Cheng Yun asked calmly: “Which wound are you referring to?”
Su Xianjin paused before replying: “The flogging yesterday—the one on your waist.”
The short‑blade cut was a wound of the heart; there was no need to ask about that.
Cheng Yun did not move, but instead leaned closer. “Do you want to apply medicine for me?”
Su Xianjin stared into his eyes—eyes that even burning charcoal could not warm. She blinked, then suddenly smiled. “Why would you need me to do that?”
Cheng Yun arched a brow and gave a light laugh. “What’s wrong with a beauty tending my wounds?”
“You’re supposed to avoid women, aren’t you?” Su Xianjin rose to her feet, looking down at him. “You send beauties into the palace like flowing water, yet in your own residence, you don’t even keep young maidservants.”
At a distance, his gaze grew deeper, and the deliberate testing in his tone faded away.
Su Xianjin paced a few steps across the soft carpet. Seeing that he remained silent, she turned back to him, a touch of triumph in her expression. “I know why.”
Cheng Yun met her eyes. For a fleeting moment, he felt her gaze probing him—gentle, yet penetrating. It wasn’t sharp like an arrow, but like wind seeping everywhere, chilling his heart.
“Why?” He heard himself ask.
Rarely did he allow himself to be led in conversation. But this time, something was different.
“Because I have the perspective of God.” Su Xianjin pointed upward with her finger. “The perspective of Heaven itself. I’ve watched your entire life from above.”
Under the lamp, the girl was haloed in a soft golden glow from the candlelight, almost like a deity. Her voice was gentle, her smile radiant, as she said she had observed his whole life.
Cheng Yun froze for a moment. For the first time, under her gaze, he turned his head away—looking down at the book in his hand. Yet the words on the page seemed to transform into incomprehensible script; he could not recognize a single one.
He spoke in a tone of feigned indifference: “You mean to say, you’ve been haunting me since childhood, like some female ghost?”
“I already told you I’m not a ghost.” Su Xianjin began to protest, then thought better of it and laughed. “If that makes it easier for you to understand, then so be it.”
She sat down beside him again, running her hand over the soft, pale fox‑fur cloak.
“But I’d rather you think of me as an immortal who knows five hundred years before and five hundred years after… This fur is so soft. Is it real fox skin?” Her attention shifted to the startlingly lifelike texture.
“If you like it, I’ll give it to you.” Cheng Yun sat up, his long hair spilling over the white fur like ink strokes across paper.
“Forget it, forget it.” Su Xianjin waved her hands quickly.
Even knowing this might only be a novel’s world, it was still real animal fur. Wearing it made her feel uneasy.
Cheng Yun studied her. “You’re only wearing a gauze dress. Outside, it’s ice and snow. Aren’t you afraid of freezing to death?”
“I don’t even know if I can leave this room of yours.”
Su Xianjin looked down at her clothes, then asked him: “Do you have a mirror here?”
“No.”
She immediately showed a disappointed expression. She had never worn ancient clothing before. Not only the dress, but even her hair was styled in a traditional bun. She longed to see what she looked like in this dream world. She suddenly looked at Cheng Yun, asking with a hint of expectation: “Am I pretty?”
“Ordinarily, no young lady would ask that.”
“Well, now one has.”
“…”
Facing her petal‑soft peach blossom eyes, Cheng Yun answered seriously: “No.”
“Impossible!” Su Xianjin waved her hand confidently. “I’ve had plenty of admirers. I know my looks aren’t bad.”
“If you’re so sure, why ask me at all?”
“Because I wanted to hear something nice from you.”
“I never say nice things.”
“You spoke quite nicely to that debauched emperor, didn’t you?”
Cheng Yun lifted his eyes to glance at her.
Su Xianjin shrugged. “Fine, fine.”
Seeing that he said no more, only lowered his head to read, she stepped closer and whispered: “Cheng Yun, don’t worry. I’m on your side.”
He remained silent.
So she circled to the other side. “I know the flattering words you spoke to the emperor were just to appease him. And I know the false words you just said.”
“You’re blocking the light.”
“Oh—” Su Xianjin moved aside, smiling. “But tonight you called me ‘beauty.’ I’m not deaf.”
Cheng Yun pulled the white fox‑fur cloak from where she had pressed it, put it on, and rose from the couch without another word, heading toward the door.
Su Xianjin hurried after him. “Where are you going?”
“To the study.” He opened the door, and at once a blast of cold air rushed in. Su Xianjin shivered so hard she felt her very soul lift out of her body. She thought to herself: *This definitely isn’t a dream. No one feels cold to the bone in a dream.*
But the next moment, she was wrapped in warmth—Cheng Yun had taken off his white fox‑fur cloak and draped it over her, shielding her from the cold outside the door. He himself went to the rack, took a dark crane‑patterned robe, put it on, and stepped out of the room.
Su Xianjin was stunned only briefly, then, without hesitation, pulled the cloak tighter around herself and hurried after him. In her few encounters with Cheng Yun, she had seen more and more of the man beyond the written words. This real Cheng Yun was both unfamiliar and familiar to her. If this were merely a dream spun from her imagination, how could she conjure things that had never appeared in the novel? Even after finishing the book and learning Cheng Yun was not the villain described in its early chapters, she still hadn’t truly understood him. It was only here, in this place, that she gradually came to know him.
