anything ordinary, and at the bottom of the box, a thin booklet explaining exactly what it was and how to use it. At that moment, the thought I’d already let go of stirred back to life. So, following the booklet’s instructions, I first tried adding a tiny amount to his food. That very night, he had a nightmare, and from his description of the dream, it was clearly the events of that year. I kept tampering with his food, and his sleep grew worse and worse, but though the nightmares increased, they remained just nightmares—he never truly remembered anything. So I simply started brewing the Soul-Recall Reed directly into medicine, deceiving him that it was some outside calming remedy, three bowls a day. I thought it wouldn’t take long to see results, but his condition turned out far different from what I’d expected. Though the Soul-Recall Reed was effective, the Court of Bi’an’s medicine within him wasn’t weak either, and the result of the two fighting each other was that he vaguely began recalling fragments of the past, but always just blurred pieces.” Old Fan clenched his fists, a hint of regret in his brow. “But if I could do it again, I’d rather never have found that Soul-Recall Reed at all. Otherwise he wouldn’t have suddenly rushed off to that ruined city and brought back a demon that threatened lives. If Tang’er hadn’t been lucky, she’d have died long ago beneath the claws of those monsters from his dreams. I’m not afraid of losing my own life, nor anyone else’s—but not Tang’er. She’s still so young; if I lost her too, my life would truly become unbearable. And he, just like me, tried everything he could to keep everyone in the household as safe as possible, even spending several nights covering the entire courtyard wall in talismans, saying that talismans imbued with blood energy could prevent the demons in the household from escaping. After that, he never once stepped outside Longcheng Manor again, only sending letters by carrier pigeon to the Court of Bi’an for help. And then, the two of you finally arrived.”

Having said this, Old Fan struggled to his feet, standing before Tao Yao and Luo Xian without a trace of fear: “From the moment you entered this estate, I knew Longcheng Manor was saved—and I knew everything I’d done wouldn’t escape your notice.”

“So you simply decided to gamble—poison him with a fatal dose before we could expose you?” Tao Yao clicked her tongue. “Old Fan, why did it have to come to this.”

“Since I couldn’t escape your discerning eyes, naturally I could no longer stay in this household, and would never again have the chance to find the truth. Given that, and considering that even the two of you might fail to eliminate those demons, I thought it better that I end his life myself—since those killing creatures all originate from his dreams, whether or not they’re influenced by that child’s ability to emerge from dreams, if he died, everyone still alive would be completely safe.” Old Fan admitted candidly, his aged eyes showing the helplessness and fearlessness of a man at the end of his road. “This way, the many years of grievance between him and me would also be settled once and for all.”

“The logic isn’t wrong, but the method is.” Luo Xian said coldly. “If General Duan is guilty, the court will deal with it accordingly. As his servant, poisoning your master is a serious crime.”

“The two of you…” Old Fan asked them solemnly, “is everything now truly settled?”

“The demon is eliminated, peace restored.” Tao Yao again gave her assurance before Luo Xian could speak.

“Then I can rest easy. The Court of Bi’an lives up to its reputation.” Old Fan smiled, then knelt down honestly. “My time is up—do with me as you will. Only, the child is innocent—please take good care of Tang’er.”

General Duan slowly walked up to him and, with a “thud,” knelt down too, gazing sorrowfully at this old man about to be removed from his life, opening his mouth but unable to say anything at all.

Having learned of such a tangled, tragic history, what more was there to say? Any words would be superfluous.

The snow fell heavier and heavier, gradually burying the two men into a pair of statues still barely breathing.

Dawn was breaking faintly.

Luo Xian stood before a carriage, in which sat Old Fan, his hands bound by Luo Xian himself.

“You didn’t have to bind him, it’s not like he could run off from your grip.” Tao Yao laughed at him for the unnecessary trouble, then eyed the carriage. “Tsk tsk, weren’t you the one who said you go everywhere on foot? I thought you’d carry Old Fan back to the Court of Bi’an on your back.”

“Prisoners must be bound in restraints, rules are rules. Hiring a carriage is also the rule—there’s no such thing as carrying a prisoner on one’s back.” He said expressionlessly. “This mission’s success owes credit to you. I’ll report it truthfully when I return.”

“Don’t! We agreed I’m invisible in all this!” Tao Yao quickly protested. “If you really want to thank me, reset your memory of me back to before I fell off that roof—that would be the greatest thanks you could give me!”

