Ji Shu had been lying in bed for several days, her body nearly stiff. Today, she happened to hear the sounds of Chu Wusu heading out, so she quietly got up and paced around the room, stretching her limbs.
But before she could enjoy herself for long, familiar footsteps suddenly came from outside—leisurely yet steady. It was Chu Wusu.
“Whoosh—”
Ji Shu reacted as fast as a startled rabbit, darting back onto the bed in the blink of an eye. She pulled the brocade quilt up, covering herself all the way to her chin.
She didn’t even have time to straighten her shoes, which had been kicked off against the bed’s footstool, lying there askew.
By the time the door was pushed open, she had already put on a sweet, soft smile.
“Young Master, you’re here.” Her voice was syrupy, as if she had just woken up.
Chu Wusu stepped inside, and at a glance spotted the two embroidered shoes lying crooked by the bed, their soles still dusted with dirt from the floor. The corner of his lips lifted slightly, but he didn’t call her out, only asked casually, “Mm, how are you feeling?”
“I… I’m still in pain.” Ji Shu guiltily lowered her eyes, her lashes fluttering twice. But thinking of how he had come to see her every day these past few days, coaxing her and feeding her each time, her confidence grew a little stronger, and she steeled herself to keep the lie going.
Chu Wusu gave her a look and didn’t expose her.
“Then keep resting, then.” His tone was flat, as if instructing her on the most ordinary of matters. After a pause, he added, “I’ll tell the innkeeper to look after you.”
“Huh?”
“You’re not bringing me along, Young Master?” Ji Shu keenly caught the key point. Those watery fox eyes of hers suddenly widened, full of alertness.
Seeing her like this, the corner of Chu Wusu’s mouth slowly curved into a half-smile.
“In a few days, a martial arts gathering will be held at South Mountain to elect the Alliance Leader of the Martial World and discuss the matter of the Demonic Cult.” His expression was calm, as if the one being condemned weren’t himself, his voice betraying not a trace of emotion. “Since you can’t get up, stay here and rest well.”
With that, he picked up the teacup on the table, leisurely blew away the floating foam, and took a light sip.
A martial arts gathering?
Ji Shu’s eyes flickered as she suddenly recalled that this scene did indeed exist in the original plot. The male lead had slaughtered his way through that gathering, trampling every hero underfoot. Eventually, he grew bored of fighting himself, and happening to notice the female lead glancing at the Alliance Leader’s seat a couple of times, he casually handed it over.
Who would dare say a word against him? They could only grit their teeth, swallow their resentment, and accept this “Alliance Leader.”
Later, when Chu Wusu’s identity as the Demonic Cult’s leader was exposed, the righteous heroes rose up against him together. Standing amid mountains of corpses and seas of blood, he was endlessly harassed by the so-called “men of chivalry” who kept surging forward. Like ants—kill one batch and another came, an endless swarm.
He finally decided he’d had enough—might as well uproot this so-called martial world entirely and wash it in blood, and be done with it all.
It was then that Bai Ruoyao stepped forward. At the critical moment, she stood before the crowd, betting on the thread of old affection between them, betting on whether he still held their past in his heart. With a single word, she revealed the hidden retreat of her adoptive father, Elder Qingming, using it as bait to make him stop.
And he stopped.
Having survived the calamity, everyone was convinced by Bai Ruoyao, who had single-handedly turned the tide and dissolved that catastrophic disaster into nothing. From then on, they submitted to her wholeheartedly, and no one dared question her position as Alliance Leader again.
Ji Shu had no comment on this plotline. None of these people were good.
Of course—neither was she.
Ji Shu put on an ingratiating smile: “Young Master, actually there’s nothing really wrong with me anymore. I can go with you.”
Chu Wusu glanced at her sideways with his peach-blossom eyes.
Ji Shu, a little embarrassed, pursed her lips, hopped off the bed barefoot, and in a few quick steps ran up to him. She clutched his sleeve and shook it back and forth in a coquettish way, her voice soft and sticky, like a glutinous rice ball coated in honey.
