A faint green flame burned at the heart, casting a glow over snow-white robes—beautiful, cruel, unforgettable at first glance. The murmuring voice lingered as the figure before her was slowly carried away by the wind, vanishing without a trace.
Hong Ning jolted awake from her dream, finding her face already soaked with tears.
A faint laughter echoed by her ears—the seductive laughter of a man.
He’s here? A surge of joy filled Hong Ning’s heart. Without sparing time for further thought, she quickly wiped her face with her sleeve, turned over, and got out of bed. Feeling for the item she had long prepared in her bosom, she carefully pushed the door open just a crack and slipped outside.
At some point, the rain had stopped. The lanterns swayed gently, making the courtyard seem even more desolate. The hour of the Rat (midnight) was nearing its end, yet the light in Yang Zhen’s room remained lit. The door was tightly shut, the window half-open. That unfamiliar laughter was coming from within.
Two people were talking. The conversation was lively, yet not a single servant stirred to check—perhaps they were all deep in sleep.
Hong Ning, having orchestrated this trap herself, knew exactly what was happening inside. She could hardly wait to see the results. Using a talisman to conceal her presence, she tiptoed to the window and peered through a narrow gap.
A single candle burned on the candlestick, casting dim light. Two figures sat opposite each other at the table.
One was clad in pure white robes like freshly fallen snow, his lips pressed into a tight line, his face carrying a hint of displeasure—it was Yang Zhen.
The other was a young man in pink robes.
A soft, alluring shade of pink, brimming with an unspoken charm—few men would choose such a color, as it was typically favored by women. Yet, the young man wore it with ease, exuding a natural androgynous beauty. His features were exceptionally delicate: his elegantly arched brows were even more refined than a woman’s, his peach blossom eyes shimmered with teasing warmth, and his fair, rosy complexion was more radiant than the peach blossoms of early spring. His laughter was bewitching, his smile even more so—it was intoxicating, almost enough to make one forget that he was a man.
His slender hands moved gracefully, seemingly boneless, his gestures as fluid and delicate as a woman’s.
A demonic aura clung to him.
So it really is this creature! Hong Ning smiled in the darkness. If not for the dream awakening her just in time, she would have missed this rare opportunity. Was it he who reminded her from beyond?
Her heart suddenly clenched. Hong Ning lifted her gaze toward the pitch-black sky and shook her head.
When body and soul are both destroyed, there should be nothing left—what dreams could there be?
If he were truly still here, he would never have let her take this risk. He would have intervened immediately, lifting those cold, beautiful eyes with deliberate slowness, ordering her to step back before handling everything dangerous himself. He had always been like that since they were children.
But he was gone now.
This was the only thing she could do for him.
Hong Ning lowered her gaze, looking at the small wooden sword in her hand, her expression devoid of emotion.
“I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t want to see this, but in the lives that follow, there will be no memory of you. I am not you—I cannot turn the regrets of this life into a vow for the next. Nor can I allow you to be forgotten so easily.
Not just for you, but for my own unwillingness to accept it.
It’s not fair.”
She pressed closer to the crack in the window, sharpening her focus, waiting calmly.
“Brother Yang’s elegance and knowledge are truly admirable,” the charming young man said, his tone filled with admiration. As he spoke, he subtly placed his hand over the back of Yang Zhen’s. “If you would stay a few more days, we could enjoy ourselves even more.”
Yang Zhen was already simmering with irritation, and at this, his expression darkened. He abruptly withdrew his hand.
Someone suddenly seeking him out in the middle of the night for an intellectual discussion—one that was both insightful and profound—had initially led him to believe he had encountered a talented individual worth recruiting. However, as the conversation progressed, the man’s words grew increasingly suggestive, and his demeanor turned frivolous, even wanton. At first, Yang Zhen had forced himself to tolerate it, assuming it was merely a case of excessive informality. But now, with this blatant gesture, he understood the situation all too well.
Fury surged within him. Rising to his feet, he cupped his hands in a polite but firm gesture of farewell and smiled coolly. “It’s late. I won’t keep you any longer, Brother Bi. Perhaps we can continue our conversation another day.”
His words clearly carried the intention of sending the guest away. Yet, the young master Bi seemed oblivious—or rather, he pretended not to notice. Instead of taking his leave, he placed a hand against his forehead and chuckled softly. “Brother Yang, why the rush? The night is long, and wouldn’t it be lonely to spend it alone? Why don’t we share a bed? I could help keep you entertained.”
The implication could not have been clearer. How could Yang Zhen fail to understand?
He was a man of high status, with a beautiful wife and concubines at his side—he had no such unnatural preferences. Now that his guest was refusing to take the hint and leave, his patience snapped, and anger showed openly on his face.
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