Black Magic Rose Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Whispers Under the Moon

Shu Qing’s farce was like a small stone thrown into stagnant water; after stirring up a few ripples, it quickly subsided. The Wen Family remained tight-lipped about the incident. The old butler even increased the number of staff, ostensibly to enhance “care,” but Shu Yijin could sense that the vague feeling of surveillance had become much clearer. He didn’t mind this; in fact, he found some enjoyment in it—the cat-and-mouse game was only fun when the sides were evenly matched.

The days continued to pass in seemingly peaceful “care.” Shu Yijin’s acting became increasingly refined. He managed the “attentiveness” just right, neither overly enthusiastic to arouse suspicion nor so perfunctory as to be dismissive. The daily wiping, massaging, and whispering became an unbreakable ritual. And during these ritualistic contacts, his probing of the Seal never ceased.

He discovered that when his mind maintained a state of near “emptiness,” making contact without obvious purpose, the Seal’s resonance was most stable, and the faint energy feedback was almost negligible. This further confirmed his belief that the Seal had a profound connection with Wen Jingheng’s own will, or rather, his subconscious.

Tonight, the moonlight was bright and clear. Even the heavy curtains couldn’t completely block the penetration of the pale light, casting several long, narrow, pallid streaks across the floor.

Shu Yijin uncharacteristically did not leave immediately after completing the routine care, as he usually did. He dismissed the nurse who came for the evening check and remained alone in Wen Jingheng’s room. He didn’t turn on the main lights, allowing the cold moonlight and the faint yellow glow of the bedside lamp to intertwine in the center of the room, creating an ambiguous area where light and shadow met.

He walked to the window. He didn’t pull back the curtains, but stood quietly before the drapery that was faintly illuminated by the moonlight. His silhouette, stretched long by the moonlight, appeared somewhat solitary, yet his straight spine conveyed an unyielding resilience.

“The moon is very bright tonight,” he suddenly spoke. His voice was not the deliberate softness he usually adopted, but carried a calm, almost ethereal tone, as if speaking to Wen Jingheng, yet also talking to himself.

The only response in the room was the rhythmic ticking of the instruments.

Shu Yijin was silent for a moment, then slowly turned around, leaning his back against the cold glass window. His gaze fell upon the blurred outline on the bed, segmented by light and shadow. The moonlight outlined his delicate profile, and his crimson eyes in the darkness were like two clusters of faintly burning, cold flames.

“Wen Jingheng, do you believe this world is real?” He asked an abrupt and philosophical question. His voice was soft, yet it carried a strange weight, tapping against the silent air.

“I have witnessed the birth and death of too many worlds. Some are as brilliant and fleeting as fireworks; others drift toward eternity in dead silence. In some worlds, beings are as kind as a fairy tale, yet ultimately bring about destruction due to pure goodness; in others, the world is steeped in sin and chaos from its inception, yet manages to linger in a bloody balance.” His tone was level, as if narrating a story completely unrelated to himself, yet the content was enough to send shivers down the spine of any conscious listener.

“What is the meaning, you ask?” He tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely awaiting an answer. “Protection? Destruction? Creation? Order? Chaos? Are these concepts, endowed with lofty value by countless beings, merely… insignificant ripples on a grander scale?”

He let out a soft laugh, devoid of pleasure, containing only the desolation and indifference of one who has seen the rise and fall of everything.

“Just like the Shu Family, just like the Wen Family. The interests they fight for, the honor they uphold, the rumors they fear—are they not laughable, like ants scrambling for food, in your eyes and mine?” His gaze seemed to pierce the walls, settling on something much further away. “They construct rigid hierarchies, establish complex rules, and bind each other with morality and emotion, believing they live in a solid, real world. Yet they don’t know that what they perceive as ‘reality’ is merely a castle built on quicksand.”

He took a step, slowly walking to the bedside, stopping at the boundary between moonlight and lamplight. Half of his face was softened by the warm yellow glow, the other half hidden in the cold shadow of the moonlight, presenting an eerie sense of division.

“I once… was very much like them.” For the first time, Shu Yijin’s voice carried a subtle ripple, akin to a memory, though it vanished instantly. “A long, long time ago, so long that time itself lost meaning. I, too, believed in certain things, tried to understand, to integrate… but ultimately discovered it was merely a carefully choreographed drama, and I, perhaps, wasn’t even an audience member, but an unwitting character on the stage.”

His fingertip unconsciously traced Wen Jingheng’s wrist, which was exposed outside the thin blanket. The slightly cool touch contrasted sharply with the warm flow of blood beneath Wen Jingheng’s skin.

“Until I touched the boundary of ‘reality,’ and saw the… void and madness behind the curtain.” A cold, murderous glint, belonging to an Ancient Evil God, flashed deep within his red eyes. “So, I chose another path. Rather than playing a prescribed role on a false stage, it is better to tear the curtain down myself, letting everything return to the original emptiness. That is… ultimate freedom.”

These words were his deepest, most genuine thoughts, a realm he rarely touched directly, even within himself. Yet, tonight, in the silence under the flowing moonlight, facing a sleeping “listener” who was once his mortal enemy, he spoke them naturally. Perhaps it was because he knew the other party couldn’t respond or divulge anything; or perhaps, deep down, he yearned for an object that could bear the loneliness and… obsession accumulated over these countless eons.

“And you, Wen Jingheng,” his gaze rested on Wen Jingheng’s serene face, carrying a complex scrutiny. “You were the ‘protagonist’ they chose, the climax of this drama, the force attempting to pull the curtain back shut. You were powerful, I admit. Your will, your conviction, even that repulsive ‘light’ in your bloodline, once made you difficult to handle.”

His fingertip moved slowly up Wen Jingheng’s wrist, finally stopping at his chest. Through the thin clothing, he could feel the steady heartbeat underneath.

“But now you lie here, like a silent monument.” Shu Yijin’s tone lowered, carrying a hint of almost imperceptible… regret? “Your conviction failed to change it in the slightest. What you guarded is still sliding toward decay along its predetermined trajectory. Tell me, what was the meaning of your persistence?”

He leaned down, close to Wen Jingheng’s ear, whispering like a lover, though his breath carried the coolness of moonlight:

“Sometimes I wonder, if you woke up and saw not the ‘saved’ world you hoped for, but its more unbearable, more hypocritical core, what would you do? Would you burn yourself out, as in the past, trying to turn the tide again? Or… would you feel disillusioned, perhaps even… agree with my perspective?”

This question was less a query for Wen Jingheng than a self-interrogation for Shu Yijin. He was genuinely curious about where this man, whose will was like steel, would go after experiencing betrayal, slumber, and disillusionment.

He straightened up, taking one last look at Wen Jingheng, his expression complex and unreadable. There was probing, scrutiny, and perhaps a trace of extremely faint… expectation, which he himself might not have noticed.

“Good night, Wen Jingheng,” he said softly, his tone returning to its usual gentleness, but the cold flame in his eyes had not extinguished. “I hope your dreams… are more interesting than this reality.”

With that, he merged into the shadows, silently leaving the room.

The moonlight continued to flow in quietly, illuminating the bed and Wen Jingheng’s hand resting by his side.

Shortly after he left, under the cold moonlight, the index finger of Wen Jingheng’s hand, the one Shu Yijin’s fingertip had traced, twitched very slightly, almost imperceptibly. The fingertip curled inward slightly, as if trying to grasp the wisp of words, cool with moonlight, that had already dissipated.

This movement was clearer than the last time.

The listener in the darkness had not only heard the actor’s monologue but had also touched the bottomless… reality beneath that monologue.