Stolen Away

The two throwing knives embedded in the stone lion glinted coldly under the sunlight.

Qi Yanxi folded her arms, expressionless, as she gazed at the person before her whose smile bloomed like a flower. It was only after a long pause that she finally spoke: “I need your help.”

Xi Mo’s smile deepened. “How fortunate. I’ve been wanting to help you with this.”

“You know what I want you to do?” Qi Yanxi raised an eyebrow in a mild query. Xi Mo twined a lock of hair around his finger, playing with it as he chuckled softly, “Of course I know. What’s more, our goals happen to be the same.”

He slowly approached Qi Yanxi, leaned close, and whispered in her ear, “You want to help Bei Gong Juechen escape, and I, too, wish to see him leave the master. So even if you hadn’t said a word, I would help you regardless!”

With that, he stepped back, unfurled the cloak in his hand and draped it over his shoulders, hiding his entire face beneath the broad hood. He cast Qi Yanxi a smiling glance, fastened the cloak, and strode swiftly away.

Qi Yanxi’s expression remained icy and aloof. She watched Xi Mo’s retreating figure, then turned to glance back at the imposing and forbidding “Li Manor,” lowering her head indifferently.

The wide cloak wrapped the youth’s body tightly, as he walked quickly through the heavily guarded “Hundred Fiends Palace.” The passing disciples did not hinder him; instead, each greeted him respectfully. He merely nodded in response, his face entirely hidden beneath the hood, its expression unreadable.

Xi Mo moved hurriedly, his mind racing, paying little attention to the path before him. Thus, at a corner, he collided headlong with someone. Startled, Xi Mo snapped to attention, frowned, and looked down at the person he’d knocked to the ground—his expression suddenly shifting.

Because the brim of his hood obscured his vision, and the other had their head lowered, Xi Mo could only see a pair of eyes—long, seductive phoenix eyes, eyes strikingly similar to the one he knew so well.

Xi Mo frowned, kneeling down. He seized the man’s sharp chin. Having been knocked to the ground, Ling Sheng was already simmering with anger, about to flare up, when Xi Mo gripped his chin. Meeting those eyes, all Ling Sheng’s words were swallowed back down.

The gaze was cold and ruthless, as if wishing to slice him to pieces, no less intimidating than Qi Yong’s own.

Upon seeing Ling Sheng’s full face, Xi Mo lost all interest. He flung Ling Sheng’s chin aside indifferently, stood up. Just a pair of similar eyes, nothing more. After all, how could there truly be someone in this world resembling them?

Seeing the youth’s disdainful gesture, Ling Sheng’s face darkened. He’d been praised for his looks since childhood, never met anyone more attractive, yet here he was, despised by everyone in this place. Ling Sheng bit his lip, glaring furiously at Xi Mo.

Xi Mo looked down at him from his height, lips curling in contempt. “I didn’t expect Qi Yong to have found himself a substitute. You do look decent, but apart from those eyes, you’re nowhere near the real thing.”

“You!” Ling Sheng’s cheeks flushed with rage. He sprang up, pointing at Xi Mo and shouting, “Look in a mirror before you criticize others! Who are you to judge me? I bet you’re jealous of the master’s favor toward me, and you’re nothing but a rejected, lowly paramour! At least you have the decency to hide your face!”

Xi Mo half-squinted at the slender finger thrust near his eyes. Ling Sheng, seeing his silence, assumed he’d struck a nerve and, chin raised in triumph, laughed, “If you kneel and apologize, maybe I’ll be in a good mood and put in a word for you with the master—ah—!”

He hadn’t finished speaking before a sharp pain shot through his finger, his words dissolving into a shriek.

Xi Mo released the broken finger coldly, watching Ling Sheng’s face twist with pain as he methodically wiped his hand clean with his sleeve, as if he’d touched something filthy. “Favor?” Xi Mo sneered. “Are you sure Qi Yong favors you?”

Ling Sheng cradled his finger, trembling and shrinking away, his elongated phoenix eyes misting over. Xi Mo’s brows drew together, his voice harsh, “If you show that look again, I’ll gouge out the eyes you depend on to survive!” Though he hated Bei Gong Juechen, he wouldn’t allow anyone with such similar eyes to display that pitiful, nauseating expression—especially since those eyes vaguely resembled Bei Gong Qiyi’s as well.

Ling Sheng’s body shuddered, forcing back tears that threatened to spill. He dared not look at Xi Mo again; he knew this man would feel no pity for him. If he dared to show that look, Xi Mo would surely do as he threatened.

All his carefree days, no longer needing to rely on men, came thanks to these eyes. If they were ruined, he’d be finished... The thought made Ling Sheng tremble even harder.

Xi Mo gave a cold laugh at the sight, tugged the hood lower to conceal his face entirely, and was about to leave when a deep voice sounded behind him, “What are you doing here?”

