Chapter 23

The man snapped out of his reverie with a start, gripping Lao Jiu’s shoulder in alarm, yet his throat felt as if a fishbone were lodged within it, leaving him unable to speak for a long moment.

He had been standing right at the entrance of that secluded courtyard, locking eyes with the boy’s dead-water gaze. That unfathomable depth, as if staring into an abyss, had instilled in him, for the very first time, a sense of revulsion toward his own twin brother, whom he had barely known. It was like walking along a desolate country path while swarms of mosquitoes circled incessantly overhead. This feeling—a mix of hostility and dread—had persisted ever since.

—

The rhythmic "clip-clop" of hooves echoed against the long-neglected gravel road, leaving a trail of clear impressions. Qingwu pulled Pei Muci behind her, letting the horse gallop wildly until they were soon out of the city. Every few breaths, she dropped a bead from her jewelry onto the sandy ground. When she ran out of trinkets to leave as markers, she began tearing the buttons from her outer robe.

Pei Muci’s breath scorched the back of her neck, frighteningly hot.

"We dismount here." Unsure if the men in black were closing in, Qingwu steered the horse into a woodland path that offered cover. She quickly unslung the remaining arrows from her back, struck the horse’s tail with her bow, and the startled animal let out a long neigh before galloping out of sight. The hoofprints continued onward, merging into the invisible horizon.

The path was lined with straight pines; their shaggy needles looked like clusters of figures standing behind them, as if countless invisible eyes were watching the pair from the shadows. Qingwu acted as if she noticed nothing. She had Pei Muci stand in a nearby thicket while she returned to the spot where they had dismounted, shuffling her feet left and right to smooth over the deep and shallow tracks.

She seemed neither frightened nor flustered by this sudden turn of events. A flicker of surprise crossed Pei Muci’s eyes, mingled with a confusion he could not quite grasp. A princess in her own right, she should have been the model of a refined lady, well-versed in the four arts; yet, she was not only skilled in horsemanship but also adept at archery, with remarkable precision. Pei Muci had just witnessed her fire two arrows simultaneously from a heavy bow—one that required training for even the soldiers at the practice grounds to draw—piercing the throat of one man in black and striking another directly in the eye.

"Ah!"

Qingwu, distracted by listening for the slightest sound in the surroundings, stepped carelessly into a patch of loose soil, her body tilting as she began to fall. Pei Muci, already holding his breath, was jerked violently; he lost his balance instantly, and Qingwu dragged him down with her.

As it turned out, behind the thicket lay a dizzying, sheer slope. It was not entirely vertical, but it was riddled with jagged, rotting branches and uneven, hard stones that threatened to tear their clothes and lacerate their skin. Pei Muci’s strength was long spent; he struggled to grab hold of the creeping vines, but after a few seconds, his hands slipped to the very ends.

He remembered her wrists, which would turn red at the slightest touch. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pulled Qingwu into his embrace, cushioning her back with his forearm in an attempt to soften the impact of the tumble.

His shoulder blades slammed against the cold, hard rock face. They hadn't rolled far before Qingwu heard a muffled groan from Pei Muci’s chest. She did not look up; instead, she pulled her hands from his grip and pressed his face into the hollow of her neck.

"Don't go scratching up your face now."

Pei Muci: ...

The night in the mountain forest was exceptionally dark; as they tumbled, they seemed to fall into a pool of ink. Qingwu heard a crisp "snap," and their downward momentum slowed abruptly before coming to a stop. She lay sprawled on top of Pei Muci, as if he were a floor mat. The thick darkness felt like the bottom of an abyss, while the moonlight, like a silver plate, cast a faint, ghostly glow. The surrounding trees were deathly still; there was not a breath of wind.

"Is Your Highness so concerned about this facade?" Pei Muci’s right shoulder had collided with the pine tree from earlier. He looked down with a languid, indifferent gaze.

It was likely just a dislocation; at worst, a fracture.

"It is rare for me to set my heart on someone; I cannot let you perish just like that." Qingwu frowned, climbing off him to brush the dust from her dress. Pei Muci had protected her well; her clothes were pristine, without a single scratch. Pei Muci, however, looked rather disheveled. His outer robe had been stained with blood of unknown origin during the fight, and his hair, half-tied, had come undone and was matted with debris.

He sat up and brushed his black hair back effortlessly. The movement, as graceful as flowing clouds, was utterly relaxed. "And what if the soul beneath this facade is filthy to the core?"

"Then that’s perfect, we’re the same kind." Qingwu replied dismissively, brushing the grit from the ends of his hair as if she were grooming a well-behaved doll.

Pei Muci’s eyes shifted, sparkling like cold stars in the dead of night. He had no strength left to ponder the strangeness of her words. He pressed his palm against his right shoulder and, enduring the pain, pressed down in a few spots.

"Are you injured there?" Qingwu moved closer to inspect.

