The wind stirred on every side. Though it was the height of summer, Cheng Chang felt cold.

In truth, he’d felt cold for some time now.

Since returning from Pingnan Mountain, he’d been prone to sudden chills now and then. He’d assumed it was the ice kept in the mansion for cooling that had sent a chill through the air, but now it seemed that wasn’t quite the reason.

On such a hot day, everyone else was drenched in sweat, while he stood in his court robes beneath the blazing sun without a trace of living warmth about him.

Cheng Chang asked, “Lividity marks — besides appearing on the lower parts of the body, can they also appear at the site of a wound?”

In the young prince’s final dream, he had fallen into the water, his cheek striking against an oar braced in the river.

In truth, he hadn’t been very drunk that night. Had it not been for that hard blow, he wouldn’t have sunk beneath the water before he could even struggle.

Physician Wu said, “Yes. Lividity is essentially a patch of pooled blood, and it forms much the same way as the bruising from certain wounds on the body.”

Put that way, everything made sense — the persistent chill in his body, the bluish-purple marks on his skin, and the wound at the edge of his cheek that kept bleeding and would never heal.

This body — it had already died, long ago.

How could a dead man’s wound ever heal?

For a moment Cheng Chang’s mind went utterly blank. He staggered back a step, colliding with the writing desk behind him.

The case files on the desk scattered to the floor. Physician Wu hurried over to steady him. “Your Highness, are you all right?”

Cheng Chang shook his head. “I’m fine. You may go.”

Perhaps because he had already lived through so many things beyond reason, after a moment his composure returned. He left the courtroom, went to the prison cells, and asked the jailer standing guard outside, “That Daoist priest from before — where is he? I want to see him.”

The Censorate’s prison was small, a single corridor with only three or four cells on either side.

The jailer led Cheng Chang to the innermost one. “Your Highness, the priest is here.”

The priest had been huddled trembling in the corner, but seeing someone dressed in fine, noble attire approach, he guessed at once this was a high official and scrambled forward to kneel. “My lord, my lord, please, could this humble one be moved to another cell?”

Cheng Chang didn’t answer him. Instead he told the jailers, “All of you, step back.”

Only once every jailer had withdrawn from the cell did Cheng Chang ask the priest, “You want to be moved elsewhere. Why?”

The priest looked around in alarm. The cell was dim and damp, giving off a faint smell of mildew, with only a small high window letting in a bit of cold light.

“This place, the Censorate — the yin energy here is heavy,” the priest whispered, as though afraid of disturbing something. “There might… there might be a vengeful spirit.”

Cheng Chang’s expression remained calm as he crouched down before the priest. “Do you still remember me?”

The priest looked at him.

The face before him was as beautiful as a celestial being’s — a face, once seen, that could never be forgotten. He was certain he’d seen it before, but couldn’t recall where.

“Two years ago. Baiyun Temple. The Guanyin Hall,” Cheng Chang reminded him slowly. “I had you bless a peace talisman for me in your Guanyin Hall.”

“You’re that young prince who fell off the cliff?” the priest finally remembered.

Then, suddenly confused, he shook his head violently. “No, no, that can’t be right — that young prince should have died long ago.”

He counted on his fingers, then his gaze slowly drifted to Cheng Chang’s cheek. In the cold light filtering through the high window, he made out clearly the marks along his cheek and the back of his neck.

A terrifying thought struck him. The priest’s pupils suddenly widened, and with a scream he scrambled back into the corner. “You—you’re not the young prince, you’re a vengeful spirit, you’re that vengeful spirit!”

He was overcome with terror, curling himself into a ball, as if wishing he could bore a hole in the corner wall and hide inside it.

Cheng Chang crouched down in front of him and tried to explain. “I… am indeed not the young prince.”

“Perhaps I really am the vengeful spirit you speak of. But I won’t hurt you.”

“Every debt has its debtor! I’ve never wronged you — you have no reason to harm me!” the priest said urgently, working up the courage to glance at Cheng Chang. “Go find whoever wronged you — why come to me?”

“I have some questions in my heart, and I don’t know who else to ask, so I’ve come to ask you.”

The priest glanced at him again. “You—what do you want to know?”

“You’ve already seen the lividity marks on my body. Besides these marks, I’ve felt cold lately, my body won’t obey me, and sometimes I can’t even catch my breath.”

“I want to know…” Cheng Chang said, with great difficulty, “am I dying?”

