Sixteen thousand and sixteen

Chapter 16

Upon hearing this, Song Jinhe instinctively glanced curiously toward Sheng Congyuan. As Yuan Zong’s figure gradually receded, Sheng Congyuan turned around as well. Her eyes fell upon a face shrouded in shadow—expressionless, deep, and obscure.

What’s so interesting about this?

It’s downright terrifying!

In the next moment, the moonlight shifted gently. Under its soft glow, a faint blush flickered across his face. Sheng Congyuan lowered his eyes and softly asked, “Why are you here?”

Song Jinhe was momentarily speechless. Had she not previously asked Sheng Congyuan if he would attend the autumn hunt, and learned from Song Xiao that he had suddenly changed his mind and hurried here? This question should probably be turned back on him.

After a brief pause, she replied, “I was just passing by on my way back to my room. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop—I didn’t hear anything.”

That was practically the truth. She had only caught a few inconsequential words, nothing important.

This path was merely a narrow passage connecting the mansions on the southern garden’s side. Ahead stretched a spacious open area, surrounded by flowerbeds, neither cramped nor confining, and in the daylight, it would be a place bustling with people. But the night wrapped everything in a thick veil of darkness; no one passed through here, lending the air an unexplainable stillness.

Song Jinhe felt awkward, unaccustomed to being alone here with Sheng Congyuan in such an atmosphere. She stiffly said, “I’ll take my leave now.”

Having said that, she turned and briskly walked back the way she came. After covering some distance, she recalled that she had stopped earlier precisely because she was lost. Gritting her teeth, she turned back again.

Sheng Congyuan, however, stood rooted like a tree, unmoving. When she looked up, his eyes were heavy and fixed on her, his thoughts inscrutable.

Song Jinhe asked, “Can you tell me which way leads to the west wing?”

She only mentioned the general direction of her quarters, not wanting Sheng Congyuan to know the exact location.

But he said, “I’ll escort you.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, but before she could speak, he added, “I live in the west wing too.”

Even more suspicious! Could it be that the moment he arrived, he inquired about her residence, then arranged to live on the same side? Did he have no sense of restraint or subtlety?

Caught in this awkward stalemate, Sheng Congyuan spoke again, “The attendants and their families all live in the west wing.”

Song Jinhe’s brow twitched. She felt as if, without saying a word, her guarded thoughts had all been read by him.

Sheng Congyuan didn’t seem to mind her wariness and openly revealed his clear intentions. He continued, “Miss Song, it’s getting late.”

Song Jinhe pressed her lips together, then finally replied, “Then I’ll trouble you, Young Master Sheng.”

They stepped forward together, walking straight ahead.

Had Song Jinhe truly turned back earlier, she would have been walking further from the west wing, and no matter how long she wandered, she wouldn’t reach it.

Sheng Congyuan led the way, and she followed behind. There was no impropriety, yet the scene reminded her of when he had first escorted her away from Sheng Mansion—leisurely, with none of the earlier urgency.

Ambling slowly, was he planning to lead her all the way until dawn?

Along the quiet road, only the alternating sound of their footsteps echoed. Song Jinhe often glanced up at Sheng Congyuan’s broad back.

Her thoughts involuntarily drifted to the dream that had startled her in the carriage—a dream still lacking context, but the vivid, bloody scene was clear and real.

An arrow had struck Sheng Congyuan’s left shoulder, and the fierce, strong man had fallen right before her eyes.

Would he die?

Would he perish on that desolate cliff?

Fearfully, she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, her vision was suddenly obscured by darkness.

She hadn’t stopped in time and collided headfirst into a solid back ahead.

“Oof!” she groaned softly from the pain.

Sheng Congyuan instinctively turned and stepped forward. “Are you alright?”

Song Jinhe covered her forehead and stepped back, avoiding him. “I’m fine.”

His outstretched hand hovered in the air, hesitating a moment before silently retreating. He seemed disappointed, his lips tightly pressed, words swallowed back.

Not noticing his mood, Song Jinhe rubbed the sore spot on her head and grumbled, “It must be bruised.”

Is he made of stone? So hard!

The light from the lanterns before the west wing corridor illuminated the faint flush at the corner of her eye.

Sheng Congyuan’s gaze flickered, and he couldn’t help but move his fingertips as if to brush the redness from a distance. “It’s not bruised.”

The redness belonged to the corner of her eye, proudly reflected in his own eyes, as if it could intimately kiss her brow and eyelashes without even needing to be near.

Song Jinhe muttered skeptically, “Is that so?”

The brief pain faded, and she glanced sideways. “Is this the west wing?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes swept around, recalling the path she had taken here many years ago. Just as Sheng Congyuan said, the attendants and their families stayed in the west wing—and she had too.

“I know the way now. Thank you, Young Master Sheng. I’ll take my leave first.” She stepped forward, her gaze passing over his dark eyes, recalling how he had desperately grabbed her on the cliff’s edge.

If he had died, none of those dreams would have existed.

He must have survived.

Afraid for him, yet relieved he had lived.

She lowered her eyes and murmured softly, “Young Master Sheng, rest early.”

He called after her, “Wait.”

