In the boundless and vast desert, a winding green ribbon stretched continuously from south to north. For thousands of years, this great river has nurtured the fertile land along its banks, sustaining a thriving population. As time has passed and years have flown by, the people have lived a comfortable and stable life along the banks of this great river.
It has weathered the flooding of high waters and the ebb and flow of tides, cultivated farmlands, raised livestock, and witnessed generation after generation of political regime changes as well as the rise and fall of countless prominent figures. High above the river, a vulture unfolded its snowy white wings and let out a sharp, hoarse cry, streaking across this silent water source and soaring into the higher sky.
In the Royal City of Theban, following the receding waters of the Pelet season, crops welcomed the harvest of the Shemu season between sowing and growing.
This was the waterless season, and temperatures were even hotter than the other two seasons.
Within a dark and quiet cliff valley, a square tomb was artificially excavated. It faced north, with the southern direction being the source of the Nile’s rising waters, while the north was where the polestar shone. Legend has it that several stars never disappear from the night sky throughout the year, and people call them the undying stars. The main door was located on the front of the tomb. When the main gate was wide open, it sat precisely on the central axis of the tomb. Flanking the door were huge monolithic blocks quarried from Aswan. Entering through the gate led to an extremely spacious courtyard, the other three sides of which were built with clay and stone. The main facade of the tomb was supported by sixteen square pillars, enclosing a square entrance between them, which was carved all over with brightly colored papyrus and lotus patterns.
Passing through a door between the pillars and proceeding through a small corridor, one found tall figures of the jackal-headed Anubis standing on both sides. Moving further inward was a funerary chapel; inside, candlelight flickered dimly, and wisps of fragrant smoke burned on the altar.
This was an internal tomb excavated from the mountain body, specially dedicated to paying homage to the dead.
Inside the chapel, at the upper main position, stood a person clad in white clothes whiter than snow. The dim tallow candlelight illuminated the interior as bright as day, and the flickering firelight cast upon that exquisite and white face carried an intoxicating and ultimate charm, while also accentuating the slender figure to appear somewhat more frail. This was an extremely young man.
The man’s slender, double-lidded eyes swept coldly and indifferently over the gathered divine servants all around. His long eyelashes, resembling feathered fans, trembled imperceptibly. Before him stood a square lapis lazuli table capable of accommodating one person, its surface covered with yellow silk cloth. He stood right before the table, seemingly waiting for something.
Countless divine servants were scattered around the chapel; they kept their heads down, standing with straight postures and solemn, pious expressions, with no one daring to speak first. Their white robes trailed on the ground as if they heard nothing. In a corner of the wall stood a dripping clepsydra, its tick-tock sound echoing as if purified from the deepest part of the valley, and the crisp sound struck directly at the most vulnerable and sensitive corner of everyone’s heart.
High Priest, the cleanup has been completed.
A man walked out from a divine chamber on the side of the chapel. After stepping forward and bowing slightly, his voice was meek and respectful. The man in white nodded: Bring the King out.
Yes.
The divine servant acknowledged the order and hurried away. Before long, two more men walked out from the divine chamber; one supporting the head and the other supporting the feet, they slowly and carefully moved the stretcher onto the lapis lazuli table in front of the man in white. This was the only cleansed place within the chapel, known as the Uabet.
The King has begun his journey to the afterlife; let us chant hymns for him.
The man’s voice was elegant, refined, and gentle, his detached eyes finally imbued with a touch of condescending pity. His tone was not high, but it drifted into the air just right, striking the stone walls before falling successively into the ears of those below. Like receiving a certain signal, they raised their heads in unison, crossing their hands and placing them over their chests, gazing at the aging corpse lying there, and chanted in unison the prayers they had already repeated and memorized in their hearts several times over.
Reed stalks were inserted into melted tallow, and the flame burned wantonly. The man on the high seat possessed a poised and graceful demeanor, as noble as the bright moon, with every gesture carrying the descent of divinity. Amidst the swaying candlelight, the prayer concluded.
