Blood Pact

Zhao Wan lay awake, staring at the intricate Baroque carvings on the ceiling until the lampwick burned out and the last wisp of orange flame danced faintly in the air before dying out.

The room fell into absolute darkness.

This darkness was different from the drafty, earthy blackness of the Yin family's side courtyard. Here, the dark was heavy and sealed, like layers of thick black velvet tightly wrapped around the senses. Zhao Wan could hear her own breathing, very soft, but in the extreme stillness it was like a silent declaration: she was still alive.

After what seemed like an endless time, a sliver of light seeped through the crack in the door.

It was a faint morning light, but due to the unique structure of the castle, it was refracted into a cold silvery gray.

"Knock, knock."

The knocking was very soft, with a rhythm that was extremely measured.

"Young Madam, I am Old Servant Uncle Fang, bringing your wash water."

The door opened. The man who entered was not the icy-cold one from last night, but a middle-aged man with graying temples and a straight back. He wore a blue mandarin jacket that had been washed white, and carried a copper basin with a snow-white towel draped over its rim.

His movements were very light, his footsteps almost inaudible.

Zhao Wan sat up in bed. The effect of the "Soul Capture Soup" had not yet dissipated, so her movements were still a bit sluggish, and her face looked even paler in the silvery gray morning light.

Uncle Fang set down the copper basin and stepped back, slightly bowing.

"The young master has instructed that all rules in the castle are waived for you. You may rise and rest whenever you please."

Zhao Wan looked at the basin of steaming water. The surface was still, reflecting no image of her, only a thin layer of white mist rising.

"Are you human, or..."

She asked the question that had troubled her all along.

Uncle Fang smiled. His smile was very gentle, with fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, like an ordinary old-fashioned butler.

"Young Madam, in this castle, whether one is human or something else is not the most crucial thing." He reached out to test the water temperature, then carefully soaked and wrung out the towel. "What matters most is that you are now the mistress of this house."

Zhao Wan took the towel, the warmth on her face clearing her thoughts a little.

"And your young master?"

"The young master is in the study." Uncle Fang lowered his eyelids, his voice steady. "He is waiting for you. After breakfast, this old servant will take you to see him."

————

Breakfast was simple: a bowl of plain congee and a few delicate pickled dishes.

Zhao Wan ate very slowly. With each swallow of congee, she could feel the warmth belonging to the living slowly returning to her body. She noticed that the tableware was pure silver, its edges darkened with a mellow patina from age.

"Young Madam, there is nothing added to the congee."

Uncle Fang stood to the side, as if seeing through her concerns, and explained softly, "The young master was very angry about that bowl of soup from the Yin family. In this castle, no one would dare tamper with your food."

Zhao Wan set down the porcelain spoon.

"Why was he angry?"

"The young master believes in order." Uncle Fang's tone was like reciting an ancient maxim. "And 'deception' is the beginning of the destruction of order."

Zhao Wan fell silent.

She remembered the look in Qi Ye's eyes last night when he pinched her chin. It was deeper than anger—more like a desolation following a betrayal of faith.

After eating, Uncle Fang led her through the castle's corridors.

The hallway was very high, with massive oil paintings hanging on both walls.

Zhao Wan slowed her steps. She noticed that the people in these paintings spanned countless dynasties. There were women dressed in Ming dynasty noblewoman attire, ladies adorned with Manchu headdresses, and modern women in narrow-sleeved cheongsams from the early Republic period.

Though their faces were different and their identities varied, every painting shared a common detail.

The black gold ring.

Or rather, on the left ring finger of every female figure was that extremely slender black-gold ring, like a fine black line.

Zhao Wan stopped before one painting.

It depicted a woman in a moon-white cloak, standing sideways. Her features were blurred and indistinct, but that hand—the hand wearing the ring—was painted with extreme realism.

What made Zhao Wan's heart skip a beat even more was this:

On the woman's wrist was an extremely fine red mark.

A lycoris flower.

"These are..." Zhao Wan's voice trembled.

Uncle Fang also stopped. He looked at the woman in the painting, a complex emotion in his eyes, like nostalgia, or perhaps a profound compassion.

"These are all the women the young master has been waiting for."

"For three hundred years?"

"Three hundred years." Uncle Fang turned and continued walking. "The young master believes that that soul will eventually return. So, every so often, the Yin family sends a girl. The young master personally examines whether the ring can be put on and whether the mark appears."

He stopped before a massive red wooden door.

"But before you, the ring never glowed, and the mark never pulsed."

————

The study was very large.

Bookshelves covering an entire wall were filled with parchment scrolls, thread-bound books, and even some moldy bamboo slips.

