...

Wei Zhao had not expected the girl to be grateful to him, but she clearly had no intention of letting him off.

Just as Wei Zhao was bent on brewing the medicine and paid the girl behind him no mind, a killing intent came sweeping at him from behind, and the jade pendant he wore stirred of its own accord, sending out a signal of danger.

Wei Zhao frowned. But at this critical moment in the brewing, he did not want to be distracted. "Don't make trouble."

Yang Qiqi's heart was a knot of contradictions. On the road out of the pharmacy she had fainted from loss of blood, but when Wei Zhao tore her trousers off, the wound was jolted and the pain brought a little feeling back into her—her head cleared somewhat too. She was simply too weak to so much as open her eyes, and fainted away again.

Later, when Wei Zhao dressed the wound and sprinkled medicine over it, Yang Qiqi was jolted awake once more by the pain and promptly passed out again. So of what came afterwards she still had a rough impression.

The man in this room had saved her—but at the same time he had seen a great many things he should never have seen: her face, and her legs... That was something Yang Qiqi could never tolerate.

It was true that killing her own savior, burning the bridge right after crossing it, left a little unease in Yang Qiqi's heart. But her face was meant to bloom for one man alone in this life, and the man in this room had already crossed her bottom line.

Her decision made, Yang Qiqi groped for the dagger beside the bed and stole up behind Wei Zhao on tiptoe. But seeing him wholly absorbed in brewing the medicine, her movements visibly faltered.

Was he brewing medicine for her? A warmth rose in Yang Qiqi's heart, and she found she could not quite bring herself to strike.

Yang Qiqi admitted that her heart was not yet as cold as other killers', not so ruthless and unfeeling. However one put it, the man in this room was her savior.

While Yang Qiqi hesitated, Wei Zhao, as though scolding a child, told her to "don't make trouble"—which left her visibly stunned. She was about to kill him, and he told her not to make trouble?

Did he imagine that she had gotten out of bed only to wander aimlessly about the room?

"Did you never hear the story of Mr. Dongguo when you were small?" Wei Zhao still did not turn around, going on as though talking to himself. "I feel I am rather like Mr. Dongguo in that story just now."

Yang Qiqi's expression changed. Of course she knew the story of Mr. Dongguo. She had grown up inside a killers' organization, true, but she was markedly different from the other killers: besides assassin training, she had also received a proper education.

The story of Mr. Dongguo was in fact a classic fable—it told of a man named Mr. Dongguo who saved a wolf, and the wolf turned on him and wanted to eat him.

But Wei Zhao's words reminded Yang Qiqi of something else: his earlier "don't make trouble" had not been said at random. Wei Zhao had already sensed that she meant to kill him.

The story of Mr. Dongguo that he told afterwards proved it. He was mocking her ingratitude to her face.

Who on earth was this man? Yang Qiqi's heart gave a start. With his back turned he could sense her hostility, and yet he made no response at all—was it that he had nothing to fear, or...?

Then the purpose behind his treating her wound was open to question. A chill welled up in Yang Qiqi's heart, and it hardened her resolve; her hand on the dagger quickened, and without the slightest hesitation she thrust at Wei Zhao's throat.

Wei Zhao had not expected this woman killer to be so unrelenting—did she think she could take advantage of him with both his hands occupied? He frowned, whipped his head aside to dodge her dagger, and bit down on the blade—and, of course, on Yang Qiqi's fingers as well.

"Ah—" The pain in her hand made Yang Qiqi drop the dagger. Her body had not recovered; that she could stand up and walk to Wei Zhao's back at all was sheer willpower holding her upright. Once the dagger left her hand she collapsed as though completely drained, dropping down onto the floor of the room and gasping for breath. The wound on her leg seemed to have been jolted as well, and cold sweat slid down her forehead.

Wei Zhao spat the dagger aside and went on brewing. "You really are an ingrate. But never mind—a good man does not fight a woman. Off you go, before I finish this medicine and can't resist killing you."

By now Yang Qiqi understood: Wei Zhao was no ordinary man at all. Could an ordinary man have dodged her sneak attack just now? Could an ordinary man have bitten down on a dagger? And from his words she understood as well—so this decoction was not for her at all. She had been flattering herself.

"Hmph." Yang Qiqi's eyes brimmed with humiliation and unwillingness. She was no reckless sort either; as a killer she could not afford to be—reckless killers were the first to be killed, and could never have lived as long as she had.

Since Wei Zhao had been able to snatch away her dagger with both hands occupied, Yang Qiqi abandoned any thought of striking again. She was no match for Wei Zhao; even uninjured, she could not have been sure of handling this man completely.

There was no killing intent about this man, not a trace of it, and yet what he gave her was a sense of unfathomable depth, truly unfathomable. Within the organization, she had felt anything similar only when facing her own father.

Yang Qiqi silently picked her leather pants up from the floor. There was blood inside them, but it had already dried; apart from being a little uncomfortable, they did not look bad. The key problem was that there were no other clothes to change into in this room.

"Don't forget to close the door when you leave," Wei Zhao said to Yang Qiqi, as though he had eyes in the back of his head.

"..." Yang Qiqi went out of the room and shut the door heavily behind her.

"One, I'm sorry. This man is my savior, and I am no match for him as I am now... But rest assured, I will remember him, and one day I will kill him with my own hands, because I am only your little Seven..." Yang Qiqi swore a venomous oath in her heart. In truth, Yang Qiqi had not originally been called Yang Qiqi; "Seven" was merely a code name from the graduation trial group of former assassins. She was the youngest, so naturally she ranked seventh. The other members of the group had likewise been named by numbers.

And inside the room, Lin Dajian-pai, still brewing his medicine, had no idea that in doing a good deed out of kindness, he had just been marked down in someone's memory.

"Achoo!" Wei Zhao sneezed, thinking to himself that he had smelled the scent of Chinese medicine before, so why would it make him sneeze? This was the second sneeze today. Wei Zhao sniffled. Could it be that he really had caught a cold?

Since when had this body of his gotten so poor? Catching a cold the moment he arrived at Songshan—could it be because he had too much free time?