Strange Trust in a Man's Ghost

He Zhuoming immediately let go of her fingers and drew her arm back, startled.

But Lin Qingyun didn't release her, so their hands stayed clasped. In fact, her sudden jerk even pulled him down onto the bed.

The candle he'd been holding rolled to the floor, bounced down the steps by the bedside, and clattered across the floorboards.

Only then did He Zhuoming remember he couldn't see, and she hastily helped him up, whispering, "You can let go now."

Lin Qingyun said nothing, merely loosened his grip slowly, and got up to retrieve the candle that had rolled away. The room was filled with tables, chairs, and various ornaments, yet Lin Qingyun naturally sidestepped every obstacle, moving like a man who could see perfectly.

He Zhuoming watched his retreating figure pace about, then decided to get up and help him look—just the thought of a blind man searching for something felt pitiful.

She scanned the floor as she asked, "Did I hold onto you like that all night?"

Lin Qingyun: "Mm."

He Zhuoming paused mid-search, embarrassed, and scratched at the floorboards with her fingers, her voice turning small: "Sorry about that—you could've just pried my hand away, or woken me up, that's fine too."

Lin Qingyun: "So what did you dream about last night?"

He Zhuoming scrunched up her face in deep thought, then shook her head. "I don't remember. Did I say anything else in my sleep?"

Lin Qingyun gave a faint smile. "No, just asking."

There had been something, actually. Last night he'd heard He Zhuoming call out 'Qingyun' in her dreams.

But he didn't want to discuss 'Lin Qingyun' with her, because he had no idea who this 'Lin Qingyun' was. Tang Shuyu's eyes had always been set high above his head—he wasn't the type to use a false name. So who the hell was 'Lin Qingyun'?

He said no, and He Zhuoming believed him, turning back to search earnestly for the candle. She caught a glimpse of its outline peeking out from under the table against the wall.

He Zhuoming exclaimed in delight, "Found it, found it! The candle's here!"

She crawled under the table, reaching for the candle. Just as her fingertips were about to touch it, Lin Qingyun's hand came down from above, pressing her hand flat against the floor.

The floor of this fabricated room was spotless; even with her palm pressed down, she felt no dust.

He Zhuoming froze and looked up at Lin Qingyun—he'd crawled in at some point, now close enough to crowd her.

A faint, cool fragrance filled the cramped space beneath the table, and the hand pressing down on hers covered everything from wrist to fingertips.

He Zhuoming had always known Lin Qingyun ran cool, but today he felt especially cold—even his palm had the chill of an inanimate object.

After a long pause, she finally reacted. "Your hand—"

Lin Qingyun pushed her hand aside and said, "Candles are dangerous. Xiao He mustn't touch them."

His arm reached past her to pick up the candle. He Zhuoming noticed that despite rolling such a distance across the floor, it hadn't gone out—still burning vigorously.

Lin Qingyun took the candle and backed out from under the table.

He Zhuoming patted her knees and stood up, asking, "This candle isn't an ordinary one, is it?"

Lin Qingyun didn't answer, just wore that familiar smile of polite refusal she'd seen many times before.

He Zhuoming stared at his smiling face, dazed for a moment before it clicked. "Oh—this is a secret too?"

Lin Qingyun: "Mm."

He Zhuoming couldn't hold back. "Why do you have so many secrets?"

Lin Qingyun held the candle, lowered his eyes and smiled. "Is it bad to have secrets? Xiao He has her own secrets too."

Of course, he had no idea whether He Zhuoming actually had secrets—he was just taking a shot in the dark. If she did, great, it'd cover the awkwardness. If she didn't...

Well, that was the main body's fault.

He Zhuoming puffed out her cheeks in frustration, breathing in and out, then said, "I only have one secret! But you—I feel like you've changed since we came to this Divine Palace. You have more and more secrets, and you talk less and less."

Lin Qingyun: "Did I used to talk a lot?"

He Zhuoming nodded. "You used to say people who talk little are just putting on airs."

Lin Qingyun said flatly, "Xiao He, how old are you now?"

He Zhuoming: "Fifteen!"

Lin Qingyun nodded. "That's not young anymore. Time you learned some sense—and today I'll teach you one: Xiao He, trust a man's ghost stories and you'll bring misfortune on yourself."

He Zhuoming stared at him, utterly shocked, while Lin Qingyun maintained that serene expression. "The me of yesterday isn't necessarily the me of today. And judging someone by how much they talk is a shallow thing to do."

He Zhuoming: "Okay, stop with the ghost stories. I'll believe them and jinx myself."

Lin Qingyun: "Hahaha—Xiao He, no need to learn your lessons quite so fast."

