Chapter 63
Chapter 63: Stubborn Love
The words sank heavy in Song Wei Chen’s chest.
So that was it, wasn’t it? In his eyes, a suspect like her—an intruder who’d blundered into the Dream Realm—was meant to be alone, meant to be isolated and helpless, meant to accept the occasional scraps of his kindness with gratitude.
She gave a quiet, bitter laugh. “What—do you think someone like me doesn’t deserve to be liked?”
Mo Ting Feng knew she’d misunderstood. He knew it the instant the question left her mouth.
But he couldn’t explain. He’d just spoken harshly moments ago. To backtrack now would only make everything more tangled.
So he said nothing.
And his silence made her feel even more ridiculous.
She’d blushed over a bit of warmth on the soul ferry. She’d gotten flustered by a few small gestures in a dungeon. Song Wei Chen, look at you—so starved for tenderness you’d mistake anything for love. In his eyes, you must look like a clown.
Zhuang Yu Heng’s smile turned strained. “Looks like I really shouldn’t have come today.”
He looked genuinely pained, as if he couldn’t understand how something so simple had gone so wrong. One sentence from Mo Ting Feng—Song Wei Chen, I like you—and everything would settle.
But the sentence never came.
Zhuang Yu Heng turned to leave.
Song Wei Chen caught his sleeve.
“Brother Yu Heng,” she said, forcing her voice light, “I’m resting today. Will you go out with me?”
Her gaze slid past him—sharp, challenging—straight to Mo Ting Feng.
She wanted him to see it. She wanted him to know: Song Wei Chen deserved kindness. She wasn’t some creature that had to survive on charity.
Besides, even if Zhuang Yu Heng didn’t truly like her in that way, he had manners. He wouldn’t refuse an invitation offered so openly.
“All right,” Zhuang Yu Heng said after a beat. “Shall I take Wei Wei to buy rouge and powder?”
“Okay,” Song Wei Chen said, looping her arm through his. “And then I want to go to Moonwatch Tower.”
“Whatever you want.”
They walked away.
Behind them, Mo Ting Feng watched her back until it blurred, his heart twisting into a knot that only tightened the more he pulled at it.
On Water Street, the night market had come alive. Lanterns glowed like scattered stars. People flowed shoulder-to-shoulder in a warm, noisy current.
Song Wei Chen’s mood lifted in spite of everything. She drifted from stall to stall, lively and curious, smiling at small wonders as if she were collecting them in her pockets.
Zhuang Yu Heng followed at her side, unhurried, eating a skewer of candied hawthorn. Song Wei Chen had bought it, taken one bite, then shoved the rest into his hand because she couldn’t finish. He ate it without complaint.
“Sorry,” she said finally. “I dragged you out.”
“It’s nothing,” Zhuang Yu Heng replied, mild as ever. “Walking around with Wei Wei is my honor.”
Song Wei Chen studied him. She’d invited him out for a reason. She had already agreed to be with Gu Cang Yue. She couldn’t allow herself any messy, half-spoken ties with other men.
“Brother Yu Heng,” she asked, “when you say you like me… what kind of like is it?”
Zhuang Yu Heng paused, caught off guard. “What kind do you think it is?”
“It’s not romantic,” Song Wei Chen said evenly. “Am I right?”
Zhuang Yu Heng let out a soft laugh. “Wei Wei, isn’t that forcing an answer?”
Then he sobered. “What kind of liking it is doesn’t matter. What matters is this—I won’t hurt you. I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want.”
He tilted his head. “If you call me Brother the way Mian Mian does, then I’ll treat you the way I treat her.”
Song Wei Chen felt an unexpected stab of envy toward Old Long Jing. Zhuang Yu Heng was gentle as spring wind, and with him, she found something she’d been craving since she arrived here: a sense of family, with boundaries that didn’t blur.
“Brother Yu Heng,” she said softly, “I’m glad you like me. And I’m glad I met you.”
Zhuang Yu Heng finished the last hawthorn, tossed the skewer into a bamboo trash basket, dusted his hands, and pointed ahead. “There. The rouge shop.”
Inside, rows of small bottles and jars gleamed under lamplight. Song Wei Chen’s eyes spun. She hovered before a shelf, then picked up a little box and looked at Zhuang Yu Heng with genuine uncertainty.
