Just as Fu Songcheng had the thought of retreating, his wrist was caught back by another warm hand.
Yu Huaiting’s reaction speed was astonishing—he gripped Fu Songcheng’s wrist tightly.
Fu Songcheng lifted his eyes and crashed into Yu Huaiting’s extremely bright eyes.
Those eyes had just been burning with irritation and fury—now they seemed to have been doused in gasoline, boom, igniting into another kind of heart-palpitating fervor.
Fu Songcheng had actually tugged his hand and acted coquettish!
That sticky, sappy “Forgive me, okay?” was like a little hook, scratching viciously at the softest part of Yu Huaiting’s heart, making his whole body tingle.
Yu Huaiting’s Adam’s apple slid violently. He forced down the wildly rising corners of his mouth, deliberately put on a stern face, and leaned forward again, looking down at Fu Songcheng.
“What did you say?”
Yu Huaiting spoke in a put-on tone, his voice feignedly cold and proud. “Didn’t catch it.”
Fu Songcheng was pressed back half a step, his back nearly against the cold wall.
Shame surged up like a tide. A rare look of chagrin surfaced on Fu Songcheng’s refined, elegant face.
He wrenched his wrist hard—couldn’t break free—so he simply raised his eyes and glared at Yu Huaiting, saying coldly, “If you didn’t catch it, forget it.”
“No way!”
Yu Huaiting immediately showed his true colors, urgently gripping his hand, unable even to maintain his cold, proud act. “I caught it, but I’m not satisfied. Brother Fu, say it a few more times—three more… no, ten more, and I’ll forgive you.”
Seeing him push his luck like this, the guilt and embarrassment in Fu Songcheng’s heart instantly dissipated by more than half.
“Give you an inch and you take a mile.”
“I’ll take it.”
Yu Huaiting picked up the thread with perfect justification, without a moment’s hesitation.
The moment the words fell, before Fu Songcheng could process the sheer shamelessness in that line, Yu Huaiting suddenly lowered his head.
He swiftly kissed the corner of Fu Songcheng’s mouth.
Fu Songcheng hadn’t reacted in time; his eyes widened slightly.
The kiss was extremely brief—touch and part. Yu Huaiting squinted and smiled like a puppy that had successfully stolen a treat.
After the kiss, Yu Huaiting suddenly straightened up and turned his head away like nothing had happened, looking elsewhere.
But Fu Songcheng clearly saw the flush that instantly spread from the base of his ears to his neck.
Yu Huaiting’s jawline was tightly drawn, his chest heaving violently, his fingers fidgeting restlessly by the seam of his pants—his whole body radiating the tension of a guilty conscience.
He was the one who kissed—yet he was the one getting embarrassed first.
Fu Songcheng found it somewhat amusing. He touched his own mouth corner, his fingertip seeming to still carry the scorching heat.
He shook his head, let out a soft laugh, rubbed Yu Huaiting’s head, and pulled his attention back to the instance before them.
“Let’s keep looking for clues first.”
Fu Songcheng found his voice again—though if one listened carefully, a faint, imperceptible hoarseness could still be heard.
Yu Huaiting gave a muffled “Mm.” When he turned his head back, the blush on his face hadn’t fully faded.
Under Yu Huaiting’s lighting item, they could finally see the environment clearly.
The side room wasn’t large, and it was unusually cramped.
Against the wall stood two tall redwood bookshelves, densely stuffed with books.
But strangely, these books hadn’t been well preserved. Many had curled, moldy corners, and some had fallen directly onto the damp gray-brick floor.
Fu Songcheng stepped forward. By the faint blue light of the system panel, he crouched and picked up a book from the floor.
The cover was already blurred beyond recognition, but when he gently opened the inner pages, block-printed characters were plainly visible—New Youth.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, then walked to the bookshelf and quickly scanned it.
Besides New Youth, there were numerous translations on historical materialism, proletarian revolution, and red socialist thought.
Clearly the same owner as The ABC of Communism he’d found in the Yu residence study.
Fu Songcheng’s slender fingers lightly brushed the dust off the book spines. “Hiding this many books of this kind—if discovered, it’s a capital crime. Tell me, was this place sealed off because they’d already been discovered?”
Yu Huaiting had no interest in these books. He warily made a circuit of the room.
Confirming there was nothing else strange, he walked to that worn step-up bed and used his sword tip to lift the bed curtain hanging by the bedside.
“Looks like they were discovered suddenly.”
Yu Huaiting raised an eyebrow and pointed his sword tip toward the inner side of the bed.
Fu Songcheng walked over, his gaze following the direction of the greatsword.
Among the bedding was a very small redwood cosmetic box. The box was open, containing a few boxes of dried-out rouge and a carved half-moon wooden comb.
Fu Songcheng didn’t touch the comb. He leaned closer, carefully observing the details.
Though the floor was damp, on the few gray bricks near the bed there was a thin, barely noticeable layer of floating dust.
On that dust remained a few extremely faint shoe prints.
Beyond that, in the thick moldy smell in the air, if one distinguished carefully, a very faint, delicate scent of osmanthus hair oil could be detected.
This kind of hair oil was common among the common folk, its scent strong and pungent—but what the side room’s owner used was clearly not a cheap product.
The owner’s traces of life still remained here.
“A progressive-thinking young lady who died a violent death once lived here.”
Fu Songcheng straightened up and reached his conclusion.
Yu Huaiting crossed his arms and leaned against the bedpost, asking in confusion, “Why would she be hidden in the Yu residence?”
Fu Songcheng turned his head and looked Yu Huaiting up and down with a half-smile.
Yu Huaiting felt a little unnerved under his gaze and straightened up warily. “Brother Fu, why are you looking at me?”
“Remember the NPC servant this morning who knelt and begged for mercy when I asked about the side room?”
Fu Songcheng guided Yu Huaiting to recall.
Yu Huaiting thought back—that pale-faced servant, before begging for mercy, had shot him a look of dread and fear, and only then begged, claiming to know nothing about the side room.
“He looked at me.”
Yu Huaiting’s head was still a tangled mess.
Fu Songcheng nodded and led Yu Huaiting through the analysis, point by point. “First, your identity in this instance is the Yu family’s Young Master. Second, the servants hold the Yu Young Master and the side room in awe and fear. Third, a woman was hidden here, sharing a room with a large number of progressive books belonging to the new era. Fourth, the Yu Young Master frequently comes and goes from the study.”
Fu Songcheng paused, looking at Yu Huaiting, and actually felt a bit like teasing. “Young Master Yu, studying new thought and keeping a mistress hidden away too?”
“Brother Fu, you know it wasn’t me.”
Yu Huaiting knew Fu Songcheng was joking. He pouted and acted coquettish, trying to take Fu Songcheng’s hand—only to be pushed away expressionlessly, then cling back again.
“What’s the use of investigating this stuff? It’s a faction confrontation instance—why bother investigating the instance plot?”
“Don’t rush. Clues are never isolated.”
Fu Songcheng crouched down again, his gaze falling once more on that New Youth.
He gently opened the pages.
Just now he’d only glanced at the cover. Now, examining it carefully, he discovered that the blank margins of the book were densely covered with annotations.
And some characters he couldn’t decipher.
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