Chapter 38

Chapter 38: A Startling Dream of the Past

Song Wei Chen felt as if she’d been walking through darkness for a long, long time.

Just as exhaustion grew so heavy she could barely stand, a door appeared in the black—bright light spilling through its seams.

She didn’t hesitate. She pushed it open and stepped inside…

Then froze.

Wasn’t this the Sunless Residence?

Why was she here?

The room looked familiar, but something was wrong. In the center stood an ancient zither, and on the side table by the window lay a calling card that read: No Concern for Romance.

Beyond the doorway was nothing but darkness. It felt like there was no choice at all.

She stepped in.

The moment she crossed the threshold, dizziness washed over her. When she steadied, it was as if she had become someone else—her gaze turned calm, cool, distant.

A voice sounded outside the door.

“Miss Sang Pu, Young Master Mo is here. He says it’s the meeting you agreed to at Marquis Zhao’s manor. Shall I let him in?”

The door was closed again, though she hadn’t seen it move.

Sang Pu smiled faintly. “Let him in.”

She crossed to the window table, slipped the calling card away, and noticed orchid incense burning softly in the censer.

A moment later, Mo Ting Feng entered. He wore sky-blue robes embroidered with cloud patterns, his posture bold and bright like a hawk cutting across open sky.

He glanced around. “Miss, your boudoir is remarkably simple.”

“In the eyes of someone as shallow as me,” Sang Pu said, calm as still water, “even fine things become tedious if you stare at them too long. So I don’t keep them. Emptiness is form.”

She brewed tea as she spoke and set a cup before him.

Mo Ting Feng accepted it and drank. “Are you hinting that I shouldn’t love too deeply—because one day, form will become emptiness?”

Sang Pu smiled. “I didn’t know Young Master had become so earnest in love. It seems my eyes were poor.”

“Since the moment I saw you step away from the revelry,” Mo Ting Feng said quietly, “and stand beneath the corridor with your graceful head lifted, watching the moon.”

Sang Pu paused—only a breath—then returned to composure. She refilled his cup.

“So that line of yours,” she said, “No Concern for Romance… was a lie.”

Mo Ting Feng set his cup down with care and looked at her. “There’s a saying: ‘False words reveal true intent; true and false are both delusions.’ Miss is talented. Do you know where it comes from?”

“The Surangama Sutra.” Sang Pu’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “It means everything is false, and only the true heart is real. So all dharmas are the true heart, and the true heart is all dharmas.”

Her eyes flicked to him. “Young Master has found a convenient excuse for his romantic heart.”

“I have a true heart,” Mo Ting Feng said, gaze steady. “I don’t need excuses.”

Sang Pu lowered her eyes, hands moving with practiced grace over the teapot. “There’s another saying: ‘He who promises lightly must lack faith.’ Young Master is talented. Do you know its source?”

“You don’t believe me?” Mo Ting Feng asked.

“Believe or not,” Sang Pu said evenly, “what difference does it make? One day, everything will be empty.”

Mo Ting Feng watched her as if trying to see through mist. “Sang Pu, a true heart is like fire. Why do you watch it from the other shore?”

Sang Pu finished her tea, sat in silence for a moment, then rose. “Come. I’ll take you for a walk.”

She led him through the courtyard at a slow pace and pointed to one building.

“That used to be Crimson’s room. I saw a man swear he would marry her. She believed him. Later…” Her voice didn’t change, but something in it sharpened. “Crimson jumped into a well, pregnant.

“And that man? I saw him in this very courtyard a few days ago, drinking with a girl in his arms.”

She pointed to another.

“That was Emerald’s room. Emerald is a courtesan like me. Half a year ago, a wealthy master redeemed her as a concubine. Everyone was happy for her.

“Last month, that master sold her back. She caught a sickness that can’t be cured.”

They walked farther into a small courtyard. Broken song drifted out in a thin, foolish thread.

“That’s Oriole,” Sang Pu said. “A miss as pure as a lotus in clear water. She met a scholar by chance. They loved each other like life and death. She gave him everything she had so he could chase fame.

“He did succeed. But after his name went up on the golden list, he returned here to listen to music and seek pleasure…” Sang Pu’s gaze didn’t waver. “The man below the stage celebrated his glory and refused to recognize the old acquaintance above.”

She led Mo Ting Feng out of the courtyard and stopped.

“You say a true heart is like fire,” Sang Pu said softly. “I grew up here. I have watched flames burn and burn and burn… and all that’s left in the end is ash.

“I have never once seen a true heart.”

Mo Ting Feng moved as if words could save what was already broken. “Sang Pu… I’m not like them.”

Sang Pu lifted her head and looked at him directly. “How are you not?”

Mo Ting Feng couldn’t answer.

Sang Pu smiled, and for the first time it looked tired. “But I am like them.”

Mo Ting Feng felt a deep helplessness. The woman before him was like moonlight on water—reach for it, and it slips through your fingers.

Sang Pu offered a small, graceful bow. “Please go, Young Master Mo. I agreed to serve as Music Officer for the ritual. I don’t need your true heart.”

Song Wei Chen woke with her eyes still closed, her mind drifting in the aftertaste of the dream.

At some point, she’d been moved off the Ten-Thousand-Year Moist Jade and onto a soft couch. Her body felt lighter. The burning pain in her chest was gone; her fever seemed to have eased; even the heavy soreness in her limbs had faded.

But she still didn’t want to open her eyes.

