The following days within the Silent Language Building felt as if time had frozen.
Ye Lan did not return.
She was like the occasional, lifeless dust motes drifting past the window.
One day, two days, three days…
The days passed in monotonous repetition.
The members of the Escort Team became the only “signs of life” here.
They were silent, efficient, like machines running a set program.
At a fixed time each day, one of them would carry a tray up to the second floor, place the food on the small table in the hallway outside Mu Xi’s bedroom, knock three times on the door, then turn and leave.
Their footsteps were steady and rhythmic, fading away at the end of the metal staircase.
They never spoke more than necessary, and they never entered the room.
The food was exquisite, balanced for nutrition, and even took into account Mu Xi’s apparent preference for sweets.
But Mu Xi knew this wasn’t concern.
It was the necessary feeding to keep an “item” functioning properly.
They were only responsible for confirming she was alive, that she hadn’t attempted to escape, that she hadn’t harmed herself.
Whether she ate or not, what her emotional state was—that was outside the scope of their mission.
Surveillance was everywhere.
Mu Xi could feel those cold “eyes” hidden in the corners of the walls, the seams of the ceiling.
They recorded her every move, assessed her “condition.”
So, under the gaze of those “eyes,” she had to play the part of that weak, pale “Little Xi” who could only survive by depending on Ye Lan.
The real Mu Xi only awakened from that delicate shell late at night, when she confirmed the hallway was silent, and the surveillance system might relax slightly due to low nighttime activity.
Carefully, she lifted a corner of the thick mattress.
In the cold, lonely moonlight of the desert seeping through the window crack, the knife lay there quietly, its silvery blade gleaming with a faint, chilling light.
Barefoot, she stepped onto the cold floor, the chill seeping into her soles, and walked to the bedside.
She drew the knife.
The weight of the hilt fell heavily into her overly slender wrist.
This weight was the weight of revenge.
The initial practice was clumsy and dangerous.
The knife was too long, too heavy.
For this body that Ye Lan had “carefully nurtured” to the point of losing almost all its strength, wielding it was extremely strenuous.
Several times, the blade almost cut her.
Sweat soon soaked her thin nightgown, clinging stickily to her back, bringing waves of chills.
She gritted her teeth, repeating the simplest movements over and over: thrust, slash, chop.
No technique, all imagination.
Imagining Ye Lan’s face, always wearing that confident smile.
Imagining the unique scent that mixed gunpowder with some cold fragrance when she drew near.
Imagining the sensation of the blade piercing warm flesh.
Where to thrust?
The side.
The location of the first ambush.
She simulated the scene, leaning her body to the side, powering her wrist, driving the blade forward in a swift thrust.
‘No, too slow, too many openings. If Ye Lan adjusts her sitting posture again, or even just turns, she could easily dodge.’
The neck.
The target of the second feigned fall.
She tried to lose her balance, using the momentum to send the blade forward.
This movement was even more difficult, requiring extreme body control and acting ability.
Her small face flushed red with effort, her breathing grew ragged, her long silver hair scattered with the movements, a few strands sticking to her sweaty temples.
‘Failure. The blade’s trajectory is too erratic, easily blocked.’
The back.
That utterly unguarded back.
Facing the empty air, she simulated approaching from behind, then exploding with force.
This angle was the easiest to succeed, but it tested her resolve and timing the most.
Ye Lan’s nearly beast-like intuition made her seem like she had eyes in the back of her head.
Sweat dripped onto the floor, spreading into small, dark stains.
Ye Lan had raised her to be a delicate Golden Canary, plucking out her claws.
Now, she had to sharpen them back, one by one.
The weakness of her body was the greatest obstacle.
Every swing of the blade was accompanied by hatred for Ye Lan.
Hatred for her past torments, those unbearable days and nights, the agony of having her body and dignity crushed together.
Hatred for her using a gentle cage, trying to make her sink into it, to forget her hatred.
Hatred for her damnable luck!
Three times.
Three perfect opportunities, all defused by her in a manner that felt almost mocking.
Mu Xi even began to wonder if there really was some kind of “luck” protecting Ye Lan.
That focused gaze, that gentle tone, those subconscious protective actions…
If she hadn’t personally experienced those hellish past events, she might almost have been fooled by this perfect performance.
“Idiot…” Mu Xi whispered, not sure if she was cursing Ye Lan or the part of herself that had almost wavered.
‘No, Ye Lan isn’t stupid. She’s just arrogant. Arrogant enough to not believe that the pet she so carefully raised would one day turn on its master.’
Mu Xi held the knife horizontally before her eyes.
The cold blade reflected her pale little face and those eyes burning with flame.
She was enjoying this feeling of being in control, including controlling her own “affection” and “guilt.”
After killing Ye Lan, then what?
The Silent Language Building was Ye Lan’s territory, but this place belonged to Stone City, Nan Qiao’s domain.
Nan Qiao.
She and Ye Lan were allies, but even more, they were best friends.
Ye Lan’s death would inevitably enrage her.
Nan Qiao, the lord of Stone City, was known for her boldness and pragmatism.
How would she deal with her?
Mu Xi had analyzed this carefully.
Nan Qiao was also a qualified ruler.
Benefit came first.
Her own identity—the Imperial Princess of Wu City.
Although Wu City was not what it once was, this identity still held value.
Nan Qiao might be wary of that, at least it represented a certain legitimacy and potential connection to a faction.
Killing her might invite unnecessary trouble.
Keeping her alive could perhaps serve as a pawn, used to check certain forces, or exchanged for other benefits.
Nan Qiao would not kill her easily.
That was Mu Xi’s judgment.
She would negotiate with Nan Qiao.
It was a huge gamble, but she had no other choice.
Revenge was the only belief keeping her alive.
Her thoughts were chaotic.
She forced herself to calm down and return to her practice.
She began attempting more complex footwork, learning how to dodge and attack within a confined space.
Imagining Ye Lan’s possible counterattacks, she adjusted her posture and blade path again and again.
The floor was marked with the chaotic imprints of her bare feet, like a frenzied painting.
She needed strength.
She no longer picked at the daily delivered food with disgust as before.
Instead, she forced herself to eat it all.
Those sickeningly sweet pastries, those protein-rich meat chunks, that energy-supplementing milk…
She chewed and swallowed expressionlessly, as if she were devouring the flesh and blood of her enemy, transforming it into the power to swing her blade.
The physical exhaustion gradually lessened, replaced by a taut sense of power.
Though still slender, her muscle definition seemed to become a bit clearer.
Her movements grew smoother too.
The sound of the blade cutting through the air changed from sluggish to sharp.
She even began using the room’s furniture for simulation.
The bed’s edge was an obstacle, the dressing table a place to leverage, the walls the imagined enemy’s escape route.
The entire room became her training ground, her battlefield rehearsal.
One morning, the Escort Team member delivering the meal seemed to look at her a moment longer.
Mu Xi’s heart tightened.
Her face remained that timid, somewhat sickly appearance.
She kept her head slightly bowed, and her fingers even trembled a little as she accepted the tray.