“Young Master, I’m really fine now. Take me with you, please~”
Ji Shu kept tugging at his sleeve, her voice sweet and soft, practically hanging off his body.
But Chu Wusu didn’t answer. His gaze fell on the pair of jade-white feet beneath her skirt—bare against the floor, without even shoes on.
He sighed helplessly, bent down, and scooped her up in his arms. “Fine, I’ll take you.”
Before Ji Shu could even rejoice, she was already held securely in his embrace, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. Chu Wusu strode to the bedside and bent down to set her back on the couch. His movements weren’t exactly gentle, but he didn’t bump her once.
“Grow up already—can’t even remember to wear shoes?” His peach-blossom eyes lowered slightly, his tone neither light nor heavy, carrying a hint of admonishment. “The floor is cold. You’ll be feeling unwell again soon enough.”
Only after the words left his mouth did he suddenly realize—
These past days, he had truly been treating Ji Shu as that delicate, pitiful little thing who would ache and cry and rub her reddened eyes against his chest.
Yet he had almost forgotten that the woman before him was no fragile, easily bullied young lady of a noble household, but the infamous Right Guardian of the Demonic Cult, whose hands were stained with who knew how much blood.
He had forgotten.
Or rather… he had willingly forgotten.
The cunning in those fox eyes, the sharp edges that occasionally showed, the little schemes hidden beneath her obedience—he saw them all perfectly well. It was just that she looked so docile when she retracted her claws in front of him, so docile that it gave him an illusion—as if this little fox with a fearsome reputation truly belonged to him alone.
Being set up by someone—he didn’t like it.
But what if this trap was one he had walked into willingly?
Chu Wusu lowered his lashes and thought no more of it. He simply bent down, picked up the embroidered shoes from beneath the bed, and unhurriedly set them by her feet.
“Put them on.”
With Chu Wusu’s promise to take her along, Ji Shu was no longer in a hurry and had leisure to tease him again.
“I want Young Master to put them on for me.” Utterly unafraid, Ji Shu boldly rested her pair of fair, tender little feet on his knee, wheedling in a soft voice, her fox eyes brimming with the smugness of a scheme succeeded.
Chu Wusu laughed in exasperation.
“Tired of living?” He looked at her, his voice lowered, carrying a hint of danger.
This little thing really knew how to push her luck. First she’d lied to him about her injuries not being healed, clung to him in every possible way, made him bring her soup and medicine day after day—he hadn’t even settled those accounts with her yet. And now, on top of it all, she was too lazy to even put on her own shoes?
Who was he, Chu Wusu? The leader of the Demonic Cult—decisive in killing and battle, able to turn the clouds and rain with a flip of his hand. If word got out that he had bent down to put shoes on someone, where would that leave his face?
But Ji Shu wasn’t afraid at all. She kept gazing at him with a bright smile, her toes even rubbing mischievously against the fabric of his clothes, looking for all the world like she was saying, “I’ve decided to cling to you and that’s that.”
Chu Wusu stared at her for a moment, then suddenly let out a low chuckle.
In that laugh, it was hard to tell whether there was more helplessness or indulgence.
Oh well.
His large, well-defined hand closed around that mischievous little foot, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing absently over her delicate ankle bone.
Ji Shu flinched at the sensation and tried to pull back. Displeased, he tightened his grip, pinning her firmly in place and refusing to let her escape.
The pad of his thumb traced slow, unhurried circles—one stroke, then another. Ji Shu’s breathing gradually grew ragged. A faint flush crept up to the roots of her ears, and even the corners of her eyes grew damp—on the verge of tears but not quite crying, like a cat held by the scruff of its neck, wanting to struggle yet not daring to, only blinking red-eyed and obediently letting him have his way.
Only when she had gone completely soft and docile, meek and without a trace of defiance, did he leisurely pick up her embroidered shoe and slip it onto her foot, unhurried.