Chapter 85: Are you in love with someone else now?

Duan Ling wielded the embroidered spring dagger for years, its weight shaping his hands with a thin layer of calluses.

When his fingers brushed against Lin Ting’s skin, they sparked a cascade of tingling comfort, a sensation she couldn’t help but savor.

She leaned into his touch, letting it envelop her like a quiet promise.

Lin Ting had studied Duan Ling’s hands before—had held them, their fingers entwined more times than she could count.

She knew the contours of his fingertips, the warmth they carried, the texture of his skin.

But today, that awareness sharpened.

His gentle caresses, the faint roughness of his calluses gliding over her, felt like a slow-burning intimacy, as if he were tracing the edges of her soul.

It was as though Duan Ling suffered from a hunger for her skin, his hands unable to part from her, always seeking contact, always needing to feel her beneath his touch. 

Even as he touched her, he kissed her, his lips grazing hers with a weight heavier than usual, laced with a subtle, almost imperceptible edge of possessiveness.

Yet his hands remained tender, pressing lightly against her softest places, massaging her as if to coax her into ease. 

But ease eluded Lin Ting.

The heat of Duan Ling’s hands seared her skin, leaving trails of fire wherever they roamed.

Her senses followed his touch, tethered to every movement.

Her cheeks flushed, as if his fingers were stroking her face, though they weren’t.

Still, she followed her heart’s pull, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips.

Her hand found his other one, braced beside her, her palm settling over the scar on his wrist—a jagged, brutal mark against the delicate beauty of her hand.

Duan Ling deepened the kiss, sweat beading on his skin, his pale fingers glistening with moisture. 

Lin Ting loved the way it felt to kiss him, responding to the dance of his lips and tongue.

Their noses brushed, breaths mingling in a quiet, shared rhythm.

“Lin Leyun,” he murmured her courtesy name, his voice low and intimate.

Startled, Lin Ting froze.

It was the first time he’d called her that to her face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice soft.

His lips grazed her cheek in fleeting pecks as he spoke, his long fingers moving slowly, deliberately.

“Have you taken a liking to someone else?” 

Her breath hitched, thrown by the question.

“No. You don’t still think I fancy Jin Anzai, do you?”

Not long ago, he’d asked if she might one day fall for another.

Now he was asking if she already had.

Did he truly believe she’d stray after their marriage?

“Not Young Master Jin,” he clarified, his tone steady.

‘Not Jin Anzai?’

Then who?

Xie Qinghe, perhaps?

Lin Ting had mentioned before how their mothers had nearly arranged a match between her and Xie Qinghe. 

Lin Ting frowned, puzzled.

“I don’t like Young Master Xie the Fifth. His general dragged me off to use me as leverage against Jin Anzai to get what they wanted. Xie Qinghe has no feelings for me.”

“Not Xie Qinghe,” Duan Ling said, his voice calm but firm.

‘Not Xie Qinghe? Who else could it be? Surely not Xia Zimo.’

Lin Ting dismissed the thought immediately, sensing there was something else behind his question.

“I haven’t fallen for anyone else,” she said earnestly.

“You came to Ancheng because you were worried about me?” Duan Ling asked, his tone echoing a question he’d posed back in the capital. 

Lin Ting couldn’t lie to him again. 

“To be honest,” she said, “I came to Ancheng for myself.”

“For yourself?” His brow furrowed slightly.

“Yes, for myself.” She couldn’t mention the system or the mission, so she left it at that.

His fingers grazed a sensitive spot, his eyes lowering to meet hers.

“Not for someone else?”

She nudged him lightly with her forehead, tilting her head to steady her breath.

“Of course not.”

Her safety came first—why would she risk herself for anyone else?

Who else would she even come to Ancheng for?

Before she could say more, Duan Ling’s kiss returned to her lips, pulling her back into the warmth of his embrace.

As they kissed, Lin Ting noticed the pet he kept—a curious creature cloaked in soft pink fur—spring to life.

It leaped over his hand, plunging headfirst into the shallow water nearby, half-submerged as if heedless of drowning.

It thrashed about, erratic, driven by instinct, colliding with the water in chaotic bursts, light and heavy.

Lin Ting couldn’t help but watch, transfixed. 

The creature’s body was mostly underwater now, only a sliver still visible.

Its small pouches, spared from submersion, glistened with spilled water. 

The pouches quivered, shedding droplets back into the pool.

Tonight, the creature was different—gone was its usual docility, replaced by a serpentine aggression.

Soft as it seemed, its movements were precise, forceful, striking with the strength of a predator.

Soon, it sent the water trembling, carving its shape into the ripples again and again.

Lin Ting thought it was getting out of hand.

She reached down to pull it out, but her palm slipped, and it dove deeper, sinking to the bottom. 

She let out a small cry, half-wanting to stop it, though her tone carried no real anger.

In the end, she gave up trying to manage it—or perhaps she couldn’t.

She let it thrash, splashing water everywhere, fierce and untamed, staining everything around it.

The next day, just past noon, Lin Ting was roused by a knock at the door.

