The man wore a pure black shirt, its collar and cuffs slightly undone, as if he could not be bothered with needless constraint. Beneath the fabric, the lines of his physique appeared and vanished with each subtle movement—smooth, disciplined muscle hinted at rather than displayed, the kind of strength that did not need to prove itself. He carried an aura of power and refinement, something fierce and aristocratic, yet there was also an easy, careless grace to him, as though the world's rules were merely suggestions he indulged when he felt like it.
He was too far away for Mu Qingyue to see his face clearly. At that distance, she could only make out the broad strokes—the silhouette, the proportion, the outline of a profile cut with unusual precision.
Even so, she felt it.
There were only two words to describe him:
Perfect.
Not "handsome" in the ordinary sense—handsome was too common, too flimsy, too easily applied. This was the kind of perfection that seemed sculpted rather than born, a face so balanced it looked almost unreal. Even within the entertainment industry, where beauty is a currency and cameras are merciless, it would be difficult—perhaps impossible—to find a face with such faultless, cinematic elegance. The shape of his jaw, the angles of his cheekbones, the arc of his brow—every curve appeared placed with deliberate artistry, leaving no obvious flaw for the eye to catch.
When he stepped out of the car, he took a fishing rod from the back, walked to the riverbank, and sat down slowly.
Yet compared to fishing, he looked less like an idle vacationer and more like an emperor granting an audience—commanding silence by his mere presence. The air around him felt heavy, oppressive, and sharp, as though even the smallest fish might flee simply to escape the chill of his aura.
Mu Qingyue pointed discreetly in his direction and asked, "Mom—who is that man?"
Her foster mother answered without hesitation. "A mute."
"…A mute?" Mu Qingyue blinked, genuinely startled.
How could someone with such a distinctive presence—someone who looked as though he belonged in a legend rather than a village—be mute?
What a pity.
For a moment, her regret was unexpectedly sincere. She had been planning to go and make his acquaintance. It wasn't only because she wanted to sell pills and earn money—though that was certainly part of it. She was also interested in him, in the quiet gravity of his temperament, in the mystery folded into the way he stood, the way he moved, the way he seemed to carry a private darkness no one could touch.
In her previous life, she had squandered her heart on Qin Ziqiao, a man who now disgusted her the more she remembered him. Back then she had loved him with the desperate devotion of someone who thought love was salvation. Now, looking back, she felt only nausea at her own blindness.
This time, she had decided she would not hang herself from a crooked tree again.
This time, she would meet more people—especially beautiful men.
The prettier, the better. If nothing else, it was pleasant to look at someone who didn't make your eyes ache. And if fate had already rewritten her life, why shouldn't she indulge in a little harmless appreciation?
Her foster mother continued, lowering her voice as if sharing village gossip. "We don't actually know who he is. We only know he's rich—some kind of wealthy businessman. He moved into the villa at the foot of the mountain a while ago. Every day he comes to the river to fish. If people talk to him, he ignores them. And his expression is… scary. So everyone secretly calls him 'Mute.'"
Mu Qingyue exhaled, half amused, half exasperated. "So 'Mute' is just a nickname you gave him."
Her foster mother shrugged. In a small village, people had little entertainment, and wealth always attracted whispers. Sometimes the whispers were pure curiosity, sometimes they were laced with envy. And yes—sometimes, there was a hint of resentment, the kind that made people feel better when they could belittle someone behind his back.
Mu Qingyue rolled her eyes lightly and said, "Dad, Mom, you go back first."
"All right," her foster mother said. "But don't stay out too late."
They still treated her like a child, as foster parents often did, no matter how old she became.
"I know," Mu Qingyue replied, smiling. "I won't."
Once they had left, she slipped into a hidden spot, her movements cautious and practiced, and entered the Celestial Physician Space. In the palace's immense wardrobe, she selected a length of moon-white gauze and cut off a strip. With quick, tidy hands, she fashioned it into a veil—light enough to breathe through, yet opaque enough to conceal the scar on her cheek.
Prepared, she returned to the river.
The mysterious man in black was exactly as her foster mother had described. The closer Mu Qingyue came, the more oppressive his presence felt, as if his aura were not merely psychological but physical—something that pressed against the skin and made the heartbeat unconsciously slow.
Beside him stood another man, tall and straight-backed in a suit, his posture crisp and alert. His gaze was sharp, scanning the surroundings like a blade. He looked like a high-level bodyguard—someone trained to notice danger before it arrived.
Mu Qingyue walked along the riverbank at an unhurried pace, neither rushing nor hesitating, letting the gravel crunch softly under her feet.
At last, she could see the man's face clearly.
Under the sunlight, he looked like a perfect classical statue carved from marble—features both severe and beautiful, an elegance tinged with something untouchable. Light fell gently across his brows and eyes, giving him an almost divine aura, as though some distant deity had descended by accident into the mortal world, and ordinary people had no right to approach.
His eyes carried a faint ink-blue hue—deep as the ocean, bright as a starry sky. His lips were thin and pressed into a straight line like a cold sword's edge, appearing calm and composed, yet hinting at a detached chill, a cool indifference that could cut without effort.
Mu Qingyue stared.
Without realizing it, she slowed her steps.
She had never seen a man this beautiful.
In her old life, she had thought Qin Ziqiao was the most handsome man she'd ever meet, which was why she had been so easily controlled by him—why she had clung so desperately to his affection. But compared to the man before her now, Qin Ziqiao was laughable, insignificant—less than an ant crawling in dust.
And yet…
As Mu Qingyue's gaze sharpened, the physician's instinct she had only just begun to cultivate stirred inside her like a quiet bell.
This man's body was not as flawless as his face.
Even from a distance, she could sense something wrong—something subtle but serious, like an illness that had been sealed beneath the surface for a long time, waiting for the right moment to erupt.
Before she could close the remaining distance, the suited man stepped forward abruptly and held out an arm, blocking her path.
"Stop," he ordered sharply. "Who are you?"
Mu Qingyue did not answer. She didn't even glance at him properly. She continued walking, as if he were nothing more than a post in the ground.
The bodyguard's expression darkened. His voice turned colder. "One more step, and I'll use force."
He was clearly used to this.
His master's face—beautiful to the point of being dangerous—attracted trouble everywhere. Women flocked like bees to honey, drawn by curiosity, desire, vanity, or some foolish fantasy that they might be the one exception to his indifference. If the bodyguard wasn't harsh, there was no chance of driving them away.
His master—Seventh Master—had finally found a quiet place to recuperate.
Absolutely, positively, under no circumstances could anyone be allowed to ruin it.