Song Huaijing’s memories were abruptly pulled back to his youth...
"Confucius spoke not of uncanny forces or divine mysteries."
This was a principle his teacher had instilled in him since childhood.
There were no ghosts or deities in this world—and even if they existed, they could not meddle in mortal affairs or alter the lives of ordinary people.
Yet in his youth, Song Huaijing had indeed encountered something inexplicable.
Like the tales whispered in the streets, he had lost both parents at a young age. The Song family had fled floodwaters and resettled in Nanzhou County, leaving him with no kin but his late parents. From then on, he was alone in the world.
Fortunately, his parents had left behind a modest house where he could live. He was healthy and studious, earning his keep by copying books and doing odd jobs.
At fourteen, while hauling ropes for a merchant ship, Song Huaijing fell into the river. Everyone assumed he had drowned. For seven days, they searched in vain for his body—what a pitiful child, they murmured.
Even the profit-driven shipowner, Boss Zheng, took pity and paid for a coffin.
Just as the villagers debated whether to wait for his body to surface or bury an empty grave with his belongings, he returned.
But the turbulent waters had dashed his head against a rock, stealing fragments of his memory. He remembered his name, his parents’ names, but not recent events—nor how he had survived.
When he awoke, all he knew was that he was starving and wanted to go home to cook porridge. As he approached his house, he found a crowd of distressed neighbors gathered at his door.
His sudden appearance nearly scared the souls out of them.
To the villagers, this was the seventh day since his disappearance—the day when spirits might return.
Seeing their horrified reactions, Song Huaijing looked down at his damp, mud-streaked clothes.
He was merely disheveled—why were they acting as if they’d seen a ghost?
Only when Uncle Chen, the local physician, stepped forward to check his pulse, and Boss Zheng’s servant handed him a meat bun to quiet his hunger, did Song Huaijing learn what had happened.
The physician confirmed he had only a head wound and minor scrapes—nothing life-threatening.
This was good news, yet everyone wondered: how had he survived those seven days?
Soon, though, the matter was forgotten.
Only Song Huaijing knew there was more.
A strange girl had moved into the long-vacant house south of his home—someone he’d never met.
Every morning as he studied, he’d see her rise, her thin arms trembling as she pushed a cart to sell homemade tofu.
The neighbors treated her as if she’d always lived there.
But to Song Huaijing, she had appeared out of nowhere.
He sensed something unnatural—about himself, and about the girl to the south.
Over time, he learned more: her name was He Xingzhi. Like him, she had lost her parents young, scraping by with odd jobs.
They were even distantly related—so distantly that if Song Huaijing angered the emperor, she wouldn’t be implicated.
He knew some mysteries were beyond mortal understanding.
Rather than obsess, he chose to let nature take its course.
Perhaps it was their faint kinship, or their shared loneliness, but they grew close.
He’d help her grind soybeans or pack up her stall.
She trusted him too, offering bowls of tofu pudding.
At first, her business barely fed her—then, inexplicably, it thrived.
Neighbors became family, and two half-starved youths clung to each other like stray cats in winter.
Back then, survival alone was a blessing.
But Xingzhi died in the second month of their betrothal.
...
Two months ago, Song Huaijing noticed a new tavern in the capital.
As with Xingzhi’s sudden appearance years ago, only he remembered the spot had once been ordinary shops.
To everyone else—even beggars—this was Jinxi Lou, built last year by the wealthy He family of Jiangnan.
Yet when he learned the owner’s name—He Xingzhi—his long-dormant heart burned with hope.
His investigations deepened his suspicions.
After Xingzhi’s death, her body vanished. Her acquaintances forgot her; her properties changed hands; even her servants believed Song Huaijing had always been their master.
It was as if she’d never existed.
Had he not spread tales of her through storytellers, he alone would remember.
He knew his Xingzhi was no ordinary woman—she couldn’t have died so easily.
But without proof, he couldn’t claim this woman was her.
Nor could he risk mistaking another for his beloved.
Xingzhi had been fiercely possessive—even before their betrothal, she’d sworn he must love only her, or she’d "make him a eunuch."
Her very words...
Candle wax pooled in layers on the table, stretching their shadows across the wall.
Returning to the present, Song Huaijing studied those shadows.
He Xingzhi smoothed her skirt, glanced around, and moved toward the door.
But Song Huaijing circled the table, blocking her path.
"Were you in Nanzhou County two months ago?" he asked abruptly.
She looked up, only now realizing how much taller he was.
Assuming the question harmless, she nodded. "Yes."
"Do you remember the river by the county gate?" His voice softened. "In spring, scholars would float wine cups along its currents."
She edged toward the exit. "Of course. The water was so clear..."
Her tone betrayed unease.
On her first day in this world, she’d packed and left for the capital.
She had no idea what Nanzhou’s river looked like—or even where Nanzhou was in reality.
He Xingzhi touched the tip of her nose and followed Song Huaijing’s pace down the stairs.
In reality, she wasn’t from Jiangnan at all—in the terms of this world, she should be considered a Lingnan native.
Well… the Lingnan of exiles.
“Come to think of it, it’s been a long time since I last returned home. I miss it dearly.”
