Night Wanderer

This was a dreadful rainy day.

Despite the unfavorable flying conditions, warplanes still took off desperately, dropping bombs blindly.

When Zong Ying rushed downstairs, Uncle Yao still had no idea what was happening—until a servant ran over and told him, "The factory in Zhabei was bombed, and the third young master was in the collapsed building! The mistress told you to hurry over and find him!" Only then did Uncle Yao snap back to reality, scrambling like a headless fly to the backyard to find the car.

The sky grew darker, and the rain poured down even more generously. The car took a long time to start.

As they were about to leave, the eldest sister-in-law came out of the small building and handed Zong Ying an umbrella through the car window.

Though she had never heard anyone mention the relationship between Zong Ying and Sheng Qingrang, the urgency in Zong Ying's reaction gave her a rough idea. Leaning in, she comforted, "Don’t panic. They’ll find him."

The car’s headlights illuminated the iron gate of the Sheng residence as Uncle Yao honked frantically, "Open the gate quickly!"

A servant hurried forward to pull the gate open. The rapidly spinning wheels splashed sheets of water, the sounds of "splash—splash—" drowned out by the rain, leaving only the dull thuds of raindrops hammering on the car roof, like falling hailstones.

The journey was perilous, the more urgent they were, the harder it seemed to arrive.

The storm had toppled trees along the road, blocking their path and forcing them to backtrack and take a detour.

Once past the iron gate of the International Settlement and crossing Suzhou Creek toward the North Railway Station, ruins and desolation were everywhere. Few pedestrians could be seen between heaven and earth, and aside from the sound of rain, there was only an eerie silence.

Uncle Yao, sweating nervously as he drove, muttered to himself, "It wasn’t like this last month, not like this… But the route should be right, we should go this way, yes…"

It wasn’t until the sky had completely darkened that the car finally drove through the factory gates.

Half of the gate had collapsed, and the smoke from the bombing had long been doused by the rain. Without modern streetlights or moonlight to guide them, only the areas swept by the car’s headlights were faintly visible.

A figure inside stumbled toward the light, pounding on the car window and shouting hoarsely, "You’re finally here! The third young master—he’s missing, we can’t find him…"

Zong Ying didn’t bother with the umbrella. She stepped out of the car and asked immediately, "Which building?"

The man gasped laboriously in the rain, pointing toward the ruins in the northwest. "I only remember the third young master went into the building after lunch to check the accounts. He never came out."

Rain poured down relentlessly. Without another word, Zong Ying sprinted toward the ruins.

She had been to collapse sites before, and experience told her the chances of survival in such situations were slim to none. But at this moment, experience and reason were completely stripped away, leaving only the instinct to search.

Lightning flashed and thunder roared. A burst pipe gushed water incessantly, beams lay crisscrossed in disarray, and charred wood, blackened by fire, still emitted a foul odor despite the relentless downpour, assaulting her nostrils.

Zong Ying dug through the rubble barehanded—cold, wet, and slippery. Rainwater streamed down her hair, soaking her collar and drenching her entire body.

Her fingertips brushed against fabric fibers. Probing further, she touched a bare, mangled arm, nearly crushed into pulp—

Her hand trembled. Fear surged through her like an electric current, spreading from her heart to every limb, leaving her fingertips numb and icy from lack of oxygen.

No—

He had clearly said he would return to the apartment before ten tonight. But now, in the pitch-black darkness, all she could see amidst the ruins were unrecognizable remains and flesh.The air was filled with Uncle Yao's frantic complaints—"How are we supposed to find anything in this? The rain's so heavy I can barely see!"—and the constant shouts of factory workers calling out to their companions.

After what felt like an eternity of searching, Zong Ying could no longer tell whether the wetness on her face was sweat or rain. Bending over and rummaging through the debris had left her lightheaded, exhausted to the point of trembling legs and a racing heart—all for one desperate hope.

She wanted him alive, no longer just out of fear that she might never return to 2015, but simply, urgently, for his own sake.

Yet fate showed no mercy, throwing obstacle after obstacle in their path.

The temperature plummeted, the wind howled louder, and the rain blurred her vision. A clap of thunder exploded near her ears. As Zong Ying straightened up, the world spun violently. A persistent ringing filled her skull, and when she opened her eyes, darkness swallowed everything.

Distant shouts reached her ears, growing closer—but she couldn’t pinpoint their direction, let alone decipher the words.

Hurried footsteps splashed through puddles and debris until they stopped behind her. Only then did the voice become clear: "Miss Zong!"

