The air in the office seemed to have stopped flowing.
Only in the shafts of light filtering through the blinds did dust particles drift endlessly in slow, lazy suspension.
Su Yuqing’s accusation—about that “impossible” identity forgery—was like a heavy stone thrown into the still waters of her heart.
But the ripples it stirred were not the panic or excuses she had anticipated.
Instead, they brought forth a deeper, more unsettling calm.
Bai Wanxue listened to all of her confusion, fear, and near-breakdown reasoning without immediately answering.
She simply watched Su Yuqing quietly.
Her pale red eyes, under the slanted sunlight, took on a strange quality, as if a quiet fire was burning within them.
She even curved the corners of her mouth slightly—an almost imperceptible, faint arc that somehow strangely eased some of the tension in the air.
“Please rest assured, Master.”
She finally spoke, her voice still that ethereal, steady tone, yet it seemed to carry a trace of an indescribable… solemnity?
“The ‘reason’ Wanxue is about to explain is actually very simple. It absolutely will not be some… twisted logic unique to cats that you would find difficult to understand in a short time, or something beyond common sense like ‘Cat’s Logic.'”
She deliberately emphasized the four words “Cat’s Logic,” as if responding to Su Yuqing’s earlier summary of Zhi Ai’s behavioral patterns, yet subtly drawing a line to distinguish herself from it.
Su Yuqing was somewhat disconcerted by her calmness and this inexplicable “assurance.”
The doubts in her heart did not dissipate; instead, they coiled tighter like vines.
She pursed her slightly dry lips, her body unconsciously leaning forward slightly into a posture of “listening.”
Her voice was hesitant:
“Then… alright. Go ahead. I’m listening.”
Bai Wanxue gave a gentle nod.
Her gaze seemed to drift toward the distant sky outside the window, or perhaps it pierced through time and space, landing on a point only she could see.
Her voice was soft, yet carried a strange penetrating power, each word and phrase striking clearly against Su Yuqing’s eardrums:
“Just as you, Master, said not long ago to that pink-haired sister—”
She paused, her gaze refocusing on Su Yuqing’s face, her pale red eyes clear as a bottomless pool.
“In this world, some things are not only far less simple than you imagine.”
She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing her words, then added the more crucial sentence, her tone carrying a warning that bordered on compassion:
“They are also… things that you cannot, and should not, delve into further, things you cannot, and should not, try to ‘understand’ the full truth of.”
“Some threads, once seen, are best treated as unseen; some doors, knowing they exist, are best left unopened. Meow.”
Su Yuqing’s brows furrowed tightly.
The strings in her heart named “Curiosity” and “Anxiety” were stretched to their limit.
What kind of explanation was this?
This was pure obfuscation!
A more sophisticated evasion!
“Hmm?”
Her voice involuntarily carried a trace of impatience and sarcasm.
“So, what you’re saying… how is it any different from explaining almost nothing to me just now? This is just jumping from one mystery into another, even more cryptic riddle!”
“Of course there is a difference. Meow.”
Bai Wanxue’s reply remained calm, even carrying a sense of “you’ll understand soon” understanding.
She did not continue to dwell on the issue of “whether it can be understood.”
Her words took a sharp turn, cutting into a direction Su Yuqing had never anticipated—that sealed, bloody past.
“Master, do you remember?”
Her voice suddenly became very soft, very ethereal, as if coming from a great distance.
“On that cold, stormy night. In that damp, dirty, thorny thicket at the bottom of the building… As life, accompanied by excruciating pain and bone-chilling cold, slowly drained from this small body…”
Her description was so vivid, instantly pulling Su Yuqing back to that scene she found suffocating and painful just to imagine.
Su Yuqing’s face paled, her fingers unconsciously curling.
“Remember that moment, just before completely losing consciousness and dying amidst those sharp branches.”
Bai Wanxue continued, her gaze unfocused, as if truly gazing upon the despair of that time.
“In Wanxue’s heart… there was regret. Genuine regret, so profound it made even the soul tremble.”
She turned her head, her pale red eyes looking directly at Su Yuqing.
They clearly reflected Su Yuqing’s stunned face, along with a sorrow and remorse so heavy it seemed impossible to dissolve:
“I regretted… why, during those days when I could still stay by Master’s side, I didn’t properly, earnestly, spend time with you.”
“Clearly… Master’s heart is so warm. Just by being near, one could feel a comforting warmth.”
She reached out, her fingertip pointing vaguely toward the position of Su Yuqing’s heart.
The movement was light, yet it made Su Yuqing’s heart give a violent thump.
“Clearly… the melody of Master’s heartbeat is so steady, powerful, and beautiful. It’s the most wonderful, most comforting sound Wanxue has ever heard in all my years of life.”
Her tone was filled with sincere nostalgia, even a trace of infatuation.
“But… the Wanxue of that time was so foolish, so arrogant, and so lacking in human understanding.”
Her voice lowered, carrying a tremor akin to a sob.
“I simply… didn’t know how to cherish that warmth. I similarly… didn’t understand that I should hurry, should firmly monopolize that warmth, that shelter that belonged only to me. I took it for granted, even responded with indifference and sharp claws…”
This sudden, profound, and blunt confession was like a heavy hammer, smashing hard against the old scar in Su Yuqing’s heart named “Mantou.”
A mix of bitterness, pain, relief, and an indescribable flutter overwhelmed her defenses.
She looked at the girl before her who claimed to be “Mantou” yet was not merely “Mantou,” listening to her speak of those emotions she had thought that little cat would never understand or care about.
Because of this, her eyes began to grow warm uncontrollably.
“That… actually…”
Su Yuqing’s voice was a bit hoarse.
She sniffled, trying to force a smile, but it looked uglier than crying.
“Actually, your… hugs, though rare, the occasional little nudge was also very warm. Man… tou.”
She finally uttered that name again, with a belated, clumsy response.
She even tried to use a slightly lighter tone to dispel the overly heavy atmosphere:
“It’s just that… back then, I really didn’t have much ‘luck’ to enjoy it more…”
She imitated the tone of that time, with a helpless smile.
“Every single time I wanted to get a little closer, to pet you or hug you, I’d immediately be ‘persuaded’ to retreat by those sharp little claws on your hands and the hissing sound from your throat—ouch, so fierce!”
She tried to use this “little conflict” from memory to dilute the sadness, to prove that their interactions weren’t all unpleasant.
However, before her lighthearted words could fully land—
“Mantou is already dead now! Master.”
Bai Wanxue interrupted her with a calm, resolute tone, uttering these earth-shattering words.