In the end, Lin Qingyun never explained what was special about the candle, nor showed any sign of revealing his other secrets to He Zhuoming.

When He Zhuoming was in a bad mood, she never gave him a pleasant face. Even knowing he couldn't see, she forced a cold, stern expression, crossed her arms in a frosty pose, and made an aloof farewell before stalking off.

The candlestick she'd used for light the night before still sat on the steps, but its candle had burned down completely, leaving only hardened wax tears stuck to the holder.

He Zhuoming swung the candlestick as she hopped down the steps, mulling over what to do today.

Sword practice could take a day off—after all, it was that time of the month; no point pushing herself too hard. But staying cooped up in her room felt suffocating, so she might as well go out for a stroll.

The east side housed disciples from other sects, and that was asking for trouble, so best to avoid it. The west side... Li Shui had said the Pear Garden disciples lived there, so that was worth a look.

By the time she hopped off the last step, she'd made up her mind.

She returned to her room and found Li Shui standing at the door holding a food box. He Zhuoming hurried over to open the door and invite her in.

Li Shui was usually all smiles, but today she could barely manage one—even the lifting of her lips looked forced.

As she opened the food box and set out the dishes, she kept stealing glances at He Zhuoming.

Finally, curiosity got the better of her, and she asked, "Did you... go up those steps yesterday?"

He Zhuoming: "Mm-hm, I did. Li Shui, have you eaten breakfast yet? Want to eat together?"

Li Shui blinked, but reflexively declined. "No... I've already eaten."

He Zhuoming: "Li Shui, what's that white room at the top of the steps?"

Li Shui was still reeling from the shock that she'd actually gone, and answered on reflex, "It's..."

She only got out one word before snapping back to herself and cutting off abruptly.

Her grip on the food box tray turned white at the knuckles from the strain, and her already strained smile grew even more forced as she covered up: "It's just an ordinary room."

The atmosphere turned awkward, and Li Shui knew her excuse was flimsy and unconvincing—but to her relief, He Zhuoming didn't press further.

After breakfast, Li Shui took the dishes away, and He Zhuoming went back to the bedroom for a quick wash and a change of clothes.

She had to cross the main hall to leave as usual, and she saw many white-robed disciples moving about: some knelt before the statues chanting prayers, others wiped down altars and arranged offerings.

The divine statues lined the walls in a semicircle around the tallest, grandest red deity statue at the center of the hall, like stars encircling the moon.

The air was thick with a heavy blend of incense and floral fragrance, mixed with the smoky tang of burned talisman paper.

The exotic flowers offered before the statues seemed never to wilt—every petal remained vibrant and dewy, not a single leaf showing the slightest trace of fatigue.

He Zhuoming walked up to the statue and tilted her head back to look—she'd seen it yesterday too, but back then she'd been too busy gaping at the mountain of offerings to pay attention to what the deity looked like.

But now, looking closely, she still had no impression of this True Deity's appearance. The carving was indistinct—less a statue and more a vague crimson humanoid shape. Forget the face; even the clothing was hard to make out.

And because the statue was so tall, He Zhuoming had to crane her neck back as far as it would go just to see its face—before long, her neck was aching.

Apart from He Zhuoming, no one else dared to openly stretch their necks to stare at the deity's face. Even the disciples serving around the statue deliberately lowered their heads and kept their eyes downcast, avoiding any direct gaze.

A Pear Garden disciple was offering incense to the statue, and He Zhuoming, watching, followed suit with three sticks of her own—but she made no wish.

Then she wandered over to the west side. Its layout was completely different from the east.

The east was just high walls and buildings. The west was a vast, exquisite landscape garden with winding, intricate paths and delicate, ever-changing pavilions. Some spots didn't even have buildings at all, just platforms rising directly from the water.

On one platform, a group was playing music, the sound blending with the flow of the stream.

He Zhuoming sat on the bank, cupping her cheeks in both hands, listening quietly. When the group finished and dispersed, she smoothed out her rumpled clothes and asked someone for directions back.

The girl who pointed her the way had been playing the flute on that platform.

They chatted casually along the way, and when the girl learned that He Zhuoming was new here and didn't know her way around at all, she enthusiastically insisted on escorting her personally, all the way to the main hall's entrance, and forced one of the flutes hanging at her waist on He Zhuoming as a gift.

"You've got nothing else to do anyway," the girl said cheerfully. "When you're bored, come find me and learn the flute. All the girls I room with went for the qin or zither—I'm the only flute player, and practicing solo gets dull."

He Zhuoming thought for a moment, then said, "I guess I could learn the flute, but I won't be staying here long. Maybe I'll leave as soon as the Day of Divine Celebration is over."

The girl shrugged carelessly. "The celebration's still thirteen days away. You can come play for thirteen days if you like."

