Xie Guanqi’s words came so suddenly that Lin Zhengdu froze for a moment, forgetting entirely what she had meant to say. She lowered her head instead, glancing at her skirt.
It was nothing more than an ordinary nightdress. She couldn’t see what was so special about it. Most people seemed to prefer wearing inner robes to sleep, but Lin Zhengdu found dresses far more comfortable.
The one who had inexplicably praised her skirt was Xie Guanqi—and the one who calmly continued the conversation as if nothing had happened was also Xie Guanqi.
“What were you just doing?” he asked.
Snapping back to her senses, Lin Zhengdu handed him a small porcelain vial she had been holding. “Here. The antidote to the plague-wraith poison.”
Xie Guanqi reached to open it, but Lin Zhengdu pressed down on the back of his hand, stopping him. Her expression turned serious. “The ingredients are rare—this is the only dose. Once it’s used, there’s no more. Don’t open it unless you’ve actually been poisoned.”
“And this too.”
She passed him a small slip of paper, its handwriting wild and unruly. “Since you’re heading to the Snow Country anyway, keep an eye out for these materials. If you come across them, bring some back for me.”
Xie Guanqi nodded. In front of her, he carefully tucked both the vial and the note close to his body.
After that, he fell silent.
He had only come for two things: to tell her he was leaving on a long journey, and to give her the messenger bird. Now that both were done, he should have left.
Lin Zhengdu stood there as well, waiting for him to go. Only after he left could she close the window.
But for some reason, Xie Guanqi didn’t move. He remained where he was, blocking the moonlight at her window completely.
After a moment’s hesitation, she asked, “Is there anything else?”
“…Let me think,” he replied.
Lin Zhengdu blinked. Let me think? Did he have something to say or not?
After that, he said nothing more—nor did it seem like he actually thought of anything. Instead, he simply kept staring at her.
His gaze was far too direct, completely unguarded, and it made her feel strangely uncomfortable. She reached up and touched the tip of her nose—only then realizing it was slightly damp with sweat.
It was already a hot summer night. The cicadas droned endlessly, like a stubborn itch that wouldn’t go away. And in front of her stood a high-level fire-attribute cultivator.
Lin Zhengdu felt like even the air around Xie Guanqi was hotter than elsewhere.
She crossed her arms and took two steps back, trying to put some distance between them. “Still haven’t thought of anything?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I’ll go, then.”
Relieved, she nodded. “Mm… goodbye.”
Xie Guanqi turned slowly, dragging his feet a little. Then suddenly, he glanced back at her.
“Will you forget to write to me?”
Lin Zhengdu blinked—and then it clicked. A smile spread across her face. “Oh? You’ll miss me?”
“…”
He didn’t answer whether he would or wouldn’t. Instead, he stepped right back to the window, standing straight again, his gaze still fixed on her.
Lin Zhengdu found him rather strange.
Sometimes, his attitude felt ambiguous, almost like he liked her. But other times—like now—he was completely open and unembarrassed. Even when she pointed it out, he neither blushed nor avoided her gaze.
He looked straight into her eyes, his expression almost saying, You really do understand me, with a hint of quiet delight.
He was so straightforward that it made her doubt her own judgment again and again.
After all, one of life’s greatest illusions was: They like me.
“I might not write to you,” Lin Zhengdu said.
Xie Guanqi lowered his lashes, disappointment written plainly across his face.
Then she added with a smile, “But if you write to me, I’ll definitely reply.”
He immediately looked up again. “Will you reply to every letter?”
She nodded. “If you write, I’ll reply.”
After a pause, seeing the upward curve of his lips, she kindly suggested, “You could also write to your other friends.”
“I don’t have any other friends,” he said quickly. “You’re my only friend.”
He wanted to keep talking to her a little longer. He had noticed that the more they talked, the redder her face became—and the redder her face, the stronger that faint, pleasant fragrance around her grew.
It wasn’t the scent of medicinal herbs. It was simply… something that smelled good.
But the token at his waist suddenly buzzed and grew hot, urging him onward. Xie Guanqi pressed it down and had no choice but to bid her farewell.
