Inside the room burned only a single oil lamp, its light slow and heavy with shadow.
Qin Ruhai sat before the desk, his fingertip brushing over an old painting again and again.
He had kept this painting for a long time. The paper was slightly yellowed, its edges soft from constant touching. On it was painted Su Liwan, her features bright and pure, the most admired beauty in Qingxi.
The young man who had painted her was extraordinarily good-looking as well—clean-cut, with sharp, elegant bones. In front of others, he was always gentle and calm, the very picture of a refined, harmless scholar.
But when alone, all that warmth faded away, revealing bone-deep gloom and obsession. Beneath his scholarly appearance hid cold cruelty, like a literatus bandit concealing a blade, dangerous yet irresistibly charming.
He stared at the woman in the painting, his voice soft and cold.
"Su Liwan…"
"You are pure, dazzling, and lofty above everyone else."
"But the more you are so, the more I want to hold you in my palm, and watch you fall from the clouds into the mire."
"Your body, your family, everything you own—they should all be mine."
"Even your destruction shall only be at my hands."
His thoughts drifted along with the lamplight, sinking into distant memories.
It was the depths of winter, cold wind sweeping residual snow. The narrow path was desolate, with not a single figure in sight, bitterly cold.
A green silk carriage rolled slowly over the thin snow, its curtain slightly lifted, revealing the young girl's soft, lovely face.
Su Liwan was wrapped in a bright brocade jacket, her skin fair and glowing, her eyes pure and untainted. Doted on by Master Su since childhood, she had the softest heart and could not bear to see anyone suffer.
When she saw the young man huddled in the straw by the road—ragged, older than she was, half-frozen and starved nearly to death—she immediately tugged at her father's sleeve, voice trembling.
"Father, look over there… that young master is dying."
Master Su glanced over, his heart softening with pity, and ordered the carriage to stop.
The road was desolate, with no one else around; it was only right to do a good deed.
"Bring some dried rations, silver, and an old cotton coat."
A servant quickly fetched the items. Su Liwan personally walked over and knelt before him, her nose slightly pink from the cold, her eyes full of compassion.
"Take these quickly, and put on the coat. You'll freeze otherwise."
Her voice was soft and gentle, with none of the arrogance of a wealthy young lady—only sincere kindness that warmed the heart.
Master Su stood to one side, sighing softly. "In this bitter cold, saving a life is a virtuous deed."
The young man huddled in the straw was pale and emaciated, barely clinging to life. He kept his head lowered, trembling all over, looking cowardly, pitiful, and grateful, not daring to lift his eyes to look at them.
Su Liwan, seeing how frightened he was, comforted him gently.
"Don't be afraid. We mean you no harm. Take these and find shelter from the wind."
The carriage slowly moved away and soon vanished from sight.
Silence fell again, only the howling of the cold wind filling the empty road.
Qin Ruhai slowly lifted his head, staring in the direction the carriage had disappeared. There was not a trace of gratitude in his eyes, only icy, piercing malice.
"How hypocritical, ridiculous."
"If you truly wanted to save me, you should have taken me back to your manor and cared for me properly."
"This mere casual charity is not worthy of being called kindness."
"Someday, I will destroy all of you hypocritical, lofty people."
That was the first awakening of malice in his heart.
Not gratitude, but resentment, possession, and destruction.
Later that same harsh winter, an old scholar passing by found him huddled in the straw.
The old man was alone, with no wife or children. He made a meager living in Qingxi with his scholarship, but he had an unusually kind heart. Seeing the boy half-dead, he sighed and half-carried, half-helped him back to his small, shabby house.
From then on, the old scholar treated him as his own son.
In winter, he gave Qin Ruhai the only thick quilt, enduring the cold in thin clothes himself. If there was only one bite of food, he gave it to Qin Ruhai first. At night, he tended a weak fire by the stove to make sure the boy never froze.
When winter passed and spring came, the ice and snow melted. The old scholar began to teach him to read, study, write, and paint, hand over hand.
Stroke by stroke, word by word, he was endlessly patient. Others laughed at him for wasting effort on a boy of unknown origin, who might never repay him. But the old scholar only said calmly that meeting was fate; teaching the boy a skill to survive was a good deed, and he only hoped someone would bring him a cup of water in his old age.
Qin Ruhai did not speak of it, but he understood everything.
The old scholar truly loved him, truly regarded him as his support, and truly counted on him to provide for his old age.
Years passed. Qin Ruhai was naturally sharp, and in front of others, he pretended to be diligent and eager to learn. Within a few years, he had achieved some success. His calligraphy was neat and elegant, his paintings well-made enough to sell on the street. He had fully learned the skills to survive from the old scholar.
It was precisely at this time that the old scholar's health began to fail.
He had always been weak. When a severe cold hit that winter, he took to his bed and could not rise. From then on, Qin Ruhai had to run the calligraphy stall alone.
He made good money every day, selling plenty of paintings and pocketing the silver firmly. Yet every time he returned home, he wore a defeated, downcast look.
"Sir, many people looked today, but few bought anything."
"Sir, I only earned a few copper coins—not enough for medicine."
"Sir, please wait a little longer. When business improves, I will definitely fetch a doctor for you."
His words were gentle and apologetic, making anyone who heard him think he was trying his best. Gravely ill and confused, the old scholar believed life was simply hard and never suspected a thing. He even comforted Qin Ruhai, telling him not to push himself.
An old window in the room was already loose, and cold wind poured in endlessly. In truth, Qin Ruhai had broken it on purpose while the old man was out, claiming it had been damaged by strong wind at night. The old scholar, weak and muddled, believed him.
Shivering from the cold, the old scholar forced himself to take off his thick coat and wrap it around Qin Ruhai, sighing over his youth and poverty.
Qin Ruhai quickly bowed to accept it, his tone gentle and respectful as he whispered, "Thank you, sir."
No one saw the utter indifference in his lowered eyes.
He never intended to fix the window, nor did he plan to take out the silver he had hidden.
To him, the old scholar was nothing more than a stepping stone, one who had taught him skills and given him a foundation. Now that he had learned everything, the old man's continued existence was nothing but a burden.
Quietly, respectfully, he watched the old scholar grow weaker day by day, coughing violently until his last breath faded away in that harsh winter.
To the outside world, it was simply death from poverty and cold.
In everyone's eyes, Qin Ruhai remained the filial, devoted disciple who had done everything he could for his teacher.
After the old scholar's death, neighbors sighed at the cruelty of fate and the harsh winter, helping to arrange a simple funeral. Qin Ruhai wept bitterly, his eyes red and swollen, winning the sympathy and pity of the entire town.
No one knew that all along, he had simply been waiting for an insignificant person to vanish from the stage.