For a moment, the huge room experienced a brief bustle before returning to a prolonged silence.
Someone stepped forward to put disposable gloves on the man’s hands. He looked at the person lying there, once the most esteemed man in the entire empire: I am now going to perform an evisceration on the King and remove his intestines, stomach, liver, and lungs. Prepare the canopic jars.
After instructing the servant closest to him, he picked up the surgical knife prepared in advance and cut open the left side of the abdomen, with the incision parallel to the hip bone, so that the visceral organs could be completely removed from the body. As for the heart, the man in white glanced at it and then looked away; this was the symbol of wisdom and emotion, and it had to be preserved in its original place.
A faint, fishy scent drifted through the air. Everyone stood motionless like stone statues, as if they could neither smell nor see anything. Two attendants brought over water and began washing the inside of the corpse with palm wine and alcohol for disinfection.
The two men who had gone down earlier stepped forward carrying a square limestone box. The man in white used natron to dehydrate the four removed visceral organs, the liver, lungs, stomach, and intestines, wrapped them in bandages, and placed them respectively into four jars. Each jar lid was decorated with the head of one of the Four Sons of Horus, which indicated that each organ could be distinguished through the deities and enjoyed their protection.
The jar containing the intestines was guarded by the concerned gaze of Qebehsenuef with his falcon head; the stomach was guarded by the jackal-headed goddess Duamutef; the lungs were guarded by the baboon-headed goddess Hapi; and the liver was associated with Imsety.
Store them properly. We will need to return them to the King’s body later.
After finishing everything, the man spoke in a low voice and gave instructions. The servants nodded in assent and preserved the canopic jars in square niches carved into the side wall. According to the steps, after these organs dried later, they would have to be put back into the deceased’s body.
Next, the interior of the corpse needed to be dehydrated. With clear eyes and a calm hand, the man used myrrh resin, pine resin, and small linen packets to carry out the preservation treatment on the body.
In the brain cavity of the corpse, he inserted a slender tube through the nasal cavity to draw out the brain matter and discard it; otherwise, subsequent operations would become very troublesome, as the lingering brain matter would rot and stink, affecting the entire body.
Put the King in. After handling the remains, the man gave instructions to immerse the corpse in three hundred kilograms of natron, a lengthy process that usually required waiting for a month.
The work of the King’s rebirth could not be finished all at once today. Looking around the chapel, the man in white removed his gloves, a trace of fatigue showing in his eyes, but he quickly and swiftly masked it. Taking a few steps, he looked at the crowd: I am going to the King’s burial chamber to check the design of his sarcophagus. You all go outside and wait for me.
With a wave of his hand, everyone bowed successively and withdrew.
Once everyone had left, he was the only one left in the vast space. The preceding poised and ethereal, high-and-mighty demeanor instantly vanished. Unable to bear it any longer, Rong Mian took a deep, heavy breath; he was practically suffocating.
This chapel was completely airtight and located underground; he was about to lose his mind from being cooped up here.
He had clearly been looking at ancient Egyptian artifacts in the French National Museum when, upon opening his eyes, he had turned into someone else. The trope of time travel was actually going to be fulfilled in him one day; it was truly unexpected.
His stomach rumbled with hunger, but looking around, this was merely a specialized place for processing mummies and contained not a shred of food. Fortunately, he was sufficiently interested in history; having traveled here, he recognized where he was at a glance thanks to the special patterns on the murals, though he did not know which pharaoh was currently in power in ancient Egypt a thousand years ago. Relying on his accumulated knowledge reserve, he had managed to perform just now’s ritual quite convincingly.
Rong Mian knew that ancient Egyptian pharaohs believed they would return to the human world after death, which was why they cared so extremely much about the construction of their tombs. Some of them even began elaborate preparations for their post-mortem paradise of ease as soon as they ascended the throne, just like the present one here. Rong Mian couldn’t help glancing sideways at the person soaked in natron to extract moisture.
