The talented illusionist, thwarted at every turn and finding no refuge, ultimately resigned himself to a modest existence in a small corner of the world.
Under the quietly flickering candlelight, Su Xi bowed his head, intently picking up pieces of leather paper, a faint dark red stain of dried blood visible on his chest.
Ning Feiyan casually picked up a piece of paper he had cut, with an exotically spiraled turtle drawn on it, the brush strokes fine and the outline lifelike.
Su Xi, without lifting his head, said, "Don't touch."
Ning Feiyan's gaze lightly swept over the dark patch on his chest, her voice tinged with a smile, "Did you really give your heart's blood to that monk?"
The quiet candlelight suddenly flickered unstably, and his sharp scissors, distracted for a moment, sliced a large gash across his fingertips, staining the yellow leather paper red and destroying the meticulously cut piece in an instant.
