A waning crescent hung in the sky. Thin mist drifted through the night, and the scent of fallen gardenias lingered, cold and faint.
The Third Prince sat upon the bed, watching the tranquil face lost in slumber.
“We’re so close—I like you best of all…”
The words, uttered in desperation, echoed in his chest like the lingering fragrance outside—impossible to dispel.
Could one truly lose their memories?
Forget the humiliations, the torment he had inflicted—and remember only that he had once saved his life?
If so, then Mu Xueshi’s earlier confession, his earnest offering of the Soapberry Horn pod—all would make sense.
Should he feel honored? Fortunate?
After all, there had been a time when Mu Xueshi would not spare him even a single word.
The prince gave a cold laugh.
Impossible.
He was not one to be softened.
At fifteen, he had led troops against the northern incursion. When death loomed, it was Su Ruhan who carried him through encirclement at the cost of half his own life—severing his own arms to draw water for him in the wilderness. And what had the prince offered in return? A faint smile.
His raised hand paused midair—then withdrew.
He despised even this fleeting indulgence.
Mu Xueshi carried tainted blood. Forgiveness would require draining it all.
Some matters had reached their time.
Before departing, the Third Prince donned white robes, cold and elegant beneath the moonlight. He fastened upon Mu Xueshi’s face a silver membrane of his own crafting—a flawless mask fused seamlessly with skin. It could only be removed by mixing the sacred water of Lingzi Lake with the pollen of Ruo Zhi blossoms from his courtyard.
Should Mu Xueshi dare flee, none would recognize him.
He now wore a new face—one granted solely for this month.
Since the prince’s last visit, Consort Mu’s illness had worsened by the day. The medicine he sent—ostensibly to treat chills—she brewed and drank obediently. For she constantly felt unseen eyes upon her. Even poison, she would force herself to swallow.
The oil lamp in her chamber was extinguished. Shadows loomed like grotesque specters.
The talisman beneath her pillow proved useless. The face she had once poisoned decades ago haunted her dreams.
Suddenly, she stiffened.
A figure stood before her.
Was it another hallucination?
Then—a pallid face loomed close. Bulging eyes stared emptily into hers.
Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Blood spilled from her lips as she fainted.
The Third Prince cast aside the maid he had slain with a single palm strike, then tapped two points on Consort Mu’s shoulder, forcing her awake.
She opened her eyes a sliver.
The corpse was gone.
Instead—another face.
Familiar.
Far more terrifying.
She tumbled from the bed, clutching his feet.
“For the sake of the years I called you my son—grant me death! I beg you! I’ve endured enough!”
“Whether you have endured enough,” he replied evenly, “is not for you to decide.”
His eyes were fathomless in the darkness.
“But I had no intention of letting you live until dawn.”
At those words, relief flickered across her ravaged face.
Once proud, unyielding—she would never have knelt or pleaded.
Now, humiliation was worse than death.
Futile Devices Scans 
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