CHAPTER 8: Never Get Dirty Again!

The awkwardness between them lingered even after the conversation ended. Ping An kept glancing sideways, as if trying to make sense of the person walking next to him. Lui Ming, meanwhile, had gone quiet again—shoulders straight, expression unreadable, his mind clearly somewhere else entirely.

The silence settled between them like mist.

By the time the eastern sky began to lighten with the first signs of dawn, the stalls had started packing up, and the night market's chaotic pulse faded to something slower, sleepier. The last vendor to leave was Uncle Bao, dragging his cart of mystery jars and muttering about customers who ask too many questions.

Lui Ming stopped at the edge of a corner stall and handed Ping An the last of the rat powder bundles.

"That's enough for now," he said simply. "You've sold your share. You know how to make it, don't you?"

Ping An blinked. "You're… not selling more?"

"No." Lui Ming adjusted the folds of his sleeve. "I've gotten what I need."

Ping An's fingers tightened around the bundle. "And you're just leaving?"

"I never said I was staying."

Lui Ming turned to go, walking down the same street they'd first run into each other—same cobblestones, same lanterns, only now dimming with the morning.

Ping An watched him leave. Just a figure in loose robes, hair still slightly messy, shoulders a little too thin.

He looked different now. Not in appearance, but in presence—like something just out of reach had shifted.

Ping An had seen a lot of people come and go. Con men, peddlers, wandering cultivators, people who lied and people who lied better. But something about Lui Ming didn't fit.

He wasn't easy to read.

He wasn't trying to be liked.

And yet…

Ping An exhaled through his nose, gripping the bundle tighter.

"Fragile glass," he muttered to himself. "Yeah, right."

He didn't call out. He didn't follow. He just stood there and watched until the morning crowd swallowed Lui Ming from view—half annoyed, half… reluctant.

And completely unsure why.

And yet...

Ping An rubbed the back of his neck, glancing up at the morning sky.

"Su Feiyu…" he murmured, as if testing the name on his tongue. Then clicked it once between his teeth and turned away with a scoff.

"…Weird guy."

—

Meanwhile, around the next bend and well out of sight, Lui Ming walked steadily at first… then glanced over his shoulder once… twice…

Ping An hadn't followed.

Good.

The moment the street corner curved out of Ping An's view, Lui Ming broke into a dead sprint.

His robes flared behind him as he bolted down the familiar stone road, feet nearly silent against the damp morning stones. His breath came out ragged as his eyes locked onto the tall courtyard wall up ahead—the one he'd so undignifiedly crawled under the night before.

He didn't hesitate.

Without a single wince or second thought, he dropped to his knees, yanked aside the carefully camouflaged stone slab, and crawled straight into the dark, narrow hole.

Dirt clung to his sleeves and tangled in his hair.

He didn't care.

He forgot to care.

There was no space for thoughts like, "this is unsanitary" or "my clothes will need to be re-pressed." All that remained in his mind was the urge to get back inside—to escape the ache in his chest and the buzzing thoughts that followed him down the street.

The second he emerged on the other side, he scrambled to shove the stone back over the gap, brushing leaves into place with trembling hands, heart still thudding from the run.

And then—

He ran again.

Across the quiet garden path.

Past the servant quarters.

Up the steps.

Down the hall.

He flung his door shut behind him, dropped the latch, kicked off his shoes, and dove into his bed like a man who had just fled a battlefield.

The blankets swallowed him whole.

Silence fell.

Only the sound of his heartbeat and the faint, unsteady rhythm of his breath broke the stillness.

His hand clutched the edge of the covers tightly as he stared at the wall under layers of cotton.

He wasn't thinking about the run.

Or the wall.

Or even the filth clinging to his elbows.

He was thinking about that moment under the table—of warm breath, a red ear, and the way Ping An had looked at him.

Like he was the one being studied.

Lui Ming pressed his face deeper into the pillow and whispered flatly:

"…..pervert."

he said his whole body shivered.

The heat that had flushed his skin earlier now curdled into something sharp and cold, crawling down his spine like invisible filth. His jaw clenched. He couldn't stand it—that moment in the alley, that uncomfortable closeness, the sweat, the grime, the—touch.

He jolted upright.

His breath hitched as his eyes dropped to his arms, his clothes, his chest.

Dirt. Smudges. Something sticky. There were flecks of dust and grime caught in the creases of his sleeves, his robe wrinkled and half-open from where Ping An had grabbed him. A faint smudge clung to his neck. His legs itched. His fingertips were gray.

He looked like something that had crawled out of a sewer.

