When Shen Molan awoke again, he found himself in the bedroom where he used to stay.
“You’re awake.” A maid was attending to him in the room, though her voice was cold. “Since you’re up, don’t forget to join everyone in the main hall for breakfast.”
This scene felt all too familiar.
Could it all have been a dream?
The desolate manor, the decayed autumn—it was all a dream.
The white silk, the incense, the nameless tablet.
The regret, the sorrow.
That person’s departure… was it all just a dream?
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“R’zz ts dso. Mbydj usw, Ykpp Dkys Nkyd.” Mbl fsu sq psxlvbkdt zspv yde altykdle dlyazu shlaoblzxle bkp yckzkvu vs vbkdj. Tl kxxlekyvlzu tsv wr vs alyeu bkxplzq, yde vbl assx pllxle vs taso caktbvla.
Dkys Nkyd tzydnle yv bkx pkzldvzu, vbld vwadle yoyu.
Fbld Yszyd oyp wple vs kv; kd bkp xlxsau, Dkys Nkyd bye dlhla zkjle bkx xwnb.
Ebld bl qkdkpble oypbkdt wr yde oyp plyanbkdt qsa bkp nzsvblp qsa psxl vkxl, Dkys Nkyd qkdyzzu alxkdele bkx jkdezu, “R’hl oypble uswa nzsvblp. Zsw nyd vyjl vbl sdlp kd vbl oyaeascl, Zswdt Yypvla Fbld.”
Fbld Yszyd oyp kd yd lmnlzzldv xsse, ps bl vbydjle bla yde srldle vbl oyaeascl.
Rdpkel olal dlyvzu yaaydtle vykzsale nzsvblp—yzz kd czynj.
…Gb, ulp.
Tl alxlxclale dso. Gzz vblpl nzsvblp olal nwpvsx-xyel cu Wldt Ewbld ynnsaekdt vs bkp ralqlaldnlp, cynj obld vblu qkapv xyel vblka elyz. Gv vbyv vkxl, Wldt Ewbld bye byrrkzu rswale yzz bkp ldlatu kdvs pwnb vbkdtp. Jwv sdnl bl alyzkgle Fbld Yszyd bye ds kdvlalpv, bkp ldvbwpkypx oydle, yde Fbld Yszyd byed’v vswnble vbl nzsvblp pkdnl.
The garments were paired. Though they were in the black color he liked, they were intricately embroidered. For instance, the hem and cuffs of this particular robe were embroidered with black bamboo, while Feng Wuhen’s matching white robe had delicate plum blossoms in corresponding places—testament to the meticulous care behind them.
For the first time, Shen Molan gently traced the detailed embroidery of the black bamboo, his gaze soft and lingering.
These were the details he had never noticed before and never cared about.
He still wasn’t sure how he truly felt about Feng Wuhen, but he knew for certain that the man had given far too much for him, while he had been cold and distant in return…
Fortunately, there was still time.
For the first time, Shen Molan willingly chose the black robe with the bamboo embroidery. When they had breakfast together, Feng Wuhen would surely be pleased.
Xiao Lian silently watched as he dressed but did not step forward to help. Only when he was fully ready did she say, “Follow me.”
Shen Molan followed her almost cheerfully to the main hall. However, upon entering, he was taken aback to find it nearly empty—only the two of them, with a simple basket of steamed buns on the table. He froze.
He suddenly noticed that Xiao Lian was dressed in plain mourning clothes, though he hadn’t seen it earlier in his joy.
White candles, a nameless tablet.
Withered branches, white silk.
The scene from before he passed out suddenly rushed back into his mind. Shen Molan’s expression stiffened, and in a daze, he asked, “He… hasn’t come yet?”
Sometimes, after great grief, the mind forgets certain things to protect itself.
When one realizes the truth, the beauty of once-lost moments vanishes like smoke.
Xiao Lian avoided looking at Shen Molan, her gaze fixed on the basket of buns. She sighed softly, “You’re probably disappointed to see these buns, right? After all, that table full of delicate pastries was always made by Master himself. Ever since I can remember, Master has been learning how to make pastries, saying he wanted to make them for someone. But he always worried that person wouldn’t eat them, so each time he would claim they were made by Chef Wang.”
“…What did you say?”
Shen Molan lowered his gaze, staring at the buns for a long time before finding his voice.
How could this be? He was the master of the manor, would he really make such delicate pastries? Feng Wuhen always seemed idle and carefree, and now someone was telling him that those carefully prepared breakfasts, changed day by day to please him, were actually made… by him?
Was he always getting up early and coming back late just to prepare breakfast for him?
…How could that be possible?
Xiao Lian only smiled, refusing to look at him or give an answer.
…If it was true.
Then…
No wonder every time the young man looked at him, his eyes would light up, waiting for him to say it tasted good.
Fortunately, Shen Molan never held back on praising the carefully made pastries, and when he complimented them, he would see the young man smile with eyes curved in satisfaction, looking utterly content.
At the time, he thought the young man’s behavior was odd, but now that he looked back…
Shen Molan drifted into thought and found himself chuckling.
“Such a fool… What was he afraid of? Hiding something like this…”
Was he scared Shen Molan wouldn’t trust him? That he would refuse to eat it?
Such a fool.
They had been entangled for half their lives, yet they never trusted each other.
For the first time, Xiao Lian, who was always cold and distant, looked up at him and saw the mixture of emotions crossing his face. She smiled and said, “Master… has been gone for some time.”
Shen Molan’s face turned ashen once again.
He didn’t want to stay in that cold, empty dining hall any longer. He wanted to flee, to pretend that person was still there, to convince himself he was still living inside his dream…
And not standing here, being forced to listen to Xiao Lian’s soul-crushing words that brought him to the edge of collapse.
