As dawn broke, the Lin mansion "collapsed."
Not physically, but like a watercolor painting soaked in water, its lines began to blur and fade.
After the battle the previous night, Shen Qingqiu pushed open the door to find the courtyard filled with withered crabapple blossoms. The petals, once perfectly geometrically shaped, were now fading at a visible rate, turning into deathly gray paper scraps that fluttered down.
"Ah—! My face! My face!" A piercing scream echoed from the end of the corridor.
Shen Qingqiu looked in the direction of the sound and saw the once dignified Old Madam Lin frantically scratching her cheeks. With her movements, large chunks of "skin" peeled off, revealing not flesh and blood, but a dense network of bamboo strips and glue.
It turned out that this vast Lin mansion, this so-called wealthy family of Cangzhou, was nothing more than a room full of pre-arranged "paper dolls."
Once the core "Ghost in the Mirror" was formatted by Seventeen, the texture error in this instance could no longer be concealed.
Shen Qingqiu walked indifferently through the chaotic crowd (or rather, the pile of paper figures). She was already numb to it all, except for Seventeen behind her, who, even in this absurd scene, walked with precise and steady steps. He had long since discarded his broken sword, and now carefully held a freshly plucked, still-blooming flower bud from a crabapple tree.
He didn't understand "beauty," but he remembered Shen Qingqiu glancing at this flower when she entered last night.
They arrived at Lin Zixuan's study.
The young master was slumped in his armchair, half his body flattened, like a deflated balloon. Seeing Shen Qingqiu enter, his painted eyes revealed a fear only a truly human could feel.
"You… are you human or a ghost…?"
Shen Qingqiu walked to the desk and gently tapped the surface with her slender fingers.
"I'm here to collect my payment."
She leaned down, looking at Lin Zixuan's melting face, her voice as soft as a lover's whisper, "Young Master Lin, I acted with you all night last night. Shouldn't you give me that letter of recommendation to the Sword Washing Pavilion?"
Lin Zixuan pointed tremblingly to a hidden compartment on the bookshelf.
Shen Qingqiu took out the gold-embossed letter. A trace of warm spiritual energy still lingered on the envelope; it was a ticket to the cultivation world, and also a key to escape this low-dimensional, collapsing world.
"Thanks."
Shen Qingqiu turned to leave, but stopped.
She turned back and saw Seventeen standing by the door. Sometime during the night, the falling gray paper dust had covered his shoulders. He seemed worried the dust would soil Shen Qingqiu's skirt, so he clumsily raised his sleeve, trying to wave it in the air, wanting to clear a clean path for her.
His movements were stiff, yet they revealed a captivating stubbornness.
Shen Qingqiu's heart skipped a beat at that moment.
In this purgatory filled with ghosts and deceit, where all beings were illusory, only a monster without a heartbeat was trying to sweep away the dust for her.
She walked over, naturally reaching out to take his cold fingertips in hers.
"Let's go, Seventeen."
"It's too filthy here, let's go somewhere clean." The Lin mansion collapsed behind them, turning into a pile of rubble. And the crabapple bud that Seventeen had been clutching in his hand miraculously didn't fade under the warmth of his palm (if he even had one), remaining as red as a drop of heart's blood.