The same mistake, Ming Yuhe would never make twice. So when Luo Xinci lunged toward him, he was already prepared—his hand closed firmly on her shoulder, stopping her in place.
“Brother was only teasing you,” Ming Yuhe said with a smile. “Niansheng will one day marry properly—how could her reputation be ruined?”
Forced to stand steady, Luo Xinci froze at his words. Her gaze flicked around: through the curtain of rain she saw servants tending the rare flowers in the courtyard, and farther off, maids passing by. She had braced herself for an embrace, but suddenly the situation shifted. Her emotions hadn’t yet settled, her thoughts tangled, and she hadn’t decided how to respond.
Ming Yuhe released her, stepping back to a proper distance. He disliked physical contact with Luo Xinci, yet he wanted her to feel unsettled by her own choices. His eyes dropped to her wrist, hidden beneath her sleeve.
That image returned to him—the raindrop sliding down her pale, jade-like skin.
Watching her uneasy expression, he smiled faintly and soothed her: “Brother cherishes Niansheng, and knows this makes her uncomfortable. There’s no rush—we’ll take it slowly. Today, once we reach Yunshang Pavilion, let Niansheng ask Brother to paint a portrait.”
The first words made Luo Xinci’s scalp prickle, but the latter brought her delight. She quickly agreed: “Of course!”
A portrait required no physical closeness. Besides, Ming Yuhe had already sketched her in secret; one more would hardly matter. Her joy was plain to see.
Ming Yuhe’s mood lifted as well, though he did not show it. He turned toward Yunshang Residence, asking casually as they walked: “Niansheng has done so much for that Luo girl in Linzhou; are you two very close?”
The sudden shift in topic to her true self made Luo Xinci’s lashes flutter, her whole body tensing with vigilance. She followed him a few steps, then answered cautiously with a soft “Mm.”
She was Ming Niansheng now—not only “helping” Luo Xinci uncover who was scheming against her, but also bound to see justice done at any cost. Whether out of guilt, friendship, or something else, she had to appear deeply connected to “Luo Xinci.”
“How did you meet?”
Not wanting him to focus too much on her, she hesitated. His tone seemed casual, like idle chatter, so after a moment’s thought she spoke truthfully:
“When I was eight, I went with my aunt to the temple to pray for Grandmother. I saw a boy bullying a little girl—his arm hooked around her neck, acting frivolous, demanding money…”
The boy was Luo Yizhou, pestering Luo Xinci for silver to buy a bow. She refused, and he looped his arm around her neck in play. He wasn’t rough, nor did he truly mean to take her money. The siblings often horsed around like this at home. The adults, used to it, didn’t intervene. But Ming Niansheng took it seriously—she shouted and rammed into Luo Yizhou, knocking him straight into the half-built Bodhi statue. Crash! The statue, offerings, everything toppled, startling the abbot. No one was hurt, but compensation was required. Between the two families, Marquis Wuling’s household held higher status. And since Ming Niansheng had caused the accident, it was their duty to pay. Yet after arriving in Linzhou, Ming Niansheng and her Aunt Tao lived freer than in the capital, but with little money. They could have sent for silver from the estate, but the Old Madam disliked Aunt Tao—she would surely blame her for poor upbringing and confine her.
“Seeing our predicament, the Luo family paid the temple themselves and settled the matter,” Luo Xinci explained. “The Luo clan is a respected household in Linzhou—not especially wealthy, but well-regarded. Later we often met by chance, and with time grew familiar.”
Ming Yuhe remarked, “So it seems you and that Luo Xinci are not especially close.”
Luo Xinci considered his words, and found them reasonable. She and Ming Niansheng had been childhood playmates, often confiding in one another. Yet if one thought carefully, before entering the capital their bond was limited to girlish companionship—unconnected to family interests or advantage, and therefore lacking any real security.
Lianxing was much the same. Her debt of gratitude was owed to Ming Niansheng, not Luo Xinci. Bringing her to the capital carried great risk, and perhaps, should danger arise, she might betray Luo Xinci for her own survival.
Luo Xinci understood this was what Ming Yuhe meant, and she found it reasonable—though she herself had never suspected such a thing. She said earnestly, “The Luo family are all kind people, good people, worthy of trust.” After a pause, she added, “I am a good person too.” Then quickly amended: “Except for the matter of Zhou Yi.”
Ming Yuhe generously allowed her to gloss over that flaw, and asked: “Luo Xinci is a kind, good young lady—so Niansheng, you are as well?”
“Mm.” Luo Xinci wished to play the villain, but had not succeeded; at heart she was still a good girl.
“And what about me?”
At once her mind filled with accusations: mad, cruel, ruthless, lawless, domineering. Suppressing her conscience, she curved her brows and lips into a smile: “Brother is the kindest, most just, most generous elder of all!”