This could not be a dream.
She fixed her gaze on the tall, solitary figure in dark robes ahead of her and reached her conclusion.
Suddenly, that figure stopped. The corridor floor was slippery, and Su Xianjin, following close behind, nearly collided with him.
“What is it?” she asked, looking up.
Cheng Yun lowered his eyes and smiled faintly. “Isn’t this proof you’ve walked out?”
“…Eh?” Su Xianjin’s eyes lit up, reflecting the glow spilling from the room behind them, bright as autumn water. “Ha!”
Cheng Yun glanced behind her. “There are footprints.”
Su Xianjin said: “I told you I’m not a ghost. Of course, people leave footprints.”
Cheng Yun only curved his lips slightly, then turned back and continued toward the study.
Su Xianjin was still immersed in the joy of discovering a new world. Only when they entered the study and Cheng Yun sat behind the long desk did he say to her: “It seems you truly aren’t a spy.”
The study was unlit, so Su Xianjin remained at the doorway, surprised. “Why suddenly come to that conclusion?”
“Spies are well‑trained. Most are clever.”
Su Xianjin caught his meaning and ground her teeth. “You’re saying I’m stupid.”
“If you weren’t, you would have already followed Jinglin out of the study into the bedchamber earlier. Why would you need me to deliberately remind you that you could leave?”
Su Xianjin froze for a moment. Oh right, she really was a bit slow.
But it was normal not to react immediately—she easily treated this place as a dream, and so naturally didn’t think too much about subtle changes.
She gave an awkward laugh and quickly changed the subject: “So, you don’t light lamps in the study?”
Without even turning, Cheng Yun casually reached back to the bookshelf, took flint and tinder, and lit the candle at the corner of the desk.
“It’s so dark…” Su Xianjin pulled the fox‑fur cloak tighter as she walked in. “Won’t you ruin your eyesight?” Then she muttered to herself—of course, novel characters wouldn’t get nearsighted; she was overthinking.
Cheng Yun seemed not to hear, already absorbed in reviewing memorials.
Su Xianjin didn’t disturb him. Instead, she took the flint and tinder herself and lit every candle she could find in the study, until the room shone like daylight.
Cheng Yun did not stop her.
After finishing, she went to examine the screen before the secret door. Its texture was like white jade, warm to the touch, carved with the Eight Immortals Crossing the Sea, each figure vivid, even the waves and clouds intricately detailed. At the center was a painting of the Four Gentlemen—plum, bamboo, orchid, and chrysanthemum.
She recalled the novel’s description of Cheng Yun’s study: only general furnishings were mentioned. But in one scene between Qin Shi and Cheng Yun, Qin Shi had mocked him by referring to a “Gentlemen’s Painting.” It must have been this very screen.
“The switch to open the secret door is here.”
At some point, Cheng Yun had appeared behind her, his sudden voice breaking her reverie. She followed his gesture toward a bonsai plant. She hurried over to look. “This isn’t hidden at all. Aren’t you afraid someone will discover it?”
“Discover what? The dark chamber has nothing inside.”
That was true enough.
Su Xianjin nodded, then turned to ask: “You’re not reading memorials anymore?”
“The urgent ones are already dealt with.”
“Oh.” She nodded.
Cheng Yun looked at her with interest. “There’s something I’m curious about.”
“What is it?”
“Since Jing Lin can’t see you, then now that you’re wearing my white fox‑fur cloak, how does it appear to him?”
His words sparked Su Xianjin’s curiosity, too—she wanted to know the answer. She urged eagerly: “Quick, call Jing Lin in to take a look.”
When Jing Lin entered the study, snow clinging to his robes, he paused for a moment. Then he bent down, picked up the white fox‑fur cloak from the floor, brushed it off, and hung it back on the rack. “My lord, you summoned me—what are your orders?”
Unfortunately, Su Xianjin had vanished in the instant before Jing Lin arrived.
Cheng Yun paused briefly, then said calmly: “Extinguish all the lamps. You needn’t keep watch tonight. Go back and rest.”
“…That’s all?” Jing Lin was stunned.
Cheng Yun patted his shoulder and walked away.
Su Xianjin was woken by a phone call from Chen Qing.
“Hello?…”
“Xianjin, you won’t believe what I just discovered—it’s huge!”
Still half‑asleep, Su Xianjin squinted at her phone screen. It was only 8:30 in the morning.
“What are you yelling about so early?”
“I’m not crazy! Remember you asked me to check if anyone at our school had the same name as in *Endless Moon*? I found one! Oh my god—seriously, oh my god!”
Chen Qing’s voice was so excited that it chased away Su Xianjin’s drowsiness. She sat up, alert. “Stop keeping me in suspense. Tell me!”
“There’s a guy from the previous class named Cheng Yun! He was in the same year as my boyfriend, but he took a year off due to illness, so now he hasn’t graduated yet—he’s in our year!”
“!” Su Xianjin sat bolt upright, eyes wide, and muttered slowly: “Oh my god…”
For some reason, the image of the boy she’d met in literature class suddenly came to mind. But though he was very handsome, he wasn’t the same as Cheng Yun.