The living room was eerily silent, broken only by their breaths.
Ye Mochen still didn’t let go of her hand; if anything, his grip tightened.
He greedily savored the slight coolness of her fingertips, drawing in the calming herbal scent that seemed to soothe even his soul.
Those bottomless eyes churned with intense doubt and curiosity, as if he were trying to peer straight through her soul.
“Why are you saving me?”
His voice was quiet, yet it struck like a boulder thrown into a deep pool, stirring invisible waves between them.
It was a question he had never imagined asking out loud.
And no one had ever given him the chance to ask it.
To so many, his existence was a threat, a mistake.
Ran Weiyi didn’t avoid his gaze; she met it head-on.
Her eyes were clear and calm, with not a trace of impurity.
“Because I want you to live.”
Her voice was soft but every word hit Ye Mochen’s heart like a burning brand.
He stiffened, gripping her hand tightly.
Live.
That word was both familiar and alien to him.
He had always lived—lived in pain, lived in betrayal and solitude.
The obsession and madness in his eyes gradually faded, replaced by a fragile bewilderment.
He seemed like a child long lost, finally hearing the voice calling him home.
Slowly, he loosened his grip.
“Mm.”
A hoarse monosyllable rolled out from his throat.
It wasn’t consent—it was surrender.
He was entrusting his life, one that had struggled for half a lifetime, for the first time, into someone else’s hands.
The room Jiang Pei had prepared was the quietest in the entire mansion, deep within the estate.
The soundproofing was extraordinary; with the heavy wooden door closed, it felt isolated from the world.
Inside, the room was empty and silent. A large soft couch sat in the center. On one side, a brand-new set of silver needles was neatly arranged on a tray, alongside a sealed jar of strong liquor and a half-person-height brass brazier, its charcoal burning fiercely.
Ran Weiyi approached and used tongs to adjust the charcoal, letting the flames burn more evenly.
The heat washed over her, casting a faint blush across her pale cheeks.
She picked up a silver needle, expertly dipped it into the liquor, then held it over the fire to sterilize it.
Ye Mochen stood not far away, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on her.
He watched her slender fingers deftly manipulating the cold instruments.
He watched the dancing flames reflected in her cool, clear eyes.
“Ye Mochen.”
Her voice broke the silence.
“Come here. Lie down, take off your shirt.”
Her tone was as casual as saying, “Nice weather today,” without a trace of embarrassment or hesitation.
Ye Mochen only stared, silent and still.
In his deep eyes, a stubborn dependency shimmered.
Ran Weiyi sighed softly, put down the needle, and walked toward him.
“You want me to help?” she asked, standing before him, tilting her head slightly upward.
He was over a head taller than her; she had to look up to meet his expression.
Ye Mochen’s Adam’s apple rolled once, and though he remained silent, it was as close to consent as he would give.
Very well.
She had no choice but to act.
His blood-stained white shirt was already in tatters. When her cool fingertips touched his scorching skin, his tall body trembled noticeably.
Even a seasoned observer like Ran Weiyi momentarily froze as his muscular upper body was fully exposed.
The wounds were deep to the bone, a terrifying mix of old and new.
It was unimaginable how he had endured, time and again, with sheer willpower.
The world had cast upon him its cruelest curse.
Ran Weiyi’s heart felt as if an invisible hand had gripped it tightly, pain spreading numbingly through her chest.
The words in the novel barely captured a fraction of the shock of seeing it firsthand.
The author who wrote this story—surely must be a sadist.
She lowered her eyes, suppressing the emotions surging beneath them, leaving only the calm professionalism of a physician.
“Relax.”
Her voice was lower now, deeper.
Ye Mochen lay on the soft couch, and miraculously, his tense back slowly began to loosen at her command.
Ran Weiyi said no more. She held the sterilized silver needle and placed her fingertip gently on the acupuncture point on his back.
The skin under her fingertip was icy, almost lifeless.
She hesitated not at all. Locating the point precisely, she applied force, driving the first silver needle steadily into his “Dazhui” point.
“Ugh…”
A stifled groan escaped between Ye Mochen’s teeth. His body tensed violently, muscles stiff as iron.
The sharp pain of the needle combined with the reactivation of old wounds made his vision momentarily darken.
Yet he did not move. Not even the thought of resistance arose.
Because behind him was Ran Weiyi.
Her hand was steady.
Second needle. Third. Fourth.
One by one, the silver needles gleamed coldly as they pierced the detox points on his back.
Her movements were quick and precise, not a motion wasted, as if she were dealing not with a living man but a lifeless puppet.
Cold sweat dripped from Ye Mochen’s forehead. He bit his teeth hard, swallowing all the pain back into himself.
He could feel the strange tingling, stinging, and numbing pain radiating from each needle, spreading through his stiff meridians, like countless ants gnawing at his bones and blood.
Just as he was about to break, Ran Weiyi’s voice rang out again—cool, yet carrying an almost magical soothing power.
“It’s done.”
She withdrew her hand, surveying her work.
Dozens of silver needles formed an intricate formation across his scarred back.
From the first needle, a drop of thick, foul-smelling black blood slowly seeped onto the snow-white bedsheet.
The shocking black proved her judgment correct. It marked the hardest first step of this salvation successfully taken.
That drop of black blood seemed alive, spreading across the white sheet, exuding a nauseatingly sweet metallic stench. The air itself felt thick and heavy.
Ran Weiyi picked up a tray, took a piece of clean medical cotton with tweezers, and swiftly yet gently wiped away the tainted blood, her expression utterly calm.
Her fingertips brushed his skin again, unintentionally.
Still cold—but no longer stiff and lifeless like before.
Ye Mochen’s body tensed once more at the unintended touch.
That unfamiliar, subtle, tingling current, triggered by her fingertip, shot through him instantly.
He had never felt anything like it.
To him, women were either manipulative pieces in someone else’s game or fearful, venomous people. No one dared approach him like this.
And no one would ever—ever—touch his decayed, battered body with such calm hands.