Chapter 120: Her Love for Her Burned with an Intensity Beyond Measure

This night, after returning to her room, Wen Du gasped for air in great heaving breaths, like a drowning swimmer finally crawling onto shore and seizing the chance to breathe.

Yet even this breath was merely a desperate gasp for survival. There was no escape on land—only rifle barrels trained on her. Before long, she would have to plunge back into the water for another round of suffocating torment.

She had assumed the “punishment” would involve physical harm to their bodies. But Ling Tuofu proved more honorable—and far more twisted—than she had anticipated. Fearing he might injure an innocent Guard Institute officer, he refrained from touching them. Instead, he dealt a devastating blow to their nerves.

No blade pierced her flesh, yet it sliced through her vision and plunged into the depths of her brain. It left a wound that would never heal and transformed time itself into a sword dangling over her head. Every second of hesitation, every moment of delay, became a excruciating flaying of her conscience.

From yesterday to today, she had prowled the building several times over, desperately searching for another way out. She hoped to save both herself and Ji Tingxi. A formal title meant nothing to her now—as long as they could leave the Security Investigation Station together.

She had confirmed it: no traces of the organization lingered in the building, and none of their signals could reach her.

She had even tried sending messages outward, but every avenue was either severed by her own hand or snuffed out by Ling Tuofu. In the end, her list of contingency plans lay blank.

With every path sealed off, she attended the evening debriefing and witnessed the day’s punishments firsthand.

Though only seven Sern people filled the room, the ripple effects would ensnare far more.

Wen Du could picture it vividly: soon, North County City would erupt in chaos as authorities launched a sweeping arrest operation against every suspicious individual in the metropolis.

What she had seen that day was merely the tip of the iceberg. Beneath the waves, blood would soon churn the sea crimson, staining the entire mass of ice.

A suffocating weight had built up in her chest—like an iron ball dragging her down, yanking her body into the abyss and pulling her spirit along with it.

After endless deliberation, her mind grew foggy, teetering on the edge of sleep. She jolted awake in alarm. She wanted to act, but every route was blocked, leaving her powerless. She considered passive resignation, but inaction bred death, making her an indirect killer.

She could do nothing—yet she had to do something. This vicious cycle tightened like a noose around her neck, blurring the line between breath and strangulation until it was paper-thin.

The organization needed her. Countless Sern people needed her. She had to find a way to offer the greatest aid possible and avert this catastrophe. But first, she needed to escape her own predicament. Otherwise, she and her Sern kin alike would be helpless fish splayed on the butcher’s block, ripe for the knife.

The room’s steamy warmth enveloped her, soothing her nasal passages and easing her breaths while steadying her racing heart. Her tangled thoughts finally settled. In that moment of clarity, she admitted the truth: only one path remained, and Ling Tuofu had laid it out for them from the start.

Wen Du clutched her face and slumped behind the desk for a long while. Merely entertaining the idea had drained her utterly. Now she had to refine it—polish it until it was seamless, airtight, perfectly tailored to meet Ling Tuofu’s demands and shatter this impasse.

Nine o’clock in the evening was not overly late, yet the outdoor air bit like frostbitten steel. No longer mere condensation, the windows now wore thin sheets of ice with sharply defined edges. A single tap might shatter them along with the glass.

Wen Du scraped away the frost crystals blanketing the pane and peered at the distant sky. Like the night before, temperatures had plunged below freezing, but the snowflakes remained trapped in the clouds, reluctant to fall and leaving the air pristine.

The instant she flung the window open, a blast of frigid air flooded her nostrils, as if she had tumbled into an icehouse. In such weather, only the night watchmen lingered outdoors. The yard lay hushed and deserted—a perfect spot for gathering one’s thoughts.

Wen Du wrapped a knitted scarf around her neck and tugged on a thick woolen hat before stepping out. As the previous evening, she made her way to the courtyard. But this time, she veered not toward the perimeter wall. Instead, she positioned herself beneath the east side of the building.

