Ling’ai searched carefully again, but the markers were indeed missing for a stretch.

In a forest like this, without the markers to guide her, it was very easy to lose one’s direction—and now, a fog had begun to settle in, growing thicker with every passing moment.

Ling’ai didn’t have the presence of mind right now to wonder why the markers had disappeared. Little Xing had mentioned that monkeys often roamed these mountains, and it was possible that mischievous monkeys had taken the strips of red cloth she had tied to the branches as playthings.

The sky was still light, and the forest occasionally rang with birdsong. Mist drifted through the distant mountain valleys, half-veiling everything, and she could only see a few meters ahead.

She had been so absorbed in searching for herbs on the way up that she had assumed the red cloth strips would be enough to guide her back down. Now that they had suddenly disappeared, she felt genuinely frightened.

If she really became lost on this mountain, she might not starve to death—but she would likely end up as food for the wild beasts.

Relying on what little she could remember, Ling’ai made her way forward by feel. There was no path on the mountain, so she used a branch to push aside the undergrowth and brush. At least it was not summer, so there were almost no insects, but the grass was still damp from the rain, and before long her trouser legs were completely soaked through.

After half an hour of walking, the large rock that suddenly appeared before her plunged her into despair.

It was the same rock where she had rested earlier. The withered grass beside it still bore traces of her footprints.

“I’m done for. I’m really lost.” Ling’ai felt a tumult of emotions. She had set out that morning full of excitement, and now she was filled with nothing but dread.

But she knew she could not give up like this. To give up was to admit that she truly could not find her way out—and she had no desire to die a stranger in a foreign land.

Ling’ai steeled her courage and walked for another half hour, deliberately avoiding the paths she had already taken. But half an hour later, she looked up in despair to find herself back in the same spot once again.

She had heard of a phenomenon called a spirit wall—where no matter which way you walked, you kept returning to the same place. What she was experiencing now was unmistakably that very thing.

She was completely and utterly lost.

Ling’ai sat down on the large rock and tried her best to calm herself. By now, her stamina was nearly exhausted—if she walked another half hour and still couldn’t find her way out, she probably wouldn’t have the strength left to go down the mountain at all.

The sky was beginning to darken, and the birdsong in the forest was occasionally joined by a low, rumbling growl.

Little Xing had said there were wild beasts in this mountain, but they lived deep in the forest and did not usually venture out. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Ling’ai clutched the bit of remaining dried peach in her pocket, and in that moment she was all the more grateful for the small offering that Little Xing had pressed into her hands with his small palms. It was her own lack of foresight—she had no experience with wilderness survival, which was why she had been so reckless as to get herself trapped on this mountain.

Ling’ai gazed at the sky in the distance, and her heart had grown considerably calmer. Even if she could not find the path down, Doctor Sun would surely notice she was missing. They would come looking for her, wouldn’t they?

Holding onto hope, Ling’ai sat on the large rock and—worn out and frightened as she was—drifted off to sleep without realizing it.

By the time Ling’ai woke up, the sky had gone completely dark.

The forest was pitch-black, lit only by a cold, eerie moonlight, while unidentifiable cries rose and fell all around.

When Ling’ai sat up, she was so startled that she gave a violent jolt, and a cold sweat broke out across her back.

It was dark now—she had been out since morning, and nearly a full day had passed. If she had not returned, Doctor Sun and the Zheng family would certainly come looking for her.

This thought brought her back to a state of calm. She must not run about blindly right now. All she had to do was wait here for them to find her.

The temperature at night was several degrees lower than during the day. Ling’ai pulled her coat tighter around herself, but it still could not keep out the cold.

At that moment, she wished for nothing more than a campfire.

Just as Ling’ai was lost in her daydream of fire and food, a low growl suddenly erupted from directly behind her. Her entire body went rigid—she dared not move a single muscle.

She could tell it was a wild beast, and not far from her at all. She could even hear the soft rustling sound coming from the undergrowth—the sound of something treading through the grass, growing closer and closer.

Ling’ai thought of the hoe she had used to dig herbs, and as quietly and carefully as she could, she reached out and gripped it. If this beast truly attacked her, she would have no choice but to fight with everything she had.

“Aowu!”

The sound came from right behind her—spine-chilling.

She guessed it was a wolf—a hungry wolf, at that. She had never encountered a wolf before, but she knew well how ferocious wolves could be. Alone, a weak woman like herself would have absolutely no chance against a full-grown wild wolf.

That’s right—wolves feared fire. But she had no fire.

At this moment, she felt a deep and bitter regret. She should have brought more supplies before heading up the mountain. She had been far too careless, and now here she was, trapped.

As the sounds from behind drew ever closer, Ling’ai slowly turned her head. She didn’t dare move too quickly, afraid that a sudden motion might provoke an immediate attack.

The moment Ling’ai turned, she found herself staring into a pair of gleaming green eyes. The chilling gaze terrified her so completely that she tumbled off the rock, and at the same moment the wolf leaped upward, lunging straight at her.

Even in her panic, Ling’ai did not stop fighting. She snatched up the hoe beside her and swung it with all her strength.