From the moment he stepped through the door, Rong Mian knew that this tomb was no ordinary feat; it must have been a masterpiece forged through careful deliberation and bold strokes. The chapel was so stuffy that beads of sweat oozed from his forehead, leaving his mouth dry and parched. Having spoken so pretentiously just now made him feel even thirstier. Raising a hand to stroke his brow, an unknown object was suddenly dragged out from his sleeve and flung away.
Rong Mian frowned. Paying no heed to the uncleaned sweat, he bent down and picked it up. It turned out to be a roll of documents made of papyrus. Unfolding it, his eyes lit up involuntarily; he thought of something and there it was. This was the floor plan of this underground tomb. According to the markings on the map, he quickly located his current position. True to his speculation, ancient Egyptian pharaoh tombs were largely similar, each featuring a single main burial chamber dedicated to placing the prepared pharaoh’s corpse.
That was the most venerable and important place in the entire tomb.
Looking at the primitive patterns drawn on the papyrus, his current location belonged to the antechamber. To the north of the antechamber was the burial chamber, and the entrance to the treasury was on the east wall of the main burial chamber. Rong Mian’s heart stirred with excitement; just the thought of the pharaoh’s grave goods was enough for him to construct those countless gold and silver treasures in his mind. To the west of the antechamber was the storeroom, which was precisely where he wanted to go.
Following the guidance of the map, he quickly reached his destination. The storeroom was already filled to the brim, including utensils, furniture, weapons, and ushabti figurines. Shifting his gaze downward, there were the things he sought: essential oils, ointments, wine, and countless loaves of food. He walked over quickly. These items looked remarkably fresh, as if they had been transported here not long ago. Offering a silent prayer, Rong Mian unceremoniously uncorked a bottle of wine to take a few sips and grabbed several small rolls of bread for a quick meal, while his mind pondered how to handle what came next.
An unfamiliar world, bizarrely traversed here; wanting to leave probably wouldn’t be very easy either.
He was not someone who easily surrendered to fate. Since he could not leave this strange world, he might as well think about how to adapt to it and carve out a place for himself here.
His original identity as the High Priest of the priesthood offered an exalted status that could provide him with opportunities to plot his course.
The wine used for ancient Egyptian court sacrifices was indeed much more mellow and rich than that from a thousand years later. After finishing his meal, Rong Mian’s spirits and thoughts had fully recovered. In this place, he could not afford to make a single misstep.
Footsteps hurried close from outside. Rong Mian alertly tidied up and concealed the leftover scraps of food. He had already ordered people to withdraw; who else would enter without permission?
Great, great, Great High Priest.
The voice drifted intermittently from the long, narrow tunnel of the antechamber. The speaker stammered so badly that it gave the listener heart trouble. Rong Mian frowned, raised his feet to walk out, and bumped right into someone face-to-face. The other person clearly hadn’t expected the person inside to suddenly come out, and took a solid collision. After steadying his body, the person looked full of panic and apologized incessantly: Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, Great, Great High Priest.
He spoke like someone suffering from constipation, completely unable to force out a complete sentence. Rong Mian felt his scalp tingle, yet maintained an outward appearance of utter calm as he looked at the newcomer. The person was wearing a beige linen wrap-around robe, with his upper body adorned only with a wide, colorful beaded collar, and a felt cap wrapped around his head covering his ears. His skin was thick and sturdy like wheat, his facial features plain, and his eyes were wide-eyed with barely concealable panic, which made him look rather comical given the way he spoke. Rong Mian guessed he was not a member of the priesthood.
Maintaining a poker face, he asked: Never mind. What is it?
Great, Great High Priest, I, I came to deliver the, the, funeral goods for the late King. Rong Mian sighed, finding it exhausting to listen to.
On second thought, though, funeral goods?
Wasn’t this huge pile in the storeroom enough? Were there more?
Truly extravagant.
Let’s go then. Seeing that the storeroom was packed to capacity, he figured the things this person brought wouldn’t be stored there.
