Chapter 32: My Fate Is Mine to Decide

The lamps of Lishuang illuminated every corner, turning night into day. Beigong Qiyi stood with his hands behind his back at the window. The loose hair framing his face fluttered gently, and his jet-black phoenix eyes, reflecting the distant lights, shone with an uncanny brilliance as he stared out, unfocused. It had been a day and a night without any word from that man, yet his heart was far calmer than before.

Expressionless, he withdrew his gaze, closed the wide-open window, and took three black porcelain bottles from a drawer in the bookshelf. The bottles were pitch black, marked only at the neck with a teardrop of red.

He placed the bottles on the table and, retrieving a delicate little jar from a secret compartment at the bedside, sat on a low stool of red sandalwood. With a casual motion, he picked up a cup, uncorked all three porcelain bottles, and emptied their contents into it. He stirred the mixture absently with his right index finger, while his left gently traced the uneven patterns carved into the jar’s lid.

The liquids blended together in the cup. Beigong Qiyi pulled the jade hairpin from his hair, pricked his finger, and let drops of dark red blood fall into the water. Rising, he extinguished each lamp in the room, leaving only a small candle burning on the table. The flickering orange flame cast a bewitching, almost unearthly glow across his face, while darkness loomed behind him, lending an even more spectral air.

He brought a small potted plant from the windowsill to the table, half-closing his eyes as he poured the blood-tinged liquid onto the glossy green leaves, watching it seep slowly into the soil. The brilliant curve of his lips deepened into a smile as he opened the jar, revealing plump, wriggling little insects inside.

Perhaps unused to the sudden light after darkness, the insect squirmed slightly. Beigong Qiyi, smiling, prodded its soft, fleshy body; it twisted in protest. He tipped the jar onto the leaves and murmured, “Come now, little one, time to eat.”

Seemingly drawn by the familiar scent of blood, the insect crawled lazily from the jar, traversed the uppermost leaves one by one, and finally burrowed into the soil.

Incense smoked in the room, pale blue tendrils coiling through the darkness. The single candle illuminated a small world. Beigong Qiyi stood, slipped off his plain velvet robe with gold threads, and let his long, midnight hair fall to his waist. His slender fingers traced circles on the table; half his face was shrouded in shadow, the other half lit warm by candlelight, long lashes fluttering like moth wings—an eerie mixture of fragility and exquisite allure.

The incense waned, its blue smoke thinning, and the subtle fragrance faded from the air. Beigong Qiyi’s radiant eyes slowly closed as the candle sputtered, wax tears dripping onto the table, until the last light was snuffed out.

The room was left in utter darkness and silence.

All at once, Beigong Qiyi’s eyes snapped open, gleaming as if studded with icy stars. In the gloom, he reached up and stroked the red cinnabar mark on his brow, a silent smile curving his lips. The well-fed insect emerged from the soil and crawled back into the jar, curling up without moving.

One by one, the lamps were lit again. All was as before.

Except for the plant on the table, whose leaves had withered to yellow in an instant. Beigong Qiyi plucked a leaf—dry, lifeless. On the table, a shallow circle drawn in blood surrounded it. He placed the leaf inside the circle, lowering his eyes with a soft laugh.

It was not quite, yet undeniably, the character for “prisoner.”

There was a knock at the door. Sweeping the dead leaves to the floor and restoring the little jar to its secret place, Beigong Qiyi donned his just-removed robe and opened the door. “What is it?” he asked. The maid, head bowed, replied, “Young Master, the master wishes to see you.” His eyes lit up; he nodded. “Clear this place.” He quickly gathered his loose hair and strode off toward the Hall of Wandering Songs.

The cool night air calmed his heart, which had burned with anticipation ever since hearing that Beigong Juechen had returned. He straightened his robes and entered the hall.

Inside, the lamps glowed and incense drifted as always. Through the blue-green gauze curtain, two dim figures could be seen. Beigong Qiyi arched his brows, parted the curtain, and strode in, his gaze fixing at once and unyieldingly upon Beigong Juechen.

Juechen still wore the crimson robe prepared by Qi Yong. He reclined lazily on the couch, robe loosely draped and belted only at the waist, revealing a bare chest and long, pale legs. For the first time, Beigong Qiyi saw those legs so clearly—long, smooth, skin white as frost, muscles taut and lines elegant. Owing to the Beigong clan’s internal practice, there was not a hair out of place, so the legs gleamed as if waxed.