Ling Sheng, seeing Qi Yong arrive, ignored the pain in his finger and rushed to him, throwing himself into his arms, gripping Qi Yong’s waist tightly. He held his limp finger out for Qi Yong to see, eyes reddened in grievance, “Master, he broke my finger!” He glanced at Xi Mo, eyes chilling.

No matter how much I resemble the one he likes, am I still inferior to this nobody?

He had never seen Xi Mo before, nor heard mention of him, so he assumed Xi Mo was a worthless, unfavored nobody.

Qi Yong glanced at the broken finger, raised his brows slightly, casually took the finger and set it back in place. He paid no mind to Ling Sheng’s pain, instead pushing him away, then walked to Xi Mo’s side and smiled, “What brings you here?”

Ling Sheng, seeing Qi Yong’s familiar manner with Xi Mo, widened his eyes in surprise. Could this be the one truly favored? Judging by their conversation, Xi Mo clearly knew the person Qi Yong truly liked—could there be some connection between them?

Xi Mo gathered his cloak, casting a sidelong look at Ling Sheng behind Qi Yong, half-laughing, “I must say, your taste is getting worse.”

Qi Yong pressed his lips together, voice indifferent, “None of them are him anyway. Seeing those eyes is good enough.”

Xi Mo chuckled, leaned in to whisper, “Do you cover his face when you make love, leaving only his eyes exposed?”

Qi Yong blinked, touching his chin thoughtfully, “That’s an excellent idea.”

Xi Mo laughed, punched him lightly, shot Ling Sheng a glance, and murmured, “Enough joking. I came today to tell you something.”

Qi Yong nodded, snapped his fingers, and immediately someone dragged the dazed Ling Sheng away. Qi Yong led Xi Mo to a nearby flower garden, where a small pavilion stood. Arriving, they sat on the stone bench inside. Qi Yong shrugged, “Go ahead.”

Xi Mo surveyed the garden, smiling, “When was this built?” Two maids in purple dresses brought a pot of tea. Qi Yong waved them away; the maids bowed and left in small steps. Qi Yong held the teapot, saying casually, “Just finished these past two days.”

Bright apricot-hued tea slowly poured into a purple clay cup. Xi Mo closed his eyes, brought the cup to his nose and inhaled deeply, smiling, “Is this Junshan Silver Needle?”

Qi Yong nodded, “Just brought back from Yueyang at breakneck speed. Try it.”

Blowing away the steam, Xi Mo blinked, “Legend has it Princess Wen Cheng brought Junshan Silver Needle tea to Tibet when she married. Such fine tea deserves to be savored.” He took a small sip, finding it fragrant and mellow.

“Indeed, excellent tea,” Xi Mo sipped again. “Delicate aroma and rich taste.”

Qi Yong poured himself a cup, smiling lightly, “Next time, I’ll let you brew it. When freshly steeped, the leaves stand upright like silver needles, then, after a while, gather together at the bottom of the cup.”

Xi Mo nodded, smiling, “Alright, next time I’ll brew. I have something to tell you.” He set down his cup.

Qi Yong sipped his tea, lowering his eyes in acknowledgement, “What is it?”

“I can help you steal Bei Gong Juechen out. What do you think?”

Qi Yong’s hand paused abruptly mid-sip.

A woman stood before a painting, her head slightly raised as she gazed quietly at it, her beautiful face shifting through indecipherable expressions.

In the painting, a man stood proud and tall, his dark green robe billowing. He held a sword, and beneath its blade hung a droplet of blood, suspended but not yet fallen. His expression was cold and stern, a lock of long hair draped across his cheek. His features were exquisitely sharp, as if carved from ice—stunning yet chilling. On closer inspection, his eyes were an unusual shade of dark green.

The woman slowly stepped back, laughing softly, “My brother’s fondness for him is evident in every stroke of this painting.”

The man in white, sitting on the low couch, appeared indifferent, calm as still water. He gazed at the painting on the wall, and for once, a rare tenderness flickered in his eyes. “Why have you come today?”

“I just came to tell you, if you don’t act soon, someone else is going to beat you to it.” The woman turned, raising her brows in a playful smile. The man stood, walked to her side, and gently stroked the painted man’s cheek, saying blandly, “It doesn’t matter. He’s not mine. Even a brief moment is a luxury to me.”

“Brother,” the woman said, looking sideways at him, “If you wish, he could be yours forever.”

The man reluctantly withdrew his hand, shaking his head, “If it were so, what I’d gain wouldn’t be the true him. I don’t want his forever. I was born to grow old alone—I only hope to keep a single memory.”

Suddenly, the woman embraced him tightly, “Brother, you won’t grow old alone, you still have me.”

The man gently patted her back, his tightly pressed lips slowly relaxing, “I know.”

The woman clutched his robe, dangerous light flashing in her enchanting peach blossom eyes.

If you truly cannot have him, then I will help you—help you forget him forever.