It seemed as though Han Nu’s only intent was to cause her pain, to make her suffer. She had manipulated the battle spirits and Tang Hua, turning the situation into a bloodbath—not for Tai He’s sake at all.
Tan Yin suddenly felt a twinge of fear. She didn’t want to go back. She didn’t want to see Yuan Zhong’s face. She couldn’t explain why she felt guilty, why she felt ashamed. Memories of him secretly making automata in his room flashed in her mind, along with his playful questions about whether she liked him and the quiet moments they had spent together.
Had she made another mistake?
Perhaps borrowing a mortal body and making her presence so obvious had been a mistake from the start. If she had simply descended in spirit form to silently protect him for his entire life, all the pain—physical and emotional—he had suffered wouldn’t have occurred.
The small room was in complete disarray, blood splattered everywhere. Yuan Xiaozhong had been torn apart by the battle spirits’ whips, his pieces lying in a heap, his eyes still blinking comically, but he could no longer speak.
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The earlier clamor had settled down, and now it was quiet, very quiet. Yuan Zhong did not move. He reached out, holding her body, gently wiping the blood from her face with his sleeve—slowly, meticulously, as if completely unaware of the upheaval that had occurred in that brief moment within the cave.
When he finally wiped the blood clean from her face, he slowly parted her blood-soaked hair, revealing a pale yet peaceful expression. Then, he cautiously placed his hand near her nose, and upon realizing there was no breath, he did not give up. He pressed his head against her shattered chest—no heartbeat.
He remained still for a long, long time, before raising his head in utter bewilderment, his eyes reflecting the lost look of a child. He glanced around, muttering softly, “Tan Yin?”
Her body was here, in front of him, yet her soul had vanished.
Yuan Zhong's eyes gradually regained clarity. He looked around in shock: the battle ghosts were gone, the fainted Wanqiu Lanxuan was gone, Tang Hua on the other side of the lake was also gone. Yet, the crack in the gate to the living realm still remained in the distant green mountains, and the old turtle poked its snowy-white head out of the lake, sighing as if having narrowly escaped death.
Aside from the mess on the ground, everything in the cave was as it had been before. All that didn’t belong was gone. But Tan Yin was gone too, leaving behind only her mangled corpse, just like last time in the imperial tomb—she left him only a lifeless body, not a single word more.
Yuan Zhong suddenly stood up, rushing out the door, shouting her name: “Ji Tan Yin?!”
There was no response. As if realizing something, he hurried back to the small pavilion, lifting the mangled corpse and softly calling, “Tan Yin?”
Still, there was no answer.
He fell silent.
Suddenly, a gentle breeze swept through, scattering the incense ashes from the burner across his chest, where bloodstains mingled with the ashes. Yuan Zhong looked down, dazedly staring at the chaotic mixture of blood and ash on his chest. Soon, more incense ash was mischievously blown by the wind, settling on his back.
Is she here? Or not? Was it her?
Yuan Zhong opened his mouth, as if wanting to laugh, but his face suddenly turned deathly pale. A stream of fresh blood gushed from the corner of his mouth, and he collapsed onto the ground, motionless.
It seemed as if Yuan Zhong had returned to the platform of Guixuan three cycles of sixty years ago, back to his youth, when he still harbored sincere faith in the gods, awaiting their arrival.
On the high platform, everyone knelt, except him. He stood there, staring in a trance at the goddess who appeared.
He felt a wave of confusion, then a wave of clarity. The goddess, with her white robes and black hair, cold and luminous like the moon, gradually turned into another person in his vision—a face of deathly whiteness, with lips as red as blood, often showing an idiotic expression, sometimes elegant, sometimes silly.
He stared blankly as the goddess transformed into the image of an ordinary mortal woman, with a Qiankun bag hanging from her waist, walking towards him step by step, extending her hand to him.
Yuan Zhong instinctively reached out his hand. His palm, slender and long, still a child’s hand, finally met hers. She smiled gently at him, clasping his thin hand in her palm.
“Do you… blame me?” she asked softly.
Suddenly, it felt as if boiling water had poured over his heart. In an instant, countless scenes flashed before his eyes. The platform of Guixuan shattered like a glazed painting. He moved his hand and, in return, tightly clasped her soft yet slightly rough palm in his own.
“Blame you for what?” Yuan Zhong smiled faintly. “Blame you for coming for my left hand?”
Silly girl, did you like me? Had he ever asked such a foolish question? How many times had she secretly mocked his nervousness and unease? How many times had she scorned his cautious probing and misguided cleverness?
He raised his head, his young eyes fixed on her cold, clear eyes, his voice very soft: “If you want my left hand, I’ll cut it off for you immediately.”
She shook her head, “You’re not allowed to do that.”
The boy's eyes grew fervent: “Then say you like me.”
Let her laugh at him, let him continue being foolish. The hourglass of his life had stopped because of her, and started flowing again because of her. He was willing to give her everything.
She said nothing.
The boy's eyes gradually burned with passion: “I know you like me, you just don’t want to say it.”
He would never forget her body, mangled beyond recognition, with bones crumbled into powder, yet still holding him tightly with unbroken hands. If that wasn’t love, what did his three cycles of sixty years mean?
“Stay, don’t go. You said you’d stay with me for a lifetime.” He tightly gripped her hand, wishing he could absorb her into his very being. “Don’t go.”
She seemed to smile, her lips moving to say something, but he could no longer hear it. The hazy dream faded like a whirlpool, and Yuan Zhong abruptly opened his eyes. He was still lying in the disordered small living room, the door slightly ajar, snow and rain falling outside—it was already late at night.
He slowly sat up, dazedly realizing that all the wounds on his body had healed completely. His whole body felt refreshed, even more so than before.
Yuan Xiaozhong's shattered body still lay in the small living room, with bloodstains all around, but her mangled corpse had vanished.
“Tan Yin?” he called softly. No one responded—only the cold wind, carrying tiny snowflakes, slipped into the small living room.
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