Wisps of cooking smoke rose, and the evening clouds hung low.

Shen Qingwu stood somewhat dazed before the commoner’s house she had forcibly commandeered, smelling the fragrance of the food.

The handsome young man who used a bamboo staff to feel his way came out of the house upon hearing footsteps, coming to welcome her.

The sunset scattered dust, and he stood in the dim light, reaching out to take the medicine from her hands, looking apologetic and concerned: “It’s my uselessness that makes A’Wu go into town every day to fetch medicine for me. A’Wu has worked hard.”

He smiled: “I’ve boiled water and washed a cloth. A’Wu, wash up first.”

He carried quite the bearing of a good househusband.

If a blind man could manage this much, what more could a wife ask for?

In her daze, Shen Qingwu truly felt like an old married couple with him: she went out to handle affairs, he waited at home. The mundane cares of daily life, a handsome companion adding fragrance to the home, carefree as rivers and mountains.

The joys of the mortal world were no more than this.

Gently persuaded into the house by Zhang Xingjian, Shen Qingwu washed her face with clean water, still somewhat unable to make sense of the situation.

Perhaps because Zhang Xingjian had always been sickly before, she hadn’t held many expectations of him. Yet now that he could suddenly move about freely, he had actually managed to do so much—

The messy room had been tidied by him; the firewood in the kitchen that could trip a person at any moment had been neatly stacked, the floor swept, and the meal cooked.

Something stirred faintly in Shen Qingwu’s heart; she reflected that she hadn’t realized until now how pleasant it was to be looked after.

No wonder men liked to have three wives and four concubines.

She too…

No. She hadn’t even managed to conquer a single Zhang Xingjian.

Shen Qingwu calmed herself. The moon she wanted to pluck down was not an easy moon to pluck. She would just have to see what tricks he intended to show off.

Shen Qingwu walked into the house and saw the bamboo staff leaning behind the door. In the room, by a single point of lamplight, Zhang Xingjian was groping his way to set the dishes on the table.

She stood to the side observing for a good while; he couldn’t see her. There were quite a few objects in the room, and he bumped into them many times, carefully skirting around them.

He tried to make his movements slow and steady as he carried the food, but if one looked closely, one could tell his eyesight was impaired—he was navigating by memory alone.

Shen Qingwu curled her lip in faint disdain: little blind man.

Though Zhang Xingjian’s vision was blurred, he had already spotted, early on, a figure leaning against the doorframe watching him.

This female assassin never showed her emotions, and who knew how many schemes lurked in her mind. He let her think he truly could not see at all, deliberately allowing himself to appear exhausted, so she would lower her guard.

Today, he had meant to test her.

Once Shen Qingwu had had her fill of enjoying his awkward struggling, she finally let a bit of footstep sound escape, and saw Zhang Xingjian turn his ear, looking in her direction.

His handsome face always seemed to work to his advantage at such moments—Shen Qingwu did not believe he was truly delighted in his heart, but the shifting light in his eyes, illuminated for an instant by the candle flame, was indeed bright enough to be stirring.

Shen Qingwu’s heart skipped a beat.

Zhang Xingjian groped forward, reaching out a hand: “A’Wu?”

She said nothing.

Zhang Xingjian said bashfully: “Don’t blame A’Wu for me acting on my own. You weren’t home, and I was lonely by myself. You’ve cared for me for so many days with nothing given in return, and it weighed on me, so I tidied the room a little. I tried my hand at cooking a bit of food, and prepared some yellow wine as well—I don’t know if it suits your taste.”

Shen Qingwu’s interest was piqued: “You can cook?”

The Zhang family was so poor—would a young master really cook himself?

Zhang Xingjian raised an eyebrow and smiled: “This is the first time in my life I’ve set foot in a kitchen.”

Shen Qingwu: “…”

She felt a little disappointed and stopped holding out hope.

Having practiced cooking for half a month herself, she had come to understand the matter well by now. Ever more impatient with cooking the more she did it, General Shen judged that Zhang Xingjian’s first attempt would bring more fright than delight.

Hearing no sound, Zhang Xingjian knew she was hesitating, and said gently: “Don’t worry, A’Wu. I tasted it myself—it should be passable.”

Shen Qingwu replied: “Your sense of taste must be off. Don’t you realize that yourself?”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

Only after expressing her disdain did Shen Qingwu recall she’d just spoken the plain truth. Trying to keep up her act as an understanding young lady, she hastily added: “I misspoke. Whatever you make, young master, I’m sure I’ll think it’s good.”

