Chapter 9: Scars Beneath Crimson Robes

                               

Cui Xun plunged into the Qu River, swimming desperately toward the unconscious pipa player. Dragging her ashore, he found she hadn’t been in the water long—after coughing up several mouthfuls, she slowly regained consciousness.

Her companions, fellow musicians from the Imperial Academy, rushed over. Anxious but wary, they froze when they saw Cui Xun in crimson official robes—a fourth‑rank court official. None dared approach.

His headpiece had fallen, strands of ink‑black hair clinging to his pale neck where veins showed faintly beneath the skin. Though his beast‑headed mask concealed his face, his crane‑like figure and peach blossom eyes betrayed the elegance of the man beneath.

As the pipa player stirred, Cui Xun rose to leave. But her trembling hand seized his wrist.

Hesitation flickered in her eyes. Then, with sudden resolve, she tore away his mask.

Beneath it was indeed that peach‑blossom face.

She recoiled as if struck by lightning, shoving him back with all her strength. “Go away! I don’t want your help!”

Her companions cried out, “Ah’man, this gentleman saved you!”

“I don’t want his help!” she spat. “He disgusts me!”

Supported by her companions, she staggered off, refusing to look at him again. The musicians bowed apologetically. “We’re sorry, sir. Ah’man isn’t usually like this…”

Cui Xun only murmured, “It’s alright… take good care of her.”

He gathered his cloak and left under puzzled gazes.

Li Ying, who had witnessed everything, was stunned. Why such hostility toward the man who had saved her? If it was his reputation, surely saving her life deserved thanks. And why did Cui Xun accept her rejection so calmly? Why had he risked himself for a musician? Did he know her?

She chased after him, crimson robes soaked, clinging to his slender frame like bamboo. “Deputy Minister Cui—” she began, but he pointed toward a pleasure boat.

On deck stood a middle‑aged couple: Pei Guanyue and his wife. Cui Xun’s voice was hoarse. “They fear ghosts. Create a disturbance. When frightened, they may reveal what you seek.”

Li Ying’s gaze lingered on the woman—Wang Ranxi of Taiyuan, Zheng Yun’s cousin. Was it for her that Zheng Yun hated his fiancée enough to want her dead?

Her thoughts scattered as Cui Xun doubled over, coughing violently. His snow‑white face flushed rose, his body trembling from the cold river.

“Deputy Minister Cui, are you alright?” she asked, concerned.

He ignored her, staggering onward until he reached a deserted plum grove. Lantern‑goers had left it empty. Leaning against a winter plum, he collapsed.

Li Ying rushed forward, shaking him. “Deputy Minister Cui! Are you alright?”

But his eyes remained closed, lashes dark against his pallid cheeks, lips drained of color. Even unconscious, his pride had led him to faint in solitude rather than before the crowd.

A red plum blossom fell onto his lips—brilliant against his jade‑like pallor. Li Ying brushed it away, her fingers grazing his icy mouth. She withdrew quickly, then stared at her hand, sighing softly.

Suddenly, ghostly green fire flickered. Six paper sedan bearers appeared, carrying a gauze‑draped palanquin. They lifted Cui Xun inside.

Within, phoenix‑patterned censers glowed with fragrant charcoal, warming the white tiger skin beneath him. Yet even unconscious, he trembled, coughing, his brow furrowed.

Li Ying bent close, arranging his damp hair. His soaked crimson robes clung to him—if he didn’t change, fever would follow. Trembling, she loosened his belt, then his robe, then his inner garment.

She froze.

His body was covered in scars—whips, knives, irons, tortures she couldn’t name. They crawled across his jade‑like skin like centipedes. She turned away, nauseated. A scar at his collarbone revealed where iron thorns had pierced and hung him.

A cough startled her. Cui Xun had awakened. He pulled his wet clothes around himself, covering the scars.

“I just… wanted to change you into dry clothes,” Li Ying stammered.

He said nothing, fastening his garments with trembling fingers.

“Your wounds…” she whispered.

His eyes turned cold. “What business is it of yours?”

She lowered her head. “It’s none of my business. I was just asking…”

He ignored her. She handed him moon‑white robes warmed by the heater. “You should change. If you keep wearing these, you’ll fall ill. Your health is poor… If no one cares for you, at least care for yourself.”

She dropped the gauze between them. “Don’t worry, I won’t look. Call me when you’re dressed.”

Silence stretched. She sat breathing incense, waiting.

At last the palanquin stopped. “Have we arrived at the Cui residence?” she asked.

“Yes,” came his cough.

He lifted the gauze. His face appeared—striking, ethereal, clad now in scholarly robes of thirty years past. Broad sleeves, jade crown, black hair falling—he looked like a figure from another age.

“You look quite good in this…” she blurted, then flushed.

He asked evenly, “Why didn’t you go find Wang Ranxi?”

She faltered. “If I went to find her, what about you?”

Something flickered in his eyes. He stepped out, walking into the Cui residence. Just before entering, he turned back.

“Thank you.”

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