“Heaven and earth have their Way, cause and consequence their order — you were never truly alive to begin with, so without birth, how could there be death? Even if some strange affinity has let you ‘survive’ in this world for a time, nothing in this world lasts forever. When the day comes, what must perish will perish.”

Cheng Chang said, “A friend of mine from the other world also spoke to me of the Way of Heaven. He also said that once cause and consequence close, once the obsession dissolves, within three dusks something will happen to me. Do you know what that might be?”

Hearing this, the priest was faintly startled.

His own tradition wasn’t quite Buddhist, nor quite Daoist — much like most ordinary people, they simply believed that all things followed fixed laws, which was to say, whatever cause you planted, that fruit you reaped: diligence brought reward, effort brought gain, and evil deeds would inevitably bring retribution.

Perhaps because their beliefs followed no proper system, his tradition had dwindled over the centuries. He hadn’t expected that this “vengeful spirit” before him would seem to know so much like a fellow traveler of the same path.

“What is called the Way of Heaven is simply this: Heaven’s Way is constant, it does not exist for the sake of a sage-king, nor vanish for the sake of a tyrant.”

“Good and evil in this world have their causes, and cause brings consequence. A vengeful spirit is born of a single obsessive thought — if your cause and consequence have closed, and your obsession has dissolved, then you have no more reason to exist in this world.”

As he spoke, the priest realized that reciting scripture in this mystical manner wouldn’t satisfy Cheng Chang. After thinking it over carefully, he added, “As for what will happen to you within these three dusks, I can’t say either. But at dusk, yin and yang cut across one another, all manner of spirits and demons show their true forms, and anything can happen. Didn’t you say… you know someone versed in the Way of Heaven in that other world? Let me teach you a method.”

He glanced at the light coming through the high window of the cell.

It was nearly the end of the Si hour — noon was approaching.

“When it’s exactly noon, find an object of the deepest yin, pour water over it, and call that person’s name toward the water. Perhaps you’ll be able to reach him.”

Cheng Chang was taken aback — what sort of mystical nonsense was this?

The priest spoke as though it were the most serious matter in the world. “Noon, when the sun is at its height, is when yang energy is at its most abundant. An object of deepest yin would be something ancient, or something stained with blood, or kept near a place of death. Pour water over such an object, place it beneath the blazing noon sun — when the deepest yin meets the height of yang, this method mimics the principle of yin and yang cutting across each other at dusk. And water connects all things — perhaps… perhaps it can help you open a path to the underworld.”

This priest was even less skilled than the old monk from the twenty-first century — he had no idea where Cheng Chang’s “other world” actually was, and simply assumed that since Cheng Chang was a “vengeful spirit,” his world must be the underworld.

Cheng Chang didn’t bother explaining further. He thanked the priest and hurried out of the Censorate.

In the courtyard of the Ministry of Justice stood an old well, said to date back to the previous dynasty. Because it was close to the prison and had seen bloodshed, it had gradually fallen out of use and been abandoned.

Cheng Chang arrived at the Ministry of Justice, had everyone in the courtyard sent away, and slowly approached the well.

It was exactly noon. A patch of dark cloud drifted across the sky, and a cool breeze swept the ground. Cheng Chang leaned over and looked down into the well. The water’s surface rippled, reflecting his own marked face.

Cheng Chang was silent for a moment, then tried calling out, “Teacher… He?”

No answer came.

He called again, “He Yuenan?”

He waited a good while. All around was silent — still no answer.

Cheng Chang fell silent for a long time, thinking himself truly out of his mind to have believed the words of some charlatan. Perhaps the marks on his body were simply some illness that couldn’t yet be diagnosed.

Rather than waste more time dealing with a fraud, he’d be better off going to see A’Ting sooner.

With that thought, he left the old well and walked out of the government office.

Just then, the dark cloud that had briefly covered the blazing sun dispersed, and the noon light poured down once more, falling upon the rippling water of the old well.

“Cheng Chang.”

Just as Cheng Chang reached the terrace before the front palace, he suddenly heard someone call his name.

He stopped in his tracks and looked around — there was no one there. It was He Yuenan’s voice.

“Cheng Chang?” He Yuenan called again.

Cheng Chang opened his mouth and answered hesitantly, “I’m… here.”

But He Yuenan seemed unable to hear him — only able to sense his presence. He spoke quickly, urgently, “Cheng Chang, listen to me. Go find a coffin.”

A coffin?

“Every time before, when you’ve crossed between your two life-tracks, hasn’t it always been at dusk? Before dusk arrives, go find yourself a coffin.”

