Chapter 33

When Lu Menge tossed the last pill into the trash can, a gust of wind happened to blow in through the window, lifting one corner of the "Medication Reminder" note stuck to the bin. Wu Changkong had written it three years ago—"One tablet after breakfast and dinner. Do not take on an empty stomach. —Wu." The handwriting was neat, the strokes cold and sharp, exactly like his Heavenfrost Sword.

After three years, she had finally gotten Dr. Zhang to say, "Clinically cured. Gradual discontinuation of medication recommended," during a follow-up visit. Then she had spent another half year turning "gradual" into "complete." To erase "schizophrenia with delusional symptoms" from her medical record entirely, she had endured three and a half years of bitter pills, undergone dozens of spiritual-power scans, and repeatedly explained to Dr. Zhang that "the Nine-Headed White Tiger isn't a defense mechanism, it's my true form," until he finally changed the diagnosis from "delusional disorder" to "special martial soul cognitive impairment with post-traumatic stress"—though he still did not fully believe her, at least she no longer had to take medicine.

She kicked the trash can beneath the desk, lifted her thermos, and took a huge gulp of tea. A satisfied shimmer welled in her fox-like eyes. At last, Wu Changkong would no longer watch her swallow pills every day. Over the past three years, he had practically developed an occupational habit from supervising her medication—appearing punctually after breakfast and dinner, standing in front of her with a blank expression, waiting for her to stick out her tongue for inspection. She had tried hiding pills in her cheek, spitting them into her sleeve while he turned around, and dissolving them in tea before pouring it out—every attempt had been discovered. Eventually, she gave up resisting, because she realized that the consequence was Wu Changkong repeating, "Take the medicine," in an even more serious tone. And whenever that cold face carried even a trace of concern, she could not bring herself to refuse.

Now, she finally did not have to.

Just as she was considering what to eat tonight to celebrate, someone knocked on the office door. Three knocks—not too hard, not too soft, with perfect rhythm. Lu Menge did not even need to look up to know who it was.

"Come in."

Wu Changkong pushed open the door, holding a manila envelope. He was not wearing his trademark white robe today, but a light gray shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows—this afternoon had been Class Zero's physical training session, and he had just led them through a six-kilometer cross-country run. Faint beads of sweat still lingered at his temples. Lu Menge's gaze traveled from his rolled sleeves to the envelope in his hand, then returned to his face.

"Dr. Zhang sent the follow-up report and copied the academy." Wu Changkong placed the envelope on the coffee table. "He said you've completely stopped taking the medication."

"That's right. I stopped last month." Lu Menge set down her thermos and crossed her legs, her fox-like eyes half narrowed as she looked at him. "What, Teacher Wu? Can't bear not coming by to supervise me taking medicine every day?"

Wu Changkong did not take the bait. He sat on the sofa, his back still straight, but her gaze fell on the hands resting in his lap—his fingers interlaced, neither gripping a sword hilt nor holding a clipboard. That was a posture he only assumed when he was relaxed.

"Dr. Zhang said you've recovered well, but he recommends continued observation for a while. Especially your sleep," he said.

"I sleep just fine."

"You stood on the balcony until dawn two nights last week. I saw you."

Lu Menge's fox-like eyes blinked. She had thought she had hidden it well—she had deliberately kept the lights off and stood barefoot on the balcony without even waking Little White Tiger. But Wu Changkong's dorm was diagonally across from hers, his window was always cracked open, and the Heavenfrost Sword's perception range covered the entire teachers' apartment building. When she had stood there watching the stars, how long had he been watching her from his own window?

"I just couldn't sleep and wanted some air," she said, her tone unusually lacking its usual teasing laziness.

Wu Changkong was silent for a while. He did not ask why—Lu Menge's insomnia had begun three years ago. Gu Yue had said that when Lu Menge had been controlled by "those people," she had often been woken in the middle of the night. Over time, she had lost the ability to sleep through the night. He merely pushed the report on the coffee table toward her.

"Dr. Zhang recommends that you continue psychological counseling. He said that although you've stopped taking medication, your post-traumatic stress reactions are still present—especially in certain situations. Such as standing alone in the middle of the night, being overly alert to certain sounds, or—"

"Enough, enough. I've read every word Dr. Zhang wrote." Lu Menge cut him off, her tone a little dry.

Wu Changkong fell silent. The office quieted, leaving only the chants of Class Zero students drifting in from the training field outside. Lu Menge looked down at the fingers resting on her lap—when he mentioned "standing alone in the middle of the night," her fingertips had indeed tightened unconsciously. Not because he was wrong, but precisely because he was right. She really did have insomnia. Not because she had been abused—she had lived for so many years that there were very few things capable of keeping her awake. But ever since she had told Wu Changkong the truth about the Nine-Headed White Tiger three years ago, only for him to send her to psychiatry because he thought it was delusion, she had developed another habit: waking in the middle of the night, walking to the balcony, and looking at his window to make sure the light was still on. She needed to confirm that he was still there. She had never told anyone about this habit, but Wu Changkong had clearly been watching for a long time.