Fragments of uncleared ice littered the ground at her feet. Wen Du bowed her head to dodge them but occasionally lifted her gaze to the starless night sky—and to the single lit window protruding from the structure above.

She probably hasn’t gone to bed yet, has she?

…

At midday, after confirming that the Libo Faction faced no immediate threat, Ji Tingxi had allowed herself a sliver of relaxation. But the evening’s events yanked her nerves taut once more, upending her earlier assessment. The situation wasn’t simpler than she had imagined. If anything, it was more profoundly warped.

She abhorred such barbaric spectacles, yet she wouldn’t hesitate to capture them on film and broadcast them far and wide. It would fan the flames beneath Rui’er Terrace’s facade of “democracy and benevolence,” scorching away the veneer to expose the raw tyranny beneath.

Her lifelong convictions and sense of duty fueled her defiance against the Rui’er Center Faction. Tonight, that antagonism raged fiercer than ever, threatening to burst from her skull as her enmity crested to a boiling peak.

Back in her room, the torrent of hatred dredged up old memories. They roiled in her mind, lending the loathing new layers of depth and intricacy.

Three years prior, during the energy crisis, the nation grappled with threats both domestic and foreign. Every faction scrambled for a path to salvation—including the Yingli Faction.

Though they cozied up to Gailie Country, they weren’t beyond redemption. Before the coup, the Libo Faction had even reached out to moderates within Yingli, probing for potential alliances.

Everyone toiled earnestly, hunting for the optimal solution to save the confederation. Then the Rui’er Center Faction emerged from nowhere. They overturned the board, relegating every Sern person to the fringes of society. They slammed the borders shut and clenched the reins of political power in an iron grip.

At first blush, prosperity seemed reborn—

The racial stratification policy curbed Sern involvement in politics and education, severing Gailie Country’s leverage through the Yingli Faction.

Sealed borders halted the flood of foreign dumped goods, granting local businesses room to breathe. It stifled predatory low-price monopolies, securing livelihoods for millions.

Having “triumphed” in the “grand election,” the Rui’er Faction consolidated control and nationalized the energy firms, safeguarding Bailunting’s sovereignty and resource rights.

This fulfilled the Rui’er Faction’s aims—and those of every faction besides. The ultimate objective lay achieved. Yet no one rejoiced.

Opponents decried the so-called “election” as a sham: the Center Faction had exploited the crisis and stoked public fervor, manipulated the polls, and clung to power through despicable fraud.

Moreover, their ruthless shortcuts sowed flaws too deep to mend.

North County City might still wear a mask of tranquility, but farther afield in Meisi, the fissures gaped wide: opposition forces skulking in shadows, shops limping along on fumes, webs of mutual suspicion everywhere, and an academic world plunged into bewildered chaos after purging the Sern people.

Ji Tingxi saw it all—the festering sores laid bare. Sorrow gripped her even as hope kindled. These glaring weaknesses heralded collapse, yet they formed the bedrock for renewal. Her covert endurance thus carried profound weight, biding time until the sprout broke soil.

Tonight’s brutality reaffirmed her view of Rui’er Terrace’s rotten core. She and Wen Du had played it straight, pursuing the most civilized path with minimal harm—relying on wits alone. Ling Tuofu found no chinks in their armor and abandoned the battle of minds. He flipped the table, scattered every card, and rent away years of false civility to unleash raw, violent coercion.

This slashing brutality mirrored Rui’er Terrace perfectly: ends justified any means, casualties be damned, dignity forsaken, lines uncrossed no longer.

Ji Tingxi had navigated Rui’er circles for years, growing adept at feigned courtesy. Long years of pretense had armored her psyche; routine cruelties now barely registered. She could even mimic them with ease.

Yet tonight’s display set her blood aflame. The rush didn’t instill fear—it ignited her will to resist. Damn it, she ached to wrest Mo Fei’s gun away, jam it against Ling Tuofu’s temple, and end him with one shot. Let that twisted inquisition die with him!

