The Exit — After We Get Out

But only part of the threads had gotten tangled. The rest, still loose, kept crawling toward He Zhuoming—more precisely, toward the small boy tucked under her arm.

They occasionally behaved like living things, like eyeless worms, raising their heads slightly, swaying uncertainly in mid-air, twitching in small motions as if sniffing, judging the location of their food by scent.

It was a bit disgusting. He Zhuoming dry-heaved twice.

After the retching, she leaned against the cold jade wall, her heart pounding so hard she felt like she might drop dead.

Her strength was running low. The hand gripping the boy's clothes was white-knuckled—thick blood had soaked through his robes, trickled onto her sleeve, her hand, seeping between her fingers, making her palm slippery. She could barely hold on to him.

He Zhuoming braced herself against the wall and let go. The boy slid limply to the ground, gasping, a few strands of his long hair still clinging wetly to her fingers.

He Zhuoming: "No... no... I can't run anymore... Keep running like this, it's not going to work."

The boy said nothing. Not because he didn't want to—but because it hurt too much to speak.

Every inch the branches growing from his bones pushed outward was like having his skin flayed and his bones pulled out. He couldn't even pass out; he just stayed conscious, feeling every abnormal change inside his body.

He'd heard what He Zhuoming said, of course—and her letting go seemed perfectly normal to him.

He'd never expected anything from her in the first place. The fact that she'd dragged him along this far was already a surprise.

Stupid person, but with a genuinely kind heart.

A normal person seeing this scene—forget saving someone, crawling away immediately would already count as brave. But this crying fool turned out braver than even the brave people he'd imagined.

His mind fuzzy from pain, he still found himself thinking she was...

His thoughts stalled. The boy couldn't find the right adjective. Simply calling her brave didn't seem enough.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the white threads moving across the blood-streaked floor, drawing closer—and also saw He Zhuoming roll up her sleeves, grip her sword, and walk away.

The strands of hair tangled around her fingers pulled taut, then snapped as she walked off. The sting of torn hair was nothing compared to the agony of the growth in his bones, but the boy could feel clearly that a few strands of his hair had wrapped around her fingers, and had been ripped away as she moved.

He Zhuoming took a deep breath, gathered herself—she knew two ways to use a sword: one taught at an extracurricular class, the other taught by Lin Qingyun. One slash to the statue's feet, one thrust into its heart.

The thrust to the heart—that one was taught by a puppet of the Corrupted Deity.

When she was serious, when she swung with the full intention of "I must cut through something," the wooden sword abruptly gained a razor-sharp edge.

The statue's robe was severed at the feet, the cut white threads withering quickly, turning black, crumbling into a thin layer of ash.

But He Zhuoming's wooden sword stuck in the statue's heart—she tried to pull it out, twice, without success. Then the whole shrine began to tremble slightly, and a bloody hue slowly spread across the statue's chest.

Its blurry face became clear, and that harmless smiling young man's face bore a faint resemblance to Lin Qingyun. But He Zhuoming was too panicked to pay attention to who the statue resembled.

She struggled to stand on one foot, but the shaking shrine rocked her around, making her silhouette look a bit comical—yet in a thousand years, she was the first person to dare drive a wooden sword into a true deity's heart.

The boy lay on the ground, head tilted up, staring at her back, stunned out of his pain, mouth slightly open.

He had never thought of hacking at a True Deity's statue. Neither had anyone else. Because everyone knew the True Deities really existed, and disrespecting them was absolutely forbidden.

Then he watched the statue, standing for who knew how many centuries, come crashing down. The flower-carrying swallow on its shoulder rolled off, and so did He Zhuoming, still struggling to pull out her wooden sword—the boy's pain eased slightly, the tree shoots in his bones ceasing their growth.

The runes on his skin gradually dimmed, until they stopped glowing, lying flat and peaceful across his body.

He Zhuoming hit the ground and rolled, trying to absorb the impact—she did shed most of the force, but it still hurt plenty. She got up, covertly wiped her tears with her sleeve, and the damp, bloody cuff left a red streak across her cheek.

The statue toppled, wooden pieces scattered, revealing a narrow pitch-black passage behind it.

He Zhuoming finished wiping her tears, pushed herself up off the ground with both hands, and approached the passage entrance, reaching in to feel.

A slightly damp, cool breeze blew out from the tunnel, brushing across her palm.

A grin spread across her grimy face. She turned back to the boy, excited: "It's an exit! We can get out!"

"Hey, can you still walk?"

The boy was still lying there with his stunned expression—He Zhuoming limped over, folded up a relatively clean corner of her clothes, and wiped his face.

His face wasn't any cleaner than hers—if anything, it was filthier, since he'd been lying in the pool of blood.

