Ji Qingwu slowly turned her head to look.
Under the bright moonlight, the man's figure was almost completely cloaked in the heavy shadows of the trees. She couldn't see his face clearly.
But she knew who it was.
The cool wind stirred her hair, and the figure before her stirred her heart.
The darkness heightened every sense. Ji Qingwu stood frozen in place, listening to the rustle of leaves in the wind and the ceaseless thumping of her own heart.
She stared at him, unblinking.
The crescent moon hung forlornly in the dark sky, a solitary light. He, too, seemed to melt into the night, standing there in silence, exuding a sense of desolation.
She wondered if it was just her imagination, but she suddenly felt he was a pitiful soul, abandoned in this place.
Ji Qingwu was startled by her own thought.
'Who in the world would ever think an Emperor was pitiful?'
