Chapter 3

Chapter 3

When the Heart-Devouring Poison flared up, Pei Yuheng was in a side hall of the Cold Palace, having already coughed up half a bowl of blood.

The wind was heavy that night, making the windows rattle loudly. He was curled up on the couch, his face so pale it was almost translucent. His chest rose and fell so slowly it seemed he might stop breathing at any moment.

When I rushed in, he struggled to open his eyes. Seeing it was me, he actually tried to prop himself up.

“Why are you here?”

My nose stung, and tears nearly fell, but I forced myself to scold him. “You’re practically dying, and you’re worried about why I’m here?”

He smiled slightly, the blood on his lips a piercing crimson.

“I won’t die.”

“Liar.”

I took his hand, only to find it ice-cold. People from the Fengtian Department had already discovered that the poison had been secretly administered by the Third Prince during a banquet. The Imperial Medical Bureau didn’t dare treat him, and no one in the palace wanted an unfavored prince to live. All my father could do was blind the eyes of the night patrol and bring me inside.

The person who truly had to save him was me.

My father had explained the Forbidden Art very clearly.

Fate-Scribe Blood can light a Heart Lamp, and the lamp can extend a life. However, the person saved will have a portion of their old memories related to the caster carved away. The more severe the rescue, the more they forget. If the art is performed more than three times, the memory may fracture completely, never to be restored.

“Have you made up your mind?” my father asked me.

“I have.”

“He will forget you.”

“As long as he lives, it doesn’t matter if he forgets.”

When I said those words, I was actually a little afraid.

I was afraid that when he woke up, he would no longer remember the Plum Grove, the rabbit lantern, Shangyuan Night, or me. But more than loss, I feared seeing him die.

The Fengtian Department’s ritual array was spread across the floor, with red threads winding around him and me in circles. When my father handed me the dagger, his hand was shaking.

“Wentang, once the blade falls, there is no turning back.”

I took the dagger and nodded softly.

The moment the tip of the blade pierced my palm, the pain made my vision go dark. Blood fell drop by drop into the bronze lamp. As the flames flared up, I could almost hear the faint sound of flesh being scorched. In his coma, Pei Yuheng furrowed his brows tightly, a low groan escaping his throat.

I gritted my teeth and held him a little tighter.

“Pei Yuheng,” I whispered in his ear, “don’t die.”

“Didn’t you say you’d take me outside the palace to see the lanterns next year?”

“You promised me.”

When the flames surged one last time, it felt as if a piece of my chest had been violently carved out. The pain was so intense I could barely stand. My father caught me just in time. I looked down and noticed a thin red mark on my wrist, like a thread entwined around the bone.

That was the Fate Seal.

It would stay with me for the rest of my life.

As dawn approached, Pei Yuheng’s fever finally broke. He slowly opened his eyes and saw me sitting by the couch. He froze for a moment, then asked with polite distance:

“And you are, Miss?”

In that instant, the blood in my body turned cold.

“You don’t recognize me?” I asked.

He frowned, trying hard to remember, but ultimately shook his head.

“Have we… met?”

I gripped my sleeves tightly, my nails digging into my palms. I should have known it would be like this. My father had been very clear: he would forget. But when the moment actually came, it still felt like being stabbed in the chest.

Yet he continued to look at me, his eyes earnest, as if he truly wanted to dredge something up from his memory.

I sniffled, forcing the tears back, and suddenly smiled.

“We haven’t.”

“My name is Ye Wentang, the daughter of the Director of the Fengtian Office.”

He nodded slightly. “Thank you for saving my life, Miss.”

A word of thanks, as courteous as a stranger.

I laughed a little louder, afraid that if I stopped, I would start crying.

“If you want to thank me, then live well from now on.”

He looked at me as if he found my words strange, but he didn’t ask further.

My father later comforted me, saying it was just a forgotten piece of the past and didn’t matter. As long as the person was alive, we could always get to know each other again.

I thought so too.

So later, when he came to the Star-Gazing Pavilion to find me again, asking why I always felt so familiar, my heart still softened. When he smuggled roasted chestnuts to me from outside the palace walls, clumsily saying he was returning a favor, I was still happy. On my birthday, when he stuffed a crookedly carved wooden hairpin into my hand, his ears turning red as he said, “Ye Wentang, when I’m capable enough in the future, I’ll take you out of the palace,” I even felt that forgetting once didn’t seem like much.

The old dreams were gone.

So we would write new ones.

Only, I didn’t know then that some lives, once saved, would require a second time.

And a person truly can, time and time again, forget you until nothing is left.