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” she admitted. “Back where I’m from, we call all of this makeup, and it’s split into a million categories—dry skin, oily skin, combo skin, glossy, matte, satin… and lipstick shades you could count for a lifetime. I can’t keep track there. Here it’s all tiny jars, and I’m even more lost.”
She turned the box in her hands. “Is this blush… or lipstick?”
Zhuang Yu Heng chuckled. “That’s easy.”
He called over the shop’s owner, a woman in her thirties with an elegant figure and practiced charm. “Bring me two sets of everything that suits her, and have it delivered to the Sunless Residence at Wind-Listening Manor. And please take her around and explain how to use it.”
“Minister of Works, your visit honors this humble shop,” the owner said, beaming. “Rest assured—I’ll see to it at once.”
She hurried over and linked arms with Song Wei Chen, voice intimate. “Miss must be the Minister of Works’ sweetheart, yes? You’re already like an immortal maiden without a speck of powder. Add a little color and every other Miss will pale in comparison. Come, let me show you what might catch your eye.”
Zhuang Yu Heng only smiled. He didn’t correct her. It wasn’t worth turning it into a scene.
Unfortunately, the shop owner’s flattery reached the wrong ears at the wrong time.
Mo Ting Feng arrived at the entrance and heard every word. He gave a tight cough.
The owner startled, then rushed forward, almost tripping over her own skirts. “Oh my, what kind of lucky day is this? Even a dust warden official has come. What an honor! Lord, whatever you need, just say the word.”
Mo Ting Feng swept past her with a cold face and seized Song Wei Chen’s hand. “I’m only here to accompany my person while she shops. Whatever she needs, I need.”
Despite the harsh words he’d thrown earlier, despite the anger still simmering in his chest, his feelings had won. He couldn’t help following her out.
Song Wei Chen’s fingers tensed in his grip. She lowered her voice, refusing to embarrass him in public. “Who’s your person? Let go.”
Mo Ting Feng didn’t loosen. “What—are you not someone from my Dust Warden Office?”
The shop owner missed Song Wei Chen’s displeasure completely. She was too busy spinning with delight.
A dust warden official, in her shop?
An iron tree had finally bloomed.
Had she heard correctly? My person?
Heaven.
The Minister of Works and a Dust Warden Lord escorting one Miss to buy rouge—what kind of relationship was this? She could brag about it for the rest of her life.
Mo Ting Feng’s voice snapped her back. “What are you standing there for?”
“N-no, no!” the owner stammered. “It’s my fault—my eyes are too blind. I didn’t recognize Miss’s standing right away. Dust warden official, please don’t blame me!”
She immediately began leading them through the shop, talking too much, smiling too wide.
Zhuang Yu Heng stayed in the lounge area, sipping tea as he waited.
The Minister of Works’ sweetheart…
His gaze drifted after Song Wei Chen despite himself, then fell on the hand Mo Ting Feng held tight. In the end, Zhuang Yu Heng lowered his eyes to his teacup and smiled faintly, shaking his head as if at a private thought.
When the three of them finally left the shop, Water Street had reached its peak. Lanterns blazed. Voices rose. The crowd became a river.
Song Wei Chen couldn’t help smiling at the sight. Her anger at Mo Ting Feng softened a little, her irritation dulled by the warm bustle. The light makeup the shop owner had applied made her look even more radiant.
Both men looked at her—and for a moment, both went quiet.
None of them noticed the shadow on a rooftop not far away.
A man—broad-shouldered, middle-aged—stood in darkness, staring at the three of them without blinking. He stretched a hand toward Green Mountain Village. Light rippled in his palm, forming a summoning spell.
At that same moment, Bao Er slept at home, unaware. A thin wisp of smoke seeped from the crown of her head, purple-black as a hairline crack, writhing through the air like a tiny snake. It slipped into the shimmering light and vanished.
The man withdrew his hand. His face stayed hidden, but his laugh cut through the dark.
“Don’t rush,” he said. “The best part is still ahead.”
Then he disappeared, spell and shadow together.
Almost at the same instant, Mo Ting Feng’s expression shifted. He snapped his head up, eyes locking on the rooftop where the man had stood.
“Strange,” he murmured. “Was that my imagination? Just now… it felt like a trace of the soul lamp’s aura.”