Chapter 9 Second Wear

Xue Ying’s breathing was slightly hurried, perhaps from the earlier tussle with Wei Tingchun.  

But he suddenly grew quiet, though he still held onto Wei Tingchun’s right thumb, his fingers slowly, inch by inch, rubbing over her hand.  

Seeing him calm down, sitting obediently with his face turned toward her—after pushing her away earlier, now refusing to let go—Wei Tingchun thought he was afraid she might leave and couldn’t help but smile.  

She took Xue Ying’s hand and slowly traced two characters into his palm.  

—*Not leaving.*  

I won’t go. Don’t be afraid.  

Xue Ying felt the strokes twice before recognizing the words.  

His lips moved slightly, but in the end, he didn’t speak. Instead, he nodded very, very slowly.  

Yet he still clung to Wei Tingchun’s right thumb, rubbing it gently, as if confirming something.  

When Xue Ying was very young, he had been poisoned and blinded for a time. During that period, he was spared from beatings and scoldings, but he was also forbidden from leaving his chambers.  

Children, by nature, do not know sorrow, and at that age, everything was still new and fascinating to him. The palace servants in his quarters paid him no mind, so he used his hands to explore every inch of his bedchamber he could reach, memorizing the shapes of all the objects.  

He became extraordinarily sensitive to touch—so much so that he could recreate the appearance of things just by feeling their forms.  

When Xue Ying was five, on his birthday, he called Consort Qing “Mother” and was punished by kneeling in the snow from sunrise to sunset.  

Back then, he was so small, terrified of death, and utterly unable to understand why his mother despised and tormented him.  

He just wanted to live. To survive.  

Perhaps because the pain was too great, or perhaps because unloved children mature early, every detail of that suffering remained etched sharply in his memory.  

That day, the cold numbed him completely—it was the closest he had ever come to death.  

Just as he was about to collapse, a palace servant forced a bowl of Ginseng Tea down his throat, scalding like boiling oil, reigniting his nearly frozen body.  

In his delirium, Xue Ying even fantasized—was the person holding him so gently, supporting him, his mother?  

Had she finally forgiven him?  

He struggled to open his eyes, blinking desperately, trying to see. But he was too young, too frozen. In the end, he saw nothing.  

Yet at that moment, he had touched one of the person’s fingers—the right thumb.  

There was a very distinctive scar on that finger, unlike the marks left on palace servants from their masters’ abuse. It was unique.  

After recovering from a severe illness, the first thing Xue Ying did was recreate the shape of that scar on paper.  

And the scar he was touching now—was identical.  

This finger.  

*This* finger.  

A storm of thoughts raged through Xue Ying’s mind in an instant.  

His first suspicion was that this was an organization’s mark.  

Common folk, the martial world, powerful clans—they all raised various groups to handle both overt and covert, unspeakable tasks.  

Most commonly, they trained assassins, Shadow Manors, and courtesans specifically for high-ranking officials and wealthy merchants.  

This was the most plausible explanation—otherwise, there was no reason why different people would bear the same scar.

The scar rose slightly on the hand, neatly arranged in long strips, somewhat resembling a burn—only burns would protrude like this.

Wei Tingchun held Xue Ying’s hand to write again.

She wanted to say “Hi.”

Wanted to say, “Your voice is adorable.”

Wanted to say, “You’re like a little kitten.”

She thought of many things, but none seemed appropriate to say to Xue Ying.

When it came down to it, she and Xue Ying didn’t really know each other—and couldn’t afford to.

They were merely passing strangers in another world.

After much deliberation, Wei Tingchun’s finger hovered without touching down. She had already indulged herself by remembering the kitten’s patterns, colors, and even its name. She couldn’t allow herself to develop any further emotions or exchanges with it.

So in the end, Wei Tingchun only wrote—Live well.

Thinking of his shadowed, gloomy eyes, of his silent, resigned demeanor.

All Wei Tingchun wanted was for him to live well.

Her writing was slow, her finger tracing carefully in Xue Ying’s palm, writing these four words neatly six or seven times.

Meanwhile, Xue Ying kept his head lowered, still wondering which organization Wei Tingchun belonged to.

Though he was the emperor’s discarded son, weak by nature, low-key and melancholic, with no mother to protect him or maternal clan to support him—

Precisely because of this, he was the prime candidate for a puppet ruler. Over the years, many from the common folk had secretly reached out to him, offering money, beauties, and rare treasures—even ambitious ministers with ulterior motives.

But Xue Ying knew well: they didn’t value him. They only wanted to use him, exploit his identity, make him their puppet. If they succeeded, all the better. If they failed, the one left with a mutilated corpse would only be him.

No one liked him. No one truly cared for him. They all wanted to use him, yet despised him—some even wished for his death.

This was the first time someone had earnestly, tirelessly told him to live well.

Xue Ying thought of how Wei Tingchun had patiently fed him water, gently pinching his cheek—time seemed to rewind endlessly, back to that winter courtyard when he was five.

That person had also held him with such patience, lightly pinched his cheek, and then given him a bowl of scalding life-giving liquid.

Later, Xue Ying spent a long time investigating and learned that the one who had fed him ginseng tea was a newly arrived palace eunuch, who had unfortunately died after being used as a pawn.

He died too quickly—Xue Ying never even saw his face one last time.

But how could that person be the convict slave before him now?

Even if they were from the same organization, how could two people share the same habits?

