In the second year after Jiang Nong’s death, Yu Lingxin’s eyesight had grown increasingly poor—so poor that he had to trace most of the characters on bamboo slips with his fingers to read them.
He was still so young, yet his hair had turned completely white, as if covered in a layer of silver-grey ash.
The hall was empty, so quiet that only the sound of the child’s sleeping breath could be heard beside him.
Most of the time, he was either with Jiang Nong or sitting here like this, staring blankly into the distance.
It was boring—he had always been a very boring person.
Only he knew what churning sea of hatred lay beneath that calm surface.
The sleeping child let out an unconscious whimper in her dream.
Yu Lingxin’s gaze drifted back to the tiny figure curled in the cradle.
This child had been born prematurely, frail by nature. According to the imperial physicians, she was more delicate than other children.
Indeed, she was such a small bundle—curled up into a ball, soft and tiny.
He reached out, his cold fingers encircling her neck, slowly tightening, tighter and tighter.
So fragile—her neck could be gripped in one hand, easily crushed.
He might as well strangle her. Let Jiang Nong see how miserably this little wretch she’d been thinking of on her deathbed would end up. Let her find no peace even in death.
If she had the guts, she could come back as a vengeful spirit and seek his life.
He narrowed his eyes. In his blurry vision, Yu Lingyin’s face bore a striking resemblance to Jiang Nong’s—about six parts alike. His hatred for Jiang Nong turned to fury, burning in his chest, trapped and growing fiercer.
A surge of metallic sweetness rose in his throat—he swallowed it back, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth with his hand.
Xiaoman, startled awake by his cold touch, hugged her little cat doll, blinking her round eyes at him. She seemed to want to speak, but children couldn’t fight sleep—before she could open her mouth, she had drifted off again.
She slept peacefully. Yu Lingxin closed his eyes, then let out a cold laugh.
What was the point of killing this child?
Didn’t Jiang Nong hate him the most? Then he would turn her beloved daughter into someone just like him—make the person she loved most become the person she hated most. There was no crueler torture than that. No better revenge.
He would tell Jiang Nong every day about Yu Lingyin’s transformation.
Hate him? Good. She should hate him.
The child slept like a little puppy, whimpering softly, running hot. Beneath the blanket, her forehead soon beaded with fine sweat, dampening her soft baby hair.
Yu Lingxin brushed aside her sweaty hair, wiped her forehead, and felt her back—also damp, likely to develop heat rash. He tucked a sweat cloth into her back.
He often stayed in the ice cellar, his whole body cold. His fingers inevitably brushed against Yu Lingyin’s skin—and this time, she was truly startled awake. She sat up, clutching her cat doll, crying harder and harder, tears streaming down her face. Her fluffy hair stuck up in wild disarray, the sweat cloth still tucked into her back.
Yu Lingxin propped his chin on his hand and watched her cry for a while, then looked away, letting her weep.
Let her cry. He wasn’t Jiang Nong—he wouldn’t soothe her. Annoying.
Yu Lingyin had a round head, a round face, round eyes. Dressed in many layers, she looked like a little ball when sitting; standing while gripping the cradle rail didn’t improve matters.
Sniffling, she hugged her cat doll and toddled toward Yu Lingxin, her face covered in tears and snot, reaching for his sleeve as she sobbed: “Hold me, Daddy, hold me.”
Seeing her dirty, tear-streaked face, Yu Lingxin silently withdrew his sleeve from her grasp and continued staring into the distance, waiting for her to cry herself out and fall back asleep.
With the railing in the way, Yu Lingyin couldn’t reach his sleeve. Frustrated, she plopped back onto the bed and wiped her tears with the cat doll.
As Yu Lingxin had predicted, she was already soothing herself, sniffling back her tears as she sat on the bed, planning to go back to sleep after a few more hiccups.
“Mommy, Mommy hold me, hold the baby…”
In her childish murmurs, the words hit like a spell.
Yu Lingxin’s gaze froze—almost panicked—following her line of sight.
There was nothing there.
He reached out, touching only empty air.
Could children see spirits?
Why couldn’t he?
Jiang Nong—even as a ghost, you have to torment me, don’t you?
Seeing her cry made your heart ache, did it?
If it hurts, then show yourself! Take care of her!
Yu Lingxin stared fixedly at one spot until his eyes ached and burned, his vision blurring, tears of pain spilling from the reddened corners.
Yu Lingyin was still murmuring, “Mommy hold me,” clutching her worn little cat doll tighter and tighter, her tears kissed away by the plush toy, leaving scattered dark spots of moisture.
It was sewn by Jiang Nong when she was still alive.
Her mother—to her, this cat was her mother. She kept the little cat Jiang Nong had left her as a companion, as a stand-in for her mother.
Yu Lingxin’s tense muscles gradually relaxed, as if he’d let out a breath. He reached over and gently patted the restless child, speaking to her for once: “Don’t treat that ragged cat as your mother. It isn’t.”
