Chapter 92: “I Will Not… Let You Die So Easily”

A sharp pain shot through Lin Shijin’s wrist. It seized his attention at once. Instead of replying, he stared at the red thread wound about it.

The thread tightened just enough to hurt, yet left no mark upon his skin. The pain seemed to come from deep within the marrow of his bones.

He sucked in a breath. His fingertips paled. The faintly intimate atmosphere shattered.

Sheng Rufei’s brows drew together. “What is it?”

“Xiao Jin?”

Lin Shijin’s lips parted. “My wrist… it hurts.”

The moment the words left him, Sheng Rufei caught his wrist and examined it carefully. There was nothing. No bruise, no swelling.

“What sort of pain?”

Lin Shijin could not answer. The ache had already vanished. The red thread remained taut around his wrist, wound tightly, as though in warning.

He glanced at Sheng Rufei’s wrist. The red thread there lay slack and undisturbed. The thread connecting them was drawn tight only on his side.

It did not move again.

The interruption left his mood in tatters. The lingering sensation at the base of his spine seemed still to cling there, sending a chill along his back. A strange panic rose within him.

As though he had committed some unforgivable wrong without realising it… and had already been found out.

He brushed his fingers over his wrist. He could not truly touch the thread, only gesture vaguely where it lay. His thoughts were in disarray. He shook his head.

“It doesn’t hurt now. Perhaps… the earlier wound hasn’t quite healed.”

Sheng Rufei said nothing, only resumed rubbing his wrist gently, patiently. The touch made him shiver.

Not from desire, but from unease.

The red thread did not stir again. Had it truly moved before? Or had it been his imagination?

Yet he could not dismiss the thought.

Just now, he had seemed able to sense something through the thread… the other’s emotions. A mood plunged to its very depths.

Sheng Rufei appeared unaware of any of it.

The candle on the table flickered. Lin Shijin met Sheng Rufei’s eyes and found in them a trace of expectation… and encouragement.

He opened his mouth.

The word yes would not come.

He had always been timid. The moment he sensed danger, he withdrew into his shell. And once withdrawn, he would not emerge quickly.

Sheng Rufei watched him for a long time. The red thread twitched once more. A dull ache rose inexplicably in Lin Shijin’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

He drew in several shallow breaths, avoiding Sheng Rufei’s gaze.

“Shixiong… let’s rest early.”

“We must rise early tomorrow.”

Sheng Rufei’s gaze lingered upon him. In the end, he said nothing.

They lay beneath the same quilt. The candle burned on the table all night.

Lin Shijin did not sleep.

The ache in his chest persisted… hollow, dry, that could not be filled. Whenever Sheng Rufei’s fingers brushed his waist, it intensified sharply.

At first he endured it. Later he could not. He edged gradually farther away. The pain eased with distance.

Originally Sheng Rufei had held him; by dawn Lin Shijin had nearly rolled to the edge. There was only a thin mattress laid on the floor. At worst he might have ended up sleeping on the ground.

The pattern repeated over the following days. The pain grew less severe, yet it lingered. He no longer dared draw close. Even proximity brought a faint ache.

Neither of them mentioned that night again.

…

Each day he waited as before, watching Sheng Rufei work. At noon there was no time to buy buns; in the evenings Sheng Rufei would take him to purchase whatever he fancied.

When wages were good, there would be mung bean cakes… sweet and soft, melting upon the tongue. They had saved enough silver. In two more days, they would leave.

Lin Shijin held the warm mung bean cakes and instinctively reached to offer two to Sheng Rufei, then withdrew his hand.

Never mind. He would eat them himself.

He looked up and saw Sheng Rufei watching something across the street.

There were far more guards in the city today. Refugees had entered in great numbers. With nowhere to settle them, unrest was feared; patrols had multiplied severalfold.

The refugees were easily recognised with their ragged clothes, sallow faces, hollow eyes. Their withered expressions reminded him of the first time he had seen this city from afar, through the haze from the carriage window. Even then it had seemed desolate.

Sheng Rufei touched his wrist lightly. Lin Shijin withdrew his gaze and followed him back.

He was still wondering whether all this was arranged by the illusion array when something struck him from behind. Metal clashed nearby. Halberds collided.

The refugees had begun to riot.

