Black crows cawed noisily beside the riverbank, startled into flight from the fir forest, flapping their wings as they scattered in all directions.
The air filled with a heavy smell of blood. Bright red slowly seeped from Murong Lian’s wounds, soaking into the rubble and broken bricks beneath him.
The assassination began in an instant and ended just as quickly.
This group moved with incredible speed and had undergone the harshest training. Gu Mang and Murong Lian were standing so close together, yet those spells struck only Murong Lian, without harming Gu Mang in the slightest.
Moreover, the arrows used by the assassins were formed from spiritual power. They exploded the instant they entered flesh. Thus, although Murong Lian had no arrowheads lodged in his body, more than a dozen bloody holes had already been blasted through him.
At first, despite his injuries, he did not immediately collapse. But as more and more blood flowed and the pain grew deeper, he finally could not hold himself up any longer and suddenly dropped to his knees, violently coughing up a mouthful of blood.
Seeing him like this, Gu Mang’s head suddenly rang, as though something had exploded inside it.
“Mu—Murong…”
Murong Lian covered the deepest wound on his chest, breathing in ragged gasps. His thin lips visibly lost their color, becoming pale and bluish.
One of the assassins atop the treetops suddenly said in a muffled voice, “My lord, someone is coming!”
“Withdraw!”
Several black shadows flashed away, and the assassins disappeared into the depths of the forest just as quickly as they had appeared.
Murong Lian weakly cursed, “Fucking… bastard… coward… come back if you have the guts… cough, cough, cough…”
The moment he finished speaking, he vomited another mouthful of blood and staggered, collapsing face-first onto the sharp gravel of the riverbank.
The bright moon hung overhead. Blood spread across the ground, and for a moment, only Gu Mang and the severely wounded Murong Lian remained beside the riverbank.
Although there were already very few good memories of Murong Lian left in Gu Mang’s mind, when he actually saw Murong Lian lying in front of him covered in blood, the deepest and most hidden nerve inside his mind was still painfully struck.
His fingertips went cold.
He stood there for a moment before suddenly coming back to himself and hurrying over to examine Murong Lian’s injuries.
What he saw was even more horrifying.
Leaving everything else aside, the wound on Murong Lian’s chest had already been blasted into a bloody mess by the spiritual-power arrows, and blood was pouring out without end.
Gu Mang instinctively tried to cover it with his hand, but it was useless. The sticky red blood quickly coated his entire palm, yet he could not stop Murong Lian from bleeding.
“Murong… Murong…”
By this point, Murong Lian was already at the end of his strength. The light in his eyes was beginning to scatter. He lay on his back on the gravel, his chest rising and falling rapidly, more blood surging from his wounds with every breath.
With great effort, he moved his glass-colored eyes and looked at Gu Mang for a while before whispering, “You…”
“…”
“You… really… those… cough, cough… those things concerning me… you… don’t remember any of them?”
If he had asked this question a month earlier, before the memories Gu Mang had recovered began to disappear, perhaps Gu Mang would have told him the truth.
Unfortunately, it was too late.
Gu Mang looked at Murong Lian’s slightly upturned peach-blossom eyes.
They were undeniably beautiful eyes, yet because his glass-colored irises naturally sat high, they gave him the sinister appearance of someone with the whites of his eyes exposed beneath and to either side.
“You should have… at least… at least…” Murong Lian took a breath and tremblingly reached out a hand, seemingly wanting to do something.
But his injuries were simply too severe. He could not muster even the slightest bit of strength.
He stared fixedly at Gu Mang’s face, an extremely complicated and deeply unwilling light flickering in his eyes.
He opened his mouth, just about to continue speaking, but what came out was not a voice.
It was a mouthful of congealed blood.
From the distant forest came the sound of voices and approaching lights.
A trace of clarity suddenly flashed across Murong Lian’s pale face.
He raised his blood-covered hand and gathered a thin layer of luminous spiritual power. He lightly touched Gu Mang’s chest with one finger, then pushed him away.
“Run.”
Murong Lian’s consciousness was already on the verge of extinguishing. His eyes were beginning to lose focus, yet he still urged Gu Mang on in a hoarse, muddled voice.
“…Run… quickly… otherwise…”
Another mouthful of blood surged up.
Murong Lian’s voice was almost inaudible now. His beautiful peach-blossom eyes were wide open, his pupils moving weakly from side to side, reflecting the stars filling the sky and Gu Mang’s bewildered face.
His final words drifted from between his bloodstained lips and teeth like a delirious murmur:
“…otherwise… we’ll… never… be able to explain it…”
“Murong Lian!!”
“Gu Mang…” In his fading consciousness, he whispered, “…actually… I… I also never…”
Before he could finish, another mouthful of blood surged up.
Murong Lian’s hand moved slightly, as though he wanted to do something one last time, but he had no strength left. His hand abruptly fell.
Everything had happened far too suddenly.
Gu Mang’s head was buzzing so loudly that he could not think at all.