A tremor moved through him as he yanked his outer robe off and tossed it aside like it was covered in rot. He turned to his bed.

The sight made him recoil.

The clean sheets were now stained with the muck he'd carried in. Threads of grit clung to the corners, a faint dark mark shaped like his elbow smeared across the center. His breath caught in his throat.

He tore the sheets off.

Violently, methodically, he pulled everything off the bed—pillows, covers, linens—flinging them into a corner until the mattress was bare. Only then did he pause, panting. His face was pale, his hands trembling.

For a moment… a flicker of relief.

But then he looked down at his hands.

And froze.

The skin beneath his fingernails was blackened with something he couldn't name. The faint outline of where Ping An had grabbed his wrist still tingled, like the imprint of a brand. His knuckles were raw, grime packed into every crease of his palm.

His pupils shrank.

The panic returned like a wave crashing over him.

"Mammy Fang!!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Water. Bring me a bucket of water, now!"

Footsteps padded up the corridor.

But when the door creaked open, Mammy Fang entered without any water in sight.

"Oh, young master! What's wrong?" she asked, her voice laced with theatrical concern, eyes darting around the room at the mess. "You're pale! What happened? Should I call the physician?"

Lui Ming stared at her.

She came in empty-handed. As if she hadn't heard him. As if his request didn't matter.

His breath slowed. Grew heavier.

Something sharp flickered in his gaze. Cold. Controlled.

And then it cracked.

CRACK.

His palm connected with her cheek in a full, vicious arc, the slap echoing through the room like thunder. Mammy Fang's body twisted from the blow, flying backward and slamming into the edge of a low table. A sickening thud followed by a sharp cry rang out as she hit the floor, her back bent at an unnatural angle.

She whimpered, clutching her ribs, eyes wide with shock.

Lui Ming stood there, expression unreadable—eyes fixed, breathing shallow, his hand still raised.

Then he spoke.

Quiet. Icy. Unshakable.

"Bring. Me. Water."

Not a shout. Not a plea. Just a command—cut from glass and dipped in poison.

Mammy Fang scrambled up on shaking limbs and fled without another word, leaving a trail of nervous apologies behind her.

Lui Ming didn't move. His eyes dropped once more to his filthy palms, his jaw tight as a drum.

The room felt too loud. Too bright. Too tainted.

And all he could think was—

Clean. I have to be clean. I need to be clean.

Lui Ming's chest heaved, not from exertion—but from the pressure coiling beneath his skin, a wild, boiling urgency that refused to settle.

He didn't even glance at Mammy Fang as she scrambled out, one hand pressed to her cheek and the other dragging against the wall for support. The sharp edge of the table had left a cruel bend in her spine. Her breathing was hitched. Wet. But he didn't care.

He stood perfectly still, back straight, filthy hands hanging at his sides like they didn't belong to him.

He hadn't meant to hit her.

But now that it had happened…

He felt nothing.

No regret. No shock. No sense of guilt for the force he'd used, or the way her body had hit the furniture like a ragdoll. There was only the filth. The itching.

The unbearable sensation of being unclean.

And the quiet fury that she'd dared walk in without what he asked for.

He turned back to the bed, eyes narrowing. He'd changed the sheets, scrubbed the pillowcases, and still—he felt it. The residue of the street. Of other people. Of that alleyway pressed into every corner of the room like a stain only he could see.

He rubbed his fingers together compulsively. The grime clung to him like a curse.

Still no water.

He paced once, twice.

A quiet knock finally broke the silence. A servant entered—it was Mammy Fang, trembling like a rabbit under his gaze. She carried a wide porcelain basin filled to the brim with steaming water. She didn't say a word. She simply set it down, bowed too deeply, and fled like her life depended on it.

Lui Ming didn't acknowledge her. His gaze was fixed on the water the moment it touched the floor.

He dropped to his knees with a thud.

Then—like someone possessed—he plunged his hands into the water and scrubbed.

Hard.

Over and over.

His nails scraped at the lines in his palms, his wrists red within seconds. He reached up to his arms, his neck, even the tips of his ears. No part of his skin was spared. The water turned cloudy almost immediately, tinted with grime and bits of cloth fuzz. He didn't stop. Couldn't.

The harder he scrubbed, the more he felt like maybe—maybe—he could erase the way Ping An had grabbed his waist. The warmth of his breath. The way he'd looked at him.

His lips pressed into a thin line.

A new kind of panic burned just under his skin. One he didn't recognize.

It wasn't fear. Not exactly.

It was something closer to infection.