Qi Ye sat in a wide, dark-fur-covered armchair. The curtains were still drawn, with only a thick white candle burning on the desk.

The candlelight illuminated his pale face, making him seem more like a statue that had stepped out of an ancient tomb.

"Come and see."

His voice was flat, like a command devoid of warmth.

Zhao Wan walked over.

On the center of the desk lay the blood pact from last night.

Qi Ye's slender fingers brushed lightly over the yellowed paper, his movements slow as if caressing a lover's hair.

"The seventh day of the tenth month, the forty-second year of Kangxi."

He softly recited the date.

"At that time, I was still a scholar in Jiangnan. On my way to the capital for the imperial examination, I encountered a rainstorm. In that rain, I rescued a thoroughly drenched embroiderer."

His gaze moved from the pact to Zhao Wan, the candle flame reflected in his pupils like tiny sparks.

"Her name was Zhou Wan. On her deathbed, she told me that her greatest regret was never having worn bridal attire and become my bride."

Qi Ye let out a self-mocking chuckle.

"So, I accompanied her, using her blood, to write this marriage pact. I promised her that no matter how many times she reincarnated, no matter what form she took, as long as she returned, I would marry her."

He suddenly reached out and pushed the scroll toward Zhao Wan.

"Now, you tell me. Why is the name signed here 'Yin Zhao Wan'?"

Zhao Wan stared at those three characters.

Due to age, the ink had turned purple. The characters were written with strong bones, displaying a feminine grace yet carrying a sense of determination.

"I don't know."

Zhao Wan looked up, meeting Qi Ye's eyes. "When Grandmother gave me this name three months ago, she didn't tell me the reason."

"But..."

She pointed to the date on the pact.

"The forty-second year of Kangxi—that was 323 years ago. According to common sense, if a person is truly reincarnating, the date of birth, place, and even name of this life should not be controlled by the family of this generation."

"Unless..."

Zhao Wan's voice faltered.

"Unless what?" Qi Ye asked.

"Unless someone is manipulating this reincarnation." Zhao Wan's gaze turned cold and hard. "Or someone is using this contract to create a 'perfect sacrifice.'"

The air in the study froze instantly.

Qi Ye's hand gripping the edge of the pact suddenly tightened, the paper emitting an unsettling grating sound.

————

"Manipulating?"

Qi Ye stood up.

His movement was too fast, and the draft extinguished the half-burned candle on the desk. Amid the flickering light and shadow, his face looked particularly ferocious.

"In this world, no one can manipulate the pact set by the Progenitor. Even I can only guard it and wait for it."

He walked up to Zhao Wan.

That chilly scent of sandalwood enveloped her again.

"I have searched for you for three hundred years."

He lowered his head, his voice lingering near her ear. "I have seen countless girls named Yin. Some were gentle, some greedy, and some even changed their names to 'Wan Niang.' But I only needed one look to know they weren't you."

His hand touched Zhao Wan's wrist, gently tracing the lycoris mark.

"Only you. The ring grew warm near you, the blood boiled when touching you."

He paused, a deep bewilderment flashing in the depths of his pupils.

"But when I look into your eyes, they are empty, with not a trace of memory from three hundred years ago. You look at me as if I were a monster, a stranger."

He tightened his grip on her wrist, the force making her wince.

"Since the name is real, the mark is real, and the blood is real, then please tell me..."

"Why is your soul cold?"

Zhao Wan endured the pain, looking up at this monster who had lived for three hundred years.

"Because no one ever taught me what 'warmth' was before."

She answered bluntly.

"In the Yin family, I was an illegitimate child, a stain, a tool whose name could be taken at any time to settle accounts. You waited for that person for three hundred years—that is your deep love."

"But what about me?"

She shook off his hand.

"I have lived for nineteen years. All I can remember is the cold wind of winter and the rattan strikes on my back from Madam Liu. You ask why my soul is cold—"

"It's because, if it weren't cold, I would never have survived those nineteen years."

The study fell into a deathly stillness.

Qi Ye looked at her.

At this girl wrapped in a red wedding dress, her eyes as cold as ice.

He seemed about to speak, but in the end, he simply sat back down in the black armchair.

"You may leave."

He retied the black silk ribbon of the pact.

"Uncle Fang will take you to the castle's library. You can look into whatever you wish."

"But remember one thing."

He relit the remnant of the candle.

"Before the pact takes full effect, do not try to escape. Because your life no longer belongs to you."

Zhao Wan did not look back, walking straight toward the red wooden door.

As she pushed open the door, she heard an extremely faint sound from behind her—like a sigh.

"I don't know who you are."

Qi Ye whispered to the flickering candlelight.

"But I also don't know who I am anymore."