What had Murong Lian wanted to say?
Almost at that exact moment, the Northern Frontier Army patrol cultivators who had rushed over at the sound of the alarm emerged from the forest carrying wind lanterns.
The lantern light swept across the two of them.
The patrol captain at the front was silent for a moment before the lantern in his hand suddenly slipped and fell onto the riverbank.
The cultivator cried out in shock:
“Lord Wangshu?!!”
A howling, bloody wind swept past.
The alarm pierced the night from the riverbank and spread throughout the darkness—
“Someone come quickly!! Lord Wangshu has been assassinated!!!”
“Catch that assassin!”
“Seize him!!”
Gu Mang had never intended to run.
But how could those cultivators care about that?
A streak of spell-light suddenly shot from the side and struck Gu Mang hard in the back.
Someone shouted from where the spell had come from:
“We hit him! He can’t run now!”
“Take him back!”
Gu Mang, dazed and heavy-headed, collapsed beside Murong Lian.
He happened to be facing Murong Lian, facing that face that had always been impossible to see through—
The face was now completely drained of color, and those peach-blossom eyes that always carried a hint of mockery were tightly closed.
What had Murong Lian wanted to tell him before…?
Murong Lian… what kind of person had he really been…?
Gu Mang, his memories incomplete, thought in a muddled state, but he had no answers at all.
The final thing he saw before losing consciousness was a group of people from the Chiling Battalion surrounding him.
“You… really… those… cough, cough… those things concerning me… you… don’t remember any of them?”
“You should have… at least… at least…”
At least what?
At least remembered something?
Murong Lian’s words before losing consciousness echoed deep within his dreams like a nightmare.
Gu Mang drifted and sank through an endless darkness.
Suddenly, a beam of light seeped out from his chest.
In the dream, he sat up and touched his chest.
The place emitting the light was precisely where Murong Lian had touched him with his finger at the very end.
The light grew brighter and brighter, continuously pouring out from his heart.
Finally, within the darkness, it transformed into a luminous white butterfly.
Gu Mang seemed to have been drawn by some indescribable summons.
He climbed to his feet and followed the white butterfly forward.
The dream grew deeper and deeper.
Guided by the spirit butterfly, he saw Madam Zhao’s face, distorted like mist:
“You’re so stubborn. How will you ever inherit your father’s estate in the future and bring honor to the Wangshu Manor?”
He saw the steward of Wangshu Manor reaching toward him through the thick fog:
“Young Master, it’s getting late. You need to hurry back to the zither room and practice. If you’re late, Madam will inevitably punish you again.”
He also saw, deep within the ethereal mist, the young Mo Xi standing on the archery grounds with a bow in his hand.
His broad black robes trimmed in gold fluttered in the wind.
Around him stood several blurred-faced elders from the academy, all praising and commending him.
And Murong Lian stood gloomily in a corner, clutching a scroll on music cultivation that he had no interest in reading.
Suddenly, countless voices surged through the dream like the tides—
First came Madam Zhao’s voice:
“You will never be able to surpass him.”
Then came the academy elders:
“You’re always inferior to him.”
Finally, those voices twisted into cruel laughter and became Murong Lian’s own muttering.
“Murong Lian, you will never be able to surpass him.”
“You’re nothing but a clown, a petty, sinister man… You can’t even decide for yourself what you like…”
“Are you Murong Lian? No. You’re nothing but a copy of your father… a puppet on strings… Hahahahaha…”
He kept walking forward.
Slowly, those voices faded away.
The light of the white butterfly grew stronger and stronger. Every time it fluttered its wings, glowing motes scattered through the air, gradually driving away the endless darkness.
Gu Mang saw a crack of daylight appear ahead.
At first, he heard the sound of wind coming from within the beam of light.
Then petals slowly drifted down, and more butterflies formed from illusion magic fluttered through the air.
He walked forward—
Until he reached the center of that pure white expanse.
He heard the voice of young Murong Lian drifting softly from deep within the whiteness:
“Is it you…?”
Before Gu Mang could answer, the butterfly fluttering ahead of him suddenly transformed into a blurry shadow.
A tiny Murong Lian stood within the white light and looked back at him.
“It is you…”
Almost at the same moment he spoke those words, a dazzling flash of light suddenly erupted, forcing Gu Mang to shut his eyes.
After a while, he heard the tinkling sound of wind chimes hanging beneath the eaves.
A fawning voice was speaking.
“Young Master Murong, the pastry box you ordered is ready. Please take another careful look. If there’s anything you’re dissatisfied with, I’ll have the pastry chef remake it immediately.”
Gu Mang slowly opened his eyes.
The dream had already changed.
Before him was a building decorated in gold and red. The entire hall was filled with camellias the size of bowls.
Most of the servants were plump, simple-looking women in their forties or fifties, dressed in matching coarse floral clothing as they bustled around the hall with smiles plastered across their faces.