“Get back!” Ling’ai had no idea exactly how a wolf would attack, so she could only flail wildly with the hoe. Under her resistance, the wolf actually retreated two steps.

But Ling’ai’s strength was fading fast, and her movements grew slower and slower. The wolf, all the while, stood still and watched her carefully. Once it sensed that her motions were becoming smaller and weaker, it suddenly lunged forward.

Ling’ai had no time to dodge. She felt a great dark shadow descend over her, and all she could do on instinct was raise her arms to shield her head.

But the expected pain never came. Instead, an arm swept around her waist, and in a daze, she felt herself spin and be set down behind someone.

Her heart was still pounding. Ling’ai looked up to see a tall figure standing in front of her, his broad back like the safest harbor in the world—one that made her fear nothing and retreat from nothing.

She stared at him, stunned, and rubbed her eyes as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She rubbed them once, then rubbed them again.

She thought her nerves had snapped from fright, or that she was dreaming. This was an unnamed mountain in Peach Blossom Village—and he was supposed to be far away in Shun Cheng.

She pinched her own arm. Pain shot through her—but the figure before her did not disappear. He stood like a mountain, sheltering her from the wind and the rain, shielding her within the warmest circle of his arms.

In an instant, the tears in Ling’ai’s eyes broke free. To keep herself from making a sound, she had no choice but to press both hands tightly over her mouth.

She wanted to call out his name, but her throat felt as though something had blocked it. With emotion overwhelming her, she could not make a single sound.

And then, as Ling’ai trembled with feeling, the familiar, beloved voice came to her from just ahead: “Stay behind me. Don’t move.”

He had his back to her and couldn’t see—but she nodded her head with great force.

He picked up the hoe from the side and gripped it tightly in his hand. The wolf stood not far away, its green eyes gleaming coldly, fixed on him.

Man and wolf faced each other, neither moving.

Like two masters of combat poised to exchange blows, each taking measure of the other’s strength.

Ling’ai obeyed and stayed perfectly still—even her breathing slowed.

She didn’t know how much time passed, but then a miracle occurred: the wolf actually retreated two steps, turned around, and disappeared into the forest without looking back.

Only when the wolf had vanished entirely did Ling’ai let out a long breath. Before she could say a word, she was pulled into an embrace that carried a faint coolness—those strong arms circled around her tightly, and she pressed against his chest, her breath coming with a touch of difficulty. He held her very, very tightly—so tightly he forgot to control the force of it.

Ling’ai was held by him without making a sound, and the tearful light in her eyes surged forward, falling drop by drop onto his chest, quickly soaking a small patch there.

“Zheng Yun…” These two syllables were wrung up from deep within her chest, carrying far too much emotion, far too much courage.

For so long, this name had been silently repeated in her heart. To speak it aloud like this, with him here before her, real and present—it made her tears fall all the harder.

“Mm.” He bowed his head, his chin resting on her shoulder, and the arms around her waist tightened further. “I’m here.”

“Zheng Yun…” She could only call his name, and as she choked, no other words would come.

“I’m here.”

And he, too, repeated just those two words, making her heart grow all the more misty and damp.

Ling’ai did not know what to call what she was feeling right now. She had clearly meant to keep her distance from him—yet now that he was beside her, she found it impossible to suppress the wild surge of joy inside her.

No one knew how much she had missed him. In her dreams, she had met with him again and again, and every time she had prayed that dream would not end.

Just like now—she still felt as though she was living in a dream. Otherwise, how could someone separated from her by a thousand miles suddenly appear like this?

“I must be dreaming—this feels so real for the first time,” Ling’ai murmured quietly against his chest. “Whenever you appeared in my dreams before, I could only see you from far away. But now, I can feel your warmth and your heartbeat. This is so good. Please don’t let me wake up.”

Without thinking, she tightened her arms around his waist and whispered, “Don’t let me wake up.”

Zheng Yun pressed his cheek tenderly against her shoulder, his low, pleasant voice carrying the faintest hoarse suppression. “Ling’ai, this isn’t a dream.”

She said nothing, only closed her eyes, as though truly lost inside a dream.

“This isn’t a dream. This is real.” He gently loosened his hold on her, then lowered his head—lips cool with the chill of the night air—and pressed them lightly against hers.

He made no further movement—just the gentlest touch—but the moment it happened, something like a small current passed through Ling’ai’s heart. She couldn’t help but open her eyes wide, gazing at his face just inches from her own.

“It’s… not a dream?”

He smiled, and raised his hand to tap the tip of her nose. “Didn’t you just pinch yourself?”

“You—how did you know?” He had clearly been facing away from her at the time.

“I felt it.”

Ling’ai’s face turned red at once, and she bowed her head to avoid his gaze. “How did you end up here? Weren’t you supposed to be in Shun Cheng?”

Zheng Yun pulled her back into his arms, his gaze settling on the tree line not far ahead.

“I received word that you were leaving Shun Cheng, so I went to your home—only to find an empty shell of a house.” The sense of loss he had felt in that moment still made his heart clench even now.