Zhang Xingjian readily accepted this: “A’Wu flatters me too much.”

She sat down and picked up her chopsticks.

She carefully took a small bite of the dish nearest to her, chewed, swallowed—and her dark, expressionless eyes widened.

It wasn’t that he was truly some genius.

It was simply that the food he’d made genuinely tasted—edible. In fact, the standard was probably better than what she’d managed to produce after half a month of effort.

Shen Qingwu was stunned for a moment, then immediately reached for the next dish.

Hearing the sounds, Zhang Xingjian could tell she was reasonably satisfied, and felt it hadn’t been for nothing—all that effort in the kitchen, where he’d very nearly set himself on fire.

He rubbed his wrist inconspicuously; there was a burn mark on the back of his hand. But this female assassin, cold-hearted as iron, of course never cared about his injuries, and he couldn’t be bothered to use it to win her sympathy either.

Enduring the pain, Zhang Xingjian unhurriedly poured her a cup of wine, smiling: “Allow me to offer A’Wu a toast.”

Shen Qingwu: “Where did the wine come from?”

Zhang Xingjian: “It was in the kitchen already—didn’t you know?”

Shen Qingwu answered evasively: “Perhaps my parents never told me.”

She casually drank the wine he handed her and went on quietly eating. Zhang Xingjian refilled both their cups, urging her to drink more and more.

He was building up to a topic; Shen Qingwu was single-mindedly focused on eating. Zhang Xingjian coughed once, and she looked up from her rice, her dark eyes turning toward his handsome, refined face.

Shen Qingwu was blank for a moment, then thought that after all his effort in the kitchen, her own reaction seemed rather lukewarm.

Bo Rong had said one should be polite.

Shen Qingwu thought about it, set down her chopsticks, and moved her chair closer to Zhang Xingjian.

Her arm brushed his sleeve, and his slightly bent elbow stiffened at her closeness. But Zhang Xingjian wouldn’t let it show, and Shen Qingwu wouldn’t have noticed anyway. She reached out gently and tugged at his sleeve.

She suddenly turned thoughtful: “You’ve been wearing these clothes for so long—you should change into something new one of these days.”

Zhang Xingjian said: “That would trouble A’Wu again.”

Shen Qingwu said slowly: “It’s not that much trouble… Um, I just wanted to ask, young master, do you know needlework?”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

The hand holding his wine cup paused for a moment. He tilted his face, smiling, looking puzzled: “I’ve never learned it. Why does A’Wu ask?”

Shen Qingwu said: “Have you ever considered that you might have quite a talent for it?”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

Not knowing how to respond for a moment, he let her continue on her own: “This was your first time cooking, and you did quite well. I think someone as clever as you would probably also do well picking up a needle and thread.

“I feel for you so much—look how much colder the weather’s getting, and you’re still wearing such thin clothes, young master. Even with a fire burning in the room, you must be terribly cold. Perhaps that’s exactly why your injuries won’t fully heal.

“In my opinion, why don’t we go into town and buy some fabric, and make you a warm set of clothes for the winter.”

Zhang Xingjian thought: who on earth was planning to spend the winter with her—she’d already got it all arranged.

Something was wrong.

His head began to ache slightly, and he couldn’t help but rub his temple.

He’d originally meant to lower this female assassin’s guard, to probe what task Kong Ye had given her, what she planned to do with him, what information she wanted to extract from him… who wanted to end up in some muddled discussion with her about how to tailor clothes?

But what came out of his mouth was: “Just buying something ready-made from a clothing shop would be fine. A’Wu, I can tell you’re no ordinary woman—have you perhaps…”

Before he could finish, Shen Qingwu cut him off: “Who knows how many people have worn the clothes from a shop—how could that be worthy of you? You’re as beautiful as a flower—how could I let you suffer like that? I’ll spend the money to buy fine silk and have clothes tailored for you.”

Zhang Xingjian was taken aback.

He thought this female assassin was rather kind-hearted.

…Though she hadn’t shown any such softness when she shot that arrow at him.

She kept insisting on new clothes for him—could there be some scheme behind it?

Something stirred in Zhang Xingjian’s mind, and he reluctantly agreed. As he waited to see what her scheme might be, he heard Shen Qingwu say, with practiced casualness: “But my needlework skill is limited, so we could practice together.”

