The so-called immortal pool in the Clearmoon Terrace was actually a pond where the master used to grow water caltrops in his youth.
The White Cat said that when the caltrops ripened, the master would often pick them and share them with his disciples. Legend had it that the fruit had absorbed the essence of heaven and earth, and eating just one could enhance one's cultivation.
Wu Li naturally dismissed this as nonsense. He only knew that his wife had a craving for them.
He sent Hongjiao to dive into the pool and pick one. Its skin was still a pale green. He bit off the outer shell, then took a bite of the flesh—it was astringent and bitter.
Frowning, he looked down at the girl in his arms and said, "Mimi, I tasted it for you. It’s not ripe yet."
Kept alive by the Youth-Preserving Pill, her body was no longer stiff. Her skin remained smooth, radiating a lively elasticity. Her head was tilted against the young man’s neck, her hair loosely tied in a bun, still adorned with the silver fish hairpin. The rest of her dark hair cascaded softly over her shoulders.
Her eyes were gently closed, long lashes slightly drooping, her fair face peaceful—she truly looked as if she were merely fast asleep.
But her body held no warmth. She was as cold as a cup of tea left too long, its last warmth long gone.
Only when the soft, golden sunlight crept up inch by inch could she be warmed again.
In the moments while waiting for the sun to rise, he would unhurriedly kiss her hair.
Every night, Wu Li would wash her hair with water infused with dried flowers, then wipe her down from head to toe. Gardenia, jasmine, white orchid—he would rotate through them all. That was why a faint, lingering fragrance always drifted between her strands—a scent he had personally dyed upon her, like some secret form of possession.
He started from the tips of her hair, kissing his way up, strand by strand, until he reached her ear.
The small shell of her ear was cold. He held it between his lips to warm it. When the first sliver of sunlight finally crossed the mountains and fell upon her face, he would softly remind her:
"The sun has already risen."
Did you understand?
You should keep liking me now.
He had thought long and hard about that sentence. That day, he really should have taken the initiative first.
At first, he had been so insecure, holding a handful of moonlight in his hands and afraid to grip too tightly, fearing it would break if he squeezed.
She had given him so much—her smiles, her tears, her warm company, her deliberate approach... yet he had never dared to believe that the light in her eyes was shining for him. Because of that, he had let her—a young lady—be the one to say all the words that should have come from him first.
So now, he had to make up for it.
One confession wouldn’t be enough. He would say it a hundred times, until she grew tired of hearing it.
"Mimi, I like you. I really, really like you."
"This time, I said it first. Now it’s your turn—quick, tell me you like me."
He waited.
The wind didn’t answer. Neither did she.
He let out a sudden laugh, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger—winding it tight, then letting it loose, over and over.
"Not saying anything... Fine. I’ll say it again."
"Mimi, I really, really like you. I’m going out of my mind with it. What should I do?"
He lowered his eyes, his lashes casting a thin shadow beneath them. His voice was as soft as coaxing, yet also like a threat: "See? Every time you stay silent, I say it one more time. How many times do you want me to say it, hm?"
She was truly wicked. She still pretended not to hear.
Her face remained quiet and still, her long lashes unmoving. The corner of her lips even curled up slightly, as if she were laughing at his foolishness.
Tsk.
What a vexing little lady.
And yet, she had him completely helpless.
"Fine. It doesn’t matter if you won’t say it. You’re my wife anyway—you can only like me." A dark glint flickered in his eyes as he toyed with a lock of her hair. Helplessly, he added, "But since you refuse to speak, I’ll have to punish you."
Night fell.
Red candles flickered, casting the entire room in shades of blood.
The young man’s robes hung half-off, draped over his arms, revealing a strip of lean, taut muscle across his waist and abdomen.
His torso rose and fell faintly with each breath.
Now, every inch of that form was jaggedly crisscrossed with deep wounds, bleeding profusely, catching the candlelight in stark highlights and shadows.
Inside him, the Scarlet Blood Silkworm had almost been completely drained. His wounds were healing more and more slowly.
This so-called punishment—he inflicted it upon himself.
