Lin Shijin flinched. Even knowing Sheng Rufei had not meant it, he still felt a trace of fear. That light sound shattered the fragile calm between them.
“Come here,” Sheng Rufei said.
His lips were drawn tight, his expression faintly wilted. Lin Shijin went obediently to his side, hands tucked into his sleeves, nervous. Yet he had already made up his mind: this time, even if Sheng Rufei struck him or scolded him, he would accept it.
He truly had been in the wrong. Sold off and still helping the buyer count the coins… and in the process making Sheng Rufei unhappy.
“Shixiong, I was wrong.”
He stole a glance at the youth radiating icy restraint beside him and reached out, lightly tugging at a fold of Sheng Rufei’s sleeve. His voice was low. In truth, he had a thousand things he wished to say.
His fingertips brushed Sheng Rufei’s wrist.
Warm.
Warm, and carrying the faint scent of fallen plum blossoms. It was familiar, steady. That impassive wooden face; even his anger was restrained. This was the real Sheng Rufei.
“You may punish me however you like. Beat me, scold me. I won’t resist,” Lin Shijin muttered gloomily, already imagining the unlikely possibility of being struck.
His shixiong usually doted on him so much. Surely he would not truly raise a hand.
Sheng Rufei’s gaze settled on him. His voice was cool.
“What was your fault?”
“I failed to recognise that wasn’t you,” Lin Shijin said more quietly. “I was intimate with someone who wasn’t you. I brought mung-bean soup to someone who wasn’t you. I confessed my feelings to someone who wasn’t you…”
With each word, the air around Sheng Rufei seemed to grow colder. Sensing he was nearing the edge of something dangerous, Lin Shijin fell silent.
“What you did was indeed angering,” Sheng Rufei said at last, closing his eyes briefly. His face was pale; a dull ache pressed against his chest. He suppressed whatever surged within him and only after a long pause continued, “But it was not entirely your fault.”
“I can never protect you.”
His lashes lowered slightly. His tone was almost casual, merely stating fact.
“Those who set their sights on you are all far stronger than I am.”
The same cold voice. The same measured rationality.
Yet Lin Shijin froze.
For a fleeting moment, he felt as though he could not grasp the person standing before him. He was close enough to touch, yet impossibly distant.
“Shixiong… what do you mean?”
“Why say that?” The tightness in his chest intensified; it felt as though he could not draw breath. He would rather have been scolded, even cursed, than hear such calm analysis, as though he were something detached.
“They have nothing to do with me. I don’t care about them. I only care about you.”
Sheng Rufei listened in silence, fingertips idly tracing the fractured rim of the teacup.
“If you care,” he asked quietly, “why did you fail to recognise him?”
Because his cultivation was too low.
Because he could not see through it at once.
Because by the time he did, everything that could not be undone had already been done.
If Sheng Rufei had not bound him with the soul-bond at that moment… perhaps he would have agreed.
And then there would have been no future between them at all.
Lin Shijin said nothing.
For so long he had never resented his low cultivation. Someone had always shielded him. But now… now that he had given his heart. His weakness became a blade turned back upon the one he loved. He could do nothing.
Only now did he truly understand.
His thoughtless helplessness could wound Sheng Rufei.
If he were in Sheng Rufei’s place, he would be angry too.
His vision blurred. His nose stung. Words crowded his throat but would not emerge. He forced himself not to cry. If he began clinging and sobbing now, Sheng Rufei might only grow tired of him.
He could not bear to be disliked.
Everything he had endured within the illusion array remained locked in his chest. The curse gnawing through his bones, the blindness, the pain. He had yielded only because he believed it was Sheng Rufei. His tenderness, his willingness. All of it rested upon that belief.
If it had been anyone else, he would never have allowed it. But he could not even distinguish true from false. What right had he to explain?
His pale fingers tightened faintly at his sides. After a long while, he forced out:
“I understand.”
He wished to say more. Only those four words emerged.
When no further response came, he turned and left. Sheng Rufei did not stop him.
Lin Shijin returned to the hall where he had once been confined. Alone in the room, the taut string inside him snapped.
Tears fell unchecked.
He curled into a corner, eyes swollen, hugging his knees until he was scarcely more than a small knot of himself. He wished he could turn into stone.
