Let Me Down

Gu Chengyin emerged from the main hall and stood for a moment under the eaves.

Sunlight poured down from above, compressing his shadow into a small, dark patch at his feet.

He squinted, his gaze crossing the courtyard and settling on the direction of the side hall.

Should I check the Grand Secretariat?

Gu Chengyin thought it over, then dismissed the notion.

Cui Zhenji’s resignation memorial had been sent by Shangguan Yunying, and the Grand Secretariat would follow the standard procedures.

Even if someone wanted to cause trouble, they had to operate within the rules.

Nothing openly faultless should be allowed to escalate into an ugly mess.

Otherwise, if things got out of hand, every single one of them would face punishment.

So it was better to go back and find Lin Qingyan. At least she was someone who would do the punishing.

Gu Chengyin turned and walked toward the side hall.

Just as he was about to arrive, his brow furrowed.

Silence.

Too silent.

Not the quiet of the deep night.

It was the kind of silence that came from an entire side hall holding its breath, as if even the air dared not exhale too loudly.

The birds beneath the eaves had vanished. The chirping of insects in the flower beds had ceased.

Even the wind, as it slipped through the corners of the roof tiles, seemed to tiptoe, as if afraid of disturbing something.

Gu Chengyin stopped in his tracks.

The door to the side hall was shut, and so were the windows. The curtains had been drawn, blocking the light inside completely.

From the outside, the entire building looked like a hibernating beast—too still, unnaturally so.

Gu Chengyin recalled that when he had left in the morning, Lin Qingyan was still curled up in the quilt, with only the top of her fluffy head visible. She had let out a muffled, grunted hum.

That hum had been short and vague, like a sound squeezed carelessly from the throat without the slightest effort to open her mouth.

At the time, he had thought she was just tired and would be fine after some sleep.

But now...

It was almost noon.

At least two or three hours had passed since morning.

Given Lin Qingyan’s constitution, even if her energy had been completely drained, there was no reason for her to still be asleep.

Could she have already left?

Gu Chengyin quickened his pace.

His footsteps under the eaves shifted from unhurried to urgent, his robes creating a sharp arc in the wind.

He strode up to the side hall’s door in three steps, raised his hand, and pushed.

The door didn’t budge.

It was bolted from the inside.

Gu Chengyin sighed in relief—this meant Lin Qingyan hadn’t left.

He raised his hand and knocked twice, the knuckles striking the wooden door with two dull thuds.

“Little Aunt?”

No response.

He knocked again, this time more firmly.

“Little Aunt, it’s me.”

Still silence from within.

A silence that unsettled him.

Given Lin Qingyan’s level of cultivation, even if she were in a deep sleep, she should have woken at the sound of his voice.

Unless she wasn’t in there at all.

Gu Chengyin pressed his palm against the door panel, letting his spiritual energy seep into the wood grain. It crept along the gap of the door bolt and, shaping itself into a thin thread, gently flicked it.

The latch slid open.

Gu Chengyin pushed the door and entered. The light inside the hall was far dimmer than outside.

The curtains were drawn tightly, letting only a few thin slivers of white light through the cracks, which traced fine lines across the floor.

The air bore an indescribable scent.

It was like the warm smell of a human body, trapped under bedding and fermented through an entire morning—a more private, subtly intimate odor.

Gu Chengyin’s gaze landed on the bed.

The quilt was exactly as he had left it that morning—bunched into a pile.

It looked like a giant cocoon, wrapping whoever was inside so tightly that not a gap remained.

But if he looked closely, the bundle was different from when he had left.

It moved.

A very slight movement, like a snail coiling back into its shell after someone touched its antennae, instinctively retreating inward.

Gu Chengyin walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed.

His weight caused the wooden frame to let out a faint creak.

The bundle of quilt moved again—this time, retreating even more, practically curling into a small hill.

“Little Aunt.”

No sound from inside the quilt.

“Lin Qingyan.”

Still nothing.

Gu Chengyin paused for a moment, then reached out.

He pinched the edge of the quilt and lifted a corner gently.

The person inside yanked the corner back, quick and fierce, as if defending some vital territory.

The entire bundle rolled half a turn across the bed, wrapping itself even tighter, leaving not a single gap.

Gu Chengyin looked at the quilt and suddenly found it somewhat amusing.

It reminded him of many years ago. Well, not that many years ago.

Before the time travel, he had owned a cat—a big, fat cat.

That cat had been afraid of strangers. Every time someone visited, it would crawl into the wardrobe, bury its head in a pile of clothes, leaving only a fluffy rear end sticking out.

It probably thought that if it hid its head, no one could see it.

Lin Qingyan’s current state was exactly the same as that cat’s.

“Little Aunt, are you planning to spend the entire day under that quilt?”

A muffled “Mm” came from inside.

The same as that morning—short, vague.

A sound carelessly squeezed from the throat, as if her mouth couldn’t be bothered to open.

Gu Chengyin looked at the bundle, silent for a moment.

Then he reached out and scooped her up, quilt and all, into his arms.

His movements weren’t gentle—almost rough.

One hand wrapped around the middle of the bundle, the other supported its bottom.

He lifted the whole thing off the bed like lifting a giant, soft cocoon, and set it on his lap.

From inside the quilt came a short, muffled yelp.

It sounded like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, whining in protest through the fabric.

She struggled inside the quilt a few times, but it was wrapped too tightly.

Instead, she resembled a pupa trapped in a cocoon, her limbs constrained by the cotton padding.

The struggle looked more like a writhe than any real movement.

“Chengcheng, you…”

Lin Qingyan’s voice came through the quilt, muffled and indistinct:

“Put me down!”

Gu Chengyin didn’t put her down.

With one arm still cradling the bundle, he used his other hand to find the edge of the quilt, pulling at it bit by bit.

Lin Qingyan used her remaining strength inside to tug the corner back, refusing to let go.

The two of them engaged in a tug-of-war mediated by the quilt.

In the end, Gu Chengyin prevailed.

The quilt corner slipped from the gap he had opened, and a beam of sunlight from the curtain crack fell directly onto Lin Qingyan’s face.

The moment she was exposed, Gu Chengyin’s movements froze.

Lin Qingyan’s hair was a mess, like a bird’s nest ravaged by a gale.

Strands stuck out in every direction. Some clung to her cheeks.

A few were plastered to the corners of her mouth. Others were tangled around her neck.

Her face was flushed in a way that wasn’t normal. Her eyes were red, the corners of her eyes crimson.

The tip of her nose was red, her lips slightly swollen from biting, a shallow tooth mark visible on them.

But what drew the most attention was her eyes.

The moment they met the light, she squinted sharply.