Night, low-hanging dark clouds, slanting wind, and rain that was gradually easing.
Xi Wutong pressed her face into Qin Manjiang's chest, her hands gently stroking his back. "Stay..."
"Only we can understand each other."
Her voice was quiet, easily drowned out by the wind and rain, yet it rang out directly in Qin Manjiang's heart.
"I understand you, Qin Manjiang... better than anyone else does."
"We have no dreams, no place to belong, no past, and no future. We remain detached in our dealings with everyone, even when we seem to be enjoying the conversation."
"We don't care whether anyone lives or dies, because we don't even care about ourselves."
"We... resemble humans, but we aren't human."
Her voice seemed to carry magic, seeping little by little into the depths of Qin Manjiang's soul.
"You noticed long ago... didn't you?"
"One Ghost Story Game after another, one parting in life or death after another. You do feel fleeting moments of sorrow and joy, but you never miss or look back on those who have passed."
"Qin Manjiang..."
Xi Wutong tilted her head up, gazing at him with hazy eyes, her breath brushing his face:
"Our blood is cold."
On that storm-tossed night, Qin Manjiang knew he had wavered.
No one had ever seen through him like this. This woman... this Xi Wutong understood him even better than he understood himself.
There were many things Qin Manjiang himself could not understand. For instance... when Class Monitor Qiao Ziruo and Mei Sijun had been trapped in a Ghost Story, their fates unknown, he had indeed felt sorrow and guilt. But ultimately, once he had accepted deep down that they were dead, he really would not think of them of his own accord, let alone feel anything more.
It was as though the