The morning mist in the Ruined Temple in the West City was as thick as unmelting ink, winding between the mottled pillars like a secret sealed for years slowly stretching out. Shen Qingyao stood before the temple doors; the damp mist seeped into her embroidered shoes, and the chill crept up her ankles like countless tiny ice needles gnawing at her skin. Her hand gripping the hem of her dress was already slick with cold sweat, her fingernails dug deep into her palms, pressing out crescent-shaped red marks whose faint stinging kept her alert. The temple doors creaked open like a wound tearing open the silence, stirring up a wind mixed with the smell of mold and dust that made her eyes sting and instinctively raise a hand to cover her nose and mouth, only to catch a faint trace of sandalwood at her cuff—the very scent that always lingered in her father's study. For a moment, her thoughts surged, and a riot of emotions filled her heart.
On the altar, that figure in black was like a ghost born from the shadows. Moonlight pierced the broken roof, cutting intricate patterns of light and dark across him as if left deliberately by fate. Shen Qingyao gazed at that familiar silhouette, her throat feeling as though stuffed with water-soaked cotton, unable to utter a single sound. The dagger clutched in her bosom gleamed coldly, yet felt heavy as a mountain; it seemed every step closer exhausted her entire strength. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and in her ears she heard only her o…
Chapter 71