Black Magic Rose Chapter 10
byChapter 10: The Budding of Affection
The planting of the Black Rose mark was like dropping a hidden Energy Anchor Point beneath a calm lake. Shu Yijin clearly felt that a deeper connection, one that transcended physical distance, had been established between him and Wen Jingheng. This connection made his perception of the Seal more acute, and gave him a near “real-time” sense of control over Wen Jingheng’s condition.
For the first few days, he was immersed in the pleasure this control brought. The daily “care” seemed to take on another layer of meaning. When he wiped Wen Jingheng’s body, his fingertips brushed the faint mark, and he could feel the subtle flow of energy beneath it; when he held Wen Jingheng’s hand, he could vaguely perceive through the mark that the darkness deep within the other man’s consciousness was no longer as dead silent as before. It seemed that a faint light was quietly gathering around the mark.
This confirmed his suspicion—the mark was not only a window for him to monitor Wen Jingheng, but also, to some extent, a “coordinate” for Wen Jingheng’s consciousness to coalesce in the darkness.
This feeling of having everything under control greatly satisfied Shu Yijin’s nature as a manipulator. He even began to design his daily interactions with Wen Jingheng more “meticulously,” treating every touch and every whisper as the sculpting and guidance of this precious “chess piece.” He observed the subtle fluctuations of reaction transmitted from the other end of the mark, and took pleasure in it.
However, without realizing it, a change quietly occurred.
Shu Yijin found himself beginning to… look forward to their daily time alone. It wasn’t out of urgency regarding the Seal’s progress, nor was it simply to observe the experimental subject’s reaction. It was more like a… habit? A moment in the cold, oppressive cage of the Wen Family where he could feel a sliver of “ease.”
In this mansion, the ubiquitous scrutinizing gazes, and the servants’ distance and faint fear beneath their superficial respect, all made him feel bored and uninteresting. Only in Wen Jingheng’s room, facing this silent “listener” who couldn’t betray secrets, could he shed some of his pretense and reveal a few genuine emotions—whether it was mockery, playfulness, or the complex feelings lingering after the memory impact that he himself didn’t want to delve into.
This afternoon, the sunlight was warmer than the previous days. Instead of immediately starting the massage as usual, Shu Yijin took out the poetry collection he often read from the bedside table drawer. This was not the ancient text containing prophecies of Annihilation, but a beautifully bound, ordinary collection of classical love poems and nature odes, placed there by the Wen Family for appearances.
He casually opened a page, his eyes scanning the neatly printed verses. These words praising love, celebrating life, and lamenting time were originally pale and powerless in his eyes, even somewhat ridiculous. But today, looking at the verses, and then at the sleeping Wen Jingheng on the bed, a thought suddenly surfaced.
“It’s always me talking to myself; it seems a bit monotonous,” he said softly, as if explaining to Wen Jingheng, or perhaps convincing himself. “Today, I’ll read something else to you. Although… you probably can’t understand it.”
He sat down in the armchair, adjusting to a comfortable position, and spread the poetry collection on his lap. Sunlight filtered through the curtain gaps, illuminating the pages in his hand and casting a soft halo over his lowered profile.
He cleared his throat and began to read slowly in his clear, gentle voice. Initially, his tone carried a hint of deliberate flatness, as if he were merely completing a task. He read verses about spring, streams, and birds—the language was ornate but lacked genuine emotion.
But as he read on, his voice subtly changed. Perhaps the afternoon sun was too warm, or the silence in the room was too accommodating; his tone gradually softened, infused with a tenderness he hadn’t even noticed himself.
When he read a short poem describing the night and starlight, his voice involuntarily deepened, carrying a hazy resonance:
“…The night is like silk, the stars are scattered silver,
The breeze sweeps the treetops, bringing dreams from afar.
