People from the old era had many limitations, just as contemporary people fell into new strange loops.
The bad habits shaped by ethics and morals among the ancients had become commonplace topics of discussion now.
Everyone criticized them and resisted being told they resembled people from the old times.
But Gan Xun thought that perhaps everyone was just deceiving themselves. Not only did they fail to sever the bad inheritances, but they also lost the spirits and obsessions worth preserving.
The ancients were not all that terrible.
Zhao Chiyun had taken the fan from her hand at some point and mimicked her by blowing at her, but it was clumsy imitation. Gan Xun’s loose hair turned into a tangled mess.
But she couldn’t help laughing.
Because in her childhood, she had done silly things with the fan.
Laughing loudly, talking, letting the wind chop up her voice and reassemble it for some cheap, boring fun.
To pass the time in those bewildered and doubtful childhood days.
More than a year ago, Gan Xun had endured blow after blow.
Fortunately, she was not a sensitive or fragile person. She handled those matters seriously, let them go, and continued with her life.
But the little sharpness she possessed was completely worn away.
She tried preparing for exams, heeding some relatives’ advice to find a stable job and never make plans for the next year again.
But she did not love those bizarre questions that could hardly be called knowledge.
She could not prepare wholeheartedly either, as work consumed most of her energy.
Right, there was an exam next month.
She had signed up, but it had been ages since she last studied or did practice problems.
There were mosquitoes in the living room. Zhao Chiyun furrowed her brows and slapped the side of her calf with a light “pa”.
She cherished her body greatly; the slap was soft and gentle.
The mosquito fled, but a red mark still bloomed on her leg.
The job Gan Xun had just quit had painted a big pie for her before she joined.
The promised raise and promotion never materialized by the time she left. Surprisingly, she was not very angry and stayed on calmly until she was fired.
Sometimes, getting someone to fight back was far harder than getting them to endure and complain.
Gan Xun did not tell Zhao Chiyun about these things. She feared Zhao Chiyun would realize she was nothing more than a mediocre person—someone who typically had no shining future.
But now she felt that since everything was gone anyway, there was nothing to fear about the future. Whether she shone or not no longer mattered.
She just needed to give it a try.
She greatly liked Zhao Chiyun’s encouragement. There was no pity or consolation in her expression—it was so assured, as if she had not come from the past but from the future, having already divined Gan Xun’s life.
It was not that Gan Xun wanted to take advantage; a hug was simply too fitting for the moment.
Just as Gan Xun hesitated whether to open up and suggest it, Zhao Chiyun yawned.
She said, “I’m tired, and it’s hot here. How about we go back to the room to sleep?”
Her last words were lazy and soft, sending an indescribable thrill crashing over Gan Xun like a crumpled paper ball. Gan Xun sank into baseless joy and scrambled for words to quell the ripples in her heart.
“No more history lesson?”
Zhao Chiyun, worried she might not fall asleep, said, “I can listen lying down for a bit.”
She released her knees from her arms’ embrace, slipped on her slippers, and prepared to leave.
But the surroundings were too dark. She accidentally stepped on the dangling sofa cover and nearly tumbled.
It happened so suddenly that Gan Xun immediately steadied her, roughly grabbing the arm nearest to her and pulling her closer.
In the process, the back of her hand brushed against something very soft.
The sleepwear fabric was skin-friendly. The backs of her fingers were pressed by a hot, steamy softness, like butterfly kisses. In the dimness, her senses amplified ten thousandfold. She hastily withdrew her hand.
“I’ll light the way for you.”
She righteously reminded Zhao Chiyun to watch her step.
Zhao Chiyun said nothing—whether she had felt it or not. She merely rubbed the arm that had been grabbed.
That spot was covered by her sleeve, but Gan Xun guessed it was red too.
Zhao Chiyun climbed into bed first. As she drew the curtains, she peered carefully out the window.
The glass was covered in water droplets. The rain continued to fall, and it seemed massive branches had snapped onto the ground, though it was hard to make out.