Zhang Xingjian fell silent.

Shen Qingwu tilted her head to look at him: “You’re not willing?”

Zhang Xingjian said gently: “I am. If that’s what A’Wu wishes, I’ll certainly go along.”

Shen Qingwu was satisfied.

Only then did she reveal her true purpose—

She pinched the corner of Zhang Xingjian’s garment and tugged it, making him turn his face, his attention now on her.

She took hold of his hand, ignoring his stiff resistance, and made him feel the cotton wadding poking out from her inner robe at the shoulder, and the loose threads that had frayed from being tugged at who knew how many times.

Shen Qingwu: “Why don’t you try it—help me mend my clothes first?”

Zhang Xingjian went rigid. The vein at his temple twitched; his composure was nearly at its breaking point.

He finally understood the purpose of all her fidgeting and evasive talk, going on and on about the tailor’s shop—it wasn’t that he’d charmed her into letting her guard down or coaxed information out of her. She’d been single-mindedly scheming to get him to mend her clothes for her.

That a female assassin didn’t know needlework was, of course, only natural.

…But what made her think he did?!

Zhang Xingjian took a deep breath, his smile on the surface still seeming perfectly sincere.

He slowly raised his other hand and withdrew his hand from Shen Qingwu’s grasp. He reminded her:

“A’Wu, the two of us, an unmarried man and woman alone together—this isn’t proper.”

Shen Qingwu said: “In extraordinary times, how can one cling to old formalities?”

Zhang Xingjian sneered inwardly: yet the day you refused to help me, letting me stumble and fumble my way along the mountain path behind you, you never thought that counted as “extraordinary times.”

He handed her wine: “Let’s speak of this another day. On such a fine occasion, how could we waste it? A’Wu, drink first.”

Slow as she could be, even Shen Qingwu could see that he had no wish to learn needlework for her sake, to pick up a needle and thread and mend clothes for her.

She felt a touch of disappointment, but could accept it.

Shen Qingwu drank the cup down with great gusto, her gaze sweeping over his slender, thin frame, his face pale as porcelain:

He was weak right now; she shouldn’t push him too hard. Once he recovered, she’d eventually have to force him to obey her.

Except—if he recovered, controlling him might prove rather difficult.

Shen Qingwu fell into thought.

As she drank, she pondered how to outmaneuver Zhang Xingjian, pouring him another cup: “You drink too.”

Zhang Xingjian looked troubled: “I have injuries on my body—I’m afraid I can’t drink.”

Shen Qingwu glanced at him, thinking he was up to something again, but he said: “Still, A’Wu is my savior. It’s only right that I accompany you for a few cups.”

He toasted her, and after drinking, his face flushed from the wine.

Shen Qingwu glanced at him with disdain.

And Zhang Xingjian, using this cup of wine, finally found an opening to bring up the topic he truly wanted to discuss: “Speaking of which, has A’Wu perhaps heard of General Shen Qingwu, the Garrison General of the West in Yizhou?”

Shen Qingwu lifted her eyes, gazing at him quietly.

She said: “No. Why do you ask?”

Her elbow rested on the table as she watched him silently. If he said one wrong word, she would strike and subdue him, ending this game.

Though Zhang Xingjian didn’t know what kind of look she was giving him, he could sense the sudden chill in the air, the faint trace of cold that had settled.

Calmly, he continued pouring wine for the two of them: “I mention this person only because A’Wu resembles her greatly.”

Shen Qingwu kept up the gentle, kind tone befitting a sweet young lady: “In what way do we resemble each other?”

Zhang Xingjian: “You’ve both saved my life.”

Shen Qingwu was startled for a moment, and the elbow propped on the table relaxed.

She said offhandedly: “Saving your life isn’t such a remarkable thing.”

Zhang Xingjian shook his head: “I’m not such an easy person to save.”

So many people wanted him dead—to escape from that and save someone at the same time, and to happen to stumble upon Zhang Xingjian’s own plans in the process, required no small amount of luck and skill.

If this female assassin was impersonating Shen Qingwu, she should have looked into Shen Qingwu’s background, shouldn’t she?

Had Kong Ye instructed the female assassin to use Shen Qingwu to unsettle him because he truly believed Zhang Xingjian harbored feelings for her? He could use this—probe for whatever information they wanted to know.