Time was short. There wasn’t enough time to ask now. Next time, he could ask her in person what kind of incense she used in her room—perhaps she could give him some.
Doctor Lin would surely agree. After all, she had even given him something as precious as the antidote to plague-wraith poison.
They were already very good friends.
At least, that was what Xie Guanqi believed with complete confidence.
Once he left, the space before the window felt abruptly empty.
Lin Zhengdu shut the window and lay back down, intending to sleep—but she couldn’t. She felt hot.
Even though the high-level fire cultivator had already gone, the heat lingered.
With a sigh, she got up again and pushed open the window. Without the barrier, the chorus of cicadas flooded in. The night air was heavy, carrying the faint scent of forest plants.
She sat in her chair, leaning her upper body against the windowsill. Her thick black hair spilled over her shoulders, cascading down along the soft folds of her skirt.
Moonlight flickered through her strands of hair. Her cheek, pressed against her arm, was warm and flushed—like a pool of water steeped in sunlight, shimmering softly.
She stared absentmindedly at the swaying branches outside. Then suddenly, she straightened, lowered her head, and lifted her skirt.
The cotton gauze was soft and pliant, its color an ordinary gray-blue.
She stared at it for a long moment before letting it fall, her fingers idly twisting the fabric. With a soft huff, she muttered, “Saying the skirt looks nice… clearly I look nice.”
That clueless, inarticulate sword cultivator—honestly, he was infuriating.
The sweltering summer gradually passed, and the weather began to cool.
As promised, Xie Guanqi wrote to her often.
Though he spoke little in person, his letters were filled with words—his overly neat, almost childlike handwriting covering entire pages. He wrote about everything, from ice holes in the Snow Country where one could fish, to blue-eyed sled dogs that pulled carts across the snow.
And Lin Zhengdu kept her word. For every letter he sent, she replied.
He wrote so frequently that the messenger bird barely had any rest, flying month after month until even the sheen of its feathers began to dull.
By late autumn, after completing her final trip down the mountain for free medical consultations and supplies, Lin Zhengdu stocked her cellar full of daily necessities and preserved food, preparing not to descend again for a long while.
In winter, animals would gather in groups to gnaw at the spiritual plants on Medicine Mountain. The disciples assigned to guard the mountain would have to increase their patrols, leaving her no time for trips down below.
Thus, the tail end of autumn passed in a flurry of activity—until the last traces of color on the mountain were buried beneath a vast blanket of white snow.
The blinding whiteness stretched from Medicine Mountain all the way to her small courtyard, settling atop the canopy she had set up in advance.
Before the snowfall, Lin Zhengdu had slightly adjusted the array around her courtyard to keep it warm. But it only maintained the temperature inside—step outside, and the cold made one stomp their feet.
Lu Yuanyuan and Qinglan came together to visit her. Qinglan had recently started attending spellcraft classes, and her relationship with Lu Yuanyuan had improved from fellow disciples to classmates. They entered hand in hand.
Seeing they weren’t arguing, Lin Zhengdu breathed a sigh of relief and used a handkerchief to wipe the snow from Qinglan’s hair.
Lu Yuanyuan didn’t need help. She bent forward and shook her head vigorously, flinging off all the snow clinging to her hair.
“Senior Sister,” Lu Yuanyuan said, “Master said we’re having hotpot for the New Year’s Eve dinner this year. He asked you to come early and go with us.”
Their sect had thirty to forty disciples in total. Some stayed behind at the sect, others wandered outside—but on New Year’s Eve, they would all gather for the reunion meal.
Lin Zhengdu had no objections. She grabbed an umbrella and headed out with her junior brothers and sisters.
But as she closed the courtyard gate, she glanced toward the birdcage under the eaves.
The cage had no door—it was half open, allowing the messenger bird to come and go freely.
At that moment, the golden-feathered bird was leisurely preening its wings, occasionally flicking its tail. It had rested well lately, and its feathers had regained their bright golden sheen.
Meanwhile—
That fellow Xie Guanqi hadn’t sent her a letter in thirteen days.