He Stayed for Her the First Time

Three days.

Murong Yan had been by Su Wan's bedside for three whole days and nights.

Everyone in the manor found it strange—what had gotten into the eldest young master? Murong Yan, usually so carefree and never lacking in female companionship, had actually stayed by the bedside of a "serving girl" for three days and nights without leaving or seeing anyone.

"The eldest young master, he..."

"Shh, keep your voice down, don't let him hear."

"That Miss Su, what background does she have?"

"Who knows... but given how the young master is acting, she doesn't seem like just an ordinary attendant."

The maidservants whispered among themselves, but none dared to ask Murong Yan. He sat by the bed, his expression dark and grim, exuding an aura that kept everyone at a distance. Even Liu Yiyi, who was usually his favorite, came to visit but was stopped by the attendants outside the door.

"Young Master Yan, I just want to see Miss Su..." Liu Yiyi said softly from outside.

"Get out."

Only one word came from inside the room, cold and curt, with no room for negotiation.

Liu Yiyi's face instantly turned pale. She bit her lip and turned away resentfully.

In the room, Murong Yan sat on a chair by the bed, his gaze fixed on the unconscious person lying there. Three days, and she still hadn't woken up. Her high fever had come and gone, back and forth, like an oil lamp that could go out at any moment.

The physician said whether she would survive depended on her own will to live.

Murong Yan watched her, truly looking at her for the first time.

Her fine, soft brows were like newly sprouted willow leaves in early spring; her nose was small and delicate, with soft lines; her lips were pale and thin; her cheeks were gaunt, the outline of her bones almost visible. She wasn't exceptionally beautiful, but when she was quiet, she had an indescribable gentleness, like a light ink painting—unassuming yet pleasing to the eye.

Her hand was exposed outside the blanket, slender and pale, with distinct knuckles. Murong Yan's gaze fell on her hand and suddenly noticed a faint old scar on her palm, as if made by a sharp object.

He remembered that scar.

It was from many years ago. Back then, he was young and restless. After losing a magical duel, he was hunted by enemies and severely injured. He barely made it back to Murong Manor, on the verge of death. Su Wan stayed by his bedside, using her spiritual power over and over to protect his heart meridian until she overexerted and fainted beside him.

As she fainted, the silver bowl in her hand fell to the ground, and the shattered porcelain cut her palm.

That scar was from that incident.

Murong Yan reached out and gently held her hand. Her hand was very cold, like a piece of ice, making his heart tighten. He wrapped her hand with both of his, trying to warm it, but no matter how hard he tried, her hand remained cold.

His gaze moved from her hand to her arm. He suddenly noticed several small scars on her arm—some seemed from a blade, some from burns, and some even from claw marks of a demon beast. Each scar was shallow, barely visible unless one looked closely, but when he counted, there were seven or eight in total.

Every one of these scars was related to him.

The one from a blade was from a time when he lost control while practicing swordsmanship; she rushed in front of him and was cut by his uncontrolled sword energy. The burn was from an alchemy furnace explosion; she threw herself in front of him to block the flying sparks. The claw marks were from several dangerous outings when he was attacked by demon beasts, and she stood in front of him to shield him.

Murong Yan held her hand, his fingers tightening slightly.

He had never known she bore so many wounds.

He had never paid attention.

For a hundred years, when he was injured, she healed him; when he was tired, she prepared his herbal medicine; when he brought home female companions, she arranged their accommodations; when he was in a bad mood and lost his temper, she silently endured without a word. She was like the air, omnipresent yet completely overlooked by him.

And she, in places he never saw, had taken so many hits for him and left so many scars.

"Su Wan..." he whispered her name, his voice hoarse. "Why... are you so good to me?"

The person on the bed did not answer. She remained unconscious, her breathing weak, on the verge of death.

Murong Yan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Scenes flashed through his mind—her gentle profile as she brought him medicine, her thin back as she stood guard outside his seclusion cave, her slender fingers as she arranged his robes, her quiet figure standing in the corridor outside Azure Cloud Hall...

These scenes, which he had never cared about before, were now as clear as if carved into his memory.

He remembered that sunlit afternoon when, as a youth, he carved a jade pendant for her. He remembered carving with great concentration, cutting his fingers several times but not stopping. He remembered hanging the pendant on her waist and seeing her eyes sparkle as if filled with starlight.

When did he forget?

When did he turn the little girl with sparkling eyes into a "serving girl"?

Murong Yan opened his eyes and looked at the woman in bed. His chest felt blocked, aching dully.

He raised his hand to brush away the stray hair on her forehead. This time, he didn't hesitate. His fingers gently touched her forehead, tucking the strand of hair behind her ear.

His movements were very light, as if afraid to disturb her.

His fingertips touched her skin—it was very hot, the temperature of a high fever. His fingers lingered on her forehead for a moment, then slowly moved down to her cheek.

Her skin was thin and soft, like a fresh petal. His fingers gently stroked her cheek, his movements as tender as if handling a rare treasure.

For 120 years, this was the first time he had made such a gesture toward a woman.

"Su Wan," he said softly, his voice low as if talking to himself, "wake up... don't sleep."