Zhang Xingjian put on the appearance of having had too much to drink, his face flushed like sunset clouds, his head swaying slightly.

Propping his forehead with one hand, the young master affected a mumbling, dreamy tone: “General Shen once saved me, descending like a god from the heavens. I, a mere mortal, worship her utterly.”

Shen Qingwu sneered coldly.

She couldn’t be bothered to respond to his nonsense.

He continued mumbling his nonsense while she grabbed the wine pot from the table and poured herself a drink.

The yellow wine in this commoner’s house was nowhere near as strong as army wine. Shen Qingwu drank most of the pot herself without feeling a thing, while Zhang Xingjian, after just a few cups, was already dizzy and reeling like a drunkard—how dull.

What was even duller was that he kept dragging her along to listen to him ramble about how wonderful Shen Qingwu was.

But the real Shen Qingwu, sitting right there, knew perfectly well that not a single word out of his mouth was true.

He said she’d descended like a god from the heavens to save him, but back when she’d saved him, he’d been buried alive—there was no way he could have seen her; he said he’d fallen for Shen Qingwu and wanted to marry her, but his family wouldn’t allow it—yet Shen Qingwu knew perfectly well it was because he didn’t like her, and he, like everyone else, thought Shen Qingye was better suited to be mistress of the Zhang household.

He said he and Shen Qingwu had barely met, had barely exchanged a few words…

Well. That part, at least, was true.

But Zhang Xingjian’s next mumbled words were: “If I could see her again—if I weren’t a son of the Zhang family—I would confess my admiration to her…”

There came a faint, crisp “crack.”

Zhang Xingjian recognized the sound of a cup being crushed.

He looked hazily toward where the female assassin sat; in the weak candlelight, he saw a blurred silhouette sitting bolt upright beside him, making no attempt to hide the sound of the shattered cup.

Zhang Xingjian laughed softly: “You don’t believe me?”

Shen Qingwu said evasively: “You’re drunk. Go to sleep.”

Zhang Xingjian: “Very well. The world never believes I care for her. A man like me, not being believed—that’s only to be expected.”

He quieted, saying nothing more. Shen Qingwu turned her head and saw a trace of dejection in his downcast eyes.

The scattered light fell into his eyes; he looked down at his cup and drank again, dazed.

Zhang Xingjian abruptly raised his head.

Shen Qingwu hastily turned her face away, avoiding his gaze. Her heart skipped a beat—then she remembered he couldn’t see her at all.

Regaining her composure, she heard Zhang Xingjian give a faint smile: “It’s fine if you don’t believe me either. As long as I know it in my own heart. I keep, close to myself, a handkerchief she gave me that day—embroidered with the character ‘Shen.’ If I didn’t care for her, would I do such a thing?”

Since Kong Ye suspected he had feelings for Shen Qingwu, he might as well let this female assassin believe he did too.

He’d said so much, yet the female assassin had shown almost no reaction. He was nearly ready to conclude his gambit had failed, that she had some deeper purpose entirely. But then, just at that moment, Shen Qingwu suddenly spoke:

“A handkerchief?”

Zhang Xingjian paused: “I truly do care for her.”

Shen Qingwu thought: she needed to get her handkerchief back.

What right did Zhang Xingjian have to keep her things? She didn’t want anything of hers in his possession—even if it was just a handkerchief she’d once discarded.

And it was the only handkerchief she’d ever embroidered—

That night, Zhang Xingjian was utterly exhausted, mind and body.

He’d first tested her tolerance for wine, and once he found she could drink like the sea, he gave up on the idea of getting her drunk enough to talk. Feigning drunkenness, he’d spun a good many lies to her, hoping to draw out her curiosity about Shen Qingwu—after all, if this female assassin meant to impersonate Shen Qingwu, she should surely be curious about the real Shen Qingwu’s life.

Yet this female assassin… was remarkably strange.

She drank alone in silence, paying no attention to anything he said, not offering another word; when he was lucid, she kept up her act, but once she thought he was drunk, she simply dropped all pretense and said nothing at all.

Zhang Xingjian’s one-man show was nearly at its end.

But he had, at least, worn down some of her guard—by the end, she had finally shown some interest in Shen Qingwu, repeatedly asking him about the handkerchief.

People with odd temperaments always had odd points of fixation.

