Chapter 65: Phoenix Letter

Chu Susu took a deep breath, trying her best to ignore the indescribable weird feeling in her heart, and asked, “Do you have some unspeakable difficulty? If so, just tell me. I can help you—I will help you.”

She had watched plenty of foreign fantasy movies, which featured all sorts of bizarre settings, like… werewolves transforming under a full moon, or vampires unable to see sunlight.

Of course, Han Xuan wasn’t a vampire or a werewolf—it was just an analogy.

But Chu Susu’s intuition told her that the other woman probably had some similar special “rules” binding her. Otherwise, why had she emphasized 12 o’clock earlier?

It sounded like a very important time point. Was it that she needed to be with someone else at midnight, or something different?

At her words, Han Xuan didn’t move an inch.

“No,” she said, but her eyes told a different story—eagerness and loneliness intertwined, as if pleading for the other to agree.

The deep autumn night wind was bitterly cold, and the Imperial Capital was a dry city to begin with. Everyone walking outside felt the wind cutting like blades against their bones. Though the heater was on in the car, it only made the air lose even more moisture.

The seventh or eighth day of the lunar month—a waxing moon, visible at midnight.

Chu Susu said nothing as time ticked by second by second. She reached into her bag for some gum and touched her electronic cigarette, which she hadn’t used in a long time. Suddenly, she felt an urge to take a puff.

She rolled down the window a crack, letting in a bit of cold air. “I’m gonna take a puff of this.”

It wasn’t like real cigarettes with secondhand smoke, after all.

The peach oolong flavor slowly dispersed—not too strong, but leaving a faint fragrance.

“You’re still smoking?”

“Still?” Chu Susu raised a brow. “When have I ever smoked in front of you?”

“Before.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You don’t remember a lot of things.”

But she said it so softly, like a whisper, and with the wind howling just then, Chu Susu didn’t catch it.

She only smoked occasionally to perk up or relieve boredom—she wasn’t addicted—so she took just two restrained puffs before putting it back in her bag. The window slowly rolled back up, once again sealing the two of them off from the cold outside.

Chu Susu silently shifted into gear, released the brake, and as she pressed the accelerator, the car sped forward.

The navigation destination hadn’t changed—it was still her home.

A route she’d driven countless times, etched into her memory. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the garage.

All the way until they went upstairs and into the house, Han Xuan acted perfectly normal.

The change happened the moment Chu Susu closed the door.

She still had lingering doubts and was just about to ask what was really going on when little dog Pipi came rushing over.

It was always so well-behaved, never making a fuss for no reason, but now it barked irritably: “Woof!”

Circling around Han Xuan.

But it didn’t seem to be barking at her—more like it was trying to protect her.

“Pipi.” The moment it barked, Chu Susu’s heart clenched. She quickly crouched down, scooped it into her arms, and soothed it softly. “What’s wrong? Don’t be scared.”

Han Xuan stood woodenly to the side, her eyes dull and lifeless. “I’m going to take a bath, okay?”

Without waiting for Chu Susu to respond, she walked straight into the bathroom and gently closed the door—but didn’t lock it.

Soon, the sound of water filling the bathtub came from inside.

In its owner’s arms, Pipi stopped its loud barking, but its eyes were clearly off—anxious, darting around, as if something was about to happen.

Chu Susu’s heart sank as an unbelievable possibility occurred to her. They said animals were more sensitive than humans in certain ways, able to see things people couldn’t…

Stop it—that was just scaring herself.

Pipi kept squirming in her arms, so she quickly spent a few minutes feeding it something. But both human and dog simultaneously caught a scent.

It came from the bathroom—a slightly pungent smell with a medicinal fragrance, like some kind of spice.

If it were stronger, Chu Susu might have identified it, but it was too faint.

She could be sure of one thing, though: she didn’t own shampoo or bath bombs that smelled like this.

Animals’ sense of smell was over twenty times more sensitive than humans’, and Pipi soon couldn’t take it—it sneezed several times in a row.

Chu Susu put it back in the bedroom and closed the door, then walked to the bathroom and knocked. “Han Xuan, are you soaking in the bath?”

No answer.

“Han Xuan.” She knocked a few more times. “What’s that smell?”

Still dead silence.

“If you don’t say something, I’m coming in.”

No response to anything. Growing more worried, Chu Susu pushed open the door and barged in.

She froze at the doorway, mouth agape in shock and fear.

Air from the living room rushed in, dissipating the steamy heat in the bathroom and making the scene before her crystal clear.

Han Xuan lay motionless in the water, head resting against the edge of the tub. Hot water soaked her entire body, with only her head and neck above the surface.

And her exposed skin—cheeks, neck—was covered at some point with pale purple patterns, like vines or flower branches, layer upon layer, eerie yet stunningly beautiful.

It reminded Chu Susu of a tattoo she’d tried while traveling abroad: using plant juices to draw patterns on the skin that lasted about a month before fading.

