Midnight.
Wu Ping’an asked Dai’er to help inquire about Ji Cizhao’s whereabouts.
Dai’er told her that the man had already left, so she took the meal and went to find Ji Yuwei.
The night was pitch black. Walking through the exquisite buildings along the long corridor felt much like moving through a strange ancient mansion. From the ancestral hall of the high-gated household, flickering candlelight seeped out. Beneath the wooden plaque, a young man knelt quietly with lowered long brows, the flush on both cheeks not yet faded.
Hearing the creak of the door opening behind him, he turned his head in the dim candlelight. His three-parts wicked beauty, upon seeing the woman quietly carrying a food box and pushing the door open, curved his red lips into a smile, the cinnabar mark between his brows congealing like blood.
Wu Ping’an had come secretly. Although she knew Ji Cizhao had left, she didn’t know where he had gone or if he might suddenly return, so she had avoided everyone to come here.
“Ping’an.”
As soon as she approached, the young man kneeling on the rush cushion softly called out, his gentle gaze under the lamplight holding her captive.
That gaze was different from usual—damp, oppressive, like the sticky, clinging humidity of the rainy season suddenly attaching itself to her.
Seeing him kneeling so straight, even the folds of his robe arranged with an aesthetic beauty to be admired, Wu Ping’an sighed inwardly, then sat on the rush cushion beside him, taking out the dishes one by one.
She kept her head down, not looking at him, and said, “Knowing your taste is light, I made the dishes very mild. I wonder if you’ll find them to your liking?”
Ji Yuwei’s gaze fell on the dishes she had laid out. Seeing they were clearly arranged with care, he blinked and asked softly, “Wei has never seen such dishes before. Are they from Ping’an’s hometown?”
Wu Ping’an finished setting out the last dish, raised her head, and spoke to him: “Yes, these are all from my hometown… Huh?”
As she spoke, her gaze paused, circling over his cheeks. Instinctively, she reached out with the back of her hand to touch his forehead. “Your face is so red.”
Ji Yuwei suddenly turned his head to avoid her.
Wu Ping’an’s hand hung in the air, a hint of embarrassment on her face. Lowering it felt awkward, keeping it raised felt inappropriate, so she could only say, “I wanted to check if you had a fever. The whip wounds on your body haven’t been treated, and they might cause inflammation.”
She remembered Ji Yuwei’s poor health and feared he might fall unconscious for a long time again, as he had last time.
Ji Yuwei resumed his proper posture, explaining naturally, “No, it’s just that the ancestral hall is stuffy and hot.”
As summer approached, if the sun had been out during the day, the night would become restless and dry. This explanation seemed reasonable.
Wu Ping’an looked at the tightly closed doors and windows around her, her heart still tangled in awkwardness. Rising to her feet, she said aloud, “Then I’ll go open the windows.”
Ji Yuwei watched her walk toward the window on the right, said nothing, lowered his head, picked up the white jade lotus bowl, and calmly began eating with the bamboo chopsticks inlaid with silver foil.
Listening to the soft clinking of bowls and chopsticks behind her, Wu Ping’an pushed open a window with both hands. The cold wind brushed her face, but the embarrassment still burned like fire on her cheeks.
Why had she just tried to reach out and touch him?
Although Ji Yuwei had often drawn close to her during this period, giving her a strange illusion that she could touch him, upon reflection, his touches had always been through clothing, never skin to skin.
Moreover, he had previously said words that bordered on a confession. For her to initiate touching him now carried the suspicion of rejecting someone while still wanting to string them along.
Wu Ping’an wished she could slap her own hand a few times.
After opening several windows, the burning heat on Wu Ping’an’s face gradually faded. When she turned around, Ji Yuwei had already finished his meal.
He lowered his head in quiet composure, like snow piled within the ornate ancestral hall, possessing a purity that brooked no defilement.
Seeing that he had eaten little and still wore the tattered, blood-stained robe over his usually pristine form, Wu Ping’an’s earlier awkwardness faded. She stepped forward and sat down again, retrieving a medicinal ointment from the wooden box.
“I asked the young attendant by your side for this—they said it helps remove scars and heal wounds. I’ll leave it here; remember to apply it yourself later.”
After she finished speaking, the youth before her asked, “Ping’an, won’t you stay here with me?”
