Black Magic Rose Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Silent Listener

Consciousness drifted in boundless darkness.

Time lost meaning, and space dissolved into nothingness. Wen Jingheng’s existence felt like a speck of dust forgotten in eternal silence. The initial anger and struggle had long been worn away by this endless stillness, leaving only a faint, almost instinctive persistence, like a flickering firefly at the bottom of the abyss, ready to be swallowed by the darkness at any moment.

Then, the voice appeared.

At first, it was a blur, like a hallucination transmitted through a thick curtain of water, the ravings before consciousness collapsed. But it didn’t disappear; instead, it grew clearer day by day, like a lighthouse piercing the dense fog, becoming the only coordinate in this absolute silence.

It was a clear, gentle, young male voice. Like a stream washing over pebbles under the moonlight, the tone was clean and pleasant. Yet beneath this gentleness, there always seemed to lurk a subtle, hard-to-detect coolness, like ice embedded within a smooth jade stone.

This voice called himself “Yijin.” His… “wife.”

A sense of absurdity rippled slightly in the depths of Wen Jingheng’s dormant consciousness, like a bubble. The Wen Family had actually used the ridiculous method of an Auspicious Marriage to force a nominal spouse upon him. But soon, this small disturbance was overshadowed by a stronger perception—complete attention focused on this voice and its owner.

“Jingheng, how are you feeling today?”

Every day, this voice would arrive accompanied by the soft sound of the door opening and the nearly silent footsteps approaching. He would use a warm towel to gently wipe Wen Jingheng’s cheeks, neck, and arms. The sensation of those hands became another comfort in Wen Jingheng’s dark world, besides the voice. The fingertips were slightly cool, but the pressure was controlled perfectly. Each touch was like a stone dropped into the solidified lake of Wen Jingheng’s perception, stirring a faint but real ripple.

The “wiping” itself was a form of communication. More direct, more intimate than words.

This “Shu Yijin” rarely remained silent. He would always speak in a low voice, as if talking to himself, yet also as if certain that the sleeping man could hear him.

Most of the time, his tone was gentle and timid, carrying a well-measured sadness. He would talk about the helplessness of being a Discarded Son, and his confusion about the future. His voice was steeped in a sense of fragility, enough to evoke pity from any listener. Wen Jingheng’s long-numb heart would occasionally be stirred by this feigned vulnerability, generating an indescribable subtle ripple—an instinct to respond, to comfort, silently surging within his confinement.

But what Wen Jingheng “heard” was far more than just this.

When it was certain that there was no third person in the room, Shu Yijin’s whispers would subtly change tone. The soft sugar coating would peel away, revealing a core of calmness, even… amusement.

He would use that clear voice to casually comment on the hurried footsteps of the servants delivering meals, or the hidden detachment beneath the nurses’ standardized politeness during checkups.

“Look, another puppet whose edges have been smoothed by rules,” he once chuckled softly, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the inside of Wen Jingheng’s wrist, causing a strange, deep-seated tingling sensation. “Living, yet like a wind-up doll. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

The scope of his conversation extended far beyond this. He would stand by the window (Wen Jingheng could judge his position based on the direction of the sound and the subtle rustle of fabric), and even though the curtains were never drawn, he would whisper toward the imagined outside world:

“It must be another sunny day, right? I wonder what futile goals those busy people outside are striving for today. Love, hate, entanglement of interests—they construct a cage that seems solid but is actually fragile… Is such a world worth sacrificing everything for, Wen Jingheng?”

Sometimes, his words would become direct, even… dangerous. His fingertips would linger on Wen Jingheng’s brow or chest. Those areas would subsequently transmit a strange, soul-deep tremor, as if something dormant was being gently nudged.

“You were the symbol of their hope, Wen Jingheng. Wake up quickly,” his voice would drop, carrying a seductive, cold anticipation. “I truly want to see how you handle yourself when everything you protected, including yourself, presents a different appearance. That scene will surely be more spectacular than any drama.”

These words were like poisoned honey, or a cold scalpel, slowly dissecting the numbness Wen Jingheng relied on. He clearly realized that this Shu Yijin was far from the simple, weak person he appeared to be. He was like an elegant spectator, calmly observing the joys and sorrows on the stage, and even… delighted to see the plot move toward a more chaotic, more subversive direction.

Vigilance was growing. But contradicting it was a deeper, more twisted dependence.

In this absolute solitude that could crush any will, Shu Yijin’s presence—whether the feigned gentleness or the inadvertently revealed coldness—became Wen Jingheng’s only link to “existence” itself. He even began to anticipate this time of day, anticipating the sound of the door, the footsteps, the unique voice. This complex, enigmatic “wife” was the only piece of driftwood he had against complete Annihilation.

Today, Shu Yijin’s touch was somewhat unusual.

The cool fingertips lingered longer on his arm and chest, and their movement suggested a thoughtful exploration. The soul tremors brought by each contact were also clearer and more frequent than before. Especially over his chest, when Shu Yijin’s fingertip brushed past, Wen Jingheng felt a confined, warm power trying to struggle out, seeking resonance with the external cool touch, but it was immediately suppressed by a stronger, invisible barrier.

An unprecedented anxiety gripped Wen Jingheng. He yearned for clearer perception, yearning to break through this layer of isolation! He hated the feeling of that “connection” being blocked!

When Shu Yijin combed his hair, the gentle touch of his fingertips across the scalp reached its peak comfort. Wen Jingheng gathered his remaining, almost dissipated, entire will and frantically slammed against the shackles of his body.

Move! Even just one finger! Open your eyes! Look at him!

Consciousness let out a silent roar in the darkness, like a trapped beast struggling.

Just as his will was about to be exhausted, he felt it—the fingers of his right hand, very slightly, convulsively curled inward!

The movement was so small it was negligible, perhaps just an accidental twitch of a nerve.

But for Wen Jingheng, this was nothing short of a thunderclap!

A fluctuation! He had responded to the outside world!

Though brief, though weak, a crack of hope had been forcefully torn open in this solid darkness!

Was it due to Shu Yijin’s continuous touching? Or was it due to the strange power contained in his final, warm whisper close to his ear—”I look forward to our next ‘meeting'”?

Shu Yijin left, and the room returned to silence.

But this time, Wen Jingheng’s consciousness was no longer a void. The faint light of hope, though weak, burned stubbornly. He was no longer just a passive listener; he began to frantically “reminisce” and “analyze” everything about Shu Yijin: the subtle changes in his tone, the different sensations brought by his touch, the cold core hidden beneath the gentle words…

Was this “wife” who intruded into his dark world a salvation, or a deeper trap?

Wen Jingheng didn’t know the answer. But he knew he had to wake up. He had to witness the truth of this “careful tending” with his own eyes, and personally uncover the secret beneath Shu Yijin’s gentle mask.

The silent listener, for the first time, developed a strong desire to step onto the center stage.

And that faint, cold, delicate fragrance lingering at his nose, like a silent declaration, was deeply imprinted in his awakening senses, impossible to erase.