After resting for a full seven days, Zhao Rongyue, who had awakened from her coma, finally regained enough strength to leave her bed.
She had believed herself trapped in a hopeless situation, yet she had opened her eyes to daylight once more, taking considerable time to steady her mind and spirit.
Zhao Shuxing, gravely injured, had narrowly escaped death but still required time before he would wake.
Gao Yuan, now neither fully human nor ghost, concealed himself beneath a black cloak, lurking in the shadows near Zhao Shuxing, silently standing guard.
The Zhao residence appeared unchanged from before—yet this was merely an illusion.
"I must owe my revival to someone who paid with their life," Zhao Rongyue murmured, her pale lips curving into a faint smile as she observed the hesitant expressions around her.
"I can guess. Bringing the dead back to life is no simple feat. There’s no need to tread so carefully—what’s done is done. Those of us left behind can only accept it."
Her expression betrayed little emotion, leaving none the wiser as to what Song Tingxue’s death truly meant to her.
She seemed detached, even cold. Yet at times, she sat alone in the courtyard for hours, sipping tea in silence, an unshakable melancholy clinging to her.
Chu’he wasn’t particularly skilled at offering comfort. She fidgeted with her teacup, glancing at Ninth beside her.
Misinterpreting her restlessness, Ninth offered her the half-eaten pastry in his hand.
Chu’he turned her face away, refusing the overly sweet treat.
On her other side, Fang Songhe sat rigidly upright, burying himself in his tea. Clearly, he was no better at consolation, leaving Chu’he to bear the burden.
"Men. Utterly useless," she thought before speaking up. "Miss Zhao, I heard you’ve already resumed managing the family business. You’ve only just awakened—you should rest more."
Zhao Rongyue smiled. "The Zhao household has many mouths to feed. I dare not slacken even for a moment. But I appreciate your concern—I’ll take care not to strain myself."
She then retrieved a prepared stack of silver notes from a maid and handed them to Chu’he. "This incident repeatedly endangered the three of you. Mere silver can’t express my gratitude. Should you ever need assistance in the future, don’t hesitate to ask."
Chu’he weighed the thick pouch in her hand, her face brightening instantly. "You’re too kind, Miss Zhao!"
As she mentally calculated Fang Songhe’s share, Ninth suddenly spoke:
"Where did Song Tingxue obtain the Ghostbloom?"
Zhao Rongyue had received Song Tingxue’s heart—accepted without rejection, merging seamlessly as if the organ itself refused to cause her pain.
Sometimes in dreams, she glimpsed unfamiliar scenes—memories that belonged to Song Tingxue.
She didn’t withhold the truth. "A man in a black Nuo mask and long robes sought out Tingxue—no, rather, he sought Ying Suifeng. He brought the seeds and revealed the method to revive Shuxing."
Thus began the chain of tragedies born from Ying Suifeng’s descent into madness.
Ninth finished his pastry, expression unchanging, and wordlessly extended his hand. Chu’he rolled her eyes but dutifully wiped his fingers with her handkerchief.
"Such life-for-life rituals demand willing sacrifice above all—not necessarily the heart of a blood relative."
Zhao Rongyue stiffened slightly.
Fang Songhe frowned. "Ninth, are you saying that man deceived Song Tingxue?"
Chu’he tilted her head. "But why?"
Was the masked man an enemy, orchestrating this cruel scheme to torment Song Tingxue?
Ninth smiled faintly. "Forcing a desperate man to lose all reason, to make an irreversible choice—to kill the one he loves most and plunge into endless despair. Isn’t that amusing?"
Chu’he stared blankly.
Clearing his throat, Ninth hastily reverted to his usual innocent tone, offering his other hand to her. "Well, perhaps not that amusing."
With Song Tingxue gone, the shadowy instigator’s identity might forever remain a mystery.
Their business in Xiaocheng concluded, the travelers prepared to depart for their next destination.
Zhao Rongyue saw them off. As the gates closed behind them, the estate grew quiet, the air heavy with unspoken sorrow.
"Miss, the physician insisted you rest," a maid reminded gently. "Please lie down for a while before attending to affairs."
Aware of her limits, Zhao Rongyue obliged. She retired to her chambers and, within moments, exhaustion pulled her into slumber.
Lately, sleep always brought dreams—but tonight’s was different.
Spring, the fourth month. Apricot blossoms adorned the courtyard walls, their petals drifting on a warm breeze.
Looking down at her smaller hands, Zhao Rongyue realized with a start—she had returned to a day eighteen years past.
A time before tragedy, before irreversible choices.
Compelled by instinct, she wandered the garden, pausing beneath a tree. A single blossom tumbled from the branches.
A six-year-old boy peered over the wall, his white robes smudged with dirt. Round-cheeked and endearing, he gaped at the girl below, his face flushing crimson.
After a pause, he gathered his courage. "Zhao Rongyue, wait for me. I’ll marry you when I grow up."
She blinked, then smiled. "Are you alone?"
The boy hesitated before reluctantly glancing sideways.
More blossoms showered down as a second face emerged—a mirror image of the first, yet clad in black, his demeanor somber. Silent, he fixed his dark, intense gaze on her.
The white-clad boy nudged him. "If you don’t speak, how will she know?"
But Zhao Rongyue waited patiently, as though she’d stand there forever if needed.
A pair of butterflies danced atop the branches, their wings fluttering in the golden light.
At last, the boy in black stirred.
"Zhao Rongyue," he whispered. "I want to marry you too."