Feigning that the wine had overwhelmed him, his speech disjointed, Zhang Xingjian slumped over the table and murmured: “A’Wu, sometimes you really do resemble her. If not for Kong Ye standing in the way, if not for my family standing in the way, I—I…”

Shen Qingwu grew anxious.

One moment he mentioned Kong Ye, the next some pursuit and assassination attempt, and then he muttered about the resemblance between A’Wu and Shen Qingwu… but all Shen Qingwu wanted was to get her handkerchief back.

She had no interest at all in his schemes and calculations, in whatever false feelings he claimed to have or not have.

But just as Zhang Xingjian couldn’t get this female assassin to reveal Kong Ye’s plans, Shen Qingwu likewise couldn’t pry the whereabouts of her handkerchief out of Zhang Xingjian. He’d said he kept it close to himself…

Shen Qingwu stared at this drunken young master, her gaze falling on his turned neck, flushed jade-pale, and the collar beneath it now slightly disheveled.

She bent down to help support him: “You’re drunk. Go to sleep.”

Supported by her, Zhang Xingjian was helped onto the bed. He closed his eyes, feigning weakness, sensing that the female assassin had not yet left. In his heart he laughed, thinking that with him putting on such a display, surely she’d have to reveal what she wanted, at least a little.

Shen Qingwu patted his face: “Zhang Xingjian?”

Zhang Xingjian thought: so she really did know his true name was “Zhang Xingjian,” not Zhang Yuelu.

Kneeling on the bed, Shen Qingwu muttered: “Truly drunk.”

Her voice was very low, carrying a slight hoarseness, quite different from the soft, delicate voice she usually put on—yet it sounded like, sounded like…

Zhang Xingjian’s heart gave a violent lurch.

Before Zhang Xingjian could work out whose voice it reminded him of, he felt her presence pressing close, a hand settling on his waist. He stiffened, his body growing rigid bit by bit.

Shen Qingwu’s hand rested on his waist, her eyes searching, trying to judge where he might have hidden the handkerchief. The feel beneath her hand…

She couldn’t help but stroke it once; the young master’s body shifted, turning toward the inside of the bed, and her heart gave a jolt, her face suddenly flushing red.

Shen Qingwu forced herself back to her senses: she was here to find something, not to toy with him.

As for toying with him… there would be plenty of chances for that later.

She wasn’t some ravenous letch, and she wouldn’t dare take advantage of his weakness to torment him to death.

…Bo Rong would be furious.

Shen Qingwu touched the jade pendant at her chest, using it to steady herself. But with the young master lying there on the bed, such a perfect opportunity—to pass it up would be foolish.

Shen Qingwu leaned down, creeping stealthily from behind to undo the sash of his robe, her fingers brushing across his waist, moving toward the inside of his garment…

Her hand had just settled at the front of his collar, not yet slipping inside, when the young master coughed once, seeming to stir hazily awake. He opened his unfocused eyes, gazing upward, murmuring indistinctly: “A’Wu?”

Shen Qingwu’s loose strands of hair fell across his face.

His brow furrowed slightly, his face pale flushed with red, his thin robe half-loosened, his throat pale beneath, a hint of exposed skin here and there. His black hair spread out like silk, his clear eyes gazing up at her, sparks scattering, his breath low and cool…

Even knowing full well he couldn’t see!

Shen Qingwu’s heartbeat quickened in an instant.

Her fist clenched; unbidden, her mind flashed to a moment when she had once pinned him down in the dark and kissed him.

But that time had been different from this one.

Now, in this faint spark of light falling across his face, in the silent room, he lay on the bed while she leaned over him, one hand pressed to his chest, one hand resting on his waist. His unseeing eyes met her dark ones, his lips slightly parted.

She only had to, only had to…

Zhang Xingjian said softly: “A’Wu, what are you doing?”

Shen Qingwu came back to herself, her eyes turning cold.

She couldn’t tell whether he was truly drunk or feigning it, couldn’t decide whether to keep playing the role of “A’Wu.” Should she break the lie now, or wait a little longer…

Zhang Xingjian began to cough, his face coughing pale, nearly unable to catch his breath.

After a moment’s hesitation, Shen Qingwu reluctantly rolled off him, rubbing his back to help steady his breathing.

She said evasively: “A sick man shouldn’t drink. I should have stopped you tonight. Wait a moment, I’ll go make you a sobering broth.”

Seeing him cough so violently, Shen Qingwu grew alarmed, fearing his injuries had worsened.