Just as Wu Ping’an was about to reply, he curved his eyes into a smile and added, “But it’s fine. There are many Shadow Ghosts here, so it’s right for Ping’an not to stay.”
Wu Ping’an’s expression stiffened. Shadow Ghosts…
She still couldn’t shake off the terror of the ghost oppression she had experienced before. She was truly afraid of ghosts. Later, she would have to return alone—how could she manage? If she were haunted by a Shadow Ghost, no one would be there to save her.
Ji Yuwei lifted his gaze to her rigid face, a faint arc curving his thin lips. Unhurriedly, he rolled up his sleeve, revealing the whip marks on his forearm, and placed the ointment before her.
“Ping’an, help me apply medicine here. For other places, Wei can tend to them himself later.”
Wu Ping’an was still thinking about ghosts. Subconsciously clutching the medicine bottle, her gaze fell on the arm he had extended.
The youth’s fair, jade-like arm, slender and delicate, should have been smooth and flawless. Yet now, vivid whip scars marred its surface, brutally disrupting its beauty.
Wu Ping’an couldn’t help but frown.
An appreciation for beauty is human nature; she too enjoyed beholding lovely things. Seeing these discordant scars spoil such beauty, her expression naturally betrayed a hint of pity.
Wu Ping’an uncorked the bottle, scooped out a bit of the white ointment with a bamboo spatula, carefully avoiding direct contact with him. Bowing her head, she diligently applied the medicine by candlelight.
The flickering yellow candlelight danced teasingly over her hair, skimming her brow bone, tracing the bridge of her nose, and settling upon her full, rosy lips, casting her otherwise plain face into a chiaroscuro of warm half-light and shadow.
Kneeling on a rush cushion, Ji Yuwei looked down upon her focused expression, his gaze following the candlelight as it seeped beneath her collarbone.
He had always thought Wu Ping’an unremarkable in appearance, yet she possessed skin as fair as snow, glowing softly like congealed lard under the lamplight. If vivid red marks were left upon her as she curled upon the rush cushion, her long hair mingled with blood clinging to her tear-streaked, flushed cheeks while she pleaded with him in agony… that would hold a certain unspoken allure.
Merely from this flicker of pleasure, his throat grew dry. Even where she applied the ointment with the bamboo spatula felt heated and itchy, especially as the discomfort of the salve covering his wounds made him frown and curl his palm in resentment toward the servant who had struck without restraint.
Thinking he was in pain, Wu Ping’an instinctively blew gently on his arm, comforting him, “Bear with it a little longer; it will be over soon.”
She had assumed it was pain, but after her breath brushed his skin, she instead heard the youth’s suppressed breathing grow heavier for a moment.
Believing he was in too much agony, Wu Ping’an tried to withdraw her hand, but he suddenly grasped it.
Ji Yuwei’s body temperature was far lower than that of an ordinary person. His slender fingers clung to her wrist like cold jade, the chill penetrating through the silk cloth and making her shiver.
“Ping’an.”
Wu Ping’an raised her eyes to look at him.
Beneath the dim yellow candlelight, the youth’s eyes glistened at the corners, his cheekbones flushed as if brushed with rouge. His gaze pierced through her, deep and serene, carrying a stifling intensity that left her nowhere to hide.
“What’s wrong?” Wu Ping’an felt inexplicably breathless under his stare. She tried to pull her hand back, but despite his seemingly loose grip, it remained immovable.
Ji Yuwei said nothing, only leaning forward with his flushed face. Those naturally affectionate eyes gazed up at her from below, their expression too close to clearly discern.
Wu Ping’an didn’t know what he was looking at, but she felt thoroughly uncomfortable. This discomfort wasn’t due to the heart-stirring ambiguity he exuded under the night lamp, but rather because he resembled a hazy peach blossom face emerging from the night mist behind a flickering ghost lantern—beautiful yet eerie, lacking in reality.
He asked her in an oddly gentle tone, “I haven’t asked yet—why did you come looking for me during the day, hmm?”
The rising, drawn-out ending tone seemed to tread upon Wu Ping’an’s heart, making it beat wildly several times for no reason.
