Morning sunlight slanted through the window lattice and streamed into the room, spreading bright warmth across the blue-brick floor.
The light fell on Fan Dazhi's face as well. He had not slept all night and sat numbly beside the bed, as though something had drawn out his soul.
His hair was as tangled as wild weeds. Dried blood had hardened into dark-brown crusts on his forehead, making his face look even paler and more haggard. Dense black stubble had sprouted along his chin like grass running wild across the fields in spring.
The sunlight stung his eyelids into a faint flutter. His bloodshot eyes slowly shifted, like stones sunk at the bottom of a deep pool that took an eternity to rise.
He raised his hand and slapped himself hard across the face twice.
Smack! Smack!
The sharp sounds echoed through the empty room. He seized his hair with both hands, burying his fingers deep within it, then bowed his head as his shoulders began to shake violently.
His soundless sobbing was more heartbreaking than any anguished wail.
He hated himself.
If he had not been so foolish, those people would never have led him around by the nose, and he would never have broken Zhenyue Prison's seal with his own hands to release that peerless monster.
If he had not been so useless, Master Lin would never have suffered such grievous injuries, nor would her ever-gentle, composed face have turned as pale as paper.
If he had not been such an infatuated fool, he would never have... never have fallen in love with Linu.
That name was a sharp knife gouging deep into his heart. What unfortunate courtesan musician? The calculation and coldness in those beautiful eyes, the steadiness and composure utterly unlike a woman of the pleasure quarters-she