"Wu Changkong." She suddenly spoke, her voice lower than usual.

"Mm."

"Do you still think I'm sick?"

Wu Changkong lifted his eyes to look at her. She did not evade his gaze. Her amber fox-like eyes were particularly clear in the afternoon sunlight. It was not an accusation, but a sincere question. He remained silent for a long time.

"Gu Yue told me some things last month," he said.

Lu Menge's fox-like eyes narrowed slightly. She knew it—Gu Yue, that little brat, had definitely embellished things behind her back again. Every time the girl finished performing in front of Wu Changkong, she would casually come ask Lu Menge what dishes the cafeteria had that day, as though nothing had happened. Lu Menge quickly calculated how many times Gu Yue might have "added details" before Wu Changkong last month, then gave up. There were too many to count.

"What did she say?" She tried to keep her voice calm.

"She said you've started skipping meals again. The last time you stood on the balcony in the middle of the night, it was because you dreamed about those people from before—you dreamed someone held you down in a sink. After waking, you went to the bathroom and washed your hands for the length of an entire meal, about as long as you used to." Wu Changkong's voice was as steady as ever, as if he were giving a training report. "She said you scrubbed your hands red. Afraid I would see, you stayed in the dark until they were less red before coming out."

Lu Menge opened her mouth but could not say a single word. She had not dreamed of being held down in a sink. That night, she had stood on the balcony because Xie Xie had accidentally cut his arm with a dagger during Class Zero's combat lesson that afternoon, and there had been a lot of blood. When she crouched down to stop the bleeding, she had suddenly thought—if Wu Changkong were the one injured on a battlefield one day, would she be able to save him in time? That thought had kept her awake, so she got up for some air. As for washing her hands for so long, that was entirely because Xie Xie's blood had stuck between her fingers and she had needed several washes to get it clean. But she could not explain that to Wu Changkong. Explaining meant admitting that she worried about him.

She realized Gu Yue's embellishments were never entirely fabricated. That little brat merely fitted Lu Menge's real actions into the mental framework Wu Changkong had already constructed—fitting insomnia into "traumatic nightmares," concern into "recurring fear," and silence into "unspeakable pain." Every line was rooted in truth, and every line veered in another direction. That was the highest realm of embellishment. And the only thing she could do now was stay silent and let Wu Changkong's imagination keep working.

"She said you were locked in a dark room when you were little. Those people locked you in a cabinet and gave you no food for an entire day and night. Last time Class Zero went to the underground training room to simulate night combat, you stood at the entrance for a long time before going in. She said it wasn't because you were afraid of the dark—it was because that cabinet had no windows." Wu Changkong's voice grew softer and softer.

Lu Menge mentally reviewed Gu Yue's performances over the last three months from beginning to end. Last month, Gu Yue had "casually" mentioned that she was afraid of the dark. The month before that, Gu Yue had "accidentally" said in the cafeteria that her sister had been punished with confinement when she was young. The month before that, Gu Yue had told Wu Changkong beneath a ginkgo tree, "with reddened eyes," that her sister used to wear skirts in winter until her lips turned purple from the cold. After every round of "embellishment," Wu Changkong's attitude toward her became gentler, more careful, more like that of someone afraid of breaking her with a touch.

She did not refute him again. She put down Dr. Zhang's follow-up report, placing it on the table with a resignation more thorough than a nod. Gu Yue's pitiful little face rose in her mind—she could picture that girl beneath the ginkgo tree, whispering to Wu Changkong in a voice hoarse from crying, "Don't tell my sister," before turning around and filling five or six pages with a secret letter to Di Tian. Di Tian was probably laughing hard enough in the Star Dou Great Forest to smash yet another rock.

Wu Changkong watched her, taking in every moment of her silence. He thought she was recalling those "dark days," thought she was trying to face her trauma, thought she was struggling to process every word he had just said.

"Stopping medication doesn't mean you're cured." He stood and walked over to her. "What you went through won't disappear just because you stop taking pills. But you can slowly learn to face it. I'll always be here."

She tilted her head up to look at him. He stood before her, backlit by the window. He still showed no unnecessary expression when he said those words, but there was something in his eyes more stubborn than any deity she had ever seen. She had lived for too many years and heard too many promises, but only this man had turned "delusional disorder" into "I'll always be here" through three and a half unwavering years of supervising her after breakfast and dinner, accompanying her to dozens of follow-up visits, leaving notes on hundreds of prescriptions, and keeping his window lit through countless dawns beside hers.

Suddenly, she felt that Gu Yue's embellishments had not been entirely unhelpful. Without that girl fanning the flames, Wu Changkong might never have approached her with such cautious care. She had lived for so many years and lacked nothing, but no one had ever approached her like this.

"Wu Changkong."

"Mm."

"Everything you just mentioned—being locked in a dark room, being held down in a sink, waking up crying from nightmares—Gu Yue told you all that. Did you ever consider that she might have made it up?"

