The servant's bathhouse is simple but clean, steam lingering faintly in the air.
Butler Shi gives a few quiet instructions to a nearby worker.
"Prepare hot water. And bring a clean set of proper ones."
The worker bows and hurries off.
Having said his piece, Butler Shi turns around without another word and leaves the bathhouse, trusting the arrangement completely.
Qi Gai is left alone.
He exhales slowly and begins to remove his clothing. The worn fabric slips from his shoulders, revealing a body far stronger than his appearance suggests lean, toned, shaped by years of labor and survival rather than comfort. His back is straight, his movements efficient, unembarrassed.
Steam rises as he steps into the tub.
The heat seeps into his skin, loosening tight muscles. He scrubs away grime and fatigue, thoughts drifting without direction. For the first time in years, no one shouts at him. No one watches. No one strikes.
When he finishes, the water has gone lukewarm.
Fresh clothes are folded neatly nearby simple but clean, well fitted enough to transform him entirely. Once dressed, Qi Gai looks like a different person. Not a servant. Not a beggar.
Just a young man with sharp features and steady eyes.
He leaves the bathhouse quietly.
Qi Gai begins walking through the Shen Mansion, memorizing paths, turns, and courtyards. Old habits surface instinctively counting steps, noting blind corners, mapping exits. He does not rush.
After some time, he stops a servant girl.
"May I ask," he says politely, "where does Lady Shrn reside?"
The servant glances at him with his unfamiliar face, his clean clothes and makes a quick assumption.
"Oh, Third Lady Shen?" she says. "Her residence is this way."
She points down a winding path.
Qi Gai nods. "Thank you."
He follows the direction for nearly ten minutes before stopping in front of an elegant pavilion. A sign hangs above the entrance:
Lianhua Pavilion,
Qi Gai studies it briefly.
Before he can think further, footsteps sound behind him.
A young woman steps out of the pavilion, dressed luxuriously, flanked by two maids. Her posture is confident, her chin slightly raised. When she notices Qi Gai standing there, she pauses.
Shen Yu's eyes widen.
Handsome.
That is her first thought.
The man before her is tall, clean, and strikingly composed. His expression is calm, unreadable nothing like the servants she sees every day. Instantly, she assumes he must be some noble young master paying a visit.
Her lips curve into a practiced smile.
"May I ask," she says sweetly, "which family you are from?"
Qi Gai remains silent.
Shen Yu's smile stiffens slightly.
Perhaps he did not hear her.
She lifts her chin again. "If you tell me your family name, I can decide whether to invite you in for tea."
Silence.
Qi Gai's gaze shifts not to her face, but to the pavilion behind her.
"Is this where Lady Shen resides?" he asks calmly.
Shen Yu blinks, then smiles again. "Of course. I am Third Lady Shen Yu. This is my residence."
Understanding dawns instantly.
Qi Gai gives a short nod.
"Then I have the wrong place."
Without another word, he turns around and walks away.
Shen Yu freezes.
The smile on her face collapses.
Her cheeks flush as embarrassment washes over her she had mistaken a stranger for a suitor, only to be ignored completely. Her maids exchange awkward glances, lowering their heads.
Shen Yu clenches her sleeve, staring at Qi Gai's retreating back.
Who… is he?
And why does her chest burn with humiliation as she watches him disappear down the path?
Shen Yu furious turns around and leaves with her maids with ugly face.
Yue QIng Pavillion is quiet when Shen Qingwan returns.
The doors close softly behind her, shutting out the noise of the outer courtyards. Sunlight filters through the lattice windows, scattering pale patterns across the floor. This is her space clean, orderly, untouched by chaos. A place that still belongs to her.
She does not ask where Qi Gai is.
There are more urgent matters.
Qingwan moves directly to her desk. She pulls out a large sheet of xuan paper, smooth and unmarked, and spreads it flat. The weight of the paper feels grounding beneath her fingertips.
Ink is ground slowly, deliberately.
Her expression hardens not with anger, but with focus.
She lifts the brush.
The first name appears with firm, steady strokes.
Zhu ChengRui, The son of Prince Yong
Her hand pauses for a fraction of a second after writing it.
Of all the faces from her past life, his is the clearest.
She remembers the way he smiled politely on the surface, greedy underneath. She remembers how her husband had laughed with him, how they spoke of women as though discussing property, how danger had brushed past her more than once because of that man.
The brush moves again.
She writes another name.
Then another.
Some are clear, some half remembered men her husband had entertained, men whose intentions had been anything but clean. Some names come with sharp images. Others arrive only as shadows, leaving her frustrated.
Her brows knit.
The ten years, so many things happened in those ten years of timeline.
She exhales and writes a few more, then stops.
The remaining space on the paper feels heavier than what she has written.