Seeming to sense that Cheng Chang was reluctant to return, he softened his tone, patiently explaining, “Do you remember, the last time you came back, I told you that for a case like yours — ‘one life, two tracks’ — my school’s rare text records only three such cases. Of those, two people, once they returned the second time, never left again. But the third, after returning the second time, went back to the other world once more, and never came back after that.”

“During the time you were unconscious, following the clues in that rare text, I went to search out the third person’s hometown — and discovered that he had, in fact, come back eventually.”

“But—” He Yuenan paused, seeming to struggle with the words, “the moment he came back, he had gone mad. That’s why it was never recorded in the text.”

Cheng Chang froze.

Gone mad?

“I finally understand it now. What’s called ‘a virtuous soul across three lifetimes, one life on two tracks’ — the ‘two tracks’ may be Heaven’s compensation to a virtuous person, but one life has only one body. Even if that body looks exactly like you, down to every feature and form, it isn’t yours. It belongs to the deceased. It’s a corpse. The reason you’ve been drawn to the other side through this ‘dual track’ is because there is some unfulfilled obsession left by the deceased, and many strands of cause and consequence bound up with that obsession have gone askew and cannot close.”

“Once that cause and consequence closes, the obsession sustaining that corpse will dissolve, and you should return to the world that truly belongs to you.”

“Cause and consequence closing… obsession dissolving?” Cheng Chang murmured.

He thought he understood what He Yuenan meant.

No wonder — ever since he’d driven Chai Ping to his death, discomfort had begun appearing in his body.

Repaying Tian Ze for saving his life had been the young prince’s final obsession before his death.

And bound up with that obsession were Prince Ling’s treason and collusion with the enemy, Yun Shuguang’s death in battle along with the souls of thirty thousand soldiers, and decades of misaligned cause and consequence dating back over twenty years to Mingyin Temple, along with good and evil deeds that had never received their due retribution.

Step by step he had walked to this day — driving Chai Ping to his death, revealing the truth to Fang Fulan, using a scheme to force Tian Ze back to the palace, watching Prince Ling fall to his death with no path left to him, and finally, calling on the Yiwei Guard to rescue him from the palace and hand the throne fully over to its rightful ruler. Every step, though taken for his own sake, had also been closing one misaligned cause and consequence after another, ensuring good was rewarded with good, and that those who had done evil were sent down to the underworld.

Perhaps this was what was called karmic affinity.

In the course of his relentless struggle, each time a cause and consequence was fulfilled, his reason for existing in this world diminished by that much, and the obsession sustaining this body was reduced by that much.

And when the last thread of obsession finally dispersed, the lividity marks had suddenly appeared on his body.

“If I’m not mistaken, when you were first over there, you must have been someone of few desires and little attachment. That was Heaven’s way of protecting you — to keep you from becoming too entangled with that other world, unable to free yourself once you returned. So it diminished your feelings, faded your desires, until you reached a state beyond emotion, a mirror free of dust, indifferent to anything that didn’t concern you directly.”

“Just like the other two people recorded in the text — after they returned the second time, they adjusted over some time and quickly settled back into their original lives.”

Beyond emotion, a mirror free of dust?

But what makes a person human is precisely having feeling and love, hatred and desire — that is the root inborn in every mortal. How could it be so easily erased?

“Your case should be the same as the third person’s. I don’t know exactly what you experienced over there that let you take root, develop feelings, or form an obsession, but you don’t belong there. That body isn’t yours — no matter how hard you try to hold on, you can’t stay.”

“Cheng Chang, the cause and consequence has already closed. From the day the obsession dissolved, you have only three dusks left. Do you know why that last person went mad?”

“Because in the end…” He Yuenan let out a breath, then said, word by word, “he watched with his own eyes as his own body turned to ash and scattered into nothing.”

“The body you’re attached to isn’t yours. It’s a corpse that’s been dead a long time. Nothing in this world lasts forever — you can’t defy the fixed order of all things. Think about what this body has been through. In the end… it will return to what it truly is.”

In the more than two years since the young prince had fallen into the water, what exactly had this body been through?

The fall from the cliff. The fire. And at Mingyin Temple, the chaos of blades that should have struck him but never had.

No wonder it was said the body would turn to ash and scatter to nothing.

He Yuenan seemed to sense no response from Cheng Chang’s side, and suddenly asked, “Cheng Chang, over there… which dusk should it be by now?”

If the day the lividity marks first appeared counted as the first dusk, then today would already be the third.