Turning back at his voice, she saw him stride forward and take a fragrant sachet from his pocket, offering it to her.

“Consider this an apology.” His gaze fell on her face, seeming to look at the spot where she had bumped into him, but once more swept over the elegant curve of her eye’s corner.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke in a low voice, “It’s no longer red.”

Blinking in confusion, Song Jinhe barely had time to react before the soft sachet was pressed into her palm.

A faint, refreshing fragrance wafted upward. Sheng Congyuan withdrew his hand and turned, leaving first.

Only then did Song Jinhe look down at the sachet in her hand.

The pouch was plain, wrapped in black satin without embroidery, its seams showing the work of an unskilled hand.

The scent grew clearer, pleasant and gentle, soft and light—utterly at odds with the cold, piercing temperament of its giver.

An apology so casually given, yet the fragrance was one used by ladies.

Song Jinhe arched a brow in surprise, a wild thought forming.

Could this have been made by Sheng Congyuan himself?

Her fingers trembled slightly. After a moment’s silence, she pocketed the sachet.

They passed through the corridor, soon spotting Ming Qiu waiting by the courtyard gate.

Ming Qiu hurried over. “Miss, you’ve finally returned! I was worried you’d lost your way and was about to fetch the princess’s attendants to come for you.”

Song Jinhe replied, “I nearly got lost, but I found my way back.”

Ming Qiu said, “Ah, Miss, the bathwater is ready. Shall we bathe now?”

Song Jinhe nodded slightly and let Ming Qiu lead her to the bathing chamber.

Inside, steam swirled thickly. She slipped off her clothes and immersed her weary body in the hot water.

Behind the screen, Ming Qiu arranged her garments.

After a splash of water sounds, Ming Qiu peeked out and asked, “Miss, is this your sachet?”

Dangling from her delicate fingers was the black sachet, its scent masked by the bathing chamber’s steam. Ming Qiu had no recollection of packing such an item when Song Jinhe left.

Song Jinhe glanced at it briefly; a faint unease flickered in her eyes before the mist concealed it.

After a moment’s thought, she instructed, “Burn this fragrance tonight. Go prepare it.”

Ming Qiu didn’t question further, replying promptly, “Yes, Miss.”

Later, when Song Jinhe had changed into her nightgown and returned to her room, the scent of the burning fragrance had already begun to fill the space.

It was a fresh aroma, delicate and winding through the air, neither heavy nor oppressive—a soothing scent.

This was a kind of calming incense, often used for those troubled by insomnia or restless dreams.

Surprise glimmered again in Song Jinhe’s eyes.

Could it be that, having heard of her recent sleeplessness, he had sought out this fragrance and personally made the sachet as a gift?

Had she not accidentally bumped into him today, what other excuse would he have used to present it?

That night, lulled by the gentle scent, Song Jinhe slept soundly and dreamlessly until dawn.

Upon waking, the incense had burned out, leaving only a faint trace lingering in the room.

Ming Qiu came in to dress her and reported, “Miss, today is the archery competition. After breakfast, someone will come to escort us to the racetrack.”

Before the palace attendants arrived to lead her after breakfast, Cen Xiao appeared eagerly.

“I’ll take you. Today we’ll sit together so my view will be better.”

Song Jinhe asked, “You accompany the emperor to the autumn hunt every year. Having seen it so many times, don’t you ever get bored?”

Cen Xiao smiled, lifting her lips. “How could I? Every year the emperor has different young talents by his side, galloping bravely and freely. You never tire of watching.”

Song Jinhe neither agreed nor disagreed. Having never witnessed such a contest, she could hardly imagine the scene, but she found the prospect somewhat intriguing.

They left the southern garden with several servants.

Song Jinhe noticed a tall man in black standing by Cen Xiao’s carriage, dressed like a groom.

She glanced over indifferently, not paying much attention to the man’s ordinary appearance.

Suddenly, Cen Xiao introduced him, “This is my bodyguard, Chu Xun.”

Song Jinhe blinked in confusion and tilted her head to add, “…And this is my maid, Ming Qiu?”

Cen Xiao’s face flushed an odd shade of red; her gaze flickered uneasily as she gave a slight nod toward Ming Qiu, who was startled and quickly bowed respectfully. “Your Highness.”

The bodyguard by the carriage remained expressionless, standing rigidly.

Song Jinhe sensed an indescribable undercurrent but had no time to ponder further before Cen Xiao urged her into the carriage.

Once seated, Cen Xiao quickly changed the subject. As the carriage jolted forward, she leaned toward Song Jinhe, inhaling the scent from her hair, and earnestly asked, “I smelled it earlier but only now realized the fragrance on your hair. What perfume is this? It’s so lovely.”

This time, Song Jinhe was flustered.

She hurriedly twirled a lock of hair and sniffed it herself. “Really…”

The residual scent from last night’s incense must have lingered in her hair.

“I like this scent. Where did you buy it?”

“It’s just the incense from last night,” Song Jinhe’s lashes fluttered.

That scent surged into her nostrils, and unexpectedly, Sheng Congyuan’s face arose in her mind.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible, “Someone gave it to me. I don’t know where it was bought.”