“I never took any medicine, so I won’t forget a single detail of these two days with you.” He looked at Tao Yao, who looked ready to punch herself again.

“Please, just do it! I only want to live peacefully as a stablehand!” Tao Yao stamped her foot. “If you really tell people about what happened today, who knows, it might reach that living demon king’s ears, and he’ll blame me for slacking off and dock my pay again! I helped you, and this is how you repay me—where’s the fairness in that!”

Luo Xian pondered a moment, then said: “You have nothing to do with the Court of Bi’an, and you yourself are firmly against being involved in this matter publicly—I’ll handle it with discretion. Unless necessary, I won’t reveal a single word to anyone else.”

“You’d better mean it!”

“Of course.”

“Then why haven’t you had the Buddha Eye spit out what I want yet! I’ve been waiting forever!”

“Just a moment.”

On the empty street, a soft ball of white light lit up.

After a faint “ah… ptooey…” sound, from within the white light and golden eye atop the bronze staff, a small furry creature was spat out.

Tao Yao quickly caught it with both hands, examining it carefully—the unconscious salted rat in her palm was still alive, just noticeably thinner.

She let out a breath of relief.

Luo Xian leapt onto the carriage, but leaned out just before leaving: “Your skills aren’t inferior to mine. Since you’ve chosen to be a stablehand, put your heart into your work at the Lord’s estate, don’t cause him trouble.”

“Ha, I thought you were finally about to compliment me, but it’s still something unpleasant to hear.” Tao Yao pouted. “Don’t worry about my affairs. Mind your own.”

“Until we meet again.” Luo Xian sat up straight, but suddenly turned back. “Give the Lord a message too—regarding the matter of Chongxiao Tower, the Bureau broke the rules, the Court of Bi’an will render its own judgment. Tell him to conduct himself well.”

The snow was gradually lightening, the ground and rooftops a blanket of silver, and on the still-empty street, the sound of the carriage wheels rolling was especially loud.

Tao Yao watched the carriage grow distant, muttering: “Didn’t you keep saying how much you respect him? Now you’re even making threats. Hmph.”

At that moment, there was movement in her palm. The salted rat yawned and opened its eyes.

“Eh, it’s still you?” It sat up, looking at Tao Yao’s face. “Weren’t we separated back at the city gate?”

It seemed to have completely forgotten the unfortunate fact of having been swallowed as food.

Tao Yao’s eyelids drooped: “You’re misremembering.”

The salted rat looked left and right: “No way! We definitely said our goodbyes at the city gate at dusk!” It looked down at its own flattened belly, puzzled. “And why am I so much thinner!”

“Just be grateful.” Tao Yao flicked it into the air, thinking she needn’t bother seeking extra thanks from this useless demon—if other demons learned she’d willingly played errand-girl to save a salted rat, it would be quite the loss of face.

The salted rat floated dazedly in midair, utterly bewildered.

“Hurry back to your Qu Fulai! Don’t wander off carelessly again from now on—you might not be so lucky next time!” She turned and walked away, waving behind her back at the salted rat—a genuine farewell.

Never knowing the truth might be a blessing too, in its own way.

After all, some truths, once uncovered, demand blood.

She looked up at the sky, a snowflake landing right on the tip of her nose. She touched her nose and smiled, but the direction she walked wasn’t toward the city gate—it was back toward the place she’d just left… Longcheng Manor.

With one person gone, Longcheng Manor felt even more deathly silent.

She walked familiarly into the garden; the lamp in the study was still lit—tonight, even without a nightmare, no one could possibly sleep.

She turned toward the osmanthus tree, standing where the child had vanished, took a pill in her hand, and blew it toward her lips—the pill scattered like dust, sprinkling down completely.

The child everyone believed had been shattered into pieces gradually took shape again, curled weakly on the ground, his entire body semi-transparent, glowing faintly like a firefly.

“How many Xuanyou could you possibly kill for him…” Tao Yao looked at him coldly. “You can’t even withstand the power of a single Concealment Pill—do you understand that your own time is up?”

The child’s body trembled continuously, his eyes barely open, faint tear tracks still visible at the corners—he had no awareness or strength left to answer her at all.

“Your kind, this is an incurable condition—I can’t heal you.” Tao Yao sighed. “Having been born a Wellspring of Infant Spirit, this is simply your fate.”