Crimson seared her vision. Emotions crested, churning wildly in her head. But no answers emerged.

Ji Tingxi wielded reason like a weapon. To hone judgments razor-sharp and decisions ironclad, she expanded its lens to its fullest, purging superfluous feelings—even essential ones.

For mental clarity, she dulled herself to numbness, lethargy, a hollow shell burning hot outside. Tired? Sleep. Upset? Distract. Beyond that? A glass or two to jolt the nerves and burn away the blood’s cloying thickness.

Their profession shunned alcohol, but she couldn’t abstain. Emotions demanded a balm; they wouldn’t recede meekly. External numbing was required to scatter them, carving space for unyielding logic.

No liquor stocked her room. Ji Tingxi tossed darts for a spell, then her eyes caught on the window’s frost. Her gaze lingered a beat before she settled at the desk and threw the sash wide.

A damp gust swept in, drenching her in icy chill. She shivered but left it open. Cold sharpened the mind—she needed that edge to confront this mortal stalemate.

The wind lashed her temple locks into frenzy. Ji Tingxi swept her hair back. With her view cleared, she spotted not just the courtyard below but the silhouette pacing beneath her window.

She knew Wen Du tossed sleeplessly, but hadn’t expected her outdoors. Then again, with matters at such a pass, an exchange was overdue.

Had Wen Du not come, Ji Tingxi would have cooled her head and knocked on her door herself once composed.

As it was, perfect—no traces left, signals exchanged in silence.

Ji Tingxi shut the window, descended the stairs, and slipped through the interconnecting hall into the rear yard.

Night cloaked the world in heavy gloom. Lampposts failed to pierce every corner; shadows piled in thick layers, draping the ground in somber twilight.

Even so, Ji Tingxi picked out Wen Du’s form amid the murk—as always. Be it amid the Guard Institute’s halls or strolling city streets, she could always locate her at a glance, her silhouette fusing seamlessly with the imprint etched deep in her memory until it sharpened into vivid reality.

Footsteps announced her. Wen Du turned. Seeing who approached, a smile flickered in her eyes—like lamplight glimmering behind a veil of rime on this frigid night.

“Miss Ji, good evening.”

“Good evening,” Ji Tingxi replied, strolling up beside her. “We see each other every day, yet it feels like ages since we truly met.”

“Indeed,” Wen Du said after a pause. “We meet, but words escape us.”

Understanding passed unspoken between them. They proceeded along the flagstone path, steps falling in perfect unison—like lovers ambling through a park.

The bitter cold and wavering lamplight stripped their silhouettes of leisure, lending them instead a weighty profundity that bled into the enveloping darkness.

For two days, Wen Du and Ji Tingxi had shunned meetings and conversations alike. Surveillance and bugs infested every inch; a single gesture or syllable broadcast volumes. They dared no casual words, no notes, no codes. Even sharing a restroom might arouse suspicion.

To shield themselves and each other to the utmost, they stayed apart—each confident the other wouldn’t turn traitor lightly.

Now, with invitation extended and accepted, they met of their own accord and spoke at last. Not because peril had lifted, but because it had sharpened to a lethal point. Passivity no longer sufficed. Action beckoned against the blade at their throats.

“We have a moment to speak freely now,” Ji Tingxi said plainly. “I imagine you have things to say to me.”

Wen Du glanced sidelong. Her eyes captured the dim backdrop—and Ji Tingxi’s features within it. As ever, her expression betrayed nothing, serene as a cloudless sky even at this juncture.

A moment passed. Her lashes drifted downward, betraying no hint of turmoil. Yet wasn’t she the same? The agony that had wracked her in the room now cloaked itself as casual nighttime banter.

“Yes,” she admitted. “We need to take steps to break free of this. We can’t linger here indefinitely. Minister Ling hasn’t mentioned rent, but Dean He might not keep our salaries flowing.”

“You make a fair point. So what does Miss Wen intend to do?”