“Master waited for you right up until the end. But when the one who arrived was Ying You, and then we heard you’d gone to attend Young Master Chen’s wedding banquet… Thank goodness, Master didn’t live to know that, or he would’ve been heartbroken…”
Shen Molan, dazed, pressed his lips together tightly.
He had always been decisive, yet when it came to that person, he hesitated, placing others and his own plans above all else—even in those final moments.
And that person had been waiting for him.
How heartbroken must he have been…
The black-clad young man didn’t want to think about it. He lowered his head and stared fixedly at the embroidered black bamboo on his robe. The bamboo was finely stitched, elegant and noble, yet now it was trembling.
Why was it trembling…?
No, there was no wind. The only thing trembling was his own body.
At some point, he had begun to shake violently.
Xiao Lian seemed disinterested in looking at him anymore and continued to speak in a matter-of-fact tone. “Master’s hair had turned white, and there was never any color in his face. He always borrowed my rouge powder, afraid you would notice. I used to think that such a clumsy disguise would be too easy to see through…
“But, in truth, Young Master Shen never once looked at Master properly. Not even once did you notice…”
Not once.
The young man’s scalp tingled, and his eyes reddened.
He hadn’t noticed at all.
He remembered how Chen Shaoqing had looked—agonized, pale, rapidly aging and wasting away. That person had been suffering from the same illness, yet used every clumsy trick to hide it, simply because he didn’t want Shen Molan to know the truth…
…Truly, such a fool.
And how had Shen Molan treated him in those final days…?
Trembling uncontrollably, he was at a complete loss for words. His ears roared, and the world around him collapsed into darkness, swallowing all his senses.
No, he could still hear Xiao Lian’s voice.
Clear, distant, each word dripping into his heart like poison.
“…Before Master passed, he instructed us not to hold any funeral, nor take anything away from Feng Manor. Just cremate him and scatter his ashes in his homeland. We couldn’t disobey him. Old Steward Fang, heartbroken, placed a memorial tablet in his room to ease his passing.”
“In his will… Master dismissed all the servants. Old Steward Fang refused to leave, telling me, ‘Young Master Shen has finally come…’ So, of course, I came back too, to tell you everything Master didn’t want anyone to know.”
Each word was like a dagger to his heart.
Xiao Lian had finally, almost gleefully, finished recounting it all.
The girl even pursed her lips into a slight smile.
The secrets the master had so desperately wanted to keep, she had revealed all at once.
She knew she had gone against Master’s wishes, but she couldn’t bear the thought of all the grief, sadness, and pain that he had hidden behind his smile being swept away like the wind…
Just like him.
Someone had to tell the person Master had cherished so deeply, what Master had gone through.
How could she let him live out the rest of his life so peacefully?
The sorrow in Master’s eyes in his final days — she would never forget it.
Shen Molan eventually left Feng Manor.
Though the world was vast, at that moment, he didn’t know where to go.
All the passion for adventure, for justice, suddenly held no appeal for him anymore.
He had never truly valued that person.
He had never given the one person, who had cared for him more than anyone else besides his mother, even a shred of kindness or affection.
Despite this, that person, trapped in the mire of his suspicion, distrust, and malice, had still treated him as his only faith and pursuit.
That person had disguised himself with rouge… If it had been Chen Shaoqing, he would have immediately told Shen Molan about his illness, demanding revenge. But Feng Wuhen had hidden it, lying even as he was dying, just to make sure Shen Molan could live out the rest of his life in peace.
In the end, Shen Molan returned to his homeland.
Because that person had requested to have his ashes scattered on his native soil.
Next to his mother’s memorial tablet, Shen Molan placed one for Feng Wuhen, inscribed with only five words.
“The Spirit of Feng Wuhen.”
As he stared at the name, Shen Molan suddenly felt the urge to laugh.
Feng Wuhen—his name had always been fitting… “A breeze leaving no trace.” A single flame that had been immediately extinguished as if he had never existed at all…
Except for those who still remembered.
He recalled the question that Ying You had once asked him, Did he truly not feel care or liking towards Feng Wuhen?
Of course, he had cared, but he had never considered whether he had liked him.
Perhaps he had liked him.
But the stirrings of youthful affection had been as fleeting as a flower that blooms for a brief moment. After years of entanglement, that feeling had been crushed beyond recognition. He could vaguely remember the fragrance of that bloom, but he could no longer recall the feeling it had once stirred in him.
He vaguely realized that he would never love anyone else again. He would never marry anyone else.
In this world, there had only ever been that one blossom, blooming in the cherished days of his youth. Even if others bloomed in the future, none would ever be the same.
It was a blossom full of thorns, yet incredibly fragile. It bloomed its warmth, love, and fragrance only for him. He should have held it carefully in his hands, protecting it. But the irony was that, for all his righteousness, for all the lives he valued and the duties he held dear, that one person—Feng Wuhen—had suffered the most from his hands and had died because of him.
He had never received a drop of Shen Molan’s understanding, care, or love.
Not even a single moment with him at the end.
He never even heard him call his name…
“Wuhen.”
Shen Molan gazed quietly at the name on the tablet for a long time, before finally picking up a brush and writing a verse above it:
It’s no harm to indulge in melancholy, for it is a kind of noble madness.
A few tears fell gently to the ground before the tablet.
Back then, he thought it was all nothing special.1This line carries a poignant sense of loss and the bittersweet realization of what was overlooked or misunderstood.
END OF VOLUME II
Translator’s Note
Sleeping Under the Locust Tree: A metaphor for empty joy. Basically, this idiom came from the story of a scholar who dreamt he became a high-ranking official and married a princess, enjoying fame and wealth. However, he woke up and realized all of them were just illusory dreams.
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