*Crack.*

The movement was decisive, natural, and elegant. He seemed to hear a sound of exquisite beauty and curled his lips into a languid smile. "Fixed."

Qingwu let out a startled cry, batting his hand away like a fluttering butterfly. "What are you doing?"

How could he be like this? He looked so refined and fair, yet he was so ruthless to himself. "Does it hurt?"

"No." It didn't just not hurt; there was even a thread of thrilling sensation coursing through his blood.

"How can it not hurt?" Qingwu, flustered, pinched her own palm, hurrying to look for other wounds on the parts of him that were exposed. There were knife wounds and arrow wounds scattered across his body, some of which had been torn open again during the tumble. She wanted to touch them but pulled back, tracing the shapes of the scars in the air a few millimeters away.

"Your Highness, there is no need—" Before he could finish, he suddenly stiffened, his face showing an expression that could only be called a loss of composure.

Qingwu knelt before him, gently blowing on his wounds. "If you're hurt, blowing on it makes it not hurt anymore."

The warm sensation brushed over his wounds, more effective than any healing salve. Pei Muci’s eyes were filled with emotion; all he could see was her flawless, jade-like profile. Her breath felt like stiff horsehair, sweeping across his skin in a rhythmic pattern. He closed his eyes, his lashes trembling uncontrollably in sync with her rhythm, and the muscles of his abdomen tightened. His entire body seemed to be under a spell cast by that breath, no longer under his command. He had never been this out of control.

"You're so hot." The hand Qingwu placed on his shoulder felt as if it were resting on a burning charcoal.

Pei Muci, of course, noticed the anomaly. It wasn't that Qingwu had ignited a fire in him, but rather that two currents—one icy, one searing—were colliding within his body. He knew the poison had struck early. But why today? A wave of defeated powerlessness surged in his heart, along with an overwhelming hatred for that person.

"Your Highness, let us go first."

Pei Muci wiped a speck of dust from Qingwu’s cheek with his clean knuckles and urged her on. As if he had spent his last ounce of strength, his breathing turned erratic the moment he finished speaking, and the color drained from his face entirely.

Qingwu’s heart tightened, but she didn't know how to help. She only knew that Pei Muci was suddenly in a terrible state. During the day, he had been able to drive a knife into his own body without flinching, but now, his frame was swaying ever so slightly. Pei Muci did not want to show his weakness before her; he could only force his body to maintain a sitting posture—any further movement was now impossible.

Dense sweat beaded at his hairline, quickly gathering into drops that rolled down his temples. His sharp, elegant jawline turned a pale, sickly blue from the exertion. Qingwu remembered what Li He and Du Jin had said about the poison buried in Pei Muci’s body, and a sense of foreboding rose within her.

The pitch-black mountain night concealed them, but Qingwu’s senses grew dull. A panic regarding the path ahead, like the morning mist, blew toward her with the wind. There might be pursuers regrouping behind them; in any case, this was no place to linger.

Qingwu pulled her sleeves up to her shoulders and tied them tight with a cloth band, minimizing the burden on her person. She reached out to help Pei Muci, only to see him staring indifferently at his own slender, well-defined fingers. There appeared to be a viscous substance between his fingers, leaving a smear on the back of his hand.

Qingwu didn't even know why she was panicking; her pupils contracted. "That must be the blood that splattered on you from the men in black."

Pei Muci lifted his head slightly, nonchalantly wiping his fingers with a handkerchief, and whispered softly to comfort her, "Don't be afraid."

It was merely a mouthful of blood. This was only the beginning. He gritted his teeth, struggling to keep his shivering jaw from making a sound. His internal organs felt as if they were being pierced by thousands of needles; every breath felt like ten thousand poisonous scorpions gnawing at his flesh and slowly eroding his sanity.

He folded the silk handkerchief, smoothing out the edges, and tucked it neatly into his robe. He paused for a second as he felt something inside.

"What is it?" Qingwu felt a tight, suffocating lump in her chest.

Pei Muci slowly and meticulously unfolded the item and held it out for her to take. Two thin hemp strings bound the oil-yellow parchment, releasing a scent of sugar and oil. It was the pastry they had bought at the night market. It was still packed as tightly as it had been, without a single dent. It was hard to imagine, after such a fierce fight and a tumble from a great height, how Pei Muci had managed to keep such a fragile thing completely intact.

Qingwu immediately thought of herself, huddled in his arms as they fell. Pei Muci no longer had the strength to even push it into her hands, yet he maintained an indifferent air, saying with a faint smile, "Don't let it get stained with blood."

He did not specify whether he meant the insignificant package of pastries, or her. Hearing this, Qingwu’s lips trembled, and she was on the verge of tears. The man who was usually more aloof and solitary than frost and snow was now slumped in the dirty soil, his outer robe soaked in viscous blood, his palms trembling slightly with his every breath. Only the woman standing beside him, and the package of pastries held in her hands, remained clean.