Now those perfect legs lay carelessly together, long-fingered hands resting on his thighs. Beigong Qiyi swallowed unconsciously, blinked rapidly, and, regaining composure, fetched a light blanket from the bed to cover him. Only then did his heart steady. “Big brother… are you well?”

Juechen nodded languidly, his voice hoarse and low, “How is the estate?” Beigong Qiyi smiled lightly. “All is well.” Juechen closed his eyes, replying in a deep tone, “There is no rush.” Beigong Qiyi sat beside him, studying him closely, and smiled. “Of course, there is no rush.” Then he turned his gaze to the person leaning against the table, raising a brow. “It’s you.”

The woman, dressed in black, her cold face unreadable, nodded expressionlessly. “Qiang Yanxi,” she said. She was the one who had aided Beigong Qiyi that night.

Beigong Qiyi smiled. “I must thank you for your help that night.” Qiang Yanxi shook her head. “Even if I hadn’t intervened, you wouldn’t have been in danger.” She spoke the truth; even without her help, he could have handled those people with ease, though it would have taken more time.

Seeing her indifference, Beigong Qiyi said no more, turning back to watch Juechen, as if to make up for the time lost in the past day and night. His gaze was fervent yet repressed. Juechen’s sharp eyes flickered slightly, but though they were closed, he did not open them. Qiang Yanxi, arms crossed, observed them coldly, a faint crease appearing on her smooth brow.

After a while, Juechen slowly opened his eyes. Beigong Qiyi greeted him with a gentle smile. Juechen’s slanted brows drew together; he lowered his eyes in silence. “It’s late. You should go.” Qiyi blinked softly, nodded, and withdrew.

When the inner door closed, Qiang Yanxi straightened, her tone grave. “The way he looks at you—it’s not quite right.” Juechen let out a short laugh, turning the green thumb ring on his finger, eyes narrowed. “And how is it not right?” Qiang Yanxi’s long lashes trembled, her gaze cool and remote. “That’s not how a brother looks at his elder brother.” That gaze was too intense, as if it would devour him whole.

Juechen sat up, the blanket slipping to his lap. He chuckled low. “I’m curious to see what tricks he’ll play.” Qiang Yanxi’s lips pressed into a thin line, but a trace of amusement appeared. “Escaped the tiger’s den only to fall into the wolf’s lair—your allure is truly formidable.”

Juechen only smiled, noncommittal. He looked down at his own hand on his lap, the slender fingers curling slowly into a fist. “You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “Even if it is a wolf’s den, it’s my den. I won’t let anyone snore at my bedside.” Even if that person was his own blood, his only kin in this world—if he dared harbor forbidden thoughts…

Blood may be thicker than water, but that is all.

Qiang Yanxi stared at him in silence for a long moment, then gave a cold, brief laugh.

Night deepened. Along the way, red towers and green pavilions, jade balustrades and carved railings lined the path. The pale gold robe fluttered at Beigong Qiyi’s sleeves as the breeze toyed with it. The young man walked with hands behind his back, idly watching the night lights. He knew he had been too obvious tonight; that man would surely be suspicious, guarded. But what did it matter?

He stopped, gazing up at the crescent moon, hands at his sides clenched tightly, his lips twisting into a mocking smile.

Twice he had lived, and his nature had not changed. What he desired, he would seize by any means, at any cost.

In his previous life, he had been loveless and cold, while his elder brother had offered him everything, heart and body. But that was not what he wanted, and he remained unmoved, letting that man yearn and despair, imprisoned but never possessing… He had already escaped his cage, yet fate was set—he was destined not to live past twenty.

Fated, was he? He would defy the heavens. His fate was his own to command.

He was always cold-hearted, unruly, violent. Twice reborn, he had learned to restrain himself, to act the innocent, clinging younger brother before Juechen. But his true nature was unchanged, and he did not wish to change. Plucking a red canna lily, he toyed with it in his hand, a cold smile on his lips. He had lain dormant long enough; now it was time to reveal his true self, step by step.

He brought the vivid blossom to his nose, inhaled its scent, then tossed it to the ground and crushed it beneath his feet.

In this life, he was Beigong Juechen’s younger brother—the brother of the man who stood at the pinnacle of the martial world. He remained cold and calculating, but now he knew with perfect clarity what he wanted: this man, this powerful, awe-inspiring, and mesmerizing man.

He had given the man fair warning. He did not desire much, but whatever he wanted, he would have—no matter what.

Drunk, he would recline on beauty’s lap; awake, he would hold the world in the palm of his hand.