The Goddess of Santu took a deep breath, and after a long moment, slowly exhaled it.
As a malevolent deity who had existed for eons, she ought to possess the composure to remain unshaken even if Mount Tai crumbled before her.
Even so, she couldn't help but sneak a glance at the lake's surface, discreetly checking her reflection.
This ignorant brat was talking nonsense—though she was indeed advanced in years, she had clearly taken good care of herself.
Lazily curling her lips, she studied the expression of the young man before her. His eyes and brows were brimming with disdain, his posture lofty and superior, a stark contrast to the devout worshippers of the past who had knelt in reverence.
The Goddess of Santu let out a cold laugh: “If you don’t believe in gods, why bother to come and make offerings?”
Wu Li: “I haven’t come to worship you. I’ve only come to strike a deal with you.”
“A deal?” The Goddess of Santu seemed amused by the word. “You should know that every worshipper who comes to me prostrates themselves three times and kowtows nine times. Even if they want to trade one thing for another, they have to beg for it.”
“Human hearts are greedy. The things they take in exchange always seem more valuable in their eyes than what they give up, so they’re willing to hand it over to me. In the end, I’m the one giving charity at a loss. Don’t talk to me about deals—why make it sound so pleasant?”
“Everything.”
The Goddess of Santu was slightly taken aback. “What?”
The youth’s voice was calm, without a ripple of emotion.
“I want to exchange everything I have, everything that can be traded, for my wife—may she be carefree through the years, safe through all lifetimes, may she get what she wishes for, and may she encounter only kindness.”
“Surely that doesn’t count as a loss for you?”
She looked at him deeply and suddenly laughed. “Do you know why I am a malevolent deity?”
The Goddess of Santu slowly raised her gaze, fixing it on the treetop covered in white petals. “I was built from the desires and spiritual power of mortals. Humanity had desires, and so they had me. Those desires were tangled, deep, and some even absurd.”
“But occasionally, there are benevolent thoughts. Yet from the start, they never cast all their chips at once—a few years of life, a bit of luck, always leaving themselves a way out.”
“You, young man, are interesting. Without a second thought, you throw in everything, and what you ask for is nothing more than the safety and well-being of another. Have you thought this through clearly?”
Wu Li lowered his gaze to the lake’s surface.
Reflected at his feet was a figure in a red wedding gown. Through the shimmering water, he looked into his own deep and determined eyes.
In the reflection, that gaze seemed to be calling him a fool.
But so what?
As long as he could imagine her stretching lazily in the morning light, falling into peaceful sleep at dusk, pausing now and then for a blooming flower, or smiling at a passing breeze...
All those trivial, ordinary, insignificant little things—as long as she was the one at their center—became reasons for him to give everything.
Everything seemed worth it.
He slowly lifted the corners of his mouth. “I never do things I haven’t thought through.”
The Goddess of Santu reached toward the tree trunk. Amid the falling petals, a small white daisy flew out from the trunk and drifted into her palm.
A daisy growing on the tree trunk—it was rather jarring, yet because its color blended with the surrounding petals, it had gone unnoticed until now.
She pinched the small daisy gently between her fingers, slowly rotating it, studying it closely.
After a while, she sighed softly, “It’s a pity, though—the fate of the person you wish for is not fixed. She was never meant for this world to begin with, so this deal may be difficult to fulfill. There’s a chance that everything you give will come to nothing.”
With that, the Goddess of Santu raised her eyes with interest, carefully studying the young man’s expression. She was curious—when faced with the certainty of loss, how would he react?
The moment she fell silent, a wisp of black ominous energy suddenly shot out from him, swift as a meteor yet gentle as a spring breeze. In a flash, it snatched the small daisy from the goddess’s fingertips.
The ominous energy carried the little flower steadily, rising all the way to the highest branch of the tree, carefully placing it back onto the trunk.
“Even if it all goes to waste, let it be. My fate is none of your concern.”
“I only want her to be well.”
The youth’s voice did not carry the slightest hesitation, clear and crisp like the wind cutting through a mountain pass.
Pure, forthright, never looking back.
At the very top of the tree, the little daisy seemed to feel something—it trembled softly.
---
The red candle had burned more than halfway down, nearing its end. Wax tears slowly trickled along the candle’s body, gathering into a small pool of red on the candlestick.
On the window frame, the double happiness paper-cuts fluttered slightly in the night breeze.
“What time is it now...” Chai Xiaomi muttered, pacing the room in boredom.
She turned, tidied the festive fruits arranged on the table, then turned again to smooth out the already overly neat quilt on the bed.
Finally, too restless to settle, she grabbed a piece of paper at random from the desk.
These were all leftover sheets of practice paper from Wu Li, with a faint trace of ink at the corners.
She examined it under the candlelight, flipping it back and forth. It was densely filled with countless characters for the word “rice” (mi). She curled her lips at first, then pouted. “Not bad handwriting, I suppose.”
With that, she folded the paper twice, easily turning it into a little paper frog. She pressed it onto the table.
The frog jumped once.
Her eyes curved in delight, and she pressed it again.
No sound came from outside the door.
No sound came from outside the window either.
“My dear new husband,” she murmured, picking up the little frog and bringing it close to her lips, “on our wedding night, you leave me here all alone—is that proper?”
Thinking it over, there seemed to be no one around to judge her.
So she set the little frog neatly beside the candlestick, propped her chin on her hands, and stared at it.
“Tell me, when will he be back? Fireworks shouldn’t take this long. Could he have gotten drunk and fallen asleep by the roadside?”
Of course, the little frog couldn’t answer.
She sighed, pressed it for fun one more time, and then decided the single frog looked too lonely. She thought to fold another one.
She drew another sheet from the small stack of paper. Pulling it out casually, her gaze fell upon it—and she suddenly froze.
She had pulled it at random, only now noticing that this sheet had been at the very bottom.
It bore only two characters, the strokes thick, rough, and wild, showing the immense force behind the hand that wrote them.
—Inferior Soil.
A heavy, inky streak slashed across both characters, as though venting fury, or mocking oneself.
Chai Xiaomi’s gaze lingered for a long time, and in a moment of clarity, she understood.
The conversation in the pavilion—he had overheard it, and it had taken root deep in his heart.
He resented Old Ji, while simultaneously despising his own humble origins.
All those conflicting feelings had been suppressed within him, finding no outlet.
His twisted personality had led to his strange behavior.
The explanation he had once refused to give—now, suddenly, it all made sense.
She understood.
Old Ji had called him inferior soil. So he would not bother to prove his goodness to anyone. Instead, he would walk the dark path all the way, becoming as vile as he could be.
With a mindset filled with a kind of threat, of punishment, of playfulness.
As if saying: You say I am this, then I am this.
What can you do to me?