She had forbidden him from getting hurt, so he stubbornly tortured himself instead.
He was despicable, trying to make her cry for him, to make her ache for him, to make her wake for him.
She thought he was a precious pearl. But only he knew that deep down, he was black at the core. All his goodness was just a coat he put on—one he had to wear only because she liked it.
He had thought that if he was good enough, gentler, she would grow to like him more.
But now, she had turned herself into a porcelain doll.
Silent. Ice-cold.
He hated this porcelain doll.
His long fingers tightened around the blade. His knuckles went white, veins crawling from the back of his hand all the way into the depths of his wounds.
He seemed to feel no pain. A quiet laugh escaped from his tightly pressed lips—low, hoarse, broken.
"Mimi..."
The two syllables left his mouth, soft and syrupy, mixed with grievance and the need to be liked.
He leaned down to kiss her.
It was merely a press—a faint brush across her lips, like a man dying of thirst finally reaching water, but only daring to take the smallest sip.
Thick, crimson blood. Drop by drop, it fell all over her, seeping into her icy skin with a warm imprint.
It was the only warmth he could give her.
He guessed that only this body of purest blood could bring his wife back.
"Look at you, being so stubborn. Open your eyes and count how many times I’ve cut myself. Look how warm my blood makes you, hm?"
He laughed.
He looked at the girl, now stained blood-red.
Just like that day beneath the city gate.
The curve of his lips slowly widened into the purest, most deranged smile. A sinister, deep darkness radiated from him, as if he had finally torn off the mask of obedience, laying all the rotten things beneath it bare before her.
But she had her eyes closed. She couldn’t see a thing.
She hated filth the most. Hated the smell of blood.
He remembered—she had once washed his blood-soaked robes until they were clean.
Silence fell for a moment. Then, suddenly, panic seized him.
He quickly fetched a basin of warm water and scattered jasmine petals inside.
He had to wipe her clean. Wipe her until she was spotless and fragrant.
Otherwise, she would definitely be angry.
Right—how did she get angry, again?
Frowning. Pouting. Staring at him with her big, watery eyes. Just thinking about it made the corners of his mouth curl up.
When he reached her left hand, his brows knitted almost imperceptibly.
"Mimi, loosen your hand a little. Let me wipe your palm."
Wu Li tried to pry her fingers open, but they wouldn’t budge. He didn’t dare to use too much force, so he had to let her be.
Ever since that day, this hand of hers had been clenched tightly into a fist. The rest of her body was soft as usual, but this hand—stubborn, gritty, refusing to let go—reminded him so much of her occasional petty moods.
"What? Clutching so tight, are you saving the energy to hit me? Mad that I got your dress dirty?" He lifted her hand and lightly tapped it against his own chest. "Here, hit me. Happy now?"
Wu Li had never been a man of many words, least of all given to idle chatter.
But ever since he met Chai Xiaomi, it seemed he never ran out of useless things to say.
Now that she wouldn’t speak, the silence unsettled him.
Once he was under the covers, with her snugly held in his arms, he began to chat, rambling from one topic to another.
"Hongjiao was slacking off again today, lying by the pond dozing all day, drool dripping right into the water. The old man said that beasts grow lethargic before they take human form—so it must be close to transforming into a person."
"Jiang Zhiyu and Song Yueyao came by a few times recently, saying they wanted to see you. I didn't let them. Song Yueyao is now the Empress. Mimi, do you ever want to be an empress?"
"Forget it, you're way too lazy—you'd definitely find it troublesome."
"Oh, by the way, a whole valley of daisies has bloomed behind the back mountain, little white specks everywhere. I remember you like daisies. How about I take you to see them tomorrow?"
When he grew tired of talking, he'd pause to gently pinch her cheek, pretending to be annoyed as he demanded, "Hey, are you even listening?"
"I've said so much, could you at least give me some kind of reaction? A hum will do, or maybe blink? Twitch a finger?"
"Or maybe you think I talk too much, that I'm annoying?"
He pulled her closer into his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head.
"It's no use even if I am annoying you. If you really can't stand it, just sit up and scold me. I promise I won't talk back."