He Zhuoming studied him, then said: "If you can't walk, I can carry you—lucky for you you're a kid, kids are light. If you were any bigger, I couldn't manage."

The boy forced out the words: "You... really don't know who this statue is?"

He Zhuoming was blank: "Who?"

The boy: "The Guye Immortal. A True Deity worshiped by the Xia Kingdom."

He Zhuoming scratched her head: "Ah... I see. The Xia Kingdom still worships him? I thought they'd stopped."

Hard to believe—the Xia Kingdom was quite nostalgic, having an Earth Immortal yet still not forgetting to worship the Guye Immortal. But the way they worshiped him was really twisted—He Zhuoming muttered to herself.

The boy fell silent.

While he wasn't talking, He Zhuoming sat down too, pulling pastries from her clothes to eat.

She ate and explained to the boy: "I'm too hungry, so I won't share with you, okay? Anyway, you don't need to use any energy. If you're hungry, just bear with it—once we get out, I'll find food for you."

The boy: "...At a time like this, how can you still eat?"

He Zhuoming: "Because I'm hungry, so I can eat. I really can't share with you—I only packed one portion of snacks when I left, and I already gave half to my friend on the way. This is only half a portion, and I'm not sharing it."

She thought he was hungry, but she still didn't want to give him any—they were just strangers tied by a life-saving favor. Unless they were starving to death, sharing food was asking too much of her!

Unless it was Lin Qingyun or Xu Feixian—boyfriend and close friend could get a bit of it.

With that, He Zhuoming sped up her eating.

The pastries were a bit dry, and she choked swallowing them, craning her neck to force the food down—when the boy suddenly spoke again: "My name is Tang Shuyu. What's yours?"

He Zhuoming choked instantly, thumping her chest desperately.

Once she managed to swallow, she stared at the boy with wide eyes: "What did you say your name is?!"

The boy: "Tang Shuyu."

He Zhuoming: "...Tang Shuyu?"

The boy: "Mm, Tang Shuyu. What, you don't believe me?"

He Zhuoming licked the pastry crumbs off her lips, running her eyes up and down him—the branches poking out of his skin hadn't grown any further, but they were still there, which had to hurt a lot, since he kept lying on the ground.

He Zhuoming mumbled: "I'm just surprised... Why are you so small? Can you write your name for me to see?"

For the first time, Tang Shuyu had voluntarily given his name first, as an equal, wanting to know someone's name in return—and this person demanded he write it out to prove it.

Tang Shuyu clicked his tongue, annoyed, gritting his molars, using his index finger to dip in blood and write his name on the ground.

It was written in blood, and the writer was young, but the characters were exceptionally beautiful—each stroke, each hook, carrying real backbone.

Since being locked in here, the two characters Tang Shuyu had written most often were "go die"—and this was the first time he'd written anything other than that.

It turned out to be his own name.

Finished writing, Tang Shuyu said: "Your turn."

He Zhuoming was still staring at the three characters on the ground, and was caught off guard: "My turn for what?"

Tang Shuyu pursed his lips: "Your turn to write your name!"

He Zhuoming: "Oh, oh, I'm called He Zhuoming."

As she said it, she reached out to write on the ground, her fingertip already touching the blood—then suddenly stopped.

He Zhuoming hesitated, then said quietly: "Hey, if I write a blood character here, my real name at that, wouldn't that be a bad idea? I just stabbed the statue of that Guye what's-his-name... I'm not going to get cursed, am I?"

Thinking this, she looked up and looked around—bloodstains everywhere, a little brat with messy hair lying on the ground, and the statue scattered into pieces all over the floor.

...It looked like the site of some strange ritual.

Tang Shuyu's brow nearly twitched with irritation, and he glanced up at He Zhuoming's face with difficulty—he seriously suspected she was messing with him now.

Tang Shuyu was extremely displeased: "I wrote mine!"

He Zhuoming: "You're different! You're... a main character, with plot armor. I'm just an extra, I could die easily!"

Though she didn't know why the villain was small now while the male lead was already a young man—but since she'd mostly forgotten the plot anyway, He Zhuoming decided not to dig into it.

Tang Shuyu laughed, speechless: "Blabbing all this nonsense, not a word of it I can understand. You dare... stab a True Deity's statue, but now you're scared of retribution over writing your name?"

He Zhuoming said with utmost seriousness: "Of course I'm scared! It's not like I'm writing something else—it's my real name! Where I'm from, writing your real name is a very serious matter!"

"If you want to know how my name is written, I'll write it for you once we get out. Here, forget it."

She finished the pastries. He Zhuoming stood up, walked a few steps, and found her ankle didn't hurt as much anymore.