The person nodded, holding a thick papyrus notebook in his hands while a pen made of reed scribbled on it. He muttered disjointedly: Reported, to the, Great High Priest, the burial goods, have, arrived.
Please, Great High Priest, come with me to check, and inventory.
After he rambled on for a few more sentences, Rong Mian felt as though calluses were about to form in his ears. Seeing him write conscientiously, a flash of inspiration struck his mind: could this attire belong to a bureaucrat scribe?
Rong Mian approached him and saw that the thick notebook had been closed, with several large hieroglyphic characters emblazoned on the cover: Royal Chief Scribe, and a vertical line of small characters in the lower left corner: Wuswaskh.
This ought to be his name.
Just as he had anticipated.
Ancient Egyptian scribes needed to possess the ability to fathom the mysteries of writing. Anyone wishing to become an outstanding scribe had to first go to a temple school or related place of study to learn and read. Regardless of high or low birth, everyone had the opportunity to become a scribe; this was arguably the best avenue for commoners to advance and change their social class.
Even so, Rong Mian was quite surprised that the royal family would actually select a stutterer for such an important position. It seemed he still had a lot to learn about this place.
Wuswaskh stuttered so much that speaking was a backbreaking chore. Even if Rong Mian had the heart to fish for some information, he didn’t want to open his mouth; listening to him speak felt like bleeding from all seven orifices and smoking from six. Following the winding underground paths, the two quickly exited the antechamber courtyard. Outside, the sky had grown dark, and a crowd of divine servants stood there with no one daring to chat casually.
Wuswaskh waved his hand, ordering people to haul several large carts of treasures inside: eight royal beds each equipped with cushions, six golden chariots, a pair of folding stools inlaid with marble, a set of Senet board games, wooden chests painted in white, alongside numerous jewels, an amulet of Horus, thirty-five model boats, six guardian statues, bows, arrows, daggers, and boomerangs.
In the courtyard, one could only hear Wuswaskh’s stuttering voice intermittently matching the brought-in funeral objects. Rong Mian couldn’t afford to be idle either; he had to step forward to inventory the items with an expression of intense concern: The King, passed away suddenly, the, First Prince, is still, hurrying back to inherit, the throne, everything, must rely on, the, Great, High, Priest alone, to hold up.
When Wuswaskh finally finished, Rong Mian was weeping in his heart, though he looked at him with immense emotion: Thank you for your hard work, Chief Scribe. I’ll take care of the rest.
Under Rong Mian’s instructions, the divine servants carried the treasures one by one into the treasury. To ensure they could enjoy the same treatment in the next world as they did in life, most pharaohs decorated their tombs even more lavishly than their earthly homes.
The King’s, sarcophagus is being made, the solid gold, style here, still needs the, Great High Priest to consult, and make the decision. Wuswaskh muttered another sentence before entering the door.
In a realm of extreme deity worship, the position of High Priest was special and mysterious, revered and worshipped by all, with a status comparable to the King yet unbound by the King’s restraints.
It belonged to a divine yet independent governing organization.
The evening breeze mingled with the fragrant scent of earth from the valley. Rong Mian wore a white robe that fluttered gracefully. In a place where no one paid attention, a scarlet birthmark right in the middle of the back of his neck bloomed with vivid and stunning beauty. The wind ruffled the felt cap on the High Priest’s head, causing strands of long, dark hair to flutter sporadically, leaving that flush of crimson half-hidden between the white felt cap and the black hair, eye-catching and ambiguous.
Finally, Rong Mian and Wuswaskh arrived at the main burial chamber to measure the dimensions and determine the placement and size of the golden sarcophagus. On the wall was a freshly painted Book of the Dead guide: Anubis guided the deceased into the netherworld to undergo the judgment of Osiris. In the center of the scene was a scale representing justice and fairness; the King of the Underworld would place the heart of the deceased on one side of the scale, with an ostrich feather on the other. If the person had lived a sinless life, the heart and the feather would balance equally on the scale. If the heart outweighed the other, it indicated that the deceased had committed heinous crimes during life, barring them from entering the gates of judgment and forever condemning their soul to be unable to return to the cycle of reincarnation.