There was a stir from the direction of the study—someone rushed out, sword in hand, clearly on edge.

Seeing it was her beneath the tree, General Duan let out a breath of relief, then asked, puzzled: “Miss Tao, why have you come back? Where’s Lord Qingyang? Could there still be remnants left in the household?”

Before he’d finished speaking, he suddenly caught sight of the child beneath the tree, his face changing drastically as he raised his sword: “That demon is still here after all!”

“It’s dying. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to see it.” Tao Yao stood with her back to him, crooking a finger. “Come here.”

General Duan approached hesitantly, stopping two steps away from them, still gripping his sword tightly.

“This…” His breathing grew more rapid, the child before him growing more and more transparent. Finally, the child opened his eyes, looked at him once, then closed them again in peace, his small body dissolving entirely into nothingness at that very moment. On the snowy ground, only a small, worn wooden sword remained.

He stumbled back two steps in shock: “What is this?”

Tao Yao picked up the wooden sword, its weight feather-light. She turned it over, and a line of crooked characters carved into it came into view. She read aloud: “A proud heart, a peaceful mind, to protect all under heaven.”

Having read it, she stood up, holding the wooden sword out to him: “Did you carve this?”

He looked blank, shaking his head, repeating: “What is this?”

“A person’s original intent, if buried beneath blood-soaked earth, given the right timing and place, the blessing of sun and moon, can become a demon—called a Wellspring of Infant Spirit. Most often taking the form of a small child, not given to speech. When its true master faces great calamity, it emerges from the earth, born already knowing how to respond, taking the protection of its true master as its sole purpose, unwavering until death.” Having said this, Tao Yao suddenly raised the wooden sword, pointing it at him. “A proud heart, a peaceful mind, to protect all under heaven… General Duan, this was your original intent.”

He stood frozen. It was only a wooden sword—what was there to fear? Yet why did the real sword in his hand keep slipping, until finally it clattered to the ground.

Tao Yao, holding the sword aloft, looked like an entirely different person from the one she’d been a few hours ago—all trace of the innocent, reckless girl demanding food and drink had vanished. The woman before him now, there wasn’t a trace of gentleness or mercy to be found in her eyes, and what she held in her hand wasn’t a wooden sword at all, but his death warrant.

He felt a wave of panic, unsure just what he’d done to offend this Miss Tao from the Court of Bi’an.

Tao Yao suddenly smiled again, lowering the sword, saying: “Just a wooden sword, General, what are you afraid of?” With that, she produced a pill the size of a soybean, extending her hand toward him: “Eat this.”

“What?” He instinctively stepped back. “Why should I eat it?”

Before he’d finished speaking, before his mouth had even closed, the pill had already landed precisely in his mouth. Across from him, Tao Yao withdrew her hand, smiling: “You should listen to the doctor.”

“You…” General Duan clutched his own throat, trying to spit the pill out, but the little thing had already dissolved into water the instant it touched his tongue, sliding down his throat—there was no hope of spitting it out now.

Tao Yao held the wooden sword, waiting patiently.

General Duan’s face changed abruptly, the veins in his neck bulging and pulsing, an immense pain enveloping every inch of his flesh and bone. He cried out and collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.

Tao Yao, aside from stepping aside to clear a path for his writhing, took no other action.

After a moment, the pain gradually eased. He lay drenched in cold sweat, curled up and trembling on the ground.

His eyes couldn’t focus on anything, only a hazy light, like a lamp veiled in thin gauze, swaying gently. Within that light, a small boy gradually came into focus—four or five years old, hair worn in a child’s style, wearing yellow, sitting on a small wooden stool, carefully carving characters into a wooden sword with a small knife, saying in his young, tender voice as he carved: “A proud heart, a peaceful mind, to protect all under heaven… Qingzhu wants to be someone like that.”

His head felt as though it were being torn apart, countless long-suppressed things rushing to escape all at once.

The child in that light turned his face, holding up the finished sword, his expression full of joy.

Qingzhu wants to be someone like that…

Qingzhu…

He was struck with terror—that wasn’t Xiao Ao, wasn’t the demon he’d brought back from the wilderness, wasn’t anyone else at all. Qingzhu… Duan Qingzhu… that was him. That was himself.

A shrill, agonized howl tore through the garden.