When Bao Xiaoqin woke from her dream, she found herself lying in a carriage.
Startled, she bolted upright. The moment she lifted the curtain, she shouted furiously, "What bandits are—"
Before she could finish, she saw Wang Xian driving the carriage, a foxtail grass stem dangling from his mouth.
The autumn morning light fell upon his face, whose beauty lay somewhere between male and female, making him look almost impossibly bewitching.
Wang Xian had changed into another plain white robe today. His long hair was casually gathered behind him, and with that grass stem between his lips, he exuded an indescribable languidness.
Bao Xiaoqin froze for a moment, then immediately began chattering, "We're leaving already? The old man died? You're not waiting for Sister Wen... Speaking of which, she's a real beauty in the making. Just wait a few more years—she'll be incredible, won't she?"
"Shut up!"
Wang Xian snapped, lightly tapping the carriage shaft with the whip in his hand.
The sound was not loud, yet even the horse pulling the carriage twitched its ears.
"First, whether that old man lives or dies has nothing to do with you. Second, Wen Yinger and I aren't close, and I won't avenge her. Third, if you have nothing better to do, come drive the carriage!"
Bao Xiaoqin shrank her neck back, but she was not afraid.
Instead, she grinned and climbed out of the carriage, sitting down right beside him.
As the wind swept past, she caught the faint scent lingering on him—she could not tell whether it was floral or medicinal—and an oddly wonderful feeling suddenly stirred in her heart.
From this moment onward, no one knew that Wang Xian had become the sword the old man had drawn from its sheath.
Nor did anyone know whether Wang Xian would