This was precisely why he had insisted on keeping the heart intact inside the corpse earlier.
Next to it was another large, partitioned area covered in scattered writing. Looking closely, there were vertical cursive hieratic texts as well as horizontal hieroglyphs; these must have been the handiwork of scribes.
Wuswaskh gazed at the wall. Today, aside from delivering the goods, he also had to finish writing the walls of the late King’s burial chamber. Hearing that passing through the gates of the underworld judgment was a perilous journey, without guide texts, one could not smoothly reach the side of the Underworld King and thus could not be successfully reincarnated. Bearing a heavy responsibility, Wuswaskh’s face had lost its panic and turned entirely solemn.
His work completed, Rong Mian bade him farewell; he didn’t want to stay in this muggy tomb for another single second.
Stepping outside the gates, the darkness of the sky deepened considerably.
On the carriage, looking at the respectful young man beside him, Rong Mian took the porcelain cup and said indifferently: What is your name?
Upon hearing this, the youth paused momentarily, then dropped heavily to his knees with a thud, looking up at him in utter distress: Reporting to the Great High Priest, I am Aka, your most loyal servant.
What had happened to the Great High Priest? After waking up from sleep, he didn’t even recognize his own personal little servant.
Aka knelt there trembling, beginning to frantically rack his brain to figure out if he had done something wrong to displease his master.
Rong Mian narrowed his eyes, his thin lips lightly sipping the tea. The sweet and refreshing fragrance entered his throat, alleviating the stuffy frustration he had endured in the tomb. This youth possessed delicate features, looked only about twelve or thirteen years old, and was still an underage child. He gave a couple of light coughs: Aka, do you know why I keep you by my side?
A thump sounded in Aka’s mind. When the Great High Priest asked such a question, it must mean he had indeed done something wrong without realizing it. He pressed his forehead even more piously against the ground, his voice slightly hurried: Aka has followed my lord since I was eight. Both my parents passed away when I was young, and you were the one who brought me into the priesthood, taught me the classics, and let me follow you to take care of your daily life. Aka dares not forget.
Poor child, he had been scared quite a bit by his stern appearance and must have thought he was being cast aside. Rong Mian inwardly raised an eyebrow, having fished out most of Aka’s background and feeling somewhat reassured to know the boy could be considered his confidant here.
Get up and wipe yourself clean. With that, Rong Mian drew a handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to him: I was only asking casually; you needn’t worry.
I told you to recall and repeat the titles and names of everyone in the palace. Do you know my intention?
The Great High Priest was someone capable of communicating with deities; how could others pry into his intentions at will? The slight relaxation in Aka’s heart sank instantly, and he dropped to his knees once more with a thud: Aka wouldn’t dare presume to second-guess my lord.
You have followed me for so many years, doing your utmost. Did you really think you’d just spend your whole life serving tea and water as a minor divine servant in the priesthood? Having you keep an eye on the former court officials, keep them in your heart; they might prove useful another day.
Rong Mian spoke casually and blandly, yet thousands of waves churned in Aka’s heart. The Great High Priest actually valued him this much, paving the way for him in advance!
Aka’s young heart was struck once more. Looking at Rong Mian’s exquisite face, he almost burst into tears. The Great High Priest treated him too well; he would definitely repay this grace properly in the future. After indulging in a bout of self-gratification in his mind, Aka looked at Rong Mian with a gaze that grew even firmer and more loyal.
The carriage rocked and rumbled all the way into the royal city.
After reigning for thirty years, the old King Ahhotep passed away suddenly and precipitously after holding his first Sed festival. Some said the gods saw him working too conscientiously and tiringly, so they reclaimed his leadership in the human world and summoned him back to court to resume his divine status.
Who would inherit the throne next?
