As Su Ningyue returned with the brewed medicine, her embroidered shoes crossed the threshold. Under the dim yellow lamplight, she saw the white-robed youth solemnly checking her father’s pulse, his peach-blossom eyes strikingly delicate and handsome.
After a moment’s thought, Ji Yanqing withdrew his hand and said softly, “Senior’s recovery is progressing well. For now, there’s no major issue.”
Cough, cough, cough…
Su Yuanshan suppressed a cough, sinking his energy to avoid spitting blood. He knew his condition but had asked Ji Yanqing to play along to ease Ningyue’s mind.
After a pause, Su Ningyue sat with the medicine bowl, her clear apricot eyes pensive, veiled with faint sorrow.
“Freshly brewed, Father. Drink it while it’s hot,” she said, trembling as she fed the bitter medicine, forcing a smile.
Feeling out of place, Ji Yanqing slipped out to the courtyard like a falling leaf. If Mo Bo acted, the Frost Blood Palm’s poison could be purged in under half an hour.
Earlier, Su Yuanshan had declined his help—not for the Boundless Sword Sect’s sword aura, but because fate was unyielding.
He didn’t want to bind Ningyue forever. Her talent deserved better than being trapped at Weiyuan.
Cages aside, the shackle of duty bound her. As long as he lived, she’d never leave him or Weiyuan.
Weiyuan mattered, but her smile mattered more.
Three years ago, a female scholar from the Imperial Academy visited Ye City to chronicle Wei King Ji Yang, studying local customs. At a tavern, she was stunned by the young Su Ningyue’s poetry.
She offered to take Ningyue to the Academy, a rare chance to rise from escort’s daughter to scholar. Ningyue declined, choosing to stay and care for her dying father.
Filial piety, the foremost virtue in the Academy, moved the scholar to tears. She petitioned the Academy’s head to grant Ningyue three years to fulfill her duty before studying the sages’ ways.
That time had come. Ningyue should depart…
Recalling his talk with Su Yuanshan, Ji Yanqing stood alone in the chilly night, emotions swirling.
He opened his right palm, revealing a chilling sword intent—the Boundless Sword Sect’s “Qingfrost Sword Intent.”
Su Yuanshan gifted it not for his life but to ensure Ji Yanqing wouldn’t fail Ningyue.
A father always knows his daughter’s heart.
Joys and sorrows, the moon’s phases—life’s impermanence.
Ji Yanqing shook his head with a bitter smile, tinged with sadness.
Creak—
The room’s door opened. Su Ningyue, in a white crescent jacket, emerged with red-rimmed eyes, lips tightly pursed.
She approached Ji Yanqing, her body tense, and asked with difficulty, “Your Highness… my father…”
“Ningyue… my condolences,” Ji Yanqing said softly.
Harsh as it was, he felt she deserved the truth. Su Yuanshan was her father; she had a right to know.
The courtyard fell silent as a still pond. They faced each other wordlessly, wanting to speak but unable. Mist clouded her reddened eyes, her trembling frame unsteady.
Though expected, the news struck harder than Su Ningyue imagined, like a blade to her heart.
Despair gripped her, dragging her toward an abyss.
Time trickled by, the weight crushing the delicate girl.
Her sobs pierced Ji Yanqing’s heart like a knife.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, her fingertips stinging as nails dug into flesh, drawing blood.
So close, yet Ji Yanqing could only watch her tearful face—her exquisite oval face, curled lashes, delicate nose, and wet pupils reflecting the cold crescent moon, a tragic beauty like a flower mirrored in water.
Tears fell like rain.
As Ji Yanqing stood stunned, Su Ningyue crashed into his arms like a falling goose. He instinctively held the light beauty, pain burning like he’d downed pots of liquor.
He could barely meet her eyes.
Even if Su Yuanshan’s condition worsened, Ji Yanqing had ways to save him, though it’d take effort.
But it hinged on the patient wanting to live.
Years of helplessness, despair, and guilt had broken Weiyuan’s former chief. If he sought death, even a medical saint could only prolong his life a few years.
“Your Highness… Your Highness…” Su Ningyue sobbed, unable to voice, “Please save my father.” Ji Yanqing had helped her and Weiyuan immensely—what could she offer him?
To the Heir, she was just a slightly pretty girl. With a flick of his finger, countless beauties would flock to him.
All she had was a fervent heart.
That heart was his, her beauty merely a gift of her love.
“I’m sorry, Ningyue… I’m powerless,” Ji Yanqing said calmly, holding the heartbroken girl tightly, his cheek against her shoulder, hoping to ease her pain, even slightly.
The merciless snow and wind didn’t warm for the grieving—such was fate’s cruelty.
“I understand… Your Highness…” Her voice broke.
Suddenly, Su Ningyue stood on tiptoe, softly kissing Ji Yanqing’s lips. Heartbroken or lovestruck, she poured her emotions into the kiss, sharing them with the youth she leaned on.
Her kissing was terrible—hopelessly so.
As their lips parted, she fled in panic.
Watching her retreating figure, Ji Yanqing said softly, “Rest well, my fiancée… and Happy New Year…”
Snowflakes drifted down, ushering in Hongde’s third year’s final snow—and the New Year’s first.