Every word was praise—yet Ming Yuhe frowned. “Niansheng, why are you insulting me?”
Luo Xinci: “…Ah?”
By then they had reached Yunshang Pavilion. Several maids came forward to wipe the rain from their garments. Luo Xinci dared not continue the topic; she glanced at Ming Yuhe twice, then instructed the maids to prepare brushes and paper.
When all was ready and the maids had withdrawn, Luo Xinci sat by the window, waiting seriously for Ming Yuhe to paint her.
“Today, just one hand will do,” Ming Yuhe said.
Luo Xinci grew even more delighted, spreading both hands upon the desk, as if offering them up for his choice.
Ming Yuhe didn’t fuss over how she placed her hand; he simply picked up the brush and began to paint, saying as he worked, “Your brother is no kind or just man. Don’t ever call me that again.”
Luo Xinci: “…Oh!”
She reminded herself—his mind was not normal.
From time to time, Ming Yuhe glanced at the pale hands resting on the table. After a while, he asked, “Does Niansheng know why Madam Fan allows Fan Ning to associate with you?”
Fan Ning had mentioned it before, so Luo Xinci quickly replied, “She thinks I’m clever and wants Fan Ning to learn from me.”
Ming Yuhe nodded. “In truth, during your quarrel with Liyang, only a handful of young ladies and gentlemen believed you were innocent. The seasoned matrons of the inner court saw through it at once—they knew you were feigning, setting a trap for Liyang.”
Luo Xinci was startled.
“But that doesn’t stop them from approving of you,” Ming Yuhe continued. “Madam Fan thinks so too. To defend your mother’s honor by framing Liyang—that is a righteous cause.
“To strike in public, leaving no evidence and forcing him to swallow the loss—that is boldness and cunning, true skill.
“And afterward, to secure compensation from many sides…
“Affectionate, resourceful, and shrewd—that is why Madam Fan permits Fan Ning to keep your company. If you were merely a simple, kindhearted girl, Madam Fan would not scold Fan Ning for helping you once, but she would never allow her to grow close to you. Do you understand?”
Luo Xinci looked at him in confusion, unable to grasp his meaning.
Ming Yuhe explained: “Because kind people, most of the time, only suffer. Look at me—I kill, I flout human decency, I twist truth with power. Yet others only call me terrifying, respect me, flatter me. And when I show generosity once in a while, they heap endless praise upon me.
“Kindness? What use is kindness? It brings no benefit. Instead, you’ll be cursed as a fool, a slut, told you deserve to die.”
Luo Xinci remained silent for a long time. Her whole family had been kind—and ended up ruined.
Ming Niansheng’s mother too had been kind, enduring hardship all her life with a gentle heart, only to die young of illness, and even after death, to be reviled.
“Niansheng, this is the first lesson your brother teaches you: kindness is useless. If you want revenge, cast it aside.”
With that, Ming Yuhe set down his brush. He had painted only one of Luo Xinci’s hands. Rising, he placed the finished sketch beside her.
As a noble son of distinguished birth, Ming Yuhe excelled in poetry, tea, and painting alike. The hand on the paper was slender and fair, half-curled naturally, vivid and lifelike—as though it had been pressed from the same mold as Luo Xinci’s own.
“Does it look alike?” Ming Yuhe bent slightly over her shoulder, his voice low by her ear.
Luo Xinci felt uneasy, partly because of his chilling words about kindness, and partly because the nape of her neck tingled under his breath. It felt like the faint itch of a collar brushing her skin—or perhaps it was Ming Yuhe’s voice falling into the hollow of her neck that caused it.
Luo Xinci edged forward slightly, glanced at the sketch beside her hand, and affirmed softly, “It does.”
“Where does it look alike?” Ming Yuhe painted quickly, his strokes light, the ink drying fast. As he spoke, he reached toward the drawing before him. His hand was large, the long bones of his fingers like a flute carved of white jade. He curved them slightly, so that only the pads of his index and middle fingers touched the paper.
Those two fingers traced gently from the half-curled fingertips downward, slowly brushing into the palm, following the lines etched there with delicate care.
Luo Xinci’s own hand lay on the table in the exact same position as the one in the painting. Though Ming Yuhe’s touch was upon the sketch, she felt her palm tingle, as if countless ants were crawling along her skin in rhythm with his movements, leaving waves of numbness behind.
“Where does it look alike?” Ming Yuhe’s voice grew softer still, sounding right at her ear.
Luo Xinci shrank her neck, wanting to hide her hand, yet afraid that doing so might displease him. It wasn’t as if he had truly touched her hand!
She forced herself to stay still and said, “Everywhere… it all looks the same.”
“On the surface it looks alike. But in the end, it’s only a painting—no warmth, no delicate softness.”
