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Given his temperament, the former was more likely.

Song Zhizhi paused, then awkwardly spat out two words. "Dual cultivation."

"D-Dual... dual cultivation?" The man's face flushed crimson at once as he stammered, "Miss, I, you—we are not yet married. Dual... dual cultivation seems inappropriate."

Song Zhizhi was not the least bit surprised by his refusal. She clutched the hem of her skirt, feeling the medicine's effects grow increasingly potent within her. She could only rely on the ice to preserve her last shred of reason, but she did not know how much longer she could maintain her current state.

She did not want to die, but this man seemed unwilling to engage in dual cultivation to detoxify her.

After only a few minutes together, she knew that the man before her was a rare gentleman of exceptionally high moral character, unwilling to take advantage of someone in distress.

But she wanted to live. It would have been one thing if there had been no hope, but now that hope existed, she no longer wanted to die. Even if she had to deceive him, she would deceive him into detoxifying her.

"Forget it. If you are unwilling, this is not something that can be forced." Song Zhizhi turned her head aside. Her flower-like, exquisite face was flushed an unnatural red, and her body trembled beneath the extreme pain.

Compassion and hesitation flashed across the man's face, along with a faint, concealed ache in his heart.

"I—"

"You need not feel burdened," Song Zhizhi interrupted him. "Dual cultivation requires mutual consent; it cannot be forced. This is not your fault. Perhaps my fate is simply poor."

She looked toward the cliff and lowered her eyes. "If Spring Day Powder is not cured within three shichen, one will die in the agony of ten thousand ants gnawing at the heart. I truly cannot endure such pain any longer. But my body is weak and limp now; I cannot even end my own life. Sorry for the trouble, but please help me to the cliff's edge and grant me a swift death."

The man recalled the sight that had greeted him when he woke—the resolute silhouette of her walking toward the cliff's edge. For some reason, his heart suddenly clenched, and he could not speak.

Song Zhizhi seemed to have accepted her fate. She closed her eyes, using the ice's stimulation to preserve her last thread of consciousness. But the ice had limited effect; she was about to lose her reason completely.

She was gambling—gambling that the man would soften his heart, gambling that, given his temperament, he would not stand by and watch the person who had saved him die.

Song Zhizhi was not the sort of saint who thought only of others, one who could still yield a few relics after being cremated. Her words just now had seemed to consider matters from the man's perspective, but in truth, she had retreated in order to advance, merely stirring up the guilt in his heart.

Song Zhizhi did not want to die. Even if she had to resort to dishonorable means, she still wanted to live.

Time seemed to pass for ages, yet it also seemed to be only a few breaths. Just as Song Zhizhi thought the man remained unmoved, a pair of large hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her upright.

Song Zhizhi leaned weakly against the man's chest and laboriously opened her eyes. Her vision had already blurred, but her sense of smell was several times sharper than usual. She caught the faint, cool fragrance on him, somewhat like the scent of the air after snowfall.

The man removed his outer robe, stained with blood and mud, and gently draped it over Song Zhizhi. Then he slid one hand beneath her arms and placed the other beneath her knees, lifting her into his arms in one motion.

In a princess carry.

She had won her gamble.

The cool fragrance was stronger in the man's embrace. The instant Song Zhizhi was lifted off the ground, she instinctively looped her arms around his neck, their bodies pressed tightly together.

The man's steps halted. Every muscle in his body tensed, and heat began gathering in his face.

The man lowered his head and looked at Song Zhizhi in his arms.

She was undoubtedly breathtakingly beautiful. Her snow-white skin was flawless as jade, tinged with an enticing pink from the medicine's effects. Beneath her brows, her lovely eyes shone with life; as her gaze shifted, seductive charm bloomed in abundance. Her lips were red as blood, and the tip of her pink tongue unconsciously swept across them, leaving a glistening sheen. She was like a vivid flower waiting to be plucked, delicate and dripping with beauty, giving off a sweet fragrance.

The man hurriedly looked away. His breathing faltered for a moment, and he did not dare look again. He spread out his spiritual sense, then hurried toward an abandoned hunter's shelter at the foot of the mountain.

Song Zhizhi sensed that the man was carrying her down the mountain. She bit the tip of her tongue, using pain to keep herself awake, and asked in a slurred voice, "Where are you taking me?"

With the tips of his ears red, he quickly gave Song Zhizhi two words. "Detoxification."

The man moved swiftly, and before long, they arrived beside the hunter's small wooden cabin. Its door stood ajar, and the room was covered in dust. It seemed that no one had lived there for a long time.

The man raised a hand, and a powerful gust swept the dust out through the window. In an instant, the cabin became spotless, as clean as new.

There was a narrow wooden bed inside. The man bent down and placed Song Zhizhi upon it. Maintaining her last remaining clarity, Song Zhizhi curled up on the narrow bed made of only a few planks. Her exposed skin held a lush, alluring pink, beaded with fine droplets of sweat. She was like a flower bud drenched by a violent rainstorm, or blades of grass hanging with morning dew. Her beautiful eyes were filled with intense desire, yet it was not vulgar; instead, she was utterly, irresistibly alluring.

The man's breathing grew heavier. The pale color of his eyes, once as faint and cool as snowy mountains, gradually deepened into a secluded pool whose depths could not be seen, reflecting only the dangerous gleam of predation. He seemed like a different person.

Yet these emotions were swiftly replaced by nervousness and embarrassment. He took a deep breath, removed his outer robe that covered Song Zhizhi, then swallowed. Blushing, he said, "Forgive my offense," and nervously lifted his hand to remove Song Zhizhi's outer robe. Throughout the entire process, he did not touch even the slightest bit of her skin.

The thin outer robe fell to the floor, piling together with his bloodstained coat. The cramped cabin was instantly filled with an ambiguous atmosphere.

Song Zhizhi waited for a long time, yet saw no further movement from him. She opened her misty eyes and looked at him in confusion.

"Miss," the man suddenly said, though his voice was slightly hoarser than before, "my name is Xie Xiuji. I am twenty years old, the eldest disciple of True Person Liu Yi of the Heavenly Feather Sect. May I ask your name? Where do you live?"

Upon hearing the name Xie Xiuji, Song Zhizhi seemed to recall something, but the next moment, the surging medicine's effects crashed over her, and she could no longer remember anything. She only remembered the last two sentences Xie Xiuji had spoken.

Rankings

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Transmigrated into a Book

Sweet Romance

Transmigration and Rebirth Romance

Tu Yanyan

Amnesia Trope