Song Youyi stared at the shadow on the wall, contorted into various shapes, her heart a tangled mess of indescribable, murky emotions. She didn’t dare make a sound, not even a sigh.
For a man to be brought to this state by a woman… could this be considered happiness for her brother?
At the very least, in that particular aspect, “Qi Chuyao” certainly had her skills.
Song Youyi bit her lower lip. She wondered, if it were her, could she do it?
No.
Her frail, sickly body would be out of breath after walking just a few quick steps, would feel dizzy after standing for too long, and would struggle to lift a pot of water.
She couldn’t do it.
She could never do it.
She couldn’t give her brother happiness, couldn’t be like “Qi Chuyao,” and certainly couldn’t keep him imprisoned by her side forever.
Song Youyi simply stopped looking, slowly leaning back against the corner of the wall, burying her face in her knees.
The wall was icy, the cold seeping through her thin clothes, making her shiver.
But her cheeks were still burning, her heart still ached, and those shadows still swirled in her mind. Tears silently slid down her face.
She didn’t want to cry. She told herself her brother’s marriage was a good thing.
Qi Chuyao might be arrogant, but at least she was a Martial Artist, strong and healthy, capable of giving her brother “happiness.”
Yet the tears wouldn’t stop, falling one after another, dripping from her cheeks onto her skirt.
Two of the red lanterns in the courtyard had gone out at some point, leaving only the last one swaying in the wind.
The light had dimmed considerably, and the shadows cast on the ground grew fuzzy.
It was a dark night, the moon obscured, the wind high, and all was silent.
Song Youyi huddled in the corner, a faint flush still lingering on her pale face, her eyes rimmed red, tear stains blotchy.
She bit her finger, first the knuckle, then the fingertip, her teeth pressing down gently.
“I also want to…” she mumbled incoherently.
She didn’t dare make a sound.
Her brother was in the wedding chamber not far away, and Qi Chuyao was there too.
She couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t be discovered, couldn’t let anyone know she was crouched here.
But her mind was filled with those shadows.
She shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be crouching beneath the window of her brother’s wedding chamber doing this.
But she couldn’t control herself.
“I also want to… I also want to…” she repeated her murmur, her body trembling.
Song Youyi remained curled in the corner like a white lotus broken by the wind.
Moonlight fell upon her, making her plain white dress glow brightly, starkly out of place amidst all this celebratory red.
Tear tracks crisscrossed her face, the faint blush not yet faded.
The night wind blew over, chilly, making her shiver.
She lifted her head, gazing towards the horizon.
Only the last red lantern still swayed in the wind, its light growing dimmer and dimmer, nearly burnt out.
—
Qin Junyue let out a deep exhale, finally releasing Song Ning.
She loosened her grip, gently laying him back on the bed.
Song Ning’s body was limp, his thighs trembling involuntarily, his waist aching, his arms lacking even the strength to lift themselves.
He sprawled on the bed as if he’d been taken apart and hastily reassembled.
He gasped for breath in great heaves, his chest rising and falling violently. His face was slick with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead and temples.
His collarbones, shoulders, and chest were covered in patches of red marks, some already turning bluish-purple.
His lips were slightly parted, red and swollen, with a small broken spot at the corner oozing a trace of blood.
“How many times was that?” he murmured hoarsely. “Was it five?”
Song Ning felt the world had gone quiet. His mind was foggy, unable to think of anything, even on the verge of forgetting who he was.
He didn’t want to think right now. He felt completely drained, his fingertips numb, his toes unable to curl. He thought silently to himself:
‘As expected, a man’s body in this Female-dominated World is still too different from my previous life.’
Especially in this aspect.
As for women, their constitutions were even more worlds apart.
A Martial Artist who had Entered the Ranks was an entirely different species from an ordinary person.
Their stamina, endurance, and recovery far exceeded normal humans, and a Second-Rank Martial Artist was the pinnacle among them.
Capable of going for several hours without panting, casually flipping and turning until dawn, just like before.
Qin Junyue looked down at him, then at herself, silently counting in her heart.
Actually, it was eight times.
But she didn’t dare speak. She could only press down her voice, imitating Qi Chuyao’s muddled, drunken tone with a vague “Mmm.”
That single “Mmm” held too much: satisfaction, guilt, secret delight, and a touch of regret.
“You’re really not human,” Song Ning muttered to himself, utterly spent. “Tomorrow, I’m going to file for He Li! Just you wait.”
He thought if he could see right now, he’d probably be seeing stars.
He’d only known before that Martial Artists were vigorous and powerful, but he never imagined it was this exaggerated.
This wasn’t just vigor; this was being a beast of burden.
Qin Junyue looked down at him. Moonlight streamed through the window, falling on his face, softening his handsome features.
The red marks on his collarbone were left by her. The broken spot on his lip was from her bite. The sweat on his face, his trembling legs, his arms too weak to lift—all were her doing.
A tremendous sense of satisfaction surged in her heart, followed immediately by a flicker of regret.
She still felt it wasn’t done well enough.
Annoyed, she pursed her lips, reached out, and gently brushed his disheveled hair behind his ear.
Song Ning didn’t move. He no longer had the strength to even dodge.
“Sleep,” Qin Junyue said in Qi Chuyao’s voice, the words slurred and spoken very softly.
Song Ning didn’t even have the strength to reply. He merely moved his lips slightly, uttering something unintelligible, before sinking into a deep sleep.
Qin Junyue sat by the bed, watching his sleeping face.
His breathing gradually steadied, the flush on his face slowly fading, leaving only a weary pallor.
His hand rested outside the quilt, fingers slightly curled as if trying to grasp something, yet holding nothing.
She gently took that hand, cradling it in her palm. Feeling its slightly cool temperature, she closed her eyes.
‘This is my last moment of tenderness with you. The last.’
‘Song Ning, see you tomorrow. You and I…’ Qin Junyue sniffled lightly, wiping away the moisture at the corner of her eye.
Come tomorrow, tomorrow you and I will once again be polite friends, no longer like we were tonight.
The sliver of fish-belly white at the horizon grew brighter, slowly spreading from behind the eaves like ink bleeding on rice paper.
The outlines of distant rooftops grew clearer, the frost on the tiles glinting faintly in the dawn light.
The last red lantern in the courtyard finally burned out. The candle flame flickered twice and died, a wisp of smoke curling up, dispersing in the morning breeze.
Qin Junyue opened her eyes, looking at the gradually brightening sky outside the window, then lowered her gaze to Song Ning’s sleeping face.
She sat like that, holding his hand, without closing her eyes all night.
On the table, Qi Chuyao still lay slumped beside the wine pot, sleeping soundly, oblivious to everything.
Her wedding dress, which Qin Junyue had returned to her, was wrinkled from being worn, her hair disheveled, her face still stained with wine, looking utterly disheveled in the morning light.
She didn’t know what had happened last night, didn’t know she had nearly been framed, didn’t know her good friend had impersonated her, didn’t know her husband had been turned over and over, tormented all night long.
She knew nothing.
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