This convict slave had spent her childhood helping Consort Qing abuse him, leaving countless scars on his body. Yet she shouldn’t have the same scar as that little eunuch.

Xue Ying couldn’t make sense of it.

So he kept holding Wei Tingchun’s hand, rubbing it absentmindedly.

Wei Tingchun lowered her head, noticing his well-shaped lips pressed together, faintly tinged with color from the warmth of the fire.

She reached out with her free hand to tidy Xue Ying’s disheveled hair.

This time, he didn’t pull away. He lifted his head, looking at Wei Tingchun through the blindfold.

He asked again, “Who are you?”

Who exactly are you?

If you were truly from some organization trying to reach him, why only approach him now?

Xue Ying knew this convict slave better than anyone. She had never left the palace in her life, and now her body was riddled with tumors, on the verge of bursting. How could she possibly have ties to any organization?

Then who exactly are you?  

And what about this scar…?  

Xue Ying’s mind flashed to some folk tales and strange records he had read—there was a dark art mentioned in them called Reincarnation through Corpse.  

He traced the long, thin scar over and over, imprinting it deeper into his memory than he had ten years ago.  

The two sat by the fire, neither speaking, the silence peaceful and harmonious.  

Wei Tingchun didn’t know what else to say to Xue Ying, only finding it odd that he seemed particularly fixated on her right hand, gripping it tightly.  

She glanced down and realized he was touching her Soul Identification Number.  

A shiver ran down Wei Tingchun’s spine, her scalp tingling.  

But soon, she scolded herself for overreacting.  

Every transmigrator had a Soul Identification Number. Whether in a system-generated body or one borrowed from a Small World, this number would appear on the thumb of their right hand after entering the world.  

The right hand was the most frequently used, and the thumb was the most noticeable part—thus, all transmigrators would inevitably see and touch their Soul Identification Number often.  

The number was a striking crimson, a reminder to those who crossed into Small Worlds: You are a transmigrator here to complete a mission.  

This was to prevent many transmigrators from acting on emotion.  

But like the system interface, this number was absolutely invisible to anyone but the transmigrator themselves.  

And Xue Ying’s eyes were covered—he couldn’t see anything at all.  

Sure enough, when Wei Tingchun tried to observe his reaction again, Xue Ying released her hand.  

The two continued sitting by the fire. Wei Tingchun added firewood twice more before dawn.  

At one point, she urged Xue Ying to sleep, writing the suggestion in his palm.  

But Xue Ying only shook his head, staring blankly toward the firelight, lost in thought.  

So Wei Tingchun sat with him, feeling neither awkward nor strange. The warmth of the fire enveloped them, keeping the howling wind and snow outside at bay.  

It wasn’t until daybreak approached that Xue Ying finally spoke.  

“Could you loosen my bindings a little?”  

“It hurts,” he said slowly.  

Wei Tingchun had already loosened them once before—they weren’t tight anymore.  

But hearing him say this, she didn’t doubt him at all. She immediately leaned over to adjust the ropes, warming her hands first before gently massaging his wrists.  

Seeing he didn’t react badly, she warmed her hands again and loosened the bindings on his ankles, massaging them as well.  

Xue Ying remained docile throughout, letting Wei Tingchun fuss over him.  

His face was still turned toward her, though he couldn’t see. He hadn’t removed the cloth covering his eyes.  

Wei Tingchun believed they had reached some unspoken understanding—a mutual agreement to keep each other’s secrets.  

This misplaced encounter had become something mysterious yet comforting for both of them.  

But just as Wei Tingchun finished loosening his wrists and ankles—like petting a cat—and was about to retie them, Xue Ying spoke again.  

“Could… you wait a moment?” He bit his lip, seeming embarrassed, his cheeks flushing slightly.  

“I need… to relieve myself.”  

After saying this, he lowered his head, his face burning red.  

He was truly beautiful, still carrying the softness of youth despite the gauntness of his cheeks, making him appear sweet and delicate.  

Wei Tingchun’s old heart nearly melted.  

She had never met such an obedient child in her life.

He didn’t know who she was. With his eyes covered by her, he sensed her kindness and was considerate enough not to pull away. He didn’t even beg her to save him.

He must have known she couldn’t save him!

Wei Tingchun bit her lip, overwhelmed by a sense of guilt.

So she didn’t suspect a thing. Worried he couldn’t see, she even pressed the only teapot in her room, used for drinking water, into his arms.

Meaning for him to relieve himself here.

The ground outside was slippery and cold. He had been tied up for two days—he would surely fall.

Wei Tingchun stood up, deliberately making loud footsteps as she walked far away, afraid the child might feel embarrassed.

She walked all the way to the side courtyard of Chan Wu Courtyard, passing through that broken, dilapidated moon gate.

Tilting her head, she gazed at the night sky. The moon wasn’t full, but the stars were truly bright.

If Xue Ying’s eyes weren’t so shadowed, they would surely shine just like those stars.

She hoped he could live well.

Wei Tingchun gave Xue Ying enough time. She stood outside until her bottom grew cold before finally heading back.

She deliberately made some noise at the door as a warning before entering.

The fire was dwindling, nearly extinguished.

Wei Tingchun smiled as she looked toward the spot by the fire, only to see a cotton cloak and a pile of ropes.

She froze, her smile stiffening on her face.

Xue… Xue Ying was gone!