Night had swallowed the seasonal colors. Rainwater stewed them into oblivion, leaving the sky lightless.
She heard a noise and turned.
Gan Xun sat leaning against the headboard, asking what she was looking at. The lamp cast rich shadows across her face.
“Can’t see a thing. Does this lamp stay lit all night?”
“No, it needs charging.”
Gan Xun went to check. “It’s durable. Still three-quarters full. Should we turn it off for the night?”
“Will the power come back tomorrow?”
“Not certain.” Gan Xun smiled helplessly.
Zhao Chiyun decided softly, “Then turn it off.”
Gan Xun resumed the ancient history audio she wanted to hear and scrolled through Weibo for a bit. She saw hot searches filled with typhoon topics.
No one mentioned the unreasonable anomalies or any inexplicably appearing strange figures.
Except for Zhao Chiyun in her home.
Zhao Chiyun closed her eyes and listened to the timeline, sorting it in her mind. She realized the supposed similarities and differences did not divide cleanly but overlapped and faded in tangled intersections.
She opened her eyes, wanting to tell Gan Xun that perhaps Great Mirror, a few centuries hence, would have someone named Gan Xun.
But she saw Gan Xun’s profile illuminated by the phone screen.
The sharp contours made her look even more like someone from another race. Her features appeared stern. She pursed her dry lips, ensuring they gleamed with enough moisture.
But it was merely a delaying tactic. Gan Xun picked up the bedside water cup, took a sip, and noticed her staring.
She guessed, “Do you want some water?”
Out of nowhere, Zhao Chiyun said, “Gan Xun, you’ve liked someone before.”
“Why do you say that?”
Gan Xun was not very cooperative and paused the audio.
“Cui Can said no one in their twenties hasn’t liked someone yet. I suppose that includes you.”
Her cleverness made Gan Xun chuckle. She did not resist stubbornly. “Of course I have. You too, right?”
Zhao Chiyun wanted to exchange stories. “I have.”
Gan Xun probed, “What kind of person was he? Better than the Little General?”
“You first.”
She refused to take even the slightest loss. Gan Xun pouted and lay down.
She rolled onto her side, pillowed her head on her arm, and chatted face-to-face with Zhao Chiyun.
“I don’t feel anything for them now. Back then, I thought they were exceptional—not in the conventional sense, but remarkably so. Do you know that feeling?”
Zhao Chiyun gazed at her. “I do. The kind of exceptional where only you think they’re exceptional.”
“…”
Gan Xun disliked her piercing insight, but she had no room to argue.
“She was special, like there was a barrier between her and everyone else. Like she wasn’t from the same dimension… you know what I mean?”
Gan Xun tried to put it in terms she could understand, but words failed her.
Zhao Chiyun finished for her. “She made your heart race like never before.”
Gan Xun laughed. “Yes.”
“Then why did the feelings fade?”
Gan Xun’s long lashes veiled the emotion in her eyes. “Later, I realized she wasn’t what I thought.”
Zhao Chiyun said earnestly, “It must be that you wanted too much from her. You had extravagant hopes, and that’s why you felt disappointed.”
Gan Xun disagreed entirely but responded calmly. “Is that so? Is this your insight or the abbot’s?”
“This is a matter of the heart. How could one ask the Buddha?”
Zhao Chiyun said gravely, “It’s what I realized. All things are determined by the original mind. That person didn’t change. The shift from joy to disappointment wasn’t due to external things—it was our hearts that changed.”
The theory intrigued Gan Xun. She turned the question back. “So, does that mean you haven’t let go of him?”
Zhao Chiyun felt no sadness this time. She lifted her gaze in a commanding tone. “I confessed my feelings to her. She didn’t want me, so I let go.”
“So straightforward?”
For some reason, Gan Xun felt a bit glad.
“I naturally felt some regret for a time, but forcing feelings robs them of flavor. Besides, she had a point. We each had our own helplessness, beyond our control. It was better to let go early.”
Zhao Chiyun had no great passion for romance. She had fancied only that one person so far, and she was a woman.
If both had been brave, it might have worked. But with only one side moved, it was mere self-harm.
