Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Peculiar Man, Feng Qingquan

Another day dawned, the same as the one before—a repetition of yesterday. Life in the Pavilion at the Heart of the Lake was an endless cycle; each day was simply yesterday, once more.

She sat quietly by the window, gazing out at the tranquil surface of the lake, her eyes still dull and lifeless. Ever since that day when the headache struck, Ying Yue had forced herself not to think of him—not to dwell on that cold, unfeeling man. Since he had abandoned her, she would abandon him, too. Since they had grown weary of each other, there was no need to remain entangled.

Let go completely.

Letting go—yes, he had already let go, hadn’t he? From the moment he called her “little mommy,” he had cast her aside.

Ying Yue laughed coldly, a bitter smile tugging at her lips, accompanied by a sigh of resignation she barely understood herself.

“May I take your sigh as dissatisfaction with this place?” A voice as clear as spring water drifted from the doorway.

Her body trembled, thoughts snapped back to the present. She quickly lowered her gaze toward the entrance of the Pavilion, where, indeed, a small yacht was moored. Turning toward the source of the voice, she saw a figure dressed in white standing in the doorway—tall, somewhat thin, but full of vitality. At this moment, the newcomer’s face was clouded with frustration, as though deeply displeased with Ying Yue.

“Am I really less appealing than my own boat? Has my beauty faded, or is there something wrong with your taste?”

Ying Yue’s lips twitched; her melancholic mood vanished completely, as if swept away. Was this even a comparison? It seemed utterly absurd. She shot the man at the door a look reserved for fools.

The man in white, with what he thought was a suave gesture, flicked a lock of hair from his forehead and tossed her a flirtatious wink.

Ying Yue was utterly petrified.

Yes, petrified.

In her life, she had encountered bewitching elegance like Arthur, calm composure like Yu Wenxi, and steady courtesy like Xiahou Yu—but never had she met someone so vain, so peacock-like.

And before her now stood that proud peacock, feathers fully displayed.

At the thought, Ying Yue couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the man in white. She realized, too, that lately she’d been doing quite a few foolish things.

And all of it was because of this person standing before her. Her eyes widened, fury rising as she stared at him.

The man in white was utterly confused. Why did this girl’s expression change so quickly? Just a moment ago, she’d looked at him as if he were an idiot; now she glared at him with rage. But he hadn’t offended her, had he? In fact, he’d only acted silly because he’d seen her spirits flagging—that had rather ruined his refined image, hadn’t it?!

He sighed inwardly. Clearly, this persona did not suit encounters with young ladies.

With that, he shed the peacock’s vanity and adopted a manner of impeccable courtesy.

“Miss, greetings.” He bowed gracefully to Ying Yue, then continued, “Allow me to introduce myself—I am Feng Qingquan. I must also apologize for leaving you here in the Pavilion for so many days without checking in. I have been occupied by pressing affairs and could not spare the time.” With these words, he bowed once more.

Ying Yue’s cherry lips parted as he became so earnest; her mouth opened wider with each word and gesture, until she formed a perfect O.

Heavens, had this man studied the art of Sichuan opera masks? Yes, that must be it—how else could his face change so quickly?

“You must have studied changing faces in Sichuan opera, haven’t you?”