Encountering a Snake - Chapter 7

Shen Qingxuan fell gravely ill.

Lying in bed, he occasionally woke up to be fed soup, pills, and medicinal decoctions. Shen Qingxuan cooperated as much as possible, allowing the doctors to come and go in an endless stream.

On the winding path outside the villa, carriages and palanquins once again moved incessantly.

Master Shen questioned the servants, asking why he had suddenly fallen seriously ill again. The servants exchanged glances, but none dared to step forward and admit the blame for the late-night drinking that had lasted until the third watch, nor for the cold water bath they had subjected their master to. They all shook their heads.

Shen Qingxuan weakly raised his hand, signaling for them to stop pursuing the matter. After all, it was his own decision to hold the banquet.

The illness dragged on day after day. Shen Qingxuan knew in his heart that this time, the illness was fierce, and ordinary medicine wouldn’t be able to suppress it.

The discarded medicine dregs in the courtyard had already formed a small mound, yet his condition showed no signs of improvement.

His body alternated between bouts of extreme heat and cold. When the heat surged, Shen Qingxuan felt as though he wanted to crack an egg on himself to see if it would fry. When the cold came, it reminded him of his childhood, of the moment he fell into an icy pit—an utterly despairing experience.

During the worst moments, when his body was too uncomfortable to bear, Shen Qingxuan lay in bed, unable to even turn over. He couldn’t help but harbor resentment.

He resented his own indulgence that night, drinking too much. He resented the servants for their negligence in letting him bathe in cold water after drinking. And he resented the servants for telling such lingering stories about fox spirits and ghosts on Mid-Autumn night, which led him to soak in cold water and even have a spring dream.

Considering his naturally frail constitution, drinking hot wine and then soaking in cold water—it was no wonder he fell ill. On top of that, engaging in such activities in the water further drained his vitality, making the situation worse.

He also resented the fact that, after living for so long, there wasn’t a single person who genuinely cared for him.

After stewing in his resentment for a while, he gradually felt exhausted. The anger faded, and he began to think that it might be better to die sooner rather than suffer like this.

In these moments of contemplating death, Shen Qingxuan often thought of Yi Mo.

He even recalled the dream he had in the cold water that night. However, he couldn’t remember the face of the woman in the dream, only her gentle and beautiful demeanor.

What stuck with him more deeply was the sudden sensation of cold skin enveloping him. Even though he knew it was just a dream caused by soaking in cold water, he couldn’t shake the memory.

And that voice—he’d only heard it once, but never forgot it—whispering softly in his ear: “Elegant and refined, naturally beautiful.”

It was clearly Yi Mo’s voice.

Every time Shen Qingxuan thought of this, he would shiver uncontrollably, afraid to think any further.

His instincts told him there was danger. His instincts told him to avoid it.

Another day, another round of medicine was forced down his throat, filling his stomach to the brim. Shen Qingxuan found the taste of the medicine unbearably nauseating, but he tried his best to swallow it. By evening, his stomach was churning, and the bitter medicinal liquid kept rising to his throat. Shen Qingxuan tried to swallow it down, but the liquid kept surging up. After suppressing it for so long, Shen Qingxuan finally couldn’t hold back any longer. He opened his mouth, and a large amount of medicine sprayed out like an arrow, soaking the bed, blankets, and pillows.

Shen Qingxuan vomited violently, emptying his stomach of the medicine, including undissolved pills.

The panicked maids and servants brought basins and water, rushing about in a flurry.

Shen Qingxuan couldn’t take any more medicine.

Just the smell of it made him retch to the point of bile.

After enduring three more days, Shen Qingxuan lay in bed, his face as pale as paper, his breathing weak. Occasionally, he would open his eyes and stare at the blue-and-white canopy, frequently thinking of Yi Mo.

He thought of the first time Yi Mo had bitten him. He thought of the neat characters Yi Mo had written while hiding his presence. He thought of Yi Mo going down the mountain, supposedly to find a new skin… These thoughts made him smile, but then he suddenly felt sad. He had promised to protect Yi Mo through his tribulation, but now he feared he wouldn’t make it.

Yi Mo, why haven’t you come back yet?

Thinking this, he felt inexplicably aggrieved. His eyes stung with unshed tears. After a while, he couldn’t help but think angrily, “You useless, hornless, legless snake! You even let someone steal your skin! A thousand years of cultivation, wasted! Why didn’t someone just catch you, skin you, and cook you into snake soup already?!”

As he thought this, he cursed, but he also laughed.

Little did he know that his appearance—lying in bed, barely breathing, his eyes closed, alternating between anger, smiling, and wanting to cry—terrified those watching over him.

That night, a rumor quietly spread through the villa: the young master might be under some kind of spell, perhaps possessed by a malevolent spirit.

The servants and maids who had gathered for the banquet that night secretly pooled their money together, bought some paper money, incense, and candles, and, after consulting with the older cook for proper rituals, sneaked away to make offerings, praying for the spirits to spare their young master.

When Yi Mo returned, he was met with this eerie scene in the dark mountains—flickering lights, smoke, and ashes floating like ghosts.

At that moment, Shen Qingxuan was in a daze, unaware that Yi Mo had arrived. He was vaguely recalling the woman from his dream, who had complained about wine being spilled on her. Shen Qingxuan thought to himself, “I only spilled a cup of tea on Yi Mo, not wine. Why would I pour wine on you?” It took him a moment to realize it was just a dream. Then he thought, “Perhaps because I spilled tea on Yi Mo, met him, and now I’m dreaming about spirits and reenacting this scene of splashing back and forth.”

As these random thoughts floated through his mind, Shen Qingxuan suddenly felt a hand touch his forehead. A stream of cold energy flowed from his forehead into his brain, then down into his limbs. Shen Qingxuan was jolted awake by the chill.

In an instant, he caught the scent of something cold and fresh—so different from the pervasive smell of medicine that lingered around him day and night.

Shen Qingxuan opened his eyes, staring blankly at the person before him. He opened his mouth, silently saying:

“You’ve finally come back… I thought I wouldn’t make it.”

But Yi Mo withdrew his hand, his gaze sweeping over Shen Qingxuan from head to toe, before coolly remarking, “You… really smell awful right now.”

Shen Qingxuan had just caught his breath, but Yi Mo’s words nearly made him lose it again.

That night, everyone in the villa fell into a deep sleep, collapsing where they stood.

A gust of black wind suddenly swept past them, vaguely carrying a human figure within it.

The wind headed straight for the hot spring at the top of the mountain.

After making that remark, Shen Qingxuan finally regained his senses and his breath, but he refused to let Yi Mo off so easily. He also didn’t want anyone to draw water for a bath—after all, the cold water bath from a few days ago had caused him so much suffering that he would rather die than get into a tub now. Instead, he clung to Yi Mo, insisting that he take him to the hot spring at the top of the mountain.

Yi Mo brought him to the hot spring, and with a slight movement of his fingers, Shen Qingxuan’s clothes instantly fell away, drifting down like leaves in the wind.

The owner of those clothes was already blushing furiously.