This was Linglong Pavilion.
The most famous pastry shop in the capital of Chonghua.
Young Murong Lian stood in front of a tall fir-wood counter, tilting his head up as he spoke imperiously to the shopkeeper.
He looked only four or five years old then, an extremely young and tender child.
Yet from head to toe, he had been dressed to the utmost in extravagant ornaments, as though his family wished to inlay even his fingernails with gemstones.
But he was so tiny.
Gold, silver, jade, and pearls had all been piled onto him.
At first glance, he looked less like a living child and more like a moving treasure chest with tiny legs.
Naturally, merchants welcomed customers who practically had “I’M RICH” written across their foreheads.
And Murong Lian was one of the most distinguished young masters in all of Chonghua.
So even though he was merely a little child who still smelled of milk, the shopkeeper, already past fifty, practically wanted to kneel down and flatter him as though he were his own father.
Murong Lian stretched out his tiny hand and took the pastry box.
When he opened it, he saw golden, glossy, flaky pastries, delicate lotus pastries in pale pink layers, and Linglong Pavilion’s signature milk pudding—a small, translucent dessert topped with a blooming spring-peach blossom.
Murong Lian stared at it for a while, then reached out without the slightest bit of courtesy, took one, and stuffed it into his mouth.
Mumbling around the pastry, he ordered, “I’ll take this one. Go make another box.”
The shopkeeper found his serious yet utterly gluttonous appearance rather amusing, but he didn’t dare laugh.
He could only nod and bow repeatedly before ordering the pastry master to steam another batch of cakes and bake another batch of pastries.
While waiting, Murong Lian sat in the honored seat at Linglong Pavilion and, accompanied by a pot of rose tea, ate every last pastry without the slightest hesitation.
Gu Mang was puzzled as to why the illusion Murong Lian had left for him would be this scene.
Then he saw the shopkeeper lift the bamboo curtain and walk over to Murong Lian with another freshly wrapped pastry box.
“Young Master Murong, another box has been freshly made. Would you like to take another look?”
Murong Lian looked very much like a child pretending to be an adult. Imitating his mother, he waved his hand with great dignity.
“No need. I’ll take it. Charge it to my monthly account.”
The shopkeeper: “…Young Master, you don’t have an account. Only Madam Zhao from your household has a standing account… Would you like me to charge it to Madam Zhao’s account?”
“No!” Murong Lian’s eyes widened, and he immediately rejected the suggestion.
Then he added, “Wait. I have money.”
With that, he began rummaging through his little cloth pouch.
That pouch was where Madam Zhao usually kept pocket money for Murong Lian.
Madam Zhao was strict with him, so the amount she gave him was not very much, and most of it was loose change.
Thus, the shopkeeper watched in disbelief as the richly dressed Young Master Murong pulled handful after handful of pitiful-looking white shell coins from his pouch.
He gathered them together and counted them one, two, three, four times.
It wasn’t enough.
So he took out more.
But how much money could a four- or five-year-old child possibly have?
After rummaging for ages, all he produced were a few scattered, battered shell coins.
Murong Lian lifted his head.
He was clearly feeling a little guilty, but he still had to maintain his dignity.
“So that’s everything. You don’t need to give me any change.”
“………………”
“Until next time.”
With that, he picked up the pastry box and strutted away with all the swagger of a grown man, leaving the shopkeeper staring after him in shock, on the verge of tears.
When he returned to Wangshu Manor, Murong Lian summoned his closest attendant.
First, he put on a show of taking a sip of tea.
Only then did he lift his eyes and ask:
“Ahem… that… that little bastard slave. I pushed him yesterday and he hit his head. Is he still alive?”
Gu Mang froze.
He still had some vague impression of this.
And so he slowly realized—
This memory had taken place around the time Murong Lian had pushed him off the swing, causing him to crack his head, after which Aunt Lin had carried him away to receive treatment.
The attendant could not figure out Murong Lian’s intentions and answered nervously:
“Young Master, he… he’s still alive.”
Murong Lian gave a profound little “Oh,” his expression shifting uncertainly.
“Still alive.”
“Yes… yes. Aunt Lin took him to see a medical cultivator in time. That boy is probably resting in Aunt Lin’s room right now. Does Young Master have any instructions?”
“…Nothing.” Murong Lian said, “You may leave.”
After the attendant left, Murong Lian sat at the table with his legs crossed and thought for a while.
Finally, he took an old coin from his storage box and held it in his hand, muttering to himself:
“If it lands heads, I’ll go apologize. If it lands tails, I’ll eat this entire box of pastries myself.”
With that, he tossed the coin.
It rolled around the table several times with a clattering sound before finally coming to rest, heads up.
“Fine.”
Murong Lian said irritably, “I was the one who pushed you, after all. I’ll apologize. It’s not like I’ll lose a limb.”
He jumped down from his chair, rose onto his tiptoes, picked up the pastry box from the table, and headed toward Aunt Lin’s room.