The Cold and Pure-Hearted Killer: Something Has Happened to Her!
Zhan Kong took the heavy cloak and went to the tenth floor of the Severing Blood Pagoda once again.
Zhan Yan was still lazily leaning behind the rosewood square table, her eyelids heavy with drowsiness.
Seeing Zhan Kong, she slightly raised her chin:
“Just leave it here. I’ll come get it when I need it later.”
Zhan Kong placed the cloak on the table and replied expressionlessly:
“There won’t be a need for it again.”
Only then did Zhan Yan lift her eyelids.
She looked at Zhan Kong’s eyes, which had returned to their usual stillness, and chuckled softly:
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve lost your soul.”
Zhan Kong remained silent and turned to leave.
Zhan Yan furrowed her brows and finally called out to stop him:
“Hey, got time? Want to go to the back mountain for a drink?”
Zhan Kong paused in his steps.
Had this overly perceptive woman noticed something?
Of all people, it had to be her.
To Zhan Kong, Zhan Yan was merely a colleague belonging to the same organization.
But “Yan Zuoxiu” was someone “Fang Xun’gui” could not ignore.
This was a debt he owed, one he could never repay.
After a long while, Fang Xun’gui turned slightly and said in a low voice:
“Alright.”
…
The Hour of the Ox, Moon-Cutting Mountain cliffside.
Fang Xun’gui, dressed in black night attire, and Yan Zuoxiu, clad in a deep crimson gown, with two jars of fine Huadiao wine.
They sat in silence.
Yan Zuoxiu broke the quiet:
“Is it because of that little embroiderer?”
Fang Xun’gui coldly retorted, “She’s not an embroiderer, she—”
“Stop, don’t tell me more.”
Yan Zuoxiu was smiling lightly, yet her brows were tightly knit.
She said helplessly:
“You’ve never experienced something like this before, so you didn’t realize that on Moon-Cutting Mountain, many things shouldn’t be spoken aloud, right? Don’t tell me more about her, and don’t tell anyone else.”
Fang Xun’gui fell silent again.
She was right—he had been too careless. Last night, he had blatantly returned to the mountain wearing his repaired night attire and repeatedly failed to grasp Yan Zuoxiu’s underlying meanings.
“Thank you.”
Fang Xun’gui said stiffly to Yan Zuoxiu.
Yan Zuoxiu smiled, raised her wine jar, and took a long drink.
Her usually alluring, weary eyes were brightened by the wine, appearing much livelier under the moonlight.
Fang Xun’gui could only sit beside her, gazing distantly at the moon.
After finishing her jar of wine, Yan Zuoxiu finally spoke:
“What are you thinking?”
Fang Xun’gui turned to look at her but didn’t answer.
Yan Zuoxiu continued analyzing on her own:
“You couldn’t help but fall for her, but what you felt before happiness was panic and fear, because you felt unworthy—unworthy of her and unworthy of love. Before you could even fully fall in love with her, you dumped all your emotions in one go, pretending nothing ever happened.”
She turned her head and glanced at Fang Xun’gui with a half-smile:
“That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
Fang Xun’gui closed his eyes and clenched his fists.
Yan Zuoxiu chuckled softly and turned back:
“Let me tell you some unfortunate news—this kind of self-deception is utterly useless.”
“Why is it useless?”
Fang Xun’gui finally spoke, his voice hoarse.
Yan Zuoxiu pretended to ponder before answering with a smile:
“People like us—starved for love yet afraid of it—are full of contradictions. When we suddenly feel wrapped in warmth, even if that warmth isn’t meant for us alone, we can’t help but sink into it. Even knowing it’s poison, we savor it, unable to let go or forget. Guess what happens in the end?”
She laughed loudly and tossed the empty wine jar aside.Yan Zuoxiu’s words trailed off into silence.
Fang Xun’gui turned his head away.
He knew Yan Zuoxiu was crying.
After another stretch of silence, Yan Zuoxiu whispered:
“It’s been nine years. You’re human too, you have feelings. Why must you force yourself to become a block of ice?”
Fang Xun’gui replied indifferently:
“I don’t need them.”
Even as he spoke, his fingernails dug viciously into the flesh of his palm.
