044 Twilight's Doubt

Mu Fei, seeing Teresa’s condition, pressed his lips together and strode toward her with clear displeasure. Yet before he could reach her, a tall, slender figure suddenly stepped between them—a casual ankle-length robe draped his form, and his long, dark green hair, nearly black, fell loosely down his back. Though he simply stood there, he gave the impression of a glacier looming before one’s eyes.

“Mu?” Mu Fei called out in Elvish, his tone tinged with surprise and unconsciously raised a few degrees.

The man turned. His face was aged, his gray eyes cold as ice. He was the master of this old mansion, Mu Fei’s granduncle, Master Mu.

“Was it you who saved her?” Mu asked, his voice as cold as ever, but those who knew him well could detect an unintentional note in his words.

“She lost focus during an experiment,” Mu Fei replied, puzzled. “Mu, why are you here? For her? Why?”

Mu turned back to Teresa, pressing a finger to her forehead. In only a few seconds, the agony on Teresa’s face faded, her body, curled in pain, slowly relaxed—Mu had actually released Teresa from the backlash of her own spiritual power!

Withdrawing his hand, he took a pristine white handkerchief and carefully wiped the hand that had touched Teresa, speaking with a hint of indifference, “There’s something odd about her soul.”

Mu Fei, intrigued, bent down and also touched his finger to Teresa’s brow, taking advantage of her most defenseless moment to search for the strangeness Mu had mentioned. But perhaps his ability was lacking; no matter how he searched, he could not discern what Mu meant by “odd.” Defeated, Mu Fei withdrew his hand, looking expectantly at Mu, awaiting an explanation. But clearly, Mu was in no mood to elaborate. He stared at Teresa for a few more seconds, then turned and sauntered out of the laboratory, paying no mind to Mu Fei’s mounting questions.

Faced with such disregard, Mu Fei could only touch his nose in resignation. He knew his granduncle well: if he chose not to explain, it meant that whatever knowledge was involved was beyond Mu Fei’s current understanding, or it might mislead or hinder his present cultivation. Slightly regretful, Mu Fei glanced at Teresa, sighed, shook his head, and with a flick of his fingers, conjured a camping blanket onto the floor. He directed his wood-elemental servitor to move Teresa onto the makeshift bedding before ambling away himself.

...

The reason Mu and Mu Fei dared to probe Teresa’s sea of consciousness so brazenly was simple: Teresa’s primary awareness had already lapsed into unconsciousness, and this unconsciousness was due to trauma, so the natural defenses of her spirit were momentarily weakened. Yet neither Mu Fei nor Mu could have known—or even imagined—that although Teresa was unconscious, she was not wholly insensible to her own state!

Whether it was the pain that rendered her insensible, Mu’s intervention to ease her suffering, or Mu Fei’s subsequent probing, even the conversation and interactions between the two—all of it, every detail, entered Teresa’s heart.

She neither saw with her eyes nor heard with her ears; she sensed with her soul.

Even Teresa herself could not quite fathom the state she was in. She only felt that, in her unconsciousness, her mind was flooded with chaotic images: at times she was her present self, at times her past; sometimes she found herself in this world filled with arcane magic and strange battle energy, sometimes she was back in a world of steel, concrete, and unending technology. Two worlds, two selves, intersecting and diverging, until she could no longer distinguish who she really was or where she truly belonged.

Was it Zhuang Zhou dreaming of a butterfly, or the butterfly dreaming of Zhuang Zhou? All was hazy, all was desolate.

Amidst this haze, she suddenly felt weightless, as if she floated out of her body, merging with the very air in the chamber, taking in every detail of the room within her perception—thus she “heard” Mu’s words, “saw” Mu Fei’s actions, and felt a chill spread swiftly from the depths of her heart to every corner of her being.

Indeed, there was something odd about her soul. But this oddity was her greatest secret—her soul hailed from another world, a wholly new world whose laws were utterly unlike those of this one.

The chill raced through Teresa, freezing all her senses. When Mu Fei finally left, Teresa, who had been stretched taut, could hold on no longer and, swept by another wave of dizziness, drifted into true, exhausted sleep.

...

Teresa slept—a sleep that could shake the heavens and move the gods… well, perhaps not so dramatic, but it did throw the Aubrion household into considerable chaos. If Mu had not assured them that her body was perfectly fine, the Aubrion family might well have done something truly earth-shattering out of worry.

Teresa slept, but her “absence” did nothing to diminish the attention she received from the social circles of Cervantes City. In fact, her “temporary disappearance” only fueled the frenzy.

Her mysterious origins, the relationships between her and her parents and the Duchess of Sestan, her connection to the enigmatic Master Mu, her unusually harmonious rapport with the Aubrion family… The idle nobles of Cervantes suddenly realized that the city harbored a figure ripe with endless intrigue. Thus began a flood of discussions, curiosity, speculation, and endless conjecture.

Nance slipped away from yet another group of gossiping girls, picked up a few pastries at the buffet, and sought out a secluded corner where she stood quietly, absentmindedly poking at the sweets without eating, her thoughts drifting far away. In the dim light, her beautiful face was a canvas of shifting emotions—at one moment gritted with resentment, the next etched with disdain, then pursed in fear, and so on.

These days had been unbearably hard for her. Not for any other reason than the fear of Teresa’s retaliation. She still could not be sure if Teresa had uncovered her schemes, but just seeing how Teresa dealt with those girls who had spread rumors was enough to keep her on edge.

She had no desire to end up in disgrace.

So she waited, tormented by anticipation and anticipation by torment. Even when she tried not to think of Teresa, every ball and banquet brought fresh whispers about her, each one like a whip lashing at Nance, making it impossible to forget.