No Palácio da Lua há coelhos

On the third day after the marrow exchange, Mu Guanghan was in such agony that he could no longer remain conscious.

In a haze, he heard footsteps approaching.

That person, as always, carried the scent of peony incense.

A white jade pendant shaped like a peony dangled from the hem of his robe; as he sat beside the Biyou bed, the jade struck the bed’s edge, emitting a crisp, clear chime.

“A-Han,” his voice was low and slightly hoarse, “rest assured. Once Xiaotang recovers, I will petition the King of Nanyue to grant him a fief and send him far away. Then, at my side... there will be only you, only you will be treated well.”

“I’m sorry for your suffering.”

“I promise you, this will be the last time.”

Mu Guanghan wanted to speak, but he simply lacked the strength.

The last time.

Wei Liuyi always said it was the “last time.”

At first, it was to ask him for help to cure an illness; then, it was to take his blood; later, it was his marrow. He had been slow to realize it, and only when he was on the verge of death did he finally understand—there was never a last time.

After a while, the fragrance of peony faded into the distance.

In his fevered dreams, Mu Guanghan remembered their first meeting at Yanhuai Mountain.

He still recalled that drizzling day; he was alone inside, leisurely brewing tea, when he heard an unusual commotion outside the door. Opening it, he saw a young man collapsed in the pouring rain, his fine clothes soaked through with blood, lying before the humble thatched hut where he pract