Chapter 77
Not a resigned breath like before, but a heavy one—a breath that felt like expelling all the air from his lungs at once, followed by a subtle tremor throughout his body, a tremor that spoke of exhaustion, of boredom, of no longer wanting to be the center of a quarrel between two women who both claimed a right over him, of simply wanting to sleep—a long sleep, a deep sleep, a sleep without dreams of war or death or love or jealousy or anything that made life complicated, when life should have been simple.
Eat, sleep, occasionally kill enemies if they disturb your rest, and nothing more.
"Ling Xu," Huan Zheng said, his voice no longer lazy as usual, no longer flat like someone reading the obituary of a stranger, but tired—deeply tired—like a man who had lived too long, seen too much, lost too much, and only wanted to rest, yet could not because the world never gave him permission to do so.
"Listen carefully, because I will say this once, and I will not repeat it, no matter how much you beg or threaten or poison my body again."
Haaah!!
"From the very beginning when I met The Singer—since the first time fate cruelly brought us together on the battlefield, when we were still young, when we still didn't know that the world is cruel—she was always the one who tried to approach me, not the other way around. She was the one who came to my room every night, the one who slept beside me uninvited, the one who embraced me, stroked my hair, kissed my forehead, and whispered in my ear that she loved me, that she would always love me, that she would never leave me, no matter what happened. And I—because I am lazy, because I didn't have the energy to refuse, because I thought there was no harm in letting her do as she pleased as long as she didn't disturb my sleep—let her. Not because I wanted it, Ling Xu. Not because I enjoyed her embrace or her kisses or her whispers. But because I was too lazy to push her away, too lazy to say no, too lazy to explain."
The silence that enveloped the artificial hell felt like a blade slowly scraping against bone.
Sharp, cold, and never truly killing—only tormenting.
The Singer, who moments ago had still been staggering from Ling Xu's push, had now fully recovered, her blazing red eyes pulsing with a strangely cheerful rhythm, like a victor who knew she had not yet lost, that the battle was still long, that she still had a trump card she had yet to play.
With a slow, deliberate, dramatic motion meant to provoke a reaction from the white-bandaged girl standing before her, she raised her right hand, extending her slender pale index finger—the same finger that once held the green flute whose melody could crack the sky—then brought it into her mouth, licking it slowly, once, twice, three times, with her warm, wet tongue, with circular movements deliberately made sensual, until when she withdrew the finger, glistening saliva coated its surface, dripping slowly from the tip down to her palm, from her palm to her wrist, from her wrist onto the stone floor of fractured bone beneath her feet, leaving a shimmering wet trail under the dimming black flames.
"Huan Zheng," she whispered, her voice no longer melodious as before, but wet, filled with desire, like a woman offering herself upon a bed, and as she spoke, she extended that saliva-coated index finger toward him, offering it, presenting it, as though it were a key to heaven, as though the saliva dripping from its tip were endless honey, as though by licking it, Huan Zheng would indirectly exchange saliva with her—and the exchange of saliva was the beginning of everything: kisses, embraces, long nights spent on the same bed, like before, when they were young, when they did not yet know the cruelty of the world, when she could hold Huan Zheng every night without needing to ask whether he wanted it or not.
"Will you lick my index finger? Along with the owner of the saliva that wets it? I know you miss it, Huan Zheng. I know you still want me. Don't deny it."
Before Huan Zheng could even open his mouth—or more precisely, before he could yawn, because he had no intention of answering such an absurd offer from a woman he once considered a sister—Ling Xu had already stepped forward.
Her body, light from having abandoned everything she once built and choosing emptiness, moved with a speed the eye could not follow—even though her own eyes could no longer see—and she did not need sight to know that the Singer was trying to poison Huan Zheng with her depraved offer, that the red-haired woman would never stop, that as long as she still breathed, as long as she still had a tongue to lick and saliva to drip, she would continue to tempt, to seduce, to try to take Huan Zheng from her, like a vulture never satisfied with a rotting corpse.
"Huan Zheng," she said, her voice no longer trembling as when she questioned him about the thousands of nights he spent with The Singer, no longer breaking as when she nearly cried from jealousy, but cold—so cold—like ice that never melts even under the sun, like death that never asks permission before arriving, like the Cancer plague that does not care whom it devours next.
"If you dare to lick that woman's finger, if you dare to kiss her, if you dare to let your lips touch anything her saliva has touched, then I will leave forever. Not to a place you can reach, not to a place you can search, but to a place where you will never find me, no matter how hard you try, no matter how many universes you burn, no matter how many deaths you endure."
The Singer, hearing that threat, laughed.
A laugh no longer bitter like before, but triumphant—a laugh that declared she had already won, that she had succeeded in breaking Ling Xu's composure, that she had ignited the very jealousy she had been seeking.
"You heard her yourself, Huan Zheng," she said, still extending her wet finger toward him, her saliva continuing to drip slowly onto the stone floor at her feet.
"That girl is threatening to leave if you lick my finger. But isn't that what you want? Haven't you only been with her because you had no choice? Wouldn't you rather return to me, like before, when we were young, when I could take your ear into my mouth every night without feeling guilty?"
To be continued…