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Chapter 23 - Chapter 23: Asking Only That You Come, Not That You Return

By midmorning, misty vapor hung over the basin valley, dimming the scorching sun into a fine drizzle.

Time flies when occupied. Braving the drizzle, Ning Zhe checked his watch: it was 11:49 AM, almost lunchtime. He had lost count of how many households' offerings he'd sampled for the Serpent God. His stomach felt emptier than before, as though nothing he'd swallowed had ever existed.

"Time's nearly up." He slipped his phone into his pocket, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. His next move would determine whether his efforts to unravel Hejia Village's rules would bear fruit in these decisive minutes.

"Let's go back to the temple." Ning Zhe and the silent Feng Yushu threaded through bustling lanes toward the ancestral hall.

At night the village had felt hollow and deathly quiet; by day it thrummed with life. Stalls lined the bluestone streets—herbal shops, toy vendors, vegetable carts, and clamorous taverns—all teeming with people. Yet none of this dispelled Feng Yushu's dread: every passerby's face was hidden behind a square of aged yellow paper, each bearing a name that began with "He."

Every villager had pasted a name-paper over eyes, nose, and mouth, then carried on as if normal. Their movements were slow and rigid, joints creaking like unmaintained machinery. Their halting gait mimicked the village's former bustle in a way that was unsettling rather than reassuring—a perpetual sense that something awaited arrival yet never came.

Under the slanted drizzle, they reached the temple doors. Feng Yushu peered inside: the hall and the Serpent God were as before, yet something had changed.

"Do you see it?" Ning Zhe whispered.

"See what?" she asked.

"The Serpent God." Ning Zhe brushed rain from his shoulder and stepped forward. "It looks different."

Feng Yushu peered at the lotus pedestal: the decay was more pronounced. Black mold piled thick at the scale bases, creamy fungus streamed unchecked—like an elder at death's door, hanging on by a single tenuous breath.

"The Serpent God's illness has worsened," she said softly. "Because of you…?"

"Who knows?" Ning Zhe shrugged and leaned against a pillar beside the statue, eyes on his phone. He sensed the crucial moment approaching.

Waiting for results after hard work is unbearably slow—like wanting a postgame score screen to appear faster. They stood in silence until tendrils of cooking smoke rose from village rooftops.

He knew then that something had occurred. Instinctively he looked up at the Serpent God: its majestic posture seemed unchanged, but on closer inspection—

Its right eye was now blind.

In mere minutes, creamy fungus had filled the right eye socket, rendering the statue completely sightless.

"It worked…?"

The thought barely formed when Ning Zhe's vision went black. A heavy darkness enveloped his mind with zero light. Words like vast, profound, or infinite all fell short of describing its true nature.

In that deep silence, a peculiar sound reached him—soft as distant wind, like the temple's drizzle rendered in words. If earlier the villagers had intoned cryptic liturgies, this was a tender aria sung for a loved one, suffused with mournful longing:

"Endless longing for you, I sigh and sigh till tears brim my eyes.

Soft remembrance of you, I yearn and yearn till mist fills my window.

Long I think of you, entwined fates bloom flowers throughout my chamber."

The lilting melody blurred his sight. Through hazy smoke, he glimpsed an open window in which a maiden sat in scarlet robes. Her gown flowed loosely yet hinted at graceful curves. She leaned against the sill, gazing at the fine rain, her skin luminescent as white jade. Her pale face bore no features, yet crimson lips blossomed like a plum on snow, holding a trace of plaintive yearning.

Her lips parted in a soft refrain:

"I ask only that you come, not that you return.

I suffer only for your sake, not for your sorrow…"

Her gentle gaze fixed on him, sending chills down his spine. How could a faceless figure direct such an intent look at him?

A cold sweat broke as he snapped back to the decaying temple. The Serpent God's crippled statue loomed before him. Feng Yushu knelt at his side, concern etched on her face as she steadied his shoulder.

"Ning Zhe, what happened?"

"I…" He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "I thought I saw something—or someone. I know I saw it, but I can't recall… Only that mournful tune remains."

Even now, the refrain lingered in his mind, its delicate sorrow both beautiful and lethal:

"I ask only that you come, not that you return.

I suffer only for your sake, not for your sorrow…"

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Reference Glossary:

Midmorning (日上三竿) – Chinese idiom literally "sun at three poles," denoting late morning when the sun is high.

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