She’d had that dream so many times before. In older versions, she never had a name. This time, he had called her Sang Pu.

Sang Pu.

Wasn’t that the name Mo Ting Feng had casually made up at Moonwatch Tower when he was brushing off Boss Shu?

They always said you dreamed what you thought about during the day. This wasn’t that. This was dreaming what you lived through.

Ever since the man in her dream had taken Mo Ting Feng’s face, every repeat of the dream became him. Now he’d even changed her name in it.

Bullying her in her dreams too—did he have to be this shameless?

She pouted faintly and let out a soft huff through her nose.

“You’re finally awake.”

Mo Ting Feng’s voice came from close by, unexpectedly gentle.

He’d been keeping watch.

Song Wei Chen immediately squeezed her eyes tighter and scooted away from him on the couch. After everything that had happened, she refused to look at him.

“You have every reason to be angry,” Mo Ting Feng said quietly. “I didn’t protect you.”

Song Wei Chen turned her face away, chin lifted with stubborn refusal.

Mo Ting Feng watched her pout and, without warning, remembered that night she slept in his room—kicking the quilt into a mess. He’d told himself he wouldn’t care. Yet he’d still covered her again and again, as if his hands had their own will.

Maybe even then, he’d already begun to think she mattered.

Song Wei Chen felt his arm slide around her, drawing her into his embrace. He held her gently, but there was a warmth and steadiness to it that made her go still.

She was angry. She should have pushed him away.

But she didn’t.

She lay there, stunned, caught in the broad shelter of him, heart hammering as if it wanted to betray her out loud.

“Wei Wei,” Mo Ting Feng murmured, “you’re very important to me.”

Song Wei Chen’s heart skipped.

What was this thousand-year ice block saying?

He wasn’t calling her full name. He was calling her Wei Wei.

Was she still dreaming? Had she knocked her head too hard falling down the mountain?

She coughed lightly, trying to regain control. “Boss, you’re giving me serious Zhang Fei energy right now—skipping the battlefield and trying to seduce the enemy with a handsome-man scheme…”

“You’re always like this,” Mo Ting Feng said, helpless and exasperated all at once. “Little spirit monster. You say strange things and turn my mind into a mess.”

He loosened his hold and looked at her with careful seriousness.

“Originally, you were mortal and I was asleep. We had nothing to do with each other.

“Then you were the suspect and I was the hunter. Our positions were clear.

“Later, you were an enforcement officer and I was Dust Warden. Boundaries still existed.

“But now…” His eyes didn’t leave her face. “I can’t quite tell what we are anymore.

“I’m only sure of one thing. You matter to me.”

Song Wei Chen felt like her mind had crashed.

This was too much.

She sat up cross-legged on the couch and stared at him, then reached out and pressed her palm to his forehead. Then she pressed her own.

“You’re not feverish,” she said, baffled. “Why are you talking nonsense?”

She leaned in and sniffed. “Oh. You’ve been drinking. This is drunk talk.”

Mo Ting Feng let out a small laugh. “I drank. But I meant it.”

“True heart again…” Song Wei Chen rolled her eyes, trying to dredge up a line from her dream. “Something about false words… true something… two something… Ugh, I can’t remember. You men love talking about true hearts.”

Mo Ting Feng went rigid. “Are you trying to say…” His voice turned strange. “False words reveal true intent; true and false are both delusions?”

“Yes! That’s it!” Song Wei Chen brightened, completely missing his reaction. “Look at you, remembering something that tongue-twisting. And you even knew what I was trying to say. We should play charades. Our teamwork is ridiculous.”

Mo Ting Feng stared at her as if she’d cracked the world open with a casual joke. “How did you… think of that line?”

“Oh, you were talking about true heart,” Song Wei Chen said, waving it off. “And I just had that same dream again. They were talking about true heart too, so it popped into my head.”

Mo Ting Feng’s throat bobbed. His hands began to shake, just slightly, as if even the air around her had become dangerous.

“I…” His voice was careful, almost afraid. “Am I in your dream this time too?”

Song Wei Chen gave a soft snort. “Don’t even get me started. Ever since the dream-man’s face turned into yours, every repeat of that dream is you.”

Mo Ting Feng’s eyes darkened. “And in that dream… what is your name?”

“Why do you care so much about my dream?” Song Wei Chen frowned. Then, seeing how tense he was, she answered honestly. “It used to be Song Wei Chen. But ever since you made up that name at Moonwatch Tower, my dream-name became Sang Pu.”

Something in Mo Ting Feng’s expression shattered.

A heartbeat later, he bent forward—

And a mouthful of black blood spilled onto Song Wei Chen and the couch.

Mo Ting Feng dropped to his knees beside it.

Song Wei Chen slid off at once, panic wiping the last of her anger clean. She knelt beside him and scrubbed at the blood on his mouth and jaw with trembling hands.

“What’s wrong with you? Big boss, don’t scare me!”

Her mind spun wildly, flashing ridiculous comparisons she couldn’t control. The last time she’d seen someone get talked into spitting blood was in a Zhou Xing Chi movie—Tang Bohu trading couplets. But that was a movie. This was real.

Mo Ting Feng’s heart-meridian he dong spiraled out of control. The backlash from his emotion-severing ward surged violently. Golden, sand-like motes began to spill from his body, shimmering as his power overflowed.

The danger was immediate—visceral.

And Song Wei Chen could do nothing but hold her breath and stare.