Suppressing the urge to press her chest, Wu Ping’an avoided his intense gaze and calmly replied, “Actually, I remembered I still have breath inside me, so I came to have you extract it. But now…”
Her gaze lingered from the dried bloodstains on his cheeks to his tattered, bloodied robe. A long-lost conscience returned, shocking her as she realized she had just been thinking that even if Ji Yuwei died, he must extract the living essence from her body—she would pack her bags and leave tonight.
With a crestfallen expression, Wu Ping’an summoned her faint conscience and reluctantly said, “Actually, I can wait until you’re better to extract it. But I plan to go back—it’s not appropriate to keep staying here, eating and drinking for free.”
She spoke euphemistically. Given that she stayed here daily to sing for Ji Yuwei for hours on end, it hardly counted as freeloading; instead, it seemed more like he had hired her as a songstress.
Previously, Wu Ping’an had sought his help to bury Ade, and since he regarded her as a confidante, she had no choice but to stay dutifully for a while. Who would have thought that before she could ask him to extract the living essence, his words that day had already frightened her?
Ji Yuwei’s gaze locked onto her slightly trembling pupils. His fingertip pressed against the red mole on her wrist, and the spellcraft he channeled allowed him to clearly feel the palpitations of her heart.
These palpitations should make her mistakenly believe, unconsciously, that they were heart flutters for him. Yet even under such circumstances, she still spoke of leaving without the slightest hesitation.
In his anger, he almost felt like laughing. If not for the fact that Wu Ping’an came from the Otherworld and he needed her to stay devotedly by his side, how could someone of her plain appearance and mediocre talent be worthy of his gentle coaxing?
Why not simply lock her in a cage? Sooner or later, he would pry the words he wanted from her mouth.
Malicious intent and cold mockery nearly tore through his facade, clogging his throat. Yet he forced down the killing urge, softening his refined and handsome features under the hazy warmth of the candlelight. Dragging out his tone, he hypocritically asked, “Could it be because of what Wei said earlier, causing Ping’an distress?”
Admittedly, Wu Ping’an was indeed troubled by Ji Yuwei’s words.
Truthfully, he was good-looking. Anyone confessed to by such a beautiful youth would inevitably feel their heart flutter. But after tossing and turning for several nights, the warmth in her heart quickly faded.
Leaving aside whether she belonged to this era, considering Ji Yuwei was a youth seven years her junior—at his age, even he might not distinguish between admiration and affection—she dared not entertain any ripples. Moreover, all she wanted now was to return home.
Thinking of home, Wu Ping’an’s inexplicably frantic heartbeat gradually calmed. Her gaze pure, she looked at the youth before her, whose furrowed brows were still beautiful, and said, “It’s not really distress. Such matters are quite ordinary.”
She meant that boys his age often mistake admiration, attachment, or even curiosity for love, so it was normal for him to say such things that day. But to Ji Yuwei, it carried a different flavor.
Ji Yuwei nearly sneered, the spellcraft at his fingertips faltering as if rebounding, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.
How could she, with such an unremarkable face, so naturally speak of such matters as if they were ordinary? Had she said it to many others, or had many said it to her?
Ha. Furious yet unable to suppress a cold laugh, he lowered his head, gasping for breath, his fingers pressing against the red mole on his wrist as he frantically channeled spellcraft to steal her breath.
Wu Ping’an suddenly felt her heart racing as she heard him panting. This unprecedented, chaotic pounding was as if she had met someone she fell in love with at first sight—her heart beating recklessly, wildly, making her face flush and body heat up, leaving her breathless.
She wanted to press a hand against her wildly thumping chest but forgot Ji Yuwei was still gripping her wrist.
The boy, already frail, was yanked up like a withering jade hibiscus torn from its roots as she pulled her hand away, pinning the strangely flustered Wu Ping’an to the ground.
The scent of evening fragrance drifted, now faint, now strong, first brushing past the tip of her nose before finally settling on her lips.
This time, Wu Ping’an wasn’t mistaken—she was being kissed.
She even stared with bewildered eyes as the boy above her lifted his alluring, slender fox-like eyes, extended a long, crimson tongue, and sensually licked her tightly closed lips.
Author’s Note:
Mountain Ghost: Love, love, fall in love already (fiercely switching the wife’s heartbeat to manual mode)
Ping’an, immune and confused: My heart feels weird, his face is flushed, maybe it’s too stuffy
Ahhh, sorry, I forgot to set the timer!