He Yuenan said urgently, “No matter which one it is, Cheng Chang, listen to me — go find an old coffin right away, and lie down in it. The yin energy of the old coffin will keep you in a deep sleep, and the light of dusk will carry you safely back to the twenty-first century. That way you won’t have to suffer, won’t have to endure being turned to ash!”

The shadows lengthened further; noon was about to pass.

Cheng Chang stood on the palace terrace, gazing at the carriage waiting outside the small side gate. That morning, when he’d entered the palace, he’d had the driver wait there — he’d originally planned to go to the Xishan Barracks.

Cheng Chang asked, his voice bitter, “Then can I… still come back?”

But He Yuenan didn’t answer him — he simply couldn’t hear his voice at all anymore.

Cheng Chang didn’t need an answer, either. From everything He Yuenan had said, he already knew what it would be.

The body was already close to turning to ash — even if he wanted to come back, how could he?

He didn’t belong here.

The moment this thought arose, he no longer hesitated. He strode toward the palace gate in a few quick steps and instructed the driver waiting by the side gate, “Unhitch one of the fast horses for me, quickly!”

Seeming to sense that Cheng Chang hadn’t gone to find an old coffin, He Yuenan said urgently, “Cheng Chang, what are you doing?”

“You’re not going to find an old coffin?”

“Don’t be so stubborn about this. A lifetime of love and hate — there’s nothing in it worth losing yourself over! If you end up going mad like that, you—”

The sunlight scattered, the wind rose again all around, noon passed, and in an instant He Yuenan’s voice vanished between heaven and earth.

The driver unhitched a horse. Cheng Chang swiftly mounted it and, whipping it into a gallop, raced toward the Xishan Barracks.

It was now the Wei hour.

Only a little over two hours remained until dusk.

The fastest route from the Sui Palace to the Xishan Barracks would still take three or four hours. Fortunately, he had already sent someone ahead to find A’Ting and have her come toward the Sui Palace along the official road.

The third dusk was approaching. He might have to leave.

But he still wanted to see her, just once more.

He missed her.

All this time, he had missed her so much — he’d even thought he might get to marry her.

The sunlight shifted and stretched. Once outside the city, his galloping horse stirred up a fierce wind that tore at his robes.

The land beyond the city grew ever more desolate the further he rode; the earlier bustle faded away, and fewer and fewer travelers appeared, as if he were a lone traveler on the road who had once witnessed fireworks bursting brilliantly overhead, only to watch them fade to nothing in the end.

So this was how cruel Heaven’s Way could be, how unchangeable — in the end, someone destined to be alone would remain alone.

But still, it hadn’t been so bad. This journey twisted across time, hard and bitter as it had been — at least he had met her, met his father and mother, felt a depth of affection in this life that he had never once known in the other world.

Because of that, even if he went back, his life would no longer be flat and colorless as before.

So — he wouldn’t bother looking for any old coffin after all.

What did it matter if he turned to ash and scattered away?

If he couldn’t see her one more time, he would regret it for the rest of whatever life he had left.

A touch of rosy color emerged from among the clouds. As Cheng Chang rode on, his whole body suddenly began to grow cold, until even his very flesh began to prickle with pain, like needles pricking his skin.

The rosy light broke through the clouds — the third dusk had arrived. Not far ahead, amid a stretch of desolate grassland, a figure in red stood by the water’s edge, leading a horse to graze.

Cheng Chang paused, reined in his horse, and walked toward that figure.

A faint smile touched the corners of Yun Xi’s mouth and eyes. She’d heard that the Third Young Master wanted to see her, and had been overjoyed — the moment she got word, she’d rushed toward the Sui Palace. Ever since her brother had sent her off to the Xishan Barracks, she hadn’t been able to see him for days.

But she’d ridden too hastily, and the horse she’d taken had tired out, unable to run any further, so she’d had no choice but to let it rest a while.

Hearing the sound of a horse’s neigh, Yun Xi turned to look, and upon seeing that figure as cool and clear as frost, broke into a radiant smile. She hurried forward a few steps and said brightly, “Third Young Master, you wanted to see me? I was just about to head back to the palace today—”

But she stopped halfway through her sentence.

In the light of the setting sun, she saw clearly the look in Cheng Chang’s eyes.

Those gentle eyes held a heavy sorrow and a look of reluctance, as if coated in a thin layer of frost.

There was a cool, watery light in the depths of his eyes.

“I might… have to leave,” Cheng Chang said.

“I just wanted to come see you.”

