Answer

Looking at the bright, sunlit girl in his arms, Gu Chengyin asked gently, “Zilu, how old are you this year?”

Cui Zilu froze, her heart suddenly tightening.

She was surprised that he had suddenly asked such a question, and she was torn between telling him her real age or giving him a false one.

In the end, however, Cui Zilu decided to tell the truth, because she could not deceive Gu Chengyin.

Her answer came in a very soft voice, so quiet it was almost no more than a breath, carrying an embarrassed, bashful hesitation.

“Almost sixteen.”

Almost sixteen—that meant she was not sixteen yet.

Although, in Great Luo, that age could hardly be considered young. There were even girls from some families who had already been married.

But in Gu Chengyin’s eyes, Cui Zilu was still too young.

He meant young in mind, young in experience, young in her understanding and perception of the world.

When faced with complicated people and affairs, she would still instinctively choose to trust others and solve problems in the kindest way possible.

She was pure to the point of innocence, beautiful to the point of seeming unreal.

Therefore, before Cui Zilu’s mind had fully matured, nothing could happen between them.

Even without the suppression of the Heavenly Dao, that should still be the case.

It was the most basic humanity and conscience required of any human being.

The main reason Gu Chengyin had come to the Cui residence was to see the attitudes of Cui Shifan and Xiao Ruxu, and confirm whether this Chenglu Academy was genuine.

So long as it was real, Gu Chengyin was even willing to pay a certain price.

But first, he had to determine what exactly lay behind Chenglu Academy.

Was it Cui Zilu’s personal intention, or the schemes of the entire Cui clan?

Was it simple affection, or a calculation of interests?

Did Cui Zilu want to do something for him, or did they want to use her to bind him to them?

All these questions required answers.

Not answers heard from someone else’s mouth, nor answers read in a letter.

They had to be answers Gu Chengyin saw with his own eyes, heard with his own ears, and personally experienced and judged for himself.

Now, he had seen those answers.

Cui Shifan’s attitude was warm and sincere. He had pushed his daughter toward Gu Chengyin without the slightest concealment, as though he wished they could hold their wedding that very day.

Xiao Ruxu’s attitude was calm and restrained, carrying an air of scrutiny and appraisal. But she had neither objected nor intervened, and she had made no moves behind the scenes.

Cui Zilu’s attitude was shy and nervous. Her heart and eyes were filled with Gu Chengyin, yet she did not dare say a single word. She could only express her feelings bit by bit through that clumsy yet adorable manner of hers.

Taken together, these attitudes told Gu Chengyin one thing.

Chenglu Academy was real.

Since it was real, what came next would be simple.

“Zilu, let’s talk.”

Cui Zilu was somewhat reluctant. She still wanted to remain in his arms a little longer, even if it was only for a short while.

Even if it lasted no more than a few moments, no more than a few breaths, she wanted to greedily possess that time for a little longer.

But Cui Zilu knew that this was not the time for tenderness.

Gu Chengyin had something to say to her, and she had something to say to Gu Chengyin as well.

So a radiant smile blossomed across Cui Zilu’s delicate face.

She nodded emphatically and gave a soft hum of agreement before turning around and walking toward the rear courtyard of the Cui residence.

There were very few people in the Cui residence today—so few that it could practically be said to be empty.

As they walked, they did not see a single maid, servant, or laborer.

The corridors were deserted, the courtyards were deserted, and even the birds that usually loved to chirp among the flowers had disappeared to who knew where.

The entire residence was empty and quiet, like an abandoned city forgotten by time.

There was only the wind, the light, and the two of them.

Clearly, this was a private world created especially for the pair of them.

Even Gu Chengyin could not help secretly admiring Cui Shifan’s painstaking arrangements.

That old bastard, who normally wore a smiling face and never revealed his true depth, was more decisive than anyone when it came to making a choice—more resolute than anyone, and more willing than anyone to leave himself no way back.

When he did nothing, he was as steady as Mount Tai; one could hardly even sense his existence.

But once he acted, he committed himself with all his strength. He left no room to spare, gave himself no retreat, and left the other party no space to refuse.

This meant that Cui Shifan was not gambling.

He truly believed.

He believed that Gu Chengyin was the Heaven-appointed True Dragon. He believed that Gu Chengyin could lead the Cui clan to greater heights and farther horizons.

He believed that Gu Chengyin would treat Cui Zilu well, and that he was not the kind of person who would betray someone’s trust.

This belief was not based on a weighing of interests, nor on calculations of risk, nor on anything that could be measured or predicted with numbers.

It was judgment—the insight accumulated after living so many years, seeing so many people, and weathering countless storms.

Gu Chengyin and Cui Zilu walked slowly along the small bridge at the center of the lake.

In the distance, pavilions and towers appeared and vanished amid the morning light. Nearby, withered lotus leaves cast scattered reflections across the surface of the water.

Fish swam beneath the surface through the crisscrossing light and shadows. From time to time, one would leap from the water, splashing up a tiny flower of water.

Then it would fall back down and vanish among those shards of golden light.

Cui Zilu walked ahead, while Gu Chengyin followed behind.

The distance between them was not great—close enough for her to hear his footsteps, close enough for him to catch the faint fragrance in her hair.

Close enough that their shadows overlapped across the bluestone bridge, as though two rivers that had flowed for a thousand years had finally converged at this very moment.

Cui Zilu’s steps were lively, like a little deer bounding across a meadow. Her whole body seemed to glow with a lightness that made her shine.

The hem of her dress swayed gently behind her like a flower rippling in the breeze, every movement tracing a graceful arc through the morning light.

Her hair bounced against her shoulders. Several loose strands were lifted by the wind and brushed across her cheeks.

Cui Zilu did not bother to brush them away. She simply let them dance in the breeze, as though her entire body might drift away with the wind.

And yet she walked very slowly, as if deliberately slowing her pace so that Gu Chengyin could keep up.

So that the road might stretch a little longer.

So that the two of them could spend a little more time together.

But Cui Zilu did not dare walk too slowly. She was afraid Gu Chengyin would notice what she was thinking, afraid he would laugh at her, afraid he would think her foolish.

So she could only carefully control her pace, neither fast nor slow, neither hurried nor unhurried.

It was like walking along a thin steel wire. Every step had to be considered; every step had to be weighed.

With each step, she had to pretend it was unintentional while secretly calculating in her heart.

How many steps are there between us? Is he looking at me? Is he thinking about something too?

Cui Zilu did not know, and she did not dare turn around to look.

She was afraid that if she did, she would meet Gu Chengyin’s gaze and blush with nervousness until she could not say a word.

Even more frightening was the possibility that she might turn around and discover that Gu Chengyin was not looking at her at all—that his gaze had fallen elsewhere, his expression as calm as a stagnant pool.

Then her heart would sink.

It would sink all the way to the bottom of the lake, down among the roots of those withered lotuses, to a place even she could no longer find.