Wu Changkong paused slightly. A moment later, he lowered his gaze and answered, "Even if she made it up—you had no parents growing up, you were always alone, and your friends were all oppressed to death. You said those things yourself. They can't be fabricated." After a pause, he looked at her again. "And you never voluntarily talk about your past. The more you deny what Gu Yue says, the more it proves those things hurt you too deeply."

For the first time, Lu Menge realized that facts had absolutely no chance against Wu Changkong. Her denial became avoidance, avoidance became trauma, and trauma became a reason for him to keep caring for her. This was not a logical loop. It was an emotional loop. Truth was not at its center. She was. She lowered her head and buried her face in her palms. Then her shoulders began to shake. She was not crying—she was laughing. The kind of laugh that came after being driven into a corner so completely that she no longer even wanted to resist.

"Yes, I'm afraid of the dark. I was locked in dark rooms as a child, punished with confinement, and woke from nightmares in the middle of the night. That cabinet had no windows. It was full of dust." As she spoke, she thought, Gu Yue, you little bastard. I'll settle this score with you tomorrow.

When Wu Changkong heard her finally acknowledge her trauma, a faint trace of relief flashed across his face. He picked up the thermos from the coffee table and placed it in her hands.

"Being able to say it is progress. Don't stand on the balcony too long tonight. It's autumn now. You still have Class Zero's combat lesson tomorrow."

Lu Menge held the thermos, the heat passing through its walls and seeping into her fingertips. She raised her face and smiled at him, with some of her usual composure returning to that smile.

"Fine. Then bring me breakfast tomorrow. Dr. Zhang said I need to ensure proper nutrition while stopping medication. I think red date soy milk with fried dough sticks should be nutritious enough." She raised the cup and gave it a small shake, once again firmly placing the blame for Gu Yue's embellishments on his shoulders. "—Thank Gu Yue for me. Tell her all the shadows from my childhood are being illuminated by her."

Wu Changkong thought she was using humor to ease her pain and nodded seriously. Lu Menge watched his back vanish down the end of the corridor, then set the thermos on the coffee table, rose to shut the office door, and leaned against it with a long exhale. Then she took out her phone and sent Gu Yue a message.

"No chocolate milk with breakfast next month."

Gu Yue replied instantly: "?"

Lu Menge: "Dark room. Sink. Not eating. Afraid of the dark. Scrubbed my hands red."

Gu Yue was silent for a long time. Then she replied, "Those were last month's version. This month, I've already changed it to you falling into an ice hole in winter, so now you're especially afraid of the cold."

Lu Menge stared at the screen and typed: "...I've lived for who knows how many tens of thousands of years. I've never fallen into an ice hole." Her finger hovered over the send button, but in the end, she did not press it. She took a deep breath, placed her phone face-down on the desk, and looked up at the ceiling. She understood better than anyone where Gu Yue's embellishments landed—every bit kinder Wu Changkong was to her, the more natural Gu Yue felt it was. That child was using the most absurd method possible to nail protectiveness into someone's heart.

She carried her thermos a few steps toward the window and saw that the light in the dorm diagonally across from hers was still on. Wu Changkong had taken off his shirt and changed into a white T-shirt. He was sitting at his desk writing something, probably grading Class Zero's training logs again. Leaning against the window frame, she looked at that lit window and suddenly recalled what he had said earlier—"you can slowly learn to face it." He had used "you." Not "I'll accompany you," not "I'll help you," but "you can."

From the beginning, he had treated her as someone capable of standing on her own. In his eyes, she was neither obscured by the aura of an ancient sacred beast nor crushed by the "trauma" Gu Yue had woven for her. She was merely an ordinary person who needed someone beside her, someone who could let her face her fears without worry. And he happened to be willing to be that person.

Little White Tiger turned over on the windowsill, its tail brushing her arm. She drew the curtains halfway and glanced outside. Just as she looked over, the light in the window across from hers went out at the very last moment. For three years, his lights-out time had remained in perfect sync with the rhythm of her drawing the curtains.

The next morning, Wu Changkong appeared punctually at her dorm door. In his left hand, he carried red date soy milk and fried dough sticks packed from the cafeteria; in his right, he held a new training schedule.

"Breakfast. Dr. Zhang said you need to ensure proper nutrition while stopping medication—red date soy milk, nutritious enough." He handed her the bag, his tone as cool as ever. But he had bought two fried dough sticks. The extra one was an additional portion he had remembered even though she had not finished saying it yesterday.

Lu Menge accepted the bag and looked down at what was inside, her fox-like eyes curving into two crescents.

"Teacher Wu, have you noticed something?"

"What?"

She lifted the cup of red date soy milk and gave it a shake, her smile filled with the righteous confidence that belonged only to mornings. "You treat me so well that I'm already used to it."

Wu Changkong raised his cool blue eyes to look at her. She had expected him to fall silent again, but he gently slipped the training schedule into the mailbox on her door. "Then keep getting used to it. Class Zero's first lesson today is your basic tactics class. Don't be late." Then he turned and headed toward the stairwell.

Lu Menge leaned against the doorframe, holding the warm soy milk as she watched that white figure disappear at the end of the corridor. She lowered her head and took a sip. The red date soy milk was just sweet enough.