She walked over to Tang Shuyu, crouched down, and poked the branch sprouting from the back of his neck. "This... can it be snapped off?"

Before she finished speaking, with a faint "crack," He Zhuoming snapped off a piece of the branch.

Startled, He Zhuoming hurriedly picked up the broken piece: "Sorry, sorry! Um, should I stick it back on?"

The pain made a muscle in Tang Shuyu's face twitch, but hearing her words, the exasperation outweighed the pain.

He gritted his teeth and asked with a tight, fake smile: "And how exactly do you plan to stick it back on?"

He Zhuoming held the branch, gesturing at the broken end: "Um... tie it back on? Or wrap it with some tape or something..."

She was a little flustered, but her tone was earnest, and it looked like if Tang Shuyu nodded, she would actually do it.

Tang Shuyu felt like laughing, and so he really did, eyes curving into crescents, a pair of dimples showing at the corners of his mouth: "Forget it, just throw it away. It's no big deal."

He suddenly found there was nothing to be angry about—what was there to be angry with He Zhuoming about?

Tang Shuyu added: "I was going to pull them all out anyway."

He Zhuoming's eyes went wide with shock: "Pull them out? Doesn't that hurt?"

Tang Shuyu answered lightly: "Better to hurt than to die."

He Zhuoming thought of that sect disciple with trees growing out of his body, felt a bit unsettled, threw away the branch in her hand, and nodded: "You're right."

She'd rested enough. She helped Tang Shuyu up, carried him on her back, and headed out along the passage.

The passage had no lamps—pitch black. Both of He Zhuoming's hands were needed to hold Tang Shuyu, so even her wooden sword had to be carried by him. She could only rely on her feet. Since the darkness was full of uncertainty, He Zhuoming took each step carefully, only shifting her weight to the next step after testing the ground under her foot.

It was slow going, but He Zhuoming figured her life was more important, so a little slower was fine.

Tang Shuyu lay on He Zhuoming's back, one hand holding the wooden sword, the other looped around her neck.

The girl's shoulders weren't broad. His arm pressed against the bone of her shoulder, his damp cheek against her back.

Tang Shuyu had never been carried like this. Other people usually served as a sedan chair when he was too lazy to walk, not this kind of piggyback.

His brief years since birth had all gone smoothly, because the high priest said he was born to receive offerings, so everyone around him fawned over him, obeyed him, and willingly served him—because everyone believed that as long as they offered to him and pleased him, they'd get what they wanted.

In Tang Shuyu's understanding, everyone else was born to fear him, to be beneath him, and an equal simply did not exist.

So Tang Shuyu didn't long for those so-called warm, tender interactions—whether friendly or familial—at least, that's what he believed about himself.

But now.

Tang Shuyu felt sweat dripping from He Zhuoming's jaw onto his arm. He lowered his lashes and asked He Zhuoming: "Am I heavy?"

He Zhuoming panted: "Super heavy... ugh..."

Tang Shuyu pressed his lips together, using his sleeve to wipe the sweat off He Zhuoming's face, and said quietly: "Once we get out, I'll make you the Crown Prince."

He Zhuoming was baffled: "Huh?"

Tang Shuyu said seriously: "I'm the emperor, and you'll be my crown prince. Later I'll give you the country to inherit. Hmm... and I'll even provide for you in your old age. How about it?"

Even though she had no idea whether he was telling the truth, He Zhuoming couldn't help but quip: "If you're providing for my old age, then that's not the Crown Prince—that's the Grand Emperor Dowager, isn't it?"

Tang Shuyu frowned, thinking hard, but it only took him less than three seconds of deliberation to make up his mind: "Fine, I'll go chop off my father's head, and you can be the Grand Emperor Dowager."

He Zhuoming laughed at that: "What a mess... Your father would die of heartbreak!"

Tang Shuyu: "Heartbreak death? That's an acceptable way to die."

He Zhuoming declined: "No need! I'm not going to be the Crown Prince, and I won't be the Grand Emperor Dowager either. Once I get out, I have to go find my boyfriend, and he's going to help me find a way back to my hometown."

Hearing the word "boyfriend" come out of her mouth again, Tang Shuyu's brow involuntarily furrowed: "Do you like your boyfriend that much?"

He Zhuoming: "Of course I do!"

Tang Shuyu couldn't believe it: "More than being the Grand Emperor Dowager?"

He Zhuoming replied: "Obviously!"

Tang Shuyu refused to give up, upping the stakes: "More than being emperor? I can let you be emperor too!"

He Zhuoming thought for a moment, but still declined: "Being emperor is nice and all, but I don't like being an emperor, and anyway, being an emperor isn't something you can compare with my boyfriend."

"Emperor is a job. My boyfriend is a person."