With that thought, he lifted his gaze to the sun. It was sinking westward. Night would soon arrive.
Before midnight, he must do one thing.
Without hesitation, Chen Youzai broke into a run in a chosen direction.
He must reach a lake before the twelfth hour.
He must see himself before he died.
Otherwise, his coming here would bear no meaning at all. If memory endured into the next life, he could at least proclaim with pride that he had once been the most handsome man in the world.
Like Kuafu chasing the sun, he ran westward. Thirst gnawed at him, yet his resolve did not waver. He felt certain—ahead lay water. If not a lake, then at least a pond.
He ran until breath failed him, then staggered forward, then ran again.
Within a carriage, the Third Prince sneered coldly.
Trying to escape? Mu Xueshi, have you finally reached your limit? If I were to tell you this arrangement was merely a test… what expression would cross that aloof and peerless face?
“Water… reeds…”
Chen Youzai’s vision swam. He stumbled and fell. This time he could not rise. His legs had lost all sensation.
Refusing to die so close to water, he planted his arms against the ground and began to crawl, inch by inch. With every span gained, excitement flickered across his face.
The crawl took longer than the run had.
At last, just as dusk deepened, he reached the pond’s edge.
He lowered his head until the water’s surface reflected his entire face. Drawing a deep breath, he opened his eyes slowly.
The sight struck him motionless.
He jerked upright, glancing about wildly. No one else stood there. He touched his face; the reflection mirrored him.
No miracle occurred.
Across his pitch-dark skin ran deep ravines and ridges, uneven as he had felt. Spots mottled the furrows. Not a single patch of smoothness remained.
Now he understood why the soldiers had not chosen him as a servant.
He had thought that changing identities might change his fate.
Instead, he remained a joke.
With a hoarse cry, he clawed at his face. Skin tore beneath his nails.
It did not matter anymore.
Was his existence only for others’ amusement?
Was it greed to wish merely for an ordinary face—to stand equal among men?
Why—even Heaven—must mock him so?
He clawed and wept.
Beneath the smeared grime, his true features emerged—fair and translucent, streaked with tears, heartbreakingly pitiful.
The coachman before the Third Prince turned his head—and froze.
His whip still swung midair, yet his gaze locked upon that sight, unable to move.
In the next instant, the man’s breath ceased.
The Third Prince alighted lightly from the carriage and crossed the distance in several swift strides.
Seeing that familiar face now bearing an expression he had never witnessed before, a cold smile curved his lips.
With the tip of his foot, he gently nudged Mu Xueshi’s bony hand and asked—
Futile Devices Scans 
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