Her Name Never Appears on the Register

The setting sun spilled molten gold across the eaves of Azure Cloud Hall, the glazed tiles reflecting countless specks of shimmering light. Inside the hall, the strains of silk and bamboo instruments rose and fell, interwoven with cheerful laughter—a scene of music, song, and merry celebration.

Murong Yan leaned lazily against a table of green jade. His loose white brocade robe was casually tied at the waist, the front slightly open, revealing a sliver of jade-like skin. One hand propped up his cheek, the other idly toyed with a silver cup. A languid smile lingered at the corners of his mouth, and the radiance flickering between his sword-like brows and starry eyes was even more dazzling than the sunset outside the hall.

"Master Yan, have another cup," said a female cultivator in a yellow dress, pressing nearly half her body against his arm, her tone dripping with coquettish sweetness.

"That's right, Brother Yan, the poem you recited just now was wonderful—recite another one for us," another in green attire chimed in, unwilling to be outdone. She nestled close to his other side, her delicate hand lightly resting on the back of his.

"Master Murong, this is a newly refined Spirit-Concentrating Pill I made. Please take it and try it."

"Master Yan, look at this new sword technique I've learned..."

Female cultivators of every description surrounded him, their voices like warbling orioles and twittering swallows. The mingled scents of powder, rouge, and spiritual herbs almost took one's breath away. Murong Yan responded to each with a smile—neither cold nor favoring anyone in particular. That perfectly measured smile was like a spring breeze brushing one's face, giving everyone who drew near the illusion that "he treats me differently."

Outside the hall, beneath the corridor, Su Wan stood silently.

In her arms she held a gilded porcelain medicine jar, still faintly warm to the touch—the decoction she had spent three hours brewing, carefully controlling the heat so the medicinal effect would be at its mildest. She wore a simple moon-white dress with no ornamentation, only an old jade pendant tied at her waist. Her features were gentle, her figure slender, like a white plum blossom quietly unfurling in the wind.

The peach blossoms outside the corridor were in full bloom. A gust of wind sent pink and white petals drifting down in profusion; a few landed on her shoulders. She merely tilted her head slightly, letting the petals slide silently away.

"Look at her, standing there waiting like a fool."

Several murmured comments drifted out from inside the hall—not loud, but just enough for those outside to hear. The one in the yellow dress was called Liu Yiyi, a disciple of the Azure Mystic Sect who had been at Murong Manor for barely half a month but already acted as if she were half the mistress. She slanted a glance at Su Wan and whispered to the sisters beside her with a laugh: "Isn't it ridiculous? Everyone in the manor knows there's someone like her around the eldest young master, but no one can even remember her name."

"Hey, what do you think her background is?" another female cultivator asked curiously. "She doesn't seem like a maidservant, but she doesn't seem like a relative either. And the young master treats her so coldly."

"Who cares what she is," Liu Yiyi said with a dismissive curl of her lips, a hint of contempt in her voice. "Just a mute who never speaks. Standing there, she's less noticeable than the air. The young master only keeps her out of pity—gives her scraps to eat."

The female cultivators around her tittered softly, their gazes drifting intentionally or otherwise toward the figure beneath the corridor.

Su Wan lowered her eyelids, her long lashes casting a faint shadow beneath her eyes. Her fingers rested lightly on the handle of the medicine jar; her knuckles were faintly white. But she did not look up, nor did she speak a single word. She had heard these words too many times—from three years ago, five years ago, ten years ago, all the way to the present. Every time a new female cultivator entered the manor, the same conversations would repeat. She was long accustomed to it.

It was just that...

Her gaze unconsciously crossed the threshold of the hall and landed on that person. He was tilting his head to listen to one of the female cultivators speak, a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth, his profile carved to perfection like the work of a master sculptor. A hundred years—she had gazed upon this face for a hundred years, from his green youth to his prime, from the first light of dawn to the gathering dusk. Yet every time she looked again, her heart would still skip a beat.

"Alright, alright, it's getting late." Murong Yan rose to his feet, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the hall. He gently patted the back of one female cultivator's hand and nodded to another. "I'll accompany you ladies in drinking and poetry another day."

The female cultivators reluctantly watched him rise, their faces flushed with lingering excitement. But Murong Yan no longer looked at them. He stepped out of the hall, his gaze naturally falling upon the silent figure beneath the corridor.

"What are you still standing here for?" His voice was casual, as if asking about something utterly unimportant.

Su Wan looked up and handed him the medicine jar. "Young master, the herbal decoction."

Murong Yan took the jar, glanced at it, then casually handed it to his attendant Qingfeng. He drew a jade pendant from his sleeve and, with the same casual air, pressed it into Su Wan's hands.

"Keep this for me."

Four words—simple, flat, carrying no excess emotion. Having said that, he turned and left. Just then, a white-robed fairy who had recently entered the manor approached from the opposite direction. A lazy smile immediately bloomed on his face again as he walked shoulder to shoulder with her, gradually disappearing into the peach-blossom-strewn corridor.

Su Wan stood there, the warmth of his fingertips still lingering in her hands. She looked down at the jade pendant in her palm—the stone was smooth and warm, carved with a simple peach blossom. The craftsmanship was far from fine, yet it carried a certain familiar clumsiness. This was no precious jade piece—just a little trinket he had carved on a whim in his youth, later lost somewhere, only to be rediscovered by the servants among old odds and ends a few days ago.

He had probably long since forgotten.

Su Wan clasped the jade pendant tightly in her palm. The cool jade against her skin somehow brought a trace of warmth. A hint of the gentlest tenderness flickered in the depths of her eyes, like moonlight falling upon a still lake—seen by no one, and needing no one to see.

She turned and walked toward Murong Yan's residence, intending to change his discarded robes. Entering the inner chamber, she took the white robe he had removed from the rack, preparing to send it for washing.

Just then, her fingers touched a patch of damp clamminess on the inner side of the robe.

Su Wan frowned and turned the garment over for inspection.

It was a patch of blood.

Dark red, already dried, staining the inner lining near the left chest area. The shape was irregular, more like traces left after a wound had seeped and been wiped against the clothing.

Her heart skipped a beat.

No—she had taken his pulse today. His heartbeat was steady and strong, his internal energy calm. There was no sign of injury. And he had not gone out for any duels today—he had been drinking and jesting all day in Azure Cloud Hall.

Then this blood... whose was it?

Su Wan brought the robe close to her nose. A very faint, nearly imperceptible foreign scent mingled with the smell of blood. It was not his usual scent—he always carried a faint blend of sandalwood and sword energy. This strange fragrance... seemed somehow familiar.

She lowered her head and carefully examined the rest of the robe. The cuffs, the hem, the collar... all clean. Only here—at the innermost layer, closest to the heart—was this patch of dark red trace.

Dusk seeped through the window lattice bit by bit, dyeing the room in amber tones. Su Wan held the robe in her hands, her slender figure standing in the dim light, her silhouette looking especially fragile. Her brows were slightly knitted, her gaze fixed upon that patch of blood, long unmoving.

Peach blossoms drifted silently outside the window, one petal then another, landing on the windowsill like someone's inadvertently dropped secret thoughts.

The strains of silk and bamboo from Azure Cloud Hall were still faintly audible in the distance—laughter and chatter, a lively scene. But here, there was only her, and a robe stained with mysterious blood.

Su Wan carefully scraped the bloodstain into a porcelain vial and hid it away, then sent the robe for washing as usual. Her expression remained calm, her features still gentle, as if she had discovered nothing at all.

Only, in the moment she turned to leave, a flicker of doubt passed swiftly through the depths of her eyes.