"If you wake up, I..."

He paused.

What did he want to say? What did he want to promise? He didn't even know himself. He just didn't want her to die, didn't want the person who had silently guarded him for a hundred years to disappear like this.

But what could he give her?

Status? Title? Or... something else?

Murong Yan smiled bitterly. He had lived for 120 years and possessed everything—status, position, cultivation, wealth, and no shortage of women flocking to him. Yet he couldn't give the most silent person beside him a decent promise.

Because he hadn't even figured out his own heart.

He just... didn't want her to die.

On the third night, Su Wan's high fever finally subsided.

Her breathing gradually stabilized, and her face no longer looked as pale and frightening as before. Murong Yan stayed by the bed, watching her breathing gradually become even. The tension that had gripped him for three days finally eased a little.

He leaned over the bedside, holding her hand, and unknowingly fell asleep.

Morning light streamed through the window lattice, falling on his profile. His brows were slightly furrowed, and there were dark circles under his eyes—signs of three days and nights without proper rest. He still held her hand, fingers intertwined, not letting go.

When Su Wan woke up, the first thing she saw was Murong Yan's profile.

He was leaning by the bed, sleeping soundly. Sunlight from the window cast dappled light on his eyelashes. His brows were slightly furrowed, as if having a bad dream. He still held her hand, his palm warm and firm.

Su Wan looked at him, momentarily dazed.

She thought she was dreaming.

She struggled to sit up, but the movement pulled at the wound on her back, causing her to gasp in pain.

"Ah..."

This soft sound woke Murong Yan.

He jerked his head up, his gaze directly meeting her face, his eyes still carrying the grogginess of just waking up and a hint of barely perceptible panic.

"You're awake?" His voice was horribly hoarse; after not speaking properly for three days, his throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper.

Su Wan looked at him and nodded. Her gaze moved from the dark circles under his eyes to his furrowed brows, then to his hand tightly gripping hers.

"Young master..." she said softly, very weakly, "are your wounds healed?"

The first words she spoke upon waking were not about her own injuries, not asking why she was here, but—whether his wounds had healed.

Murong Yan was stunned.

He looked at her, at her pale face, at her weak gaze, at the genuine concern in her eyes. In an instant, something seemed to block his throat. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He had lived for 120 years and met many people, heard many words. People had told him of admiration, respect, flattery, and calculation.

But never had anyone, upon waking from a three-day coma caused by severe injuries, asked first—whether his wounds had healed.

"Su Wan..." his voice trembled.

Su Wan looked at him, a hint of confusion in her eyes: "What's wrong, young master? Are your wounds not healed yet?"

She struggled to sit up again, wanting to take his pulse. Murong Yan quickly supported her, letting her lean against the bed.

"Don't move," he said, his voice recovering a little but still hoarse. "Your wounds haven't healed yet."

"I'm fine," Su Wan said softly, her gaze still on his face. "Young master's wounds..."

"I'm fine," Murong Yan interrupted, his voice urgent. "I'm perfectly fine. But you, after three days, you're finally awake."

Su Wan looked at him, a blank look in her eyes. Three days? She had been unconscious for three days? She looked at the dark circles under his eyes, at his tightly knit brows, and suddenly understood something.

"Young master..." she said softly, "you stayed by me for three days?"

Murong Yan didn't answer; he just averted his gaze. He let go of her hand, stood up, turned his back to her, and his voice returned to its usual calm: "Rest well. I'll have someone send in your medicine."

He said this and turned to leave.

At the door, he paused for a moment but didn't look back, walking straight out.

Su Wan leaned against the bed, watching his retreating figure, her eyes carrying both confusion and a hint of barely perceptible tenderness. She raised her hand and gently placed it over her heart—it was beating faster than usual.

Murong Yan left Su Wan's room and walked briskly toward his own courtyard.

His heart was a mess, tangled like a knot of threads. He didn't know why he had been flustered, nor why he had stayed by her side for three days and nights. And he didn't know why her first words—"Young master, are your wounds healed?"—had struck him like a heavy blow, making it almost suffocatingly painful.

He stopped under the peach tree in the courtyard.

That peach tree had been planted the year he was born and had now grown tall and lush with branches and leaves. He looked up at the peach blossoms, full of pink and white, feeling a tightness in his chest.

In 120 years, he had never been so unsettled.

"Damn it..." he muttered under his breath, not sure if he was cursing himself or something else.

He suddenly struck out with his palm.

"Crack—"

A crisp snapping sound.

The peach tree that had grown for 120 years was broken at the main branch by his palm. The broken branch, laden with blossoms, crashed to the ground, sending petals flying like a sudden rain of flowers.

Murong Yan stood amidst the swirling petals, his face dark and terrifying. His chest heaved violently, and the veins on his clenched fists bulged.

He didn't know what was wrong with him.

He only knew that the woman who had always stood silently behind him, whom he had casually called a "serving girl," had begun to take root in some corner of his heart, growing wildly at a speed he could not control.

And he was powerless to stop it.

The wind blew, and petals landed on his shoulders and hair, like a silent judgment.

Murong Yan stood in the midst of the falling flower rain, unmoving for a long time.