Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Luo Qianyu had just drawn back the brocade quilt when he froze mid-motion.

The student dormitory was pitch black. Behind him, Su Family’s page held a lantern, its glow mingling with the sparse moonlight. In that faint light, Luo Qianyu could make out the figure huddled beneath the covers.

Young Master Su’s lips were as red as rouge, his teeth as white as jade—his features possessed a delicate, almost feminine handsomeness. Especially now, with his hair unbound. Upon seeing Luo Qianyu, he hastily concealed something beside the bed, shielding it with his body. His eyes glistened with tears, and the moment he clearly recognized Luo Qianyu’s face, his complexion paled.

Luo Qianyu vaguely recalled this person—particularly those eyes—though he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen them before. The Outer College housed countless students, classrooms, and even Directors of Studies; it was only natural not to have met everyone. Yet what reason could this young man possibly have to fear him so?

Suppressing his anger, Luo Qianyu forced what he hoped passed for a friendly smile, his teeth grinding lightly as he spoke: “Young Master Su, have you exhausted yourself weeping for three days straight? Look at you—your eyes are bloodshot. I’ve come to have an honest, heart-to-heart talk with you.”

Young Master Su’s throat tightened as if he’d glimpsed a demon or malevolent spirit. “N-no… please don’t…”

The Young Marquis flicked open the hem of his outer robe and sat casually on the edge of Young Master Su’s bed, his tone ominously low. “Never mind, then. What is your name?”

Young Master Su recoiled slightly, his expression flickering oddly—before he quickly bowed his head and mumbled, “Su… Su He.”

“Su He.” Luo Qianyu repeated the name silently, then abruptly lifted his gaze to the youth on the bed. “Tell me plainly—have I ever offended you?”

Su He glanced down at the other’s outer robe, embroidered with golden-thread cloud motifs, and pressed his lips together. “No.”

The Young Marquis asked patiently, “Your page claimed you’ve been crying because I’ve returned to the Imperial Academy. Is that true?”

Su He denied it. “They’re spreading false rumors…”

He was asked repeatedly—but refused to elaborate.

Luo Qianyu fell silent for a long moment. Just as Su He began stealing cautious glances at his expression, he spoke again.

“To be frank, before resuming my studies, I suffered a prolonged, high fever that confined me to my sickbed. Since then, I’ve lost some memories.” Luo Qianyu’s voice remained calm, detached, unruffled. He casually crossed one leg, resting his elbow lazily on his knee. Under Su He’s astonished gaze, he continued unhurriedly: “I no longer recall many people—or events. Without reminders, it’s difficult to recover those memories.”

“Unfortunately, this bully’s temperament remains unchanged. I’ve never possessed much patience. If Your Excellency continues to hedge and evade the truth, don’t blame me for becoming precisely the person you fear.”

Shock flashed in Su He’s eyes. Disbelief flickered across his face—and, summoning courage, he met Luo Qianyu’s gaze directly. “How could such a thing happen?”

Luo Qianyu hummed softly and raised an eyebrow. “Can you tell me now—what exactly were you crying about?”

Su He struggled to speak, stammering for a long while. Only when the Young Marquis’s patience finally snapped did he blurt out: “You said I… looked like an unmarried young lady—then stared at my face and asked whether I’d secretly applied rouge. I said no… but you insisted it wouldn’t hurt to try, grabbed some scented powder, and puffed it into my face. Then you used vermilion to dot my lips. In the end… you even forced me to wear a woman’s padded jacket and skirt before you’d stop.”

Luo Qianyu: “…………”

Had *that* been the original owner’s doing?

A thousand troops and ten thousand horses stampeded through Luo Qianyu’s mind, followed by a few drifting leaves. Wasn’t it said that after the palace coup, the Young Marquis had fallen intermittently ill and remained bedridden for these past three years, his spirits deeply depressed? Who would have imagined he still found leisure to bully a fellow student? Well—splendid. He’d left behind such a mess. No wonder the other had wept for three nights straight. Who *wouldn’t* be traumatized by that?

Even Luo Qianyu felt profoundly awkward now. After a moment’s thought, he said, “I truly have no memory of those incidents… Have you spent these past few days hiding under your covers, weeping over this? …Are you afraid I’ll come trouble you again? Honestly—I’m in no mood for that now. I wouldn’t do it.”

Su He clearly didn’t believe him, whispering, “You were holding a sword this morning—blocking me in the courtyard. My page told me. Luckily, I left early—otherwise, you… you would have…”

“Holding a sword? Blocking you?” Luo Qianyu furrowed his brows slightly, searching his memory—then suddenly understood, sighing helplessly: “That was me practicing swordplay with my personal guard. Who would rise at *mao* hour just to corner a crybaby?”

Su He’s lips trembled. “I… am not a crybaby.”