Yu Lingyin probably didn’t hear him. She made a few small sounds and fell asleep under her father’s patting.
The attendants outside had been nervous at first when they heard the princess crying—afraid the child would hurt herself from crying so much.
They couldn’t quite figure it out either. If His Majesty cared about the child, he never showed a paternal side. If he didn’t care, then why keep her by his side every single day?
Once Yu Lingyin was fast asleep, Yu Lingxin handed her to Xunliang and went down the winding underground palace alone, carrying a candlestick.
The entire underground of the palace had been hollowed out. On the bronze doors were densely carved strange totems—runes meant to trap souls.
Steep spiral stairs descended. Narrow corridors were inlaid with luminous pearls, casting a soft glow that lit the passages brightly. The edges of the steps and walls had been worn smooth and round.
The deeper he went, the more biting the cold. The walls grew pale, coated in frost.
At the end, everything opened up into a vast underground palace—extravagantly lavish, as large as half of Tan’s imperial palace. The dome was studded with pearls of various sizes as stars, crushed blue crystal filling the riverbeds.
Beyond that lay a single palace.
The palace was covered in ice and frost. Every breath turned to white mist. It was so cold it was unbearable—no place for the living.
Over the past two years, Yu Lingxin had grown accustomed to it. He calmly extinguished his candle and walked inside.
Jiang Nong lay on the ice bed at the deepest part.
The dead look vastly different from the living—almost unrecognizable. Her face was pale purple, her eyes sunken, her lips parched and cracked, a layer of frost clinging to her lashes.
How could she just die? So simply?
Dead—completely dead, utterly gone!
Like a slaughtered cow or sheep, turned into a mere piece of flesh.
Every time he descended into this underground palace, that truth became sharper in his mind.
The sight of her made him half-dead with rage. A metallic taste rose in his throat. He reached out and pinched her cheek—but only melted the thin layer of frost on her face.
But the dead gave him no reaction—and that only made him angrier.
He didn’t want to speak to her either. He lay down beside her in his clothes.
He could no longer smell her scent.
She used to smell sweet. Later, after the poison, it became bitter—the smell of medicine. No matter how much medicine he used, he couldn’t save her.
Now, even that medicinal scent had faded.
Lying beside his enemy even after death—Yu Lingxin smiled at the thought. He even took her hand, interlacing their fingers, and held them up toward the gleaming pearls, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips.
His voice was hoarse, but carried a note of smugness: “How does it feel? Angry? Can’t shake my hand off—does it disgust you?”
If the runes carved on the doors worked, Jiang Nong should be floating in midair right now, glaring at him, desperately telling him to take his filthy hands off her.
But as always, silence. No one could answer him.
He waited a moment, then turned over, wrapped his arms around her cold body, and slowly closed his eyes.
I hope ghosts exist. I hope you can jump out and tell me to get lost.
—
Another rainy season. A light drizzle pattered outside the camp.
Someone announced that Dang’s envoy for peace had arrived.
Jiang Nong was brought in. She hesitated, her gaze flickering toward him, flustered. She knelt, kowtowed, and held up a map: “Please spare my husband’s life. Dang is willing to exchange six cities for his return. Please—for the sake of our old acquaintance—spare Chao Ning…”
Summoning her courage, she looked at him, hoping their past connection would soften his heart.
But he was no longer the soft-hearted Yu Lingxin who cherished old ties. Every word from Jiang Nong only fueled his rage.
“Your husband? Chao Ning?” He let out a cold laugh.
All these years of scheming, of wading through mountains of corpses and seas of blood—and this was what he got: her calling Chao Ning her husband. How ridiculous. What was he, then?
His cold voice cut through the air, making her tremble.
He rose and walked slowly toward Jiang Nong, knocking the peace treaty from her hands. He grasped her face, forcing her to look at him.
His gaze swept over her—she was about to cry, tears shimmering, biting her lower lip. So pitiful. His heart was stone-hard; no matter how she struggled, he didn’t move an inch: “He’s your husband? Then who am I? Chao Ning? His head is still hanging on the city wall—didn’t you see? Who sent you to negotiate? Take a good look at what’s written here.”
He forced her face down onto the spread-out treaty.
She seemed stunned by Chao Ning’s death, or perhaps by the words on the treaty—she lay motionless on the ground, dazed. On the silk was boldly written: “Presenting the Ninth Prince’s consort, Jiang, to the Lord of Tan. She is at your disposal. We earnestly hope you will honor your promise and withdraw your troops.”
She was frightened enough. He decided to let the matter of her calling another man her husband slide.
He crouched down, reached out, and tried to help her up. But before he could touch her, Jiang Nong pulled the hairpin from her hair and thrust it at his heart. He dodged—it only pierced his shoulder.
Thick blood gushed. Before the pain could even register, Yu Lingxin slowly opened his eyes.
He’d dreamt of that day again.
Jiang Nong’s sharp, bright, hate-filled eyes—still vivid before him.
He touched his shoulder, closed his eyes, and savored the dream.
I saw you, Jiang Nong.
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