He stumbled. He himself was unharmed, but the mung bean cakes fell. Fortunately they were wrapped in oiled paper. He bent to retrieve them…

A dark, grimy hand shot out, knocked aside his own, and seized the bundle.

He looked up into a child’s face. It was dark, thin, tinged red with sun and hunger. The child’s eyes were lifeless. In a blink he vanished into the crowd.

“Filthy rabble have gone mad—”

A blackened handprint marked Lin Shijin’s skin. Sheng Rufei grasped his wrist and swiftly led him away.

Once distant from the chaos, Sheng Rufei asked quietly, “Shall we buy more?”

“No need.” Lin Shijin wiped the smudge from his wrist. “Perhaps I was not fated to eat sweets today.”

He hesitated. “Shixiong… is this what the illusion array wishes us to see?”

Sheng Rufei glanced at the dark mass of people beneath a sky dyed half crimson by the setting sun. The scene felt barren, desolate.

“Perhaps,” he said at last, brushing Lin Shijin’s hair lightly. “Let us return first.”

…

That night there was further commotion nearby. Lin Shijin thought he heard screams, but since Sheng Rufei forbade him to look, he suppressed his curiosity.

The next day he learned the truth.

One of the labourers had contracted a strange illness. It flared overnight. By morning he had dissolved into a pool of black water.

From a distance Lin Shijin watched the gathered crowd. An unfamiliar panic spread among them. Though it was midday, he felt cold and edged closer to Sheng Rufei.

Soon the labourers dispersed and returned to work. Lin Shijin remained beneath the eaves.

At first he felt nothing unusual. Then a chill spread through him. His limbs weakened.

The blazing sun covered the city, yet he felt untouched by its warmth. Sheng Rufei’s figure blurred before his eyes.

“Shi—xiong—”

The word stuck in his throat.

He tried again, but no sound emerged. His strength drained away entirely. At last, with the very last of it, he forced out a single hoarse cry:

“Shixiong!”

Before darkness claimed him, he saw Sheng Rufei pause in the distance. Then he turned around slowly. There was something unreadable in his eyes.

He fainted.

…

When he awoke, he was no longer in their lodging. The room was unfamiliar, somewhat old, yet scrupulously clean.

His head swam. His gaze fell upon a hand resting by the bed. He looked up.

Sheng Rufei.

Those bright, familiar features bent over him. A fingertip brushed his forehead.

“Do you feel unwell anywhere?”

“Everywhere…” His throat was dry. Every inch of him ached… skin as though torn, veins ready to burst, marrow itching unbearably, as if something were forcing its way out.

“Shixiong… what is happening to me?”

Each word cost him effort. Even breathing hurt.

“You did not sleep well and caught a chill,” Sheng Rufei said quietly, touching his cheek. After watching him for a moment, he rose. “If your throat hurts, do not speak. Wait here.”

Lin Shijin blinked sluggishly. His face burned beneath his own fingers. Could one even fall ill within an illusion?

He could scarcely move his hand. Sheng Rufei soon returned with a bowl of dark medicinal broth.

“What is it?”

“Medicine.”

The bitter herbal scent reached him. Instinctively he turned away.

“You will feel better once you drink it.”

He did not feel like a mere cold. Why would his entire body ache so? He stared at the bowl.

“Shixiong… you are not deceiving me? It does not feel like a chill. Is this… the array?”

“I am not lying to you.” The spoon hovered at his lips. Sheng Rufei’s voice lowered. “If you refuse, must I feed you myself?”

The implication was unmistakable.

Another pang tore through his chest. This time the pain was everywhere. He wanted to protest, to tell Sheng Rufei it hurt. Yet did not dare.

He drank obediently, sip by sip. The pain did not abate.

“Where are we?” he asked faintly.

“Still within the city.”

“You left the day labour?”

A quiet hum in answer. Sheng Rufei looked down at him.

If Lin Shijin could have seen himself in a mirror, he would have recoiled in horror. Beneath his skin, within his veins, what surged was no longer simple flesh and blood, but dense black incantations. Runes flickered and spread, as though intent on devouring him whole.

“Xiao Jin, do not be afraid.” Sheng Rufei’s fingertip brushed his eyelids. His voice dropped softer still. “I am here. I will stay with you.”

The last words fell almost into silence.

“I will not… let you die so easily.”