In this boundless stillness, I hear,
Another heart, the rhythm of Shared Sensation in the darkness…”
Shu Yijin’s voice paused slightly here. He subconsciously raised his head, his gaze falling on Wen Jingheng’s tranquil sleeping face. Another heart, the rhythm of Shared Sensation in the darkness? This verse, in this context, carried a strange, almost prophetic sense of alignment.
His gaze involuntarily slid to the position of Wen Jingheng’s heart on his left chest. There, in his “internal view,” the Black Rose mark pulsed slightly with the heartbeat, transmitting a stable yet faint sense of life through the invisible connection.
Shared Sensation? The corners of Shu Yijin’s lips unconsciously curved into an extremely shallow arc. It wasn’t mockery, nor calculation, but a subtle smile that he himself had yet to define. This smile softened the usual coldness and detachment in his eyes, making him exude a rare, almost gentle aura.
He suddenly felt that reading poetry like this didn’t seem so bad. At least, it was more… peaceful than those whispers full of calculation and probing.
He didn’t stop, continuing to read. The following verses were about waiting and hope. His voice became even softer, like a babbling stream under the moonlight, flowing quietly through the silent room. He no longer looked at Wen Jingheng, his gaze fixed on the pages, his long eyelashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, his expression focused and serene.
He didn’t notice that the moment he displayed that faint smile, a clear, gentle wave of “pleasure” rippled out through the Black Rose mark on his chest, like a stone dropped into water, transmitting toward the other end of the mark.
And in the depths of that endless conscious darkness, Wen Jingheng’s “world” was also quietly changing.
Since the dark “rose” bloomed in his perception, it had become a core coordinate, more stable and clearer than sound. He was no longer merely passively “listening,” but began to actively try to “sense” that rose, and the vague existence of Shu Yijin connected through it.
At this moment, he clearly “felt” that sudden, gentle wave of “pleasure.” The fluctuation was not as sharp as the pain in previous memory fragments, nor as cold as the calculation in the daily whispers. It was a light, warm emotion.
Immediately following was the sound of recitation, clearer and gentler than ever before. The voice was no longer just a signpost guiding direction, but like a warm tide, washing over the barren coast of his consciousness wave after wave. He couldn’t fully comprehend the content of the poems, but something contained within the voice—a rare, unguarded peace and… tenderness?—directly touched a soft spot deep within his consciousness.
An unprecedented feeling of stability enveloped him. The darkness was no longer suffocating; instead, it was like a tranquil night sky, and the dark rose and the gentle voice connected to it became the sole, yet sufficient, star illuminating everything in the night sky.
He instinctively, and more diligently, focused his consciousness toward the rose and the voice. This time, it wasn’t a struggle, but an instinctual… movement toward the light.
Shu Yijin finished the last poem and closed the collection. Silence returned to the room. The sun had begun to dip toward the west, and the light in the room grew increasingly soft.
He sat quietly for a while, seemingly still immersed in the atmosphere of the reading. Then, he stood up, preparing for the final step as usual—holding Wen Jingheng’s hand.
As he reached out, just about to touch Wen Jingheng’s fingers, his movement paused slightly. This time, it wasn’t out of calculation or probing, but a strange, subtle hesitation. It was as if this simple action had suddenly been endowed with a meaning different from before.
Finally, he gently took the hand.
The temperature transmitted from the fingertips, the feel of the palm, and the feedback of an indescribable “serenity” and “approach” from the consciousness transmitted through the mark… all these sensations intertwined.
Shu Yijin lowered his head, looking at their clasped hands, and did not let go for a long time.
An unfamiliar, warm emotion, like a stream in early spring, silently permeated a corner of his cold heart. He didn’t quite understand what it was, nor did he want to delve into it.
He just suddenly felt that the tranquility of this moment… didn’t seem so bad.
The corruption of emotion often begins in the most unintentional moment. Without his own awareness, a seed named “Affection” had quietly fallen into the field of his heart, a place that was originally meant only to nurture Annihilation and calculation.