“Seeing you is enough.”

The chill in his body deepened, a pain that seemed to reach to his very bones — not something invading from outside, but spreading outward from his heart, slowly extending through his slowing bloodflow to every limb and joint.

Only then did Yun Xi realize that the cold, pale aura surrounding Cheng Chang wasn’t some illusion caused by the glow of dusk — the marks on his cheek had truly formed a layer of frost.

Even in the chill of the second month’s Flower Festival, it had never been this cold — but of course, a drowned body should carry frost.

A sense of foreboding rose in Yun Xi’s heart, and she grew flustered. “Leave? Where to?”

But before Cheng Chang could answer, she quickly pushed the panic back down. She told herself, no, that couldn’t be right — she must have misunderstood. Everything was still fine, wasn’t it? The Third Young Master had just proposed to her, and her brother, along with Prince Cong and his consort, had all approved the match. Once the date was set, she was even planning to go burn incense before her father’s memorial and tell him the news herself.

Yun Xi composed herself. “Does the Third Young Master have official duties to attend to? Are you setting out somewhere?”

“It’s nothing.” She smiled. “I’ll wait for you to come back. If — if you have to go far, and the duties take a long time, I don’t mind waiting longer. We can push the wedding date back.”

Cheng Chang looked at Yun Xi, the reluctance in his eyes deepening.

“It’s not official duties,” he said. “I think… I have to return to my original world.”

“Your original world.” Yun Xi paused, repeating the words.

“Yes. The place I came from. My… hometown.”

“The Third Young Master’s… hometown?” Yun Xi repeated again.

She stared at him blankly, her expression shifting slowly from excitement to confusion, and then to helplessness.

Cheng Chang knew that her repeating his words over and over was because she didn’t know how to accept this truth — she wanted to be sad, but didn’t dare let herself be.

“Then, Third Young Master… when will you come back?” Yun Xi asked.

Cheng Chang didn’t know how to answer. The pain throughout his body was secondary — it was the bitterness in his heart that truly seized his breath.

He forced a smile and stepped forward, wanting to pull her into his arms. Just at that moment, the setting sun broke fully free of the clouds, the glow at its most intense, and the light pouring down over the world turned into a strange, dark gold where yin and yang met, casting the heavens and earth in shifting, unnatural colors.

Dusk had arrived, when demons descended, when yin and yang connected, when spirits and monsters walked freely — all manner of strange things happened in this hour.

Light clung to Cheng Chang’s body, in threads like a slow, cutting torment.

Cheng Chang let out a muffled groan and collapsed to the ground.

This time, there was no pain in his chest, no suffocation in his lungs — his breath still came, but he felt cold, a clear, lucid cold.

This cold was like flakes of frost falling one after another, and together with the sudden light of dusk, it cut through his flesh and bone inch by inch, as if to reduce him to ash, to fine dust, and erase him from this world forever.

Seeing Cheng Chang like this, Yun Xi fumbled to help him up, asking urgently, “Third Young Master, what’s wrong? I—”

She’d meant to say she would take him back to the palace and send for the imperial physician.

But she stopped halfway again.

Because she saw that the brilliant glow of dusk had already wrapped itself around Cheng Chang.

With every passing moment, the light seemed to carry away a wisp of ash, like golden butterflies drifting off one by one, and within that shimmering glow, Cheng Chang’s form was gradually growing thin, growing transparent.

Cheng Chang forced his eyes open and looked at Yun Xi.

He managed a weak smile. “I’m sorry, to let you see me like this.”

“But I’m leaving, and I… I wanted so badly to see you.”

Yun Xi asked again, at a loss, “Third Young Master is leaving, but when will Third Young Master come back?”

But before Cheng Chang could answer, she quickly raised her sleeve to wipe away the tears already brimming in her eyes, forcing out a smile. “It’s all right. No matter when you come back, I’ll wait for you.”

“Third Young Master, does it hurt?” Yun Xi asked. She remembered he’d once said that every time he returned to his hometown, he suffered as though falling into hell. “If it hurts a lot, just close your eyes and rest a while. I’ll be right here… I’ll stay right here with you.”

“You don’t need to rush back, either.” Yun Xi raised her hand again to wipe her tear-filled eyes, not letting them spill over, and said, her voice choked, “In any case, once you’re gone, I’ll go on waiting for you just as before, searching for you — I’d be willing to search my whole life.”

“A’Ting.” Cheng Chang called her name, his voice bitter.