Zhao Chiyun traced her finger across the pillowcase. A faint rustle sounded in the darkness. When she first arrived, she had disdained the simple sheets and bedding, but now she was accustomed to them.
The rainy night still held a trace of coolness.
Gan Xun’s breathing grew slow and even—she had clearly fallen asleep.
That night, influenced by the environment before sleep, Zhao Chiyun dreamed restlessly.
In the dream came an unexpected pursuit she had never imagined, bone-chilling lake water, and a splatter of fishy blood staining her silk skirt.
She wanted to see who was injured but could not open her eyes no matter what.
In her panic, she felt someone patting her gently. The touch was so soft that it pulled her from the dream without any intent to wake her fully.
It was more like soothing—one pat, then another—driving away the gloom of the nightmare and returning her to the warmth of reality.
It was not truly warm, but stiflingly hot.
The power was out, and thunder rumbled with the rain. Gan Xun had sealed all the doors and windows tight.
Zhao Chiyun gradually woke from the heat. She realized Gan Xun was not fully awake.
Gan Xun was very sleepy but sensed her restless sleep, so she coaxed her in a hazy daze.
The quilt and Gan Xun were both radiating heat. Sweat beaded on Zhao Chiyun’s forehead. She wanted to throw off the covers but held back, afraid of fully waking Gan Xun.
She recalled the dream, desolation filling her heart. When she opened her eyes, there was only darkness.
A strand of hair draped across her shoulder. She touched it; the trimmed, sharp end pricked her soft fingertip.
Suddenly, it felt like a disability.
Like someone who had amputated a limb to save their life—a rational choice—but who woke one night to the realization of what was missing and collapsed in grief.
Intense grievance and helplessness.
She wanted to return to Mirror Country.
She missed her mother and Big Sister.
Gan Xun grew hotter. She noticed that Zhao Chiyun, who had been dreaming and shivering, now breathed deliberately lightly. Her hand twitched in the quilt before stilling.
In a mosquito-like whisper, she asked, “Is it very hot?”
“Mm.”
Gan Xun pulled the thin blanket down to cover only her abdomen and picked up the handheld fan to blow on them both.
She meant to cool her off, but Zhao Chiyun suddenly hugged her without a word, wrapping tightly around Gan Xun’s waist and burying her face in her chest.
Gan Xun was caught off guard, her whole body burning. Shyly, she thought how she herself lacked such courage.
Zhao Chiyun was contradictory—complaining of heat yet clinging so close.
But before Gan Xun could speak, she heard a sob.
The shyness and confusion faded, replaced by a calm… not quite heartache, but she knew why Zhao Chiyun was crying.
She was highly empathetic.
For Mirror City, it was a night hard to endure.
For Zhao Chiyun, too.
Gan Xun knew she was not as strong as she appeared on the outside. She was simply rational.
She rationally wielded her nobility, wisdom, and gentleness to navigate the world.
They say, “Since you’ve come, make yourself at home.”
But Zhao Chiyun had family, a person she loved, countless admirers and protectors, inexhaustible wealth, and hopes.
Gan Xun hugged her back and gently patted her shoulder.
Her tears soaked Gan Xun’s collar before seeping inside.
They blended into the post-blackout summer night, mingled with sweat—hot and sticky.
Zhao Chiyun cried fiercely, but her voice was tiny and restrained.
As if afraid to disturb anyone, her hands clutched Gan Xun’s clothes tightly.
Gan Xun wanted to tell her it was fine to cry louder.
But she held back, fearing it would embarrass her. A Prince’s Mansion upbringing likely forbade such outbursts from children.
Zhao Chiyun always wore a faint smile. Tonight, she finally could not hold back her tears.
Gan Xun realized she must have had a nightmare.
Once she had calmed a little, Gan Xun wiped away her tears.
Zhao Chiyun had stopped crying, but she had not emerged from her sorrow. She showed no reaction.
Unsure how to comfort her, Gan Xun impulsively pressed the lightest possible kiss to her forehead.