Luo Xinci’s face flushed scarlet. It took all her strength not to flinch. She kept silent, watching as Ming Yuhe’s hand slid from the painted palm to the wrist. Strictly speaking, the portrait showed the arm only up to the forearm. The wrist was carefully drawn, the rest hidden beneath a sleeve where the image ended. She saw his hand press against that wrist, thumb gently stroking the raised bone. After a pause, his fingers traced down the bare forearm in the painting, stopping at the edge of the sleeve. Her own arm was right beside the portrait, but unlike the painted one, hers broke out in goosebumps. The chill of his movements made her shudder. She endured for a long while until, at last, it seemed the torment was about to end.
Ming Yuhe looked ready to withdraw. But just as Luo Xinci was about to breathe again, his fingertip hooked downward at the sleeve’s edge. It was only a painting—of course the sleeve could not be tugged down. Yet she understood his meaning instantly. Her arm went cold. She jerked it back into her chest, clutching her sleeve tight, hiding wrist, palm, and forearm all at once. She wanted to flee, but reason held her back. She had already yielded to his game, shown her sincerity. Now Ming Yuhe owed her guidance! She couldn’t suffer for nothing.
“Those…” Her throat was dry; she swallowed before continuing. “Those lofty words, I don’t understand. Tell me plainly—how am I supposed to approach Wang Linghao? Should I use that incident with Wang Shu the other day as an excuse to apologize?” Her voice was steady enough, but her face burned, ears glowing red.
Ming Yuhe saw it all, and his mood soared. He had managed to make her fear him without ever laying a hand on her. “I told you already—such a method is too servile. I dislike it.”
Buoyed by his good humor, he spoke more freely: “If you want to connect with a stranger who has no ties to you, the simplest way is to spark his curiosity—make him come to you of his own accord.”
Luo Xinci forced away her shame and trembling, turned her head, and fixed her dark eyes on him, wide with earnestness and innocent confusion.
Seeing her flushed ears and hidden hands, Ming Yuhe grew even more delighted, and explained with greater clarity. “Two men have offended you. One bowed low to apologize, the other stayed arrogant—worse, he stabbed you again. Which one do you hate more? Which one do you most want to uncover?”
“The arrogant one.” Luo Xinci wasn’t just curious; the moment she heard it, she wanted to drag that arrogant man before her and demand why he treated her so.
“You want me to stab Wang Linghao?” She caught on quickly, waving her hands in protest. “No, I can’t hurt anyone—and besides, he’s innocent…”
“I told you, kindness is useless.” Ming Yuhe’s expression cooled. “The Wang family may well be the true culprits behind the Luo family’s ruin. If you want revenge, treat them all as enemies. And the first condition for success is to put away that useless kindness.”
Her face clouded with worry. After a moment’s thought, she whispered, “Hurting someone means prison…”
“Would your brother let you go to prison?” Ming Yuhe replied. “Stabbing him was an example. What I mean is—offense and confrontation often create a bond faster than anything else.”
She fell silent, turning the words over until they began to make sense. What he meant by offense and confrontation included misunderstandings—like Ming Niansheng and Luo Yizhou. Like herself and Ming Yuhe. Ordinarily, they should have had nothing to do with each other. But Jiang Liyang’s prank had driven her into the study, where she witnessed Ming Yuhe’s crime. That offense sparked his curiosity about her. From there, events spiraled into this bizarre situation.
The more she thought, the clearer it became. “Brother, I won’t stab him. But… can I slap his face?”
“As you wish,” Ming Yuhe said. “So long as you don’t abase yourself with apologies that shame me, anything else is fine. Whatever you do, I’ll make sure you don’t suffer for it.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do!” Luo Xinci declared, her resolve firm.
Whether the one who wanted the Luo family dead was Wang Shu or Qin Zhiyi and his daughter, they were all Wang Linghao’s blood relatives. Making him take a slap on their behalf was hardly excessive. Besides, by bloodline, Wang Linghao was her younger brother. An elder sister disciplining her younger brother—that was only natural.
Still, Luo Xinci worried a little more and asked, “But if I hit him, what if he doesn’t come near me afterward?”
“Then keep hitting him.” Ming Yuhe’s reply was blunt, even brutal. “Hit him until he grows curious about you, until he comes to you of his own accord. Then use him to dig into the past.”
“First spark his curiosity, make him approach me, then use him…” She murmured the words, then suddenly turned to look at Ming Yuhe, her eyes wide with suspicion—and beneath it, a flicker of excitement she could hardly contain. After all, wasn’t that exactly how things had unfolded between her and Ming Yuhe?
He noticed her odd reaction but thought little of it. Only when they left Yunshang Pavilion did he clearly see the confidence on her face, as if the matter were already settled.
“Something’s wrong… something doesn’t add up.” As Ming Yuhe followed the thread of their conversation, retracing and analyzing step by step, he suddenly guessed what Luo Xinci was thinking. His stride faltered, his face darkened, and the veins on his neck bulged sharply.