From what he learned through Aka, the old King had more than one child. Would this result in bloodshed all over again? If so, he had truly timed his arrival perfectly.
The carriage drove into the priesthood compounds as the sky darkened completely. A bright moon hung high in the night sky, and the starry points made the summer night even more illusory and mysterious.
Rong Mian dismissed Aka; right now, he only wanted to be alone to ponder in this millennium-old land.
A sudden wave of dizziness hit his head, causing him to stagger back a step. Fortunately, no one was around in the night to witness his disarray. It must have been from spending too much time in the tomb; his body couldn’t take it and had grown exhausted. Rong Mian didn’t pay much heed to it, compared to that, figuring out how to survive in this court from now on was his primary consideration.
The Palace of Theban at night was also resplendent with light. Maidservants and guards were holding their posts on patrol, bowing successively when they saw him. Rong Mian bypassed the crowd and wandered toward a sparsely populated area. The dizziness in his head only grew heavier rather than subsiding, and his mouth and teeth felt dry. He stuck out his tongue to lick his parched lips; he had clearly just drunk tea not long ago, but now it felt as if he had run ten miles, leaving him with a powerless sense of exhaustion.
I heard the First Prince is about to return to the palace to inherit the throne. The late King left a secret edict passing the throne to him.
Then what about the Second Prince, Prince Wingers?
Oh, and Queen Hart…
Rong Mian before long heard some palace servants popping up beside him. Glancing sideways, he saw a few maidservants walking past in a group with pottery jars atop their heads across the riverbank, their crisp voices standing out particularly clearly in the night.
He took a deep breath. Walking along, he had somehow ended up by the garden riverbank. The nocturnal floral scents diffused uninhibitedly, agitating his entire being into an even greater state of torment, thirsty, accompanied by a strange sensation trying to break through the bonds within his body, as if he wanted to do something he had never imagined before.
A thin layer of sweat dampened his robe across his back, and the light-headed, disoriented feeling grew increasingly severe. Ahead, the river water shimmered under the illumination of palace lanterns. Losing his footing somewhat, he pitched forward headfirst.
There was no anticipated pain from hitting the ground; instead, he unexpectedly tumbled into a broad embrace. Mingled with the evening dew, Rong Mian caught a pleasant scent reminiscent of a cedar forest coming from the other person.
Audacious! Are you blind to dare collide with the King, the Great High Priest?
An angry reprimand broke out beside him. Rong Mian’s body grew limp as he slumped against the other person. He wanted to say something, but a dizzying spin overtook him; his cochlea buzzed, his vision blurred, and sweat was forced out from the bridge of his nose.
Is, the Great High Priest?
The other person seemed not to have expected this, rendering the words already spoken impossible to take back. Looking at the person in the Prince’s embrace, he couldn’t help but be startled.
The dagger at his waist had already been half-withdrawn, but upon seeing who it was, Sakara swiftly reversed his motion to retract the blade, his wrist agilely sliding the heavy metal weapon back into its scabbard while his eyes carried a trace of sacrilegious self-reproach.
The Great High Priest was the only person in Theban capable of standing shoulder to shoulder with the King and possessing divine favor; damn it all, he had almost made a grave mistake just now.
Rong Mian was like a limp prawn, completely unaware that within a hair’s breadth, that dangerous blade was about to sweep across his face. Right now, scorching flames were rising from the depths of his being; he felt like a traveler walking through an arid desert, desperately yearning to find a water source that could moisten him. His upper and lower eyelids fought to close, and while he wanted to keep them open, they felt as heavy as a thousand catties. The crisp, dry freshness of the cedar forest filled his nasal cavity, and he breathed it in with a sort of near-greed. Dropping his eyelids, his hands clutched tightly at the other person’s broad shoulders. This rare docile yet anxious appearance fell into the man’s eyes, causing the man towering above to chuckle involuntarily.
So the Great High Priest had an unknown side to him as well.
Cool…
Rong Mian murmured, his hands clutching tighter for fear that the chilly respite he had managed to grip would slip away inadvertently.
