He crouched beside the bride, his outstretched hand brushing against her face as he slowly turned her head—which had been tilted away—toward him. "I told you," he murmured, "sooner or later, I would have—"
But as her features came into clear view, his words died in his throat. Instead, he met a pair of piercing, crystalline eyes—sharp as frost, unyielding as steel.
In the next instant, a flash of swordlight cut through the air. The black-clad man instinctively raised his arm to shield his vitals, but the blade was too swift. A deep, bone-exposing gash split his forearm, yet it wasn’t enough to stop the strike. The cold steel plunged straight into his chest.
Blood sprayed in an instant.
Had his arm not deflected the blade by a fraction, his heart would have been shredded beyond recognition.
Gripping the blood-slicked sword with his wounded hand, his voice dripped with venom. "Shangguan Huanxi... So it was you!"
Song Chunming stood frozen, disbelief etched across his face as he stared at the bride in red.
Her crimson robes pooled on the ground, the golden embroidery of twin lotuses shimmering faintly in the dim light, as if blooming before his eyes. The pearls and jade adorning her phoenix crown trembled with a delicate chime.
She tore off the crown and tossed it aside, then shrugged out of the ornate outer robe, revealing a fitted red martial attire beneath. The longsword in her hand gleamed coldly, its edge still wet with dark blood that dripped steadily onto the ground.
Song Chunming stammered, "No... that’s impossible. I saw clearly—it was Chu'he!"
Shangguan Huanxi’s gaze was as sharp as winter stars, her lips curling into a mocking smile. "Oh? Did you really see clearly?"
Song Chunming stiffened. In that split second—ding-dang—
The sound of a bell echoed once more in his mind.
Back then, he had heard the faint chime in the wind and turned warily, only for his vision to be overtaken by a silver bell dangling right before his eyes.
The hand holding it was deathly pale, like that of a corpse. With a slight flick, the bell swayed gently.
"Remember," a voice had whispered, "the one wearing the red bridal gown inside is the one you seek. You’re clever—you won’t mistake her, will you?"
A white-haired youth tilted his head slightly, his blood-red lips curving into a smirk—both taunting and cruel.
Song Chunming’s eyes glazed over as he repeated mechanically, "The one in the red bridal gown is the one I seek. I’m clever. I won’t mistake her."
Another chime.
The silver bell, the white-haired youth in red—all vanished from his memory like smoke.
Only now did Song Chunming realize: he had been hypnotized by Ninth from the start. That was why he had mistaken Shangguan Huanxi, clad in red bridal robes, for Chu'he.
Shangguan Huanxi had struck first, leaving the black-clad man at a disadvantage.
"Time to reveal your true face," she declared.
With a flick of her sword, the man’s mask split in two, clattering to the ground in pieces—revealing the pallid visage beneath.
---
Chu'he sat in the meticulously cleaned firewood shed, her nerves taut as she glanced up now and then.
Everyone had insisted she stay hidden here, forbidding her from stepping out no matter what happened—unless Ninth came to fetch her. That would mean it was over.
Of course, they all knew today’s wedding banquet would be anything but peaceful. After all, the mysterious mastermind lurking in the shadows was a twisted soul who thrived on human suffering and tragedy.
A sliver of moonlight suddenly spilled over her.
Chu'he looked up to see a familiar face peering down through the gap in the roof tiles.
Ninth had lifted two tiles aside, his crimson eyes glinting. "A'he, are you hungry?"
Chu'he shook her head. "No."
Ninth hummed. "Will you be hungry later?"
Her eyelid twitched. "Can you stop making small talk? Everyone’s on high alert outside—shouldn’t you be more serious?"
Ninth pressed his lips together. "Fine."
He slowly replaced the tiles, murmuring softly, "A'he... wait for me to bring you out."
Chu'he gave a half-hearted "Mm," watching as the last tile slid back into place.
In her mind, she asked, System, are there other transmigrators in this world?
The system replied: A century ago, there was one.
Chu'he’s suspicion was confirmed. Did that person meet a bad end?
The system responded: How should ‘good’ or ‘bad’ be defined? Dying at twenty—is that bad? Saving countless lives—is that good?
Chu'he faltered, unsure how to answer.
After a pause, she said, I want to know her story.
The system recounted dispassionately.
A century ago, a woman surnamed Xue arrived in this world, coinciding with a plague in Yangcheng. Using her knowledge, she treated the afflicted—and in doing so, crossed paths with a youth from Miaojiang who had lingered in the city.
The boy had snow-white hair and crimson eyes, his eerie beauty matched only by the fear he inspired.
He hadn’t stayed to help. No, the abundance of corpses made Yangcheng the perfect testing ground for his newly devised puppet arts.
Yet somehow, Miss Xue caught his attention. And somehow, she convinced him—for the first time—to lift a finger to save lives, working alongside her to quell the plague.
What followed aligned with rumors: she accompanied him back to Miaojiang, only to perish in the chaos of a rebellion, her body lost to a pit of ravenous gu.
When Chu'he first recalled her transmigration, she too had nearly died beneath the gnashing jaws of gu insects. She and Ninth had fled Miaojiang for the Central Plains, as if retracing Miss Xue’s path in reverse—an irony that left her with an indescribable sense of unease.
Chu'he asked, If Miss Xue died here, does that mean she returned to her original world?
The system’s reply was icy: She arrived in this world bodily. Here, death is final.
A chill seeped into Chu'he’s bones.
---
The night was thick, tension coiling like a serpent in the forest.
The moment the mask shattered, the black-clad figure’s body began to warp—joints cracking, limbs twisting in ways no human form should allow. Within moments, their frame shrank, becoming distinctly more delicate.
Their face shifted too, masculine angles softening into feminine grace.
Song Chunming gasped. "Yingying!"
The fallen assailant was none other than Lan Yingying.
He rushed forward, dropping to his knees to cradle her. But her eyes were vacant, unseeing. "Yingying!" he cried, shaking her gently. "Wake up!"
Shangguan Huanxi’s gaze snagged on the intricate silver sachet hanging from Lan Yingying’s waist. With a flick of her sword, the sachet fell to the ground—then shattered beneath her boot, its faint, cloying fragrance dissipating into the air.
Lan Yingying convulsed, coughing violently as awareness flooded back into her dark, hollow eyes. But her wounds—chest and arm alike—gushed anew with fresh blood.