He Zhuoming: "The day after tomorrow, then. I'll come find you to learn—but not tomorrow. I promised someone I'd go watch her match."

"Match?"

The girl frowned, thinking, then said, "You mean that thing on the west side, the Contest of Heroes?"

He Zhuoming said uncertainly, "Probably."

Xu Feixian had never told her what kind of match it was—He Zhuoming had just assumed a match was a match, never thinking it would have a name.

The girl said, "I know. Some of our Pear Garden musicians are competing too. I might go watch tomorrow myself."

*

He Zhuoming twirled the newly acquired flute in her hands as she walked, thinking about what the girl had said and what Li Shui had said—and the more she thought, the more she felt Lin Qingyun didn't fit the picture of a mere nominal musician. He seemed more like someone with real standing within the Pear Garden Divine Palace.

The male lead, holding a high position at the villain's headquarters—was that even right?

And then there was that strange candle, that strange white room, and a Lin Qingyun who'd turned somewhat odd ever since entering the Divine Palace.

He Zhuoming lay in bed, turning it all over in her mind, until she'd thoroughly confused herself.

She raised her hand and stared at her own knuckles against the ceiling, then remembered how Lin Qingyun had pressed down on her hand that morning to keep her from touching the candle.

As she thought about it, frustration and hurt swelled up inside her: back when they were close, Lin Qingyun had let her play with the Wuyi Sword! Now he kept all sorts of secrets from her, and wouldn't even let her touch a candle.

He Zhuoming rolled over, tucking her hand under her head. "I don't care about some stupid candle, and I don't want to know his stupid secrets—he's never treated me like a real friend. He—"

She rolled over again, thinking of that empty white room and the things Lin Qingyun had said yesterday.

She muttered to herself, "Though Lin Qingyun's kind of pitiful too. If the True Deity's having a meeting, fine, but why lock him up there and make him stay a full fifteen days... He must be bored out of his mind."

It had only been two days, and boredom had already driven Lin Qingyun to learn the spell for building houses.

He Zhuoming sat up, picked up the candlestick, and walked out of her room, heading straight across the corridor and down the steps.

The room was just as she'd left it—empty, white, and bleak. The only splash of color was Lin Qingyun sitting in the center, staring down at the candle in his hand with intense focus, no smile on his face, his expression unreadable.

He looked so absorbed that He Zhuoming briefly wondered if he'd regained his sight. But when she leaned in close, the white silk was still bound over his eyes.

She waved her hand in front of his face.

Lin Qingyun looked up and smiled at her. "Xiao He, I'm blind, not dead. I can sense that."

He Zhuoming: "What are you looking at?"

She crouched down in front of him and peered at the candle in his hand. It was lit, but the wick wasn't cotton thread—it was a small folded talisman paper, with traces of cinnabar patterns visible.

Lin Qingyun answered, "A prison."

He Zhuoming: "You're blindfolded. Can you still see?"

Lin Qingyun smiled. "Of course not. But I can feel it."

He Zhuoming didn't quite understand and complained, "You've gotten so cryptic lately."

Lin Qingyun: "It's just that Xiao He didn't understand. Don't blame me."

He Zhuoming pulled out the long flute and poked Lin Qingyun's shoulder with one end. "Forget all that stuff I can't understand. Talk about this instead—can you play the flute?"

Lin Qingyun nodded. "I can."

He Zhuoming's eyes lit up. She shoved the flute at him, saying excitedly, "Then teach me—teach me!"

Lin Qingyun had no choice but to set the candle aside and take the flute she pressed into his hands. He ran his long, slender fingers over the flute from end to end, then asked, "Who gave you this flute?"

He Zhuoming: "A female disciple on the west side of the Pear Garden. I agreed to go learn the flute from her the day after tomorrow. But I wanted to learn a little on my own first."

Lin Qingyun lowered his lashes, the corners of his mouth turning up, his dimples appearing lightly as his mood brightened.

Of course he knew who had given He Zhuoming that flute. He could even recite word for word every line of the girl's conversation with He Zhuoming at the main hall door.

But that didn't stop him from wanting to ask again in front of Xiao He.

Especially when Xiao He answered him with the truth—Lin Qingyun felt as though a lively sparrow had been stuffed into his chest, fluttering and hopping about.

Lin Qingyun twirled the flute in his hand and asked He Zhuoming what song she wanted to learn.

He Zhuoming thought for a moment. "Something simple!"

Lin Qingyun raised the flute and played a tune he considered the simplest he knew. When he finished, he asked He Zhuoming, "Xiao He, do you have it?"

He Zhuoming blinked, baffled, and pointed at herself. "Huh? I'm supposed to have it just like that?"