What?
Under the pitch-black night sky, aided by the dappled light of the starlit sky, beside the royal garden’s imperial river and beneath the looming shadows of trees, the man’s handsome and three-dimensional facial features were cast in a layer of phantom shadows, making him appear even more mysterious and aloof. His voice carried a heavy nasal twang; emitted from his throat and falling upon human ears, it turned into another kind of magnetic, low elegance.
Rong Mian was immersed in this narrow, oppressive atmosphere. His back was drenched in sweat, and the stray hairs across his forehead clung damply to his skin. Between his brows, the unbearable suffering grew even more intense: I said cool, I want cool.
The man froze for a moment, then raised an eyebrow.
Looking around, in this weather, the person in his arms was complaining of cold?
Rong Mian’s lips were parched and his voice slightly hoarse; the inability to express himself clearly only annoyed him further. Impatiently, he raised his voice: I said I want something refreshing, you talk too much.
Tsk!
To be so openly, plainly, and unashamedly disliked for the first time in his life, the man was still somewhat surprised, a flash of unconventional light crossing his eyes as he looked at the man in his arms.
There’s water right here; you can have as much refreshment as you like.
The river inside the Theban palace was a diverted branch of the Itnoa River, and its water was clear and icy cold year-round. It could provide all the coolness Rong Mian could possibly want. At such close proximity, the man watched as an unnoticeable smile curved the corners of his mouth.
River water, what kind of nonsense was that?
Rong Mian felt that the stranger before him was simply an idiot. Was river water what he wanted right now?
He wasn’t blind; couldn’t he see the river right in front of him?
He didn’t know how to swim; wouldn’t jumping in be courting death?
Besides, that strange sensation inside his body was telling him that river water was far from enough. That erupting sensation, lurking like a monster deep within his body, wanted to break past layer after layer of obstacles, traverse mountains and rivers, and fuse his spirit and soul with the man whose face he couldn’t clearly see. This bizarre feeling had entwined around him with a concentration he’d never experienced in his life.
Rong Mian climbed up the other person’s frame, his upper and lower teeth chattering from sheer endurance: Water’s not enough…
It couldn’t quell that scorching heat, but he could no longer voice the words that followed. Using every ounce of his strength, he stood on tiptoe, laying bare his innermost, truest longing without concealment, and planted a light-as-a-dragonfly’s-kiss.
The man’s body stiffened as a complex wave of emotion flashed through his eyes. Rong Mian seemed to have grown addicted; this was softer and lighter than cotton candy, kissed by the night dew and tinged with a slight chill. A greedy desire surfaced in Rong Mian’s eyes, and this scene was transmitted through the melting moonlight into the man’s gaze. He tightened his grip on the waist of the person beside him, muttered a low curse under his breath, as tonight’s encounter was certainly not within his scheduled expectations.
Still, yielding to his primal nature: whatever, the fragile body of the High Priest couldn’t withstand the erosion of the Itnoa River anyway, and furthermore, this utterly undisciplined and unskillful kiss was truly more than he could resist.
With a firm yank, he hauled the sticky little cat clinging to his body, using the momentum to pin him against the nearest tree trunk. The dense foliage scattered sparsely overhead, and Rong Mian leaned his heavy body against the rough, cracked bark, raising his head to look at the fragmented moon halo filtering through the leaves. His lips were sealed once more.
The scent of the cedar forest grew stronger, accompanied simultaneously by a faint, tranquil lotus fragrance drifting out from some unknown corner.
When the two scents intertwined, overwhelming everything, Rong Mian’s hands were pinned behind his back and his position shifted.
With his face pressed against the vicissitudes of the dry, cracked tree bark, layers of traces were branded upon him.
As the wind swept through the forest, carrying other unidentified floral scents while ripples rose on the river surface, that vivid, pomegranate-fire red spot at the nape of the High Priest’s neck pierced straight into the depths of the other man’s eyes.