Yan Zuoxiu shook her head, bluntly tearing through Fang Xun’gui’s lie:
“Because you hate yourself. There’s no need. You don’t have to be so unforgiving toward yourself. Clearly, everything from nine years ago had nothing to do with you…”
“And what about you?”
Fang Xun’gui suddenly turned back, staring at Yan Zuoxiu who was pretending to be carefree:
“Have you forgiven yourself?”
Yan Zuoxiu’s eyes flickered.
Fang Xun’gui’s tone could already be described as pressing:
“Nine years. Can you forget the name Fang Yunmo?”
The moment that name was mentioned again, Yan Zuoxiu involuntarily trembled.
Her eyelashes fluttered, veiling the shimmering tears in her eyes.
After a long while, she forced out a faint smile and replied:
“You’re nothing like him. You’re too good at stabbing people right in the heart.”
A wave of bitter regret washed over Fang Xun’gui. He wanted to say something to mend the situation, but he knew nothing would be of use now.
Yan Zuoxiu smiled and shook her head, letting the tears at the corner of her eyes slide down her cheeks.
She spoke softly:
“Yun Mo always said you were a stubborn child, never willing to shed tears or cry out in pain. He said you were more suited to be a killer than he was, though he never wanted you to walk this path.”
Fang Xun’gui simply listened in silence.
Yan Zuoxiu’s voice was veiled in a hazy mist of memories:
“He said he had signed a Blood Oath, bound to serve the Pavilion Master until at least the age of twenty-five before he could retire with honor. By then, he would take you down the mountain with him and open a small tavern by Shuochun Lake.”
A lump like willow catkins seemed to clog Fang Xun’gui’s throat, making him inexplicably nauseous.
Better to retch until tears streamed down his face—then no one would question why he was crying.
This enchantingly beautiful woman before him, nine years ago, was just a youthful maiden by Shuochun Lake.
Yan Zuoxiu, as if drunk, her cheeks flushed:
“He was twenty-four that year. Xun’gui, you’ll be twenty-four next year too…”
Her voice trembled and broke. Yan Zuoxiu curled up beneath the tree, crying and laughing, unable to utter another word.
Fang Xun’gui could only tilt his head back and pour the entire jug of strong liquor down his throat.
The empty jug was tossed aside carelessly. Fang Xun’gui spoke hoarsely:
“I will avenge him.”
Yan Zuoxiu simply smiled and shook her head:
“Who can say for sure what happened back then? Who will you seek revenge against? And what use is revenge anyway?”
She gazed quietly at Fang Xun’gui, her eyes gentle:
“Xun’gui, your Blood Oath ends next year. The past cannot be chased. Move forward. You’re not like us—you still have the chance to leave Moon-Cutting Mountain.”
Fang Xun’gui closed his eyes, let out a light laugh, and gripped the jade pendant at his waist engraved with the characters “Zhan Kong.”
He allowed himself, one last time, to trace in his mind that face as cool and clear as moonlight.
When he opened his eyes again, all Yan Zuoxiu could see in Fang Xun’gui’s deep gaze was bitterness and disgust.
Fang Xun’gui said expressionlessly:
“A blade that only knows how to kill—what right does it have to speak of chances?”
In the hour of Yin, just before the first light of dawn, the darkness was at its deepest.Only the thickest night, where even moonlight refuses to linger, is the true home for someone like him.
Returning to Zhan Kong’s dwelling, he retrieved the meticulously mended garment from a locked chest.
He set it aflame, watching as the carefully stitched repairs on the night suit burned away along with the bloodstains that could never be washed clean.
Zhan Kong stared blankly at the fabric twisting in the flames, then suddenly remembered something. From a hidden pocket close to his heart, he took out a prescription and tossed it into the fire.
Fabric and ink turned to ashes together.
He fetched his money pouch, placed five hundred taels of silver inside, and changed into the night suit.
Zhan Kong set foot in the desolate courtyard one last time.
This time, it was not Yuyi Yue who awaited him.
His pupils contracted sharply, and an unfamiliar pang of pain pierced his heart.
The courtyard lay in dead silence.
Beneath the moonlight, amidst the withered leaves, he saw only a tattered, bloodstained white robe.