Lu Yan snatched her sword and threw it to the floor. “Hiss—” He gasped in pain, trembling as he applied medicine to his hand. As soon as the ointment was smeared onto his hand, the bleeding stopped, though he had no idea what kind of medicine it actually was.
Jiang Ci opened her eyes and looked at the man before her. His long black hair hung damply down his back, not yet fully dry. A dark silk ribbon was tied over his eyes, and a cultivator's robe, identical to the one she was lying on, was draped haphazardly over his shoulders, its buttons left undone. He was grimacing as he rubbed the ointment onto his hand.
Lu Yan had just finished bathing and was drying his hair when he heard the basket containing the sword tip over. His heart had skipped a beat—he couldn't have saved someone only to get bitten in return, could he? Putting down his half-dry hair towel, he threw on a robe and came out. Although he was blind, his ears were sharp, and he had heard the sound of the blade unsheathing clear as day. Pinpointing her location by sound, he had grabbed the blade and flung it away, his spiritual energy circulating as he prepared himself for a fierce battle.
“What are you doing?” he asked, facing Jiang Ci's legs.
Jiang Ci watched him fling her sword away, grimacing as he rubbed the ointment on his hand while interrogating her legs... For a moment, her urge to die dissipated by half. The corner of her mouth twitched. So he's blind. The certainty in her mind began to waver slightly. What if he didn't do it?
Seeing that she didn't reply, Lu Yan released his cultivator's pressure. However, this pressure fluctuated erratically, shifting between the third level of Qi Condensation and the fourth level of Qi Condensation. It was the consequence of a recent breakthrough; his realm was unstable.
“Speak. Who are you? How did you get in here?” His voice rose a notch, his face turned in her direction, but slightly off—facing her shoulder.
Jiang Ci's pupils contracted. A cultivator whose aura had just broken through, unstable.
The hope that had just surged within her was instantly snuffed out by this unstable pressure. The Joyous Union Sect—after such sects were annexed by the Central Continent Alliance, they didn't even have the right to their own independent mountain peaks. However, cultivators with Dao companions would generally learn a dual cultivation technique to rapidly elevate their cultivation through the yin-yang cycle between sexes. It was just that a realm forcibly pulled up by such a technique was extremely unstable and needed to be consolidated immediately. This man's cultivation...
There was no need to explain what had happened. Jiang Ci's eyes, which had just regained a hint of life, turned back into a pool of stagnant water.
Kill him with her sword? The thought flashed through her mind, but she quickly suppressed it. Doing so would only anger him, inviting further humiliation. She had been unconscious before, but if it happened again, let alone resisting, she wouldn't even be able to commit suicide. She lowered her gaze, staring at the male cultivator's robe on the bedsheet. It was made of coarse cotton, washed until it was faded, its edges frayed. She didn't know why she noticed this.
“...Give me my sword,” she spoke, forcing the words past her dry, raspy throat. Her voice was very soft, like sandpaper rubbing against a wooden board. She just wanted her sword. She hoped this man would give it to her.
Lu Yan silently turned around—he had forgotten that he had laid this girl the other way. He tapped his temple. “Answer my question. Who are you? Why are you here?”
“Exiled,” she said. “Passing through. Collapsed.”
He frowned. An exiled sinner of the Northern Border? Done by the Central Continent Alliance? He recalled the Central Continent Alliance sect uniform she wore, and the shredded fabric. He had never seen her before. But he had seen too many people discarded by the Central Continent Alliance.
“My sword,” she repeated.
Lu Yan did not move. He was thinking. An exiled sinner, covered in wounds, on the verge of death, collapsed in a ruined temple. He had saved her, applied medicine to her, bandaged her, and covered her with his own robe. Then she woke up and pointed a sword at him. He had grabbed the blade, and his hand was still throbbing with pain.
“...Suicide?” he asked Jiang Ci.
Jiang Ci did not answer. Silence was her answer.
“No,” he said without a second thought.
An even worse outcome surfaced in Jiang Ci's mind. The man before her did not want her life, did not want her sword, and did not want her to answer any questions. Then what did he want?
She had seen too many people like this. When she was carrying out missions in the Northern Border, at the banquets of the Central Continent Alliance, in the eyes of those self-righteous cultivators. It wasn't the first time she had been looked at with those eyes. It was just that in the past, her cultivation had been intact, and no one dared to touch her.
A terrifying thought suddenly entered her mind. Does he want to keep me as his plaything?
This thought made her chest heave with anger, aggravating her wounds and making her grit her teeth in pain.
She looked at his face—the dark ribbon covering his eyes, his unbuttoned collar hanging open, droplets of water not yet dried beneath his collarbone. Blood was still seeping from his hand, dripping down through his fingers. She couldn't read him. Perhaps there was nothing to read. Perhaps she was just making excuses for him. Looking for an excuse that “he wasn't that kind of person.” But she couldn't find one. A cultivator with an unstable aura, shredded clothes, a naked body, a male cultivator's robe draped over her—every piece of evidence pointed to the exact same thing.
Even though she knew she shouldn't provoke him or anger him right now, she simply couldn't hold it back any longer.
“Aren't you done playing with me yet?”
Her voice was very soft. It wasn't a question, nor was it mockery. It was a statement. As if she were stating a fact she had already confirmed.
The rain continued to fall. Neither too heavy nor too light, it pattered against the thatched roof with a rustling sound, like someone whispering endlessly in one's ear. Raindrops fell from the eaves into the mud, one by one, rhythmically. The room was very quiet. The hearth fire had long since gone out, and the pot of congealed porridge on the stove had gone cold. The burnt smell had already dissipated, leaving only a faint, bitter char that mingled with the damp air, heavy and unable to clear.
Lu Yan stood there, motionless. His hand remained outstretched in the posture of gripping a sword, his fingers slightly curled. The blood between his fingers had already coagulated into a dark red. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but his lips merely twitched without making a sound. He tried again, but still, nothing came out. He didn't know what he should say, or even what he should think. His mind was completely blank, as if a chunk of it had been scooped out. Her words kept echoing in his ears, spinning over and over, unable to sink in, yet unable to leave.
The rain outside grew denser, the rustling sound merging into a single sheet, like a veil shrouding the entire house. The water dripping from the eaves was no longer a rhythmic pit-a-pat, but had connected into continuous, thin streams.
Lu Yan's hand slowly dropped to his side, his fingers still slightly curled. He did not speak, merely standing there, his face turned in her direction. Even though he could see absolutely nothing.
Rate on N.U.
