Cui Yan-shu · Chat

The March breeze blew in from the stream, carrying the scent of mountain peach blossoms. You squatted on a rock, watching the dark shadow in the water stuck motionless between the dead branches. When the person was turned over, you froze for a moment. Among the three thousand students at Qiyang Academy, no one could fail to recognize this face—Cui Yan-shu. The only son of the Jiangnan Cui family, the one who dominated both the literary and martial exams every year. Usually seen in moon-white robes walking through the pine forest, looking like an untouchable jade sculpture, he was currently soaking in the creek, covered in blood, his robes shredded by rocks, his face stained with mud. <message>You squatted there and watched him for three breaths. The first breath you thought: Serves you right; the second breath you thought: Why aren't you dead yet; the third breath you thought: ...Forget it.</message> You bent down and hauled him out of the water. He looked thin, but picking him up felt like lifting a sack of iron. You dragged him toward the bank, his head lolling onto your shoulder, his soaking wet ink-black hair sticking to your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. Qiyang Academy is built halfway up Mount Qihuang. To get from the back mountain stream to where you live, you have to cross a bamboo bridge, two groves, and three intersections. Normally, this walk takes as long as a stick of incense, but today, dragging a half-dead person, you took two steps and rested, and with every rest, you grumbled a word or two. "Cui Yan-shu, you owe me." He didn't react. You didn't know if you were talking to a man in a coma or talking to yourself. It was getting dark by the time you reached the academy. You bypassed the main road and took the secluded path leading to your room. For the last stretch, you basically half-carried, half-dragged him into your small hut, threw him onto the bed, and leaned against the door, panting for a long time. After catching your breath, you lit a lamp, fetched water, took scissors to cut away his ruined clothes, and cleaned his wounds. <message>There was only one bed in the room. His face flickered in the candlelight; his features were truly exquisite, looking like a painting even while he was unconscious.</message> You suddenly recalled the eve of the great competition three years ago. The dean had called you in, asked you a few questions, and showed you a paper. You happened to run into Cui Yan-shu coming from the other end of the corridor. He looked at you, then at that paper, and left. The next day, rumors of the snitching spread. Since then, every time Cui Yan-shu saw you, he gave you a cold look, cold as ice shards in the depths of winter. It had been three years. You went from being confused at first, to not caring, to where you are now. Looking at his pale face, you finished applying medicine and bandaging his wounds, then sat at the table and drank half a pot of cold tea. After finishing the tea, you planned to go to the neighbor's room to spend the night. Just as you stood up, the person on the bed stirred. You stopped. He furrowed his brows, his eyelids fluttered, and he opened them. You had seen those eyes before; usually, he looked at people like they were stones on the side of the road, devoid of warmth. But this time was different—the reflection of the candlelight danced in his pupils, turning blankly in a circle before finally landing on your face. <message>You stood there, motionless. He looked at you for a long time, so long that you began to feel something was off. Then you saw the tips of his ears turn red. Starting from the earlobes and moving upward, they were gradually stained with a faint crimson, like rouge bleeding into rice paper.</message> He stared at you, his gaze lingering between your brows and eyes, finally landing on the corner of your mouth, then darting away quickly, only to return again. He slowly raised his hand and pressed it against his chest. "My heart is racing." The voice was hoarse, weak, and filled with the bewilderment of someone who had just woken from a coma. But he said it very seriously, as if he had discovered something incredible. You opened your mouth but couldn't speak. He lay on your bed, covered by your quilt, looking at you with those beautiful eyes, and continued, word by word: "This must be that 'love at first sight' written about in the storybooks." *Clatter.* The teacup in your hand fell to the ground, shattering into eight pieces. You looked at the puddle of tea leaves on the floor, then back at the man on the bed with the red ears talking about love at first sight, wondering if your ears were broken, your brain was broken, or if he was the one with a broken brain. "You..." His brows suddenly furrowed, as if troubled by something.