But the marks on Han Xuan’s skin were much deeper than plant juice could make, and in the humid heat of the bathwater, they grew more and more pronounced. Lines extending from the corners of her eyes, exotic and bejeweled.

Even with her bold personality, Chu Susu couldn’t help staring for a long while, taking time to process before she could speak.

“Han Xuan,” she said. “This is…?”

Perhaps because the door had been open for a bit, cooling the bathroom, Han Xuan slowly opened her eyes and gave her a weary glance.

She let out an “ah,” then called her name: “Susu.”

Han Xuan struggled to sit up a little, wet hair plastered to her chest. Only then did Chu Susu see the same patterns on her body.

Like a sleeping beauty entwined by thorny roses.

“Pretty ugly, huh.” She said apologetically, a flush rising on her cheeks. “Sorry, I still scared you.”

Chu Susu forced herself to stay calm, closed the door, walked over, and crouched by her side. “This is…?”

She reached out, trying to touch Han Xuan’s fingertips resting on the tub edge—where even her nails bore the same totems.

The instant their skin touched, Han Xuan instinctively flinched, and her fingertip turned an unbelievable red, like it’d been scorched by a branding iron, a drop of bright red blood even beading up.

It fell to the floor, silently blooming like a flower.

Han Xuan submerged her hand in the hot water and murmured softly, “It hurts.”

But from the faint trembling at her brows and eyes, Chu Susu could tell it was far more than just a light word like that—it was heart-piercing agony.

“What’s going on?” she frowned, recalling the day’s events. “How did you suddenly turn like this?”

Han Xuan gasped for breath. “Not exactly sudden. It happens once a month, like a period.”

“Why?”

“Abilities come at a cost. Can’t just use them recklessly.”

“Cost?”

“Waxing moon.” Her words came out haltingly, her voice crushed by the pain. “Tonight’s moon is waxing. Every three months, on waxing moon nights, the abilities I’ve used backlash against me. I can’t move.”

Just like full moons and new moons, waxing moons were a natural lunar phase, appearing on specific days for a short duration.

“Backlash?” So those abilities weren’t something she could use freely after all.

“Yes.” A bitter smile tugged at Han Xuan’s lips, her eyes reddened by the steam. “That’s why I really had no reason to make Kong Zhizhen fall. Hurting others just rebounds on me threefold, doesn’t it?”

Chu Susu suddenly remembered: when she’d been about to report to the client but couldn’t focus due to her concussion, and asked Han Xuan to erase it, she’d mentioned the “threefold” concept—saying she’d feel three times the pain afterward.

So that was it. Using abilities required paying with her own body.

“Then…” she asked softly, “when you saved me back then, you also…”

“It’s fine.”

Han Xuan gave a faint smile. “The pain’s already passed anyway.”

Seeing her so weak and helpless yet forcing a smile, Chu Susu’s heart ached in waves.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you earlier.” She hung her head. “I thought you’d lied to me, that’s why I said that. I don’t even care about Kong Zhizhen…”

“It’s fine.” Han Xuan raised her right hand and lightly tapped her nose. “I know.”

It’s fine, it’s fine—always “it’s fine.” She seemed to say it all the time.

Chu Susu pressed her lips together, her voice thick with emotion. “It does matter.”

Han Xuan’s face was calm, her mind still clear. Her lips were an almost sickly vivid shade:

“The ‘Hunters’ know this is my weakest day. Otherwise, why would they target me specifically today?”

“You’re someone I’ve saved. Staying in a place full of your scent protects me—they can’t find me. That’s why I wanted to stay at your place today.”

“As long as you don’t open the door, no one can break in.”

Chu Susu raised her voice in confusion: “Then why didn’t you tell me all this earlier? At least I could’ve taken you home sooner, made preparations, and taken care of you…”

She pitied the pain the other had endured, yet had no idea why Han Xuan had waited until now to speak up.

Han Xuan tugged at the corner of her mouth in a sardonic smile:

“Because I don’t want your pity.”

She covered her eyes with her left hand, her vulnerability visibly trembling without restraint: “Don’t look at me with sympathetic eyes.”

The sight moved Chu Susu in an instant. She desperately wanted to touch her, but only remembered as she reached out that Han Xuan would be in pain.

She couldn’t even manage a hug.

“What can I do to make you feel a little better?”

The second and minute hands ticked slowly onward. It wasn’t far from midnight. Even without checking the time, Han Xuan seemed to sense it.

“Help me out with something,” she said. “Someone will definitely knock on the door soon—just ignore them. You’re an ordinary person; hunters can’t hurt you. In fact, you can even restrain them.”

“I might not stay conscious, but remember: no matter what you hear, it’s all fake. Don’t believe any of it.”

Han Xuan smiled faintly, her face unclear whether streaked with teardrops or mist from the bathtub:

“Sorry. I never meant to drag you into this.”

“But today… it really hurts bad.”