Song Huaijing smiled gently, his gaze lightly resting on her.
The gates of Nanzhou County didn’t even have a river, let alone a small stream.
He Xingzhi was spinning a tale to match his words.
Now, she was like a moth drawn to a spider’s web, ensnared in the trap he had meticulously woven.
Song Huaijing didn’t expose her lie, merely standing quietly by her side with lowered lashes.
Everything today had been too sudden, too rushed—so rushed that He Xingzhi’s long hair had only been hastily pinned up with a single hairpin, a few loose strands still cascading carelessly over her collar.
The last time he had seen her, her head had been adorned with golden hairpins and jade ornaments.
Outside the teahouse, a breeze swept along the path, curling He Xingzhi’s hair and carrying her scent into Song Huaijing’s embrace.
He caught the fragrance on her—unlike the floral perfumes most women favored, hers was a deep, woody aroma, the same incense He Xingzhi had always loved.
And then there was another scent, one that didn’t belong to soap or incense.
It was a fragrance unique to He Xingzhi alone.
Even the nightgown she had favored, still kept in his chambers, no longer carried that scent.
Song Huaijing felt his breath grow heavier. He glanced down and noticed a tiny mole on the curve of her ear.
He Xingzhi’s mole.
Pressing his lips together, Song Huaijing closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, his gaze was clear and composed.
Straightening his robes, he summoned the attendant who had been waiting.
Then, with a wave of his hand, he called out, “Yuwen Yi.”
A woman dressed in practical attire emerged from the darkness. “Madam He, I’ll escort you back to Jinxi Tower.”
He Xingzhi stole a glance at the woman, who stood half a head taller than her—likely a martial-trained officer, exuding an air of security.
She smiled faintly. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
The distance between the teahouse and Jinxi Tower wasn’t far—just a fifteen-minute walk, though a carriage ride would be quicker.
When Hongdou saw He Xingzhi, she nearly burst into tears. “Boss, are you alright?”
Her eyes darted toward the carriage outside before she frantically grabbed He Xingzhi’s wrist, inspecting her from head to toe.
Only when she looked up and saw He Xingzhi’s amused expression did she finally relax.
He Xingzhi shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“I’m not a criminal—I was just a witness. No need to worry so much.”
She yawned, suddenly remembering the blood she’d seen earlier. It might still be on her.
Even though she knew it was all an illusion, she couldn’t shake the sticky, uncomfortable feeling clinging to her skin.
She shuddered. “Hongdou, prepare some hot water for me. I want to bathe again. I’ll explain everything in detail later.”
“Right away!” Seeing He Xingzhi’s calm demeanor, Hongdou finally settled down and hurried off to instruct the servants.
After a quick wash, He Xingzhi returned to her room and gave Hongdou a rough summary of what had happened.
Hongdou was stunned. “Does that mean our restaurant will be under surveillance these days?”
“Probably, but we’ll just carry on business as usual. It’s nothing to worry about.” He Xingzhi exhaled and flopped onto the bed, sprawling out like a starfish.
“Did they… pressure you during the questioning?”
Hongdou frowned. Having grown up in commerce with He Xingzhi, she’d had little interaction with officials.
He Xingzhi shook her head. “No. How could they? Didn’t you say before that Councilor Song is fair, selfless, and kind? He didn’t seem difficult to deal with.”
“That’s a relief. The torture scenes in those novels are terrifying.”
“Hongdou, I told you—I’m a witness, not a criminal.” He Xingzhi rolled over, her voice slowing with drowsiness. In an instant, she was fast asleep, a pillow clutched in her arms, her lashes still and silent.
Hongdou held her breath as she stood, carefully tucking the blanket around her.
After extinguishing all the lamps in the room and confirming He Xingzhi was sound asleep, she tiptoed out.
The night was thick as ink, impenetrable.
After the rain, the clouds had begun to disperse, leaving the crescent moon faintly visible under the eaves. The occasional distant bark of a dog only deepened the surrounding silence.
The fragrance of jasmine at the corner of the wall was rich and pleasant. Seeing the lights in He Xingzhi’s room go out, Yuwen Yi, gripping her saber, leapt down from the roof of Jinxi Tower’s backyard.
After escorting He Xingzhi back, she hadn’t left immediately—instead, she had been ordered to observe her movements upon returning.
Just as she prepared to head back to the Dali Temple, she suddenly sensed another presence nearby. Gripping her curved blade, she spun sharply toward the source.
“It’s me.”
“Councilor Song? My apologies.”
Yuwen Yi sheathed her weapon and bowed, her expression unchanging.
Still, she was puzzled.
Song Huaijing had instructed her to watch He Xingzhi until she fell asleep, and she had obeyed.
Why had he followed her now? Did he suspect something about He Xingzhi?
Song Huaijing gave a slight nod. “No matter. Return to the Dali Temple and report to Mr. Lu. We’ll discuss the details tomorrow.”
“Understood.”
Yuwen Yi bowed again before retreating.
Only once she had vanished from sight did Song Huaijing vault over the same wall he had scaled not long ago.
Standing before He Xingzhi’s door, a slow smile curved his lips.