“I don’t know… how to put this. I think I’ve always been the sort to keep things buried in my heart, not one to speak often of feelings, not used to saying love. But I… I really do like you very much. These past two years, with you by my side, your devotion, everything you’ve given me — I’ve always understood it, and I’ve kept every bit of it in my heart. I wanted you to know that what I feel for you is no less than what you feel for me. I always thought… I always thought I’d have a whole lifetime to prove that I love you just as deeply, but I never expected…”

“You don’t need to… look for me anymore.”

“From now on, live your life well. Without me holding you back, go on and be a magnificent, formidable general — that, too, would be good, really.”

As Cheng Chang spoke, blood began trickling from the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Perhaps that was simply the kind of person he was — even as his form scattered away, even stained with blood, he remained gentle and pure.

Yun Xi didn’t understand what Cheng Chang meant by “don’t look for me anymore.” Did he mean he would never come back?

Her heart felt as though it had been crushed beneath an enormous weight, a dull, twisting pain like a knife.

She was so overcome with grief she could barely breathe, but she still wouldn’t let herself cry, wiping at her eyes again and again until her cheeks were smeared with dark, blotchy stains.

She said, “It’s all right, Third Young Master. If you can come back, I’ll wait for you, I’ll go looking for you. If you can’t come back, I’ll remember you and think of you for the rest of my life.”

“With—without you here, I’ll… I’ll manage too. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Over the years, she had grown used to enduring in silence, used to putting others first — especially him, the one person she’d held in her heart her whole life.

She knew he was already in great pain, and so she forced herself to hold on, refusing to break down in front of him, so that he could carry a little less worry, and perhaps find some peace in the days ahead.

Cheng Chang looked at Yun Xi. “Your brother told me that back on the grasslands, you used to be a willful, spoiled little girl.”

“Well, of course — the eldest daughter of the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor’s household was bound to be a bit willful and spoiled.”

“I’d thought that once I married you, I’d spend a whole lifetime smoothing over all the hardship you’ve endured these years, so you’d never have to endure in silence again…”

Cheng Chang forced the corners of his mouth into a faint, small smile. “If you’re sad, then cry. Cry it out, and then keep moving forward. You say you’ll think of me for the rest of your life — I’ll do the same. But remember, a person’s life is actually very long.”

“I’m not sad,” Yun Xi said, her voice choked. “I just—”

Yun Xi wiped at her damp eyes again, and suddenly noticed that Cheng Chang himself was crying.

A single clear tear slid down from the corner of his eye. As it reached his cheek, it was suddenly enveloped by the dusk light scattered around him, and vanished with a soft burst.

She realized all at once — he too was about to disappear. Just like that tear, he would vanish the same way.

Turned to ash and scattered to nothing.

Yun Xi could hold on no longer. Her tears came pouring out like a breached dam.

All the resilience and calm she’d been forcing herself to maintain crumbled in an instant, and she began to sob like a little girl.

“You tell me to keep moving forward — how am I supposed to move forward? I’ve never liked anyone this much before. You’re the first person I’ve ever loved in this life, and surely the last too. I wanted to be good to you for a lifetime, wanted to spend my whole life waiting for you to be good to me. So many of my hopes, so many of my dreams have you in them — all of them can only come true with you by my side. If you leave, what am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do from now on?!”

“Please don’t go, won’t you? Stay here with me, won’t you? Or tell me where you’re going — I’m willing to follow you there.”

“Third Young Master, tell me where you’re going. How long will you be gone? Even a lie would be better than nothing. I don’t want to lose you. I’ve searched for you so many times, and every single time, it broke my heart, it hurt so much — I don’t want to lose you again, I can’t lose you again—”

Cheng Chang looked at Yun Xi, his girl, crying so openly and unguardedly before him for the first time.

His heart ached with tenderness and sorrow all at once.

But now, all he could do was tell her a lie, to comfort her, to soothe her.

He smiled faintly and raised a hand that had grown half-transparent, wanting to wipe away the tears and grime on her face. “All right. I promise you — I’m only leaving for a little while. If it’s at all possible, I will come back.”

His fingertips brushed against Yun Xi’s cheek, and a burning-hot tear slid down from her face.

At that very moment, the evening glow gathered in the clouds above and poured down over the earth.

The teardrop fell into Cheng Chang’s palm, as if it carried within it all of her love, all of her devotion.

The dusk light enveloping him suddenly blazed up in full force. A blinding, pale light stole away the last of Cheng Chang’s sight, and his body scattered into ash in an instant, and in that moment the world went dark all around.