Wen Du’s gaze settled on her once more.

She had halted beneath the light on purpose—to drink in every detail: the contours of her face, the subtlest shifts in expression.

Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t scrutinize so intently or rely on gleaning tells. She knew Ji Tingxi too well, could anticipate her reactions.

This time demanded precision. She had to see clearly, decipher her moods, etch her responses into memory. And so she exposed herself too—brows, pupils, lips, the faint outline of her breath etched by the chill—all laid bare beneath the glow.

In an world demanding constant concealment, she offered herself in stark relief, steeling for the truths about to spill forth.

“The situation’s plain now. Only one of us walks out of here. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“…So, Miss Ji—I’ll be taking action soon. I’ll be coming for you.”

Ji Tingxi offered no instant reply. She lowered her eyes, studying the luminous, arresting face before her. She hunted for any veiled nuance, any tell of ulterior motive. In the end, she saw only earnest intent: weariness shadowed those eyes, yet her mouth drew firm, lending her words unyielding force.

“But… but…” Her voice quivered, as if the wind had chilled her throat raw, fracturing her speech like beads of ice plummeting earthward. “But… you could come for me too. I can take it if you do. Use your methods, I’ll use mine. We’ll… compete fairly.”

Wen Du strove for a detached, procedural tone—devoid of personal ties. In truth, no such “fair competition” existed.

Ling Tuofu’s quarry was the “Sern Organization infiltrator”—herself. True, she harbored suspicions about Ji Tingxi as a spy. But on the current board, their contest wasn’t evenhanded.

Her sole path to victory hinged on one gamble: Ji Tingxi wouldn’t strike to kill.

This was no petty skirmish but a duel for survival. Would Ji Tingxi truly go for the kill?

The wind’s bite finally pierced deep, reddening Wen Du’s eyes and welling tears that gleamed wetly in the lamplight.

For the first time, she bared her rawest frailty before another.

“Once I’m out safe, any family or friends you have—I’ll watch over them,” she murmured. The final words, too perilous to voice fully, shaped themselves almost by lip alone—a soundless supplication. “Miss Ji… you know I have no choice.”

No choice. She had to move. She had to escape. Once free, she would shield the Sern people and bolster the Libo Faction as before—nay, even more fiercely.

Unlike prior exchanges, Ji Tingxi held silent for a long stretch. Still, she listened. She watched. And yet… her mind wandered.

Perhaps the lamplight rendered Wen Du’s visage too achingly vivid. It pierced her memory, unearthing long-cherished vignettes. Their first encounter: white blouse, hair pinned up, head tilted in gentle address. Their formal meeting: teacup in hand, framed by drawn curtains and a bedside lamp, receiving her guest with gracious poise. The Guard Institute’s final day of lockdown: seated at the conference table amid splattered gore, accepting a bouquet in farewell. That moonless night, faced with an invitation to stay: expression inscrutable as she melted into the shadowed dusk…

Every facet of her, Ji Tingxi recalled with crystalline clarity—tenderly archived in her mind’s recesses, summoned at apt moments to replay and swell with poignant heft.

She drank in Wen Du’s present form. Her prolonged silence stemmed not from shock but from tracing that illuminated countenance stroke by stroke, savoring it with meticulous, immersive relish.

It was inexplicable. Ling Tuofu had decreed starkly: only one survives. Wen Du had declared it outright: she would act, and they would compete on equal terms.

Stakes this dire, lives teetering on gunpoint—yet no battle fury stirred in her. No hunger for triumph awakened.

Beneath the blue-tinged lamp, Wen Du’s features overlapped her trove of treasured images. Layer upon layer, they merged, searing indelibly into her depths.

In this peril-shadowed yard, on this razor-edge of life and death, beneath that pallid glow, Ji Tingxi realized with astonishment: her love for this woman burned with an intensity beyond measure.

“Very well, Miss Wen,” she replied amid the howling gale, her tone grave and resolute. “Let’s compete fairly.”