Terrified he might die right there, before she’d even begun collecting on the unresolved resentment and grievances she carried, Shen Qingwu decisively leapt from the bed and dashed off to the kitchen.

Once she had left the room, Zhang Xingjian’s coughing slowly subsided.

Moonlight poured through the window; the jade-fine young man sat alone, head bowed, coughing softly.

He pressed a hand to his chest, his mind reeling with shock: just now, just now…

Zhang Xingjian closed his eyes, ripples stirring in his gaze.

He had once thought the female assassin meant to use a honey trap to subdue him.

But from how things had just gone, it seemed he was the one being treated as the seductive beauty.

Had the female assassin gotten her honey trap backwards? Shouldn’t she be the one bewitching him—how could it be him charming her with his looks instead?

Surely Kong Ye hadn’t taught her to do it this way?

Zhang Xingjian was thoroughly baffled, and pained by his own misjudgment—

Once Zhang Xingjian realized Shen Qingwu had designs on him, he tried to find ways to put distance between them.

In the past, such methods had never failed him.

Yet now, Zhang Xingjian kept failing again and again.

Shen Qingwu circled around him all day long, constantly looking for chances to secretly touch him—sometimes brushing lightly against his waist, sometimes running her hands over his back…

Even while they ate together, he could feel her burning gaze on him.

He’d been saved by this female assassin for nearly a month now, and she’d never once cared whether he lived or died—but these past two days, she’d suddenly turned eager to wash his clothes, constantly trying to peel them right off him.

Zhang Xingjian suppressed his fury: how could he not see through her wolfish ambitions!

Unfortunately… he genuinely couldn’t beat her in a fight.

An assassin capable of taking down Chang Lin’s guards with a bow—Zhang Xingjian did not consider himself her match. He’d originally meant to probe the female assassin, but these past few days, with her hands wandering all over him, murderous intent had already stirred in him; he no longer wished to keep up the pretense with her.

Unable to kill her by force, he had to find other means of assassination…

For instance, the medicine he drank every day already had a component that dulled the senses—if only the dosage could be a bit heavier. For instance, he’d grown thoroughly familiar with this house; setting up a killing formation here wouldn’t be difficult either, given enough time.

But before he could set his plan in motion, he had to find a way to get Shen Qingwu to leave, to stop hovering around him constantly.

The female assassin Shen Qingwu, circling around Zhang Xingjian every day, was, after all, only trying to get her handkerchief back.

She wasn’t certain whether the handkerchief was truly on his person. She’d tried probing with words, but these past few days he’d turned pale and withdrawn, barely speaking to her, often lost in thought; every time she drew near, he found some excuse to keep his distance.

Shen Qingwu frowned—if he wouldn’t take off his clothes, how was she supposed to check?—

That night, after another full day of matching wits, Zhang Xingjian was somewhat weary.

He thought he had once again escaped for the day.

Shen Qingwu came knocking at his door, her voice soft and gentle, concealing ill intent: “Young master, hasn’t it been a long time since you bathed? I’ve heated water for you, and brought some of my father’s clothes—come change soon.

“Don’t you want to feel a bit fresher?”

Inside the room, Zhang Xingjian: “…”

His eyes cold as ice and snow, he declined gently: “I have injuries. A daily wipe-down suffices. There’s no need to trouble…”

Shen Qingwu said: “I asked the physician. He said a month is enough for water to touch your wounds. Young master, I want you to get better—please don’t refuse.”

Shen Qingwu said patiently: “Could it be you’re shy? Don’t worry, there’s no one here but the two of us. You don’t need to be so reserved.”

Zhang Xingjian: …It’s precisely because you’re here that I’m reserved.

By now, he understood clearly—tonight, there was no escaping this.

This female assassin meant to force herself on him tonight… simply using Kong Ye’s instructions as cover to pursue her own ends.

After a long moment, Zhang Xingjian smiled: “A’Wu has worked hard. I’ll bathe now.”

Inside the room, Zhang Xingjian walked step by step toward the wooden door, eyes lowered: whatever plans Kong Ye still had, he himself was now in danger—tonight, he had to kill her.

Outside the door, Shen Qingwu leaned against the wood, waiting quietly for him to approach: if he truly carried something of hers on his person, tonight she would take her handkerchief back, no matter what.

Moonlight fell to the ground, scattered shadows of sparse branches swaying gently, drifting like seaweed across the feet of the two of them.