It was the Imperial Guards, urgent with news for Duan Ling.

“My lord, the men you sent to Suzhou have returned.”

At the mention of Suzhou, Duan Ling rose from the bed, directing the Imperial Guards to wait in the neighboring courtyard.

Lin Ting, now awake, lost all desire to sleep.

She sat up, watching Duan Ling as he dressed with unhurried grace, tying his hair and glancing at her.

“Not sleeping more?”

She stretched, leaning against the wall by the bed.

“What time is it?”

He glanced at the water clock in the room, then back at her, fastening his belt and attaching a scented sachet.

“Just past noon.”

Past noon?

She’d slept that late?

Lin Ting crawled out of bed.

“If I sleep any longer, it’ll be evening.”

“You wash up,” Duan Ling said, heading for the door.

“I’ll meet them.”

Moments later, Lin Ting finished freshening up and stepped outside to call for lunch.

She ran into Duan Ling returning, a portrait in hand—likely from the Imperial Guards.

She glanced at it but didn’t ask.

Duan Ling unfurled the portrait and held it before her.

“Look at this person.”

The words felt familiar.

She’d said something similar to Li Jingqiu on their return visit, showing her a portrait of Ta Xuening. 

Curious but confused, she studied the image. 

The figure stood tall, dressed in the robes of a former dynasty official, his features striking, his brow radiating righteousness, a faint smile on his lips.

Lin Ting touched her chin.

“Is this someone the Imperial Guards are after?”

“No,” Duan Ling replied.

“His name is Ying Zhihe. We heard his story from a storyteller in an Ancheng teahouse.”

Lin Ting recalled the tale.

“Why seek his portrait?”

Duan Ling’s gaze lingered on the portrait, on a face so unlike Ta Xuening’s.

“I suspect Ying Zhihe is connected to the Factory Supervisor.”

Before their marriage, Duan Ling had begun investigating Ta Xuening.

The Imperial Guards and the Eastern Depot were bitter rivals, always digging for leverage to topple each other.

Investigating someone meant delving into their past, and Duan Ling had done just that with Ta Xuening.

His history was a blank slate—too clean, too perfect. 

That perfection raised Duan Ling’s suspicions, and he never stopped digging.

He’d captured Ta Xuening’s confidant, Wang Zhong, who revealed that Ta Xuening visited Suzhou annually.

For what, Wang Zhong didn’t know.

Even a trusted aide wasn’t privy to all of Ta Xuening’s secrets.

But Duan Ling latched onto the clue, and now, he’d uncovered something.

Ta Xuening went to Suzhou to pay respects.

He burned offerings at a mountaintop with no graves nearby, leaving the recipient a mystery.

When the trail seemed to be dead-end, Duan Ling learned that an old man in Suzhou had mistaken Ta Xuening for someone else on the street.

The old man had called him Ying Zhihe, demanding to know what had happened to his family, why they vanished years ago. 

Realizing his mistake, the old man apologized, but Ta Xuening—known for his volatile temper and penchant for violence—didn’t punish him.

A man who’d beaten eunuchs to death, who’d broken a man’s legs for wetting his boots, let the old man walk away.

Duan Ling investigated Ying Zhihe’s life.

His age matched Ta Xuening’s, and a year after Ying Zhihe and his family vanished, Ta Xuening appeared, entering the palace as a eunuch, saving Emperor Jiade’s life, and rising to the Eastern Depot’s Factory Supervisor.

Coincidence?

Duan Ling didn’t believe in them.

Even if Ta Xuening wasn’t Ying Zhihe, they were undeniably linked.

Duan Ling had first heard of Ying Zhihe as a child, long before his father mentioned the name.

Trapped in Emperor Jiade’s alchemical labs, Duan Ling had met Ying Zhihe’s kin.

They were test subjects, like him, but while Duan Ling was merely tested, they endured torture. 

The emperor knew Ying Zhihe had saved a prince of the former dynasty and demanded answers.

None were given.

They died—some from the drugs, others from torture.

The Ying family hadn’t vanished; they’d been taken.

Duan Ling shared this with Lin Ting, omitting his own role as a test subject.

Lin Ting’s eyes widened.

“So Ying Zhihe could be the Factory Supervisor? Or someone close to him?”

“Possibly,” Duan Ling said.

Lin Ting frowned.

“If Ying Zhihe is the Factory Supervisor, why don’t their faces match?”

Duan Ling had an answer.

“There’s a forbidden technique in the martial world—face-changing. It’s brutal, weakening the body, causing constant pain, and fear of cold. Few survive it.”

Lin Ting’s brow furrowed.

“Have you found out why the Factory Supervisor had me and my mother watched?”

“Not yet.”

She paused, thoughtful and asked, “Can I send this portrait to the capital for my mother to see? She’s never seen Ta Xuening’s face, but maybe she knows Ying Zhihe.”

Duan Ling folded the portrait and replied, “I’ll have the Imperial Guards deliver it.”

Just then, a servant burst in and announced, “My lord, someone claiming to be the Eastern Depot’s Factory Supervisor has stormed in with a dozen men.”