“My mistake—you’re not.” Luo Qianyu had never comforted anyone in his life. He weighed every word carefully. “Regarding that incident… name whatever compensation you wish—I’ll provide it.”

Seeing Young Master Su lower his gaze, tears threatening once more, Luo Qianyu quietly changed the subject. “That… my guard came to see you—the very first day I resumed my studies.”

He’d once asked Wen Yu exactly what had been said that night—but the other hadn’t answered, merely stating he’d offered a few words of sound advice. Now, curiosity got the better of the Young Marquis. “What *did* he say to you—that left you silent all night?”

Su He seemed to recall that day’s scene. Astonishment flickered in his eyes—followed by an irrepressible daze, a stunned, breathless awe, as if his very soul had been snagged by invisible threads. That dazed, disoriented look was all too familiar to Luo Qianyu—many characters in the novel wore identical expressions upon first encountering Wen Yu.

Yet then, Su He’s expression shifted strangely. He pinched the edge of his pillow, stammering, “He said…”

As his voice grew softer, Luo Qianyu pressed, “Said *what*?”

Su He: “He said he is the Sect Leader of the Nine Abyss Alliance.”

Luo Qianyu: “?”

Unaware of the oddity, Su He rushed on in one breath: “He said—if anyone disturbed his young master’s sleep, they’d usually wait until the person was in their deepest slumber at night… and wring their neck.”

Luo Qianyu: “???”

His eyelashes froze. He stood utterly motionless—like a wooden statue—bewildered, astonished, his expression shifting wildly across a spectrum of incredulity.

Before Su He, the young master rarely lost composure. Not only could he not conceal the surging astonishment blazing in his eyes—he stood rooted to the spot, struck dumb as if thunderstruck.

…

Wen Yu would utter such words?

*That* Wen Yu—the one he knew?

And also… the Nine Abyss Alliance? He naturally had some impression. It *did* exist in the original novel—a mysterious, top-ranked alliance beneath heaven, entrenched north of the river, carving out its own territory alongside several dynasties. The Ember Moon Pavilion had stood for decades. And Wen Yu was barely twenty—the age didn’t match, the location didn’t match, his background didn’t match. How could he possibly be the Sect Leader?

…

What on earth was going on?

Such a claim was absurd beyond belief. Even as a joke, the more Luo Qianyu pondered it, the more certain he became that Wen Yu—always aloof, always self-possessed—would never resort to such childish threats to frighten others. It seemed highly likely that Young Master Su’s account was ninety percent embellished—and wholly unreliable.

“Y-young Marquis… have you finished questioning me?”

Luo Qianyu let out a faint sigh. Seeing Su He trembling with fear, his eyes brimming with desperate hope for his departure—as if he couldn’t bear another second in his presence—it was clear resolving this knot wouldn’t happen overnight. So he didn’t press further, deciding instead to let things rest—for now—and proceed gradually. He asked, “Will you cry again tonight?”

Su He’s face flushed crimson. He bit his lip. “No.”

“Then I’m done questioning.” The Young Marquis said indifferently, “Farewell.”

Watching the other rise, Su He’s shoulders sagged slightly as he exhaled in relief—his spine, taut as a drawn bowstring, finally relaxing. He released his grip on the quilt’s edge—and the object he’d hastily hidden earlier slowly slipped out a corner with his movement.

Who would have expected the young master—already standing, already pausing with his back turned—to suddenly whirl around? His movements were lightning-fast, his eyes sharp, his hands steady. In an instant, he snatched the item Su He had concealed beneath the bedding.

Su He’s pupils contracted sharply—a near-terrified gasp escaping his throat. “Wait—!”

Young Marquis Luo already held the object in his hand. It felt incredibly light—a book bound with white thread. On its cover, two characters were written vertically in clear, flowing ink strokes—it looked like a popular storybook sold at the marketplace.

Luo Qianyu was certain now—it hadn’t been his imagination after all.

Was it the fleeting flash of wild joy in the other’s eyes upon first hearing his name—or the riddled-with-holes bullying story?

Thinking carefully, every single detail was unusual.

Back at Zhai Xian Tower, when Quan Songcheng was forced by Lou Xian to wear theatrical costume and apply makeup, he’d instinctively covered his nose and mouth with a folding fan. And again aboard the painted boat, when Liu Cixue tried dressing him in women’s clothing and applying rouge, he’d instinctively struggled and resisted fiercely.

Perhaps he’d realized even then—the Young Marquis was allergic to scented powder.

How, then, could he have personally painted Su He’s lips red? Moreover, given Wen Yu’s character, how could he have uttered such absurd words to Su He? It made no sense upon closer thought.

At this, Luo Qianyu’s gaze gradually turned cold.

What unspeakable secret was Su He being so tight-lipped and evasive about?

Could it be this smutty book?

When Luo Qianyu’s eyes finally focused on the two words of the title, his movements froze—

*Chasing the Crane*.

That was it—the very book he’d transmigrated into.