Stone would not ache. A mushroom would do. Or moss.
He noticed a sweep of snow-white robes at the edge of his vision but did not respond. He had no strength left for conversation.
Lin Fuheng had awakened days ago. He knew everything that had occurred within the illusion array and he had deliberately withheld warning.
Now he saw clearly: the blow dealt by the youth’s shixiong had accomplished more than any lecture ever could.
Perhaps staying silent had been correct.
Yet seeing the youth crying as though the sky had fallen, pitiful beyond measure… he could not quite look away.
Imitating the way the youth’s shixiong usually soothed him, Lin Fuheng reached out and tapped lightly at his head.
“Don’t be sad. Your shixiong was not wrong. As he is now, even if he stood beside you, he could not shield you.”
“You draw attention. He cannot outcompete them. What he said was spoken in anger.”
“In a few days the temper will pass. It is not worth grieving over angry words.”
His expression stiffened faintly. This was unfamiliar territory. He watched his own reincarnation weep for another. It felt absurdly like watching one’s child run off with someone else: painful, irrational.
“Your shixiong is hardly perfect,” he continued. “His thoughts run too deep. You two are not well matched. You are not even together, yet you are already this unhappy.”
That was enough.
The youth raised tear-swollen eyes, voice hoarse.
“You are not allowed to speak ill of him.”
Lin Fuheng: “…”
“His cultivation is inferior to Feng Rugao’s. His experience inferior to that snow demon’s. His temperament inferior to that youth surnamed Xue. His reputation inferior even to an illiterate Scourge-Slayer Envoy. Aside from a tolerably handsome face, what does he possess?”
“He is good to me,” Lin Shijin muttered, hiccupping softly. “Do not compare them to Sheng Rufei. They are not worthy.”
Lin Fuheng wisely fell silent.
After a moment he added more gently, “If he ignores you, you need not chase after him. What happened in the illusion was not your fault.”
“If he had realised sooner, you would not have been taken by the snow demon.”
The comfort was clumsy. Lin Shijin knew it. He barely listened.
A knock sounded at the door.
He thought it might be Sheng Rufei and hesitated. He did not wish to be seen like this.
Only when he heard Cui Haoxue call, “Mianmian,” did he rise, disappointment flickering across his face as he opened the door.
“Deputy Envoy. Is something required?” His tone was distant.
Cui Haoxue noticed the swollen eyes immediately. Concern clouded his expression.
“Were you wronged in the illusion? Injured?” He reached toward him; Lin Shijin shifted away.
“I am fine. If there is nothing further, Deputy Envoy, please return.”
Despite the dismissal, Cui Haoxue lingered awkwardly, pressing salve and pastries into his hands before finally leaving.
Lin Shijin tossed them onto the table and retreated once more to his corner.
“Fuheng… am I truly that weak?”
“Ordinary,” Lin Fuheng replied after a pause. “But compared to those who pursue you, yes.”
They were all prodigies among prodigies. Some merely fragments of a singular genius whose talent eclipsed even his own. As for Feng Rugao, he was formidable even in defeat.
The youth had attracted a swarm of relentless flies.
“Oh,” Lin Shijin murmured, drifting into thought.
He had meant to ask Sheng Rufei something. Now he no longer dared.
Exhaustion dragged him to the bed. He had not left his room since returning. Sheng Rufei had not come either.
Sleep overtook him quickly.
Some time later, a figure appeared at his bedside.
Candlelight flickered. Sheng Rufei stood there, gaze lowered, a storm of suppressed emotion hidden beneath cold composure.
His eyes passed over the items left on the table. A shadow fell across his lashes.
After a long moment, he reached out.
He brushed the boy’s lips, lifted his chin, parted his mouth in searched of any trace left by another.
Mouth. Throat. Collarbone. Waist. Legs. Ankles. Toes.
Methodical. Thorough.
At last, one final place.
Only when satisfied did he withdraw his hand.
His dampened fingers traced along the youth’s cheek. He leaned closer, brushing his face against the soft curve of the youth’s profile. His eyes were glacial, they concealed something fierce and possessive beneath the surface.
Then he vanished. The candle guttered out.
In the darkness, a deep, distinct bite mark remained upon the boy’s earlobe.
As though branded there.
