Chapter 61

Chapter 61: Trying to Confess

Song Wei Chen didn’t know how long she’d slept—only that it had been deep, heavy, and strangely comforting. When she finally surfaced, she found herself still in Mo Ting Feng’s arms.

Had he… never let go?

The dream flashed back—one horse, two riders, open fields, a kite cutting loose into the sky—and heat rushed to her face. She bolted upright and scooted away, hugging her knees as if distance could hide her embarrassment.

“How long was I out?”

“Not long,” Mo Ting Feng said. “Three shichen.”

“Six hours!” Song Wei Chen gaped. “You held me for six hours? Don’t you have work? Study? Cases to solve? You’re a dust warden official—how can you be this… idle? And I’m not even some thing—oh, wait—”

His mouth curved. “Didn’t you just help me resolve a thorny case? The grievance-breaker on the Nian Niang case gets to rest for two days.”

Song Wei Chen blinked at him. “The Nian Niang case is closed? How is that possible? What did I miss?”

He leaned close and lowered his voice. “Publicly, it’s closed. We’re letting the news spread to see how the other side reacts. Privately, there are still doubts. For example—we still don’t know whose hair was inside the soul lamp. He Ran and the others are investigating in secret.”

“Can I help with anything?” she asked at once. “And the previous White Robe still has no leads.”

“Right now,” Mo Ting Feng said, “your only job is to get well.”

He went to the wardrobe, pulled out a set of clothes he’d clearly prepared for her, and handed them over.

“Put these on. I’ll take you into the courtyard for some air. I have something to tell you.”

When Song Wei Chen came out, Mo Ting Feng was waiting in the bamboo pavilion. The stone table had already been set with fruit and pastries, each portion cut into neat bites.

His thoughts, however, were nowhere near food.

Ji Bai Shou’s warning echoed in his head: once emotion stirred, it swept everything away like rot and deadwood collapsing in a flood. He tried to steady himself with it—then stopped.

He was no longer someone who had any right to speak of purity. He was already a monk who’d broken his vows. Xu Zhu had Meng Gu; what claim did he have to preach restraint?

Reason told him, over and over, to keep his distance—to guard against her unknown origins and the suspicions still clinging to her name.

But feeling didn’t listen. Past and present tangled together in his chest, rooting deep, refusing to be pulled out.

He remembered a book by Lu Kun, titled Groanings. One line had once seemed distant, almost pretentious. Now it struck like a blade:

“The bitterest part of life is when the heart is soaked in mud.

“You know it—yet you still can’t cut it off.”

Bamboo leaves whispered in the wind. The wind moved, and so did his heart.

“What are you thinking about?” a voice asked. “You look completely lost.”

A small head popped into view beside his shoulder.

Song Wei Chen had changed into a pale pink dress that shaded into white, embroidered with peach blossoms at the waist, cuffs, and shoulders. The soft color brought life back into her face, making her look like jade warmed by spring. Mo Ting Feng stared—openly, helplessly—until he realized he’d been caught.

This was a color Sang Pu would never have worn. Sang Pu had always been cool-toned, always distant, and she especially disliked peach blossoms.

“Peach blossoms aren’t flirtation,” Sang Pu had once said, refusing a delicate fan he’d offered. “They’re cruelty. A pink tyrant. There are corpses of love hidden in every petal. I don’t want to become one of them.”

She hadn’t hated peach blossoms.

She had hated him—hated his untimely feelings.

His feelings were always untimely.

Even now, he couldn’t tell what he felt for Song Wei Chen. Maybe the excuse of Sang Pu’s rebirth was just that—an excuse. The truth was simpler: his heart leaned toward her, unrestrained, and he couldn’t stop it.

A small hand waved in front of his eyes, snapping him back. “Hey. If you keep staring, I’m charging admission.”

She tilted her head, then frowned. “Wait. That sounds wrong. Am I a zoo monkey now?”

Mo Ting Feng laughed despite himself and gestured for her to sit. A rabbit-fur cushion had already been placed on the stone stool, guarding her from the chill.

“Boss,” Song Wei Chen asked, sitting with her hands and feet lined up like a well-behaved employee, “what did you want to tell me?”

Mo Ting Feng’s gaze softened. “The Nian Niang case taught us something about chaos wraiths. They’re like a fish bladder full of air. No matter how many puppets are inside—Nian Niang had thirty-seven—if even one of them can let go, it’s like pricking a tiny hole. The rest collapse with it.”

He paused. “That was your contribution.”

“Mine?” Song Wei Chen blinked. “I didn’t do anything. Catching Nian Niang, collecting information, using Bao Er to draw out Xiu Niang, persuading her to dissolve her resentment—you did all of that.”

“That chestnut cake of yours was the key,” Mo Ting Feng said. “We uncovered everything about Xiu Niang, but we missed what she cared about most—whether someone else could cherish a child’s likes and needs the way she did. Your attention to Bao Er was what finally let her go.”

“And without you,” he added, his voice turning grave, “we could never communicate with a chaos wraith at all. Forcing a drifting soul-fragment…” He held her gaze. “You don’t want to know the cost.”

Song Wei Chen did know. Ding He Ran had warned her: force it, and the memories of the living would twist. If they’d done it to Nian Niang, Bao Er might have remembered love as hatred, tenderness as disgust. It could have changed a child’s nature.

Compared to that, dissolving resentment was the gentlest ending—a grievance-breaker’s best comfort for those still breathing.

“You did well,” Mo Ting Feng said quietly. “Better than I ever imagined.”

Song Wei Chen’s smile spread before she could stop it. “Boss, are you praising me?”

Mo Ting Feng leaned in, eyes intent. “Praising you? No. Suspecting you? Very much.”

His voice lowered, intimate in a way it hadn’t been before. “So, little liar—I’ll keep you in my sight for the rest of my life.”

Song Wei Chen’s heartbeat stumbled. Ever since that ride back from Gu Cang Yue’s manor, he’d been… off. Close in strange ways. Warm at the worst possible times.

“Boss,” she said, forcing a laugh, “you sound like you’re implying something…”

Mo Ting Feng moved closer. “Then tell me. What did you hear?”

His lips were suddenly too near.

Song Wei Chen tried to lean back, to put space between them—but the rabbit-fur cushion slid. Her weight shifted. She flailed for something to grab and found nothing.

In the next breath, Mo Ting Feng’s arm wrapped around her, catching her before her head hit stone.

That brought them even closer.

So close she could count his eyelashes.

So close her face burned.

“Ahem,” a voice said blandly. “Am I interrupting?”

Zhuang Yu Heng stood behind them.

Song Wei Chen shoved Mo Ting Feng away like she’d been rescued from a cliff edge. “Brother Yu Heng! You’re a lifesaver!”

Mo Ting Feng’s expression cooled, but Song Wei Chen didn’t even look at him. She grabbed Zhuang Yu Heng and dragged him aside, whispering urgently, “Something’s wrong with him. He’s been weird ever since we came back from Gu Cang Yue’s manor. Can you check if he’s been tainted by something? Like… possession?”

Zhuang Yu Heng’s face went serious. “Oh? What kind of weird?”

Song Wei Chen glanced over her shoulder to make sure Mo Ting Feng wasn’t paying attention. Then she wrapped her arms around Zhuang Yu Heng, demonstrating.

“He does this.”

She mimed a princess carry. “And this.”

Then she seized Zhuang Yu Heng’s hands and clasped them between both of hers. “And this.”

Leaning to his ear, mortified all over again, she whispered, “And… can you believe it? He held me while I slept for three shichen.”

Zhuang Yu Heng’s eyes went wide. “What?! You two slept together?!”