The call—damp, weary, and frantic—came with a scent she knew well. Zong Ying turned belatedly. A flash of lightning illuminated most of the man’s face before darkness swallowed it again.

Amid the thunder’s roar, she instinctively reached out. The moment her fingers brushed the skin of his inner wrist, she pulled him into an embrace.

Questions swirled in her muddled mind, but her voice caught in her throat. Overwhelming tension and helpless panic, with nowhere to go, wracked her body with tremors.

Sheng Qingrang held her in return. Her face and neck were drenched, her fingers icy where they clung to the back of his neck. Her nose pressed against his throat, her ragged breaths warming his skin—only then did he feel the faintest pulse of life, a trace of warmth.

Freeing a hand, he smoothed the wet hair from her forehead and rested his chin atop her head, soothing her distress. "It's alright. I'm fine. I'm right here."

Hours of accumulated anxiety couldn’t dissipate so easily. When Sheng Qingrang loosened his hold, she only clung tighter, as if physical contact could somehow restore her frayed senses.

Rain poured overhead, wind whipped around them, and in the distance, Uncle Yao and the workers still called out for survivors. Time blurred until, at last, Zong Ying’s arms fell limp. A sigh escaped her, her legs nearly giving way.

Just then, Uncle Yao rushed over. Recognizing Sheng Qingrang, his eyes widened in shock. "Third Young Master?! But you weren’t—"

Before he could finish, Sheng Qingrang bent to lift Zong Ying into his arms. "Open the car door," he instructed.

Snapping back to reality, Uncle Yao hurried to comply. Sheng Qingrang settled Zong Ying into the backseat before sliding in beside her. "Take us back to the apartment in the French Concession."

Still shaken, Uncle Yao gripped the wheel with damp hands. The headlights flared to life after several attempts, and the car lurched forward, swaying unsteadily through the muddy road.

Only when his nerves steadied did he finally ask, "What in the world is going on?"Sheng Qingrang steadied his voice with effort. "At half past one this afternoon, the Evacuation Committee called me to handle an urgent matter, so I went out. After leaving the committee, I stopped by the residence on my way back. My sister-in-law told me you had already left." He paused briefly. Raindrops dripped from his snow-white cuffs, and blood seeped through the bandage on his previously injured hand. "It was my fault for leaving suddenly without informing the factory manager in time."

The bombing occurred at two o'clock in the afternoon. Shortly after he left, a blindly dropped shell destroyed an entire building of the factory. No one had expected a bombing in such weather.

His words were meant for Uncle Yao, but even more so for Zong Ying.

As the car moved forward, Zong Ying gradually calmed down. Whether it was sorrow, joy, or relief, she couldn't tell. She only silently reached out and tightly grasped Sheng Qingrang's left hand.

Their hands clasped together, their body temperatures slowly rising, and the storm outside the car no longer seemed fearsome.

The concession was shrouded in darkness. When they arrived at the apartment, Mr. Ye at the service desk, wrapped in a woolen sweater, was dozing behind the high counter. A white candle on the desk was nearly burnt out, its feeble flame flickering unsteadily, as if it might be extinguished by the unstable air currents at any moment.

The severe weather had caused a power outage in the apartment. Sheng Qingrang fumbled in the dark and found a candle. Striking a match, the flame licked the wick, casting a pool of light in the room.

He turned the faucet, and water flowed from the pipes—a stroke of luck that the water supply was still functioning.

Holding the candle, he walked to the sofa and placed the candlestick on the coffee table. Then he turned back to the bedroom, retrieved a clean robe, and returned to the living room, where Zong Ying, still drenched, stood at the entrance.

Sheng Qingrang took the robe into the bathroom, lit another candle inside, and fetched a towel. He walked up to Zong Ying and draped the towel over her wet hair.

His palm gently cupped her head, rubbing her damp hair through the soft towel. Lowering his head, he said hoarsely, "You'll catch a cold. Go change."

Zong Ying looked up, trying to see his face clearly, but the light was too dim—even the sharpest eyesight was useless. She could only sense his presence and voice.

Only when he let go and took half a step back did Zong Ying silently enter the bathroom.

After the bathroom door closed, Sheng Qingrang returned to the bedroom to change out of his wet clothes. He boiled a pot of water and sat back on the sofa.

In the quiet, frame after frame replayed in his mind, and an inexplicable emotion rose from the depths of his heart—no one had ever genuinely cared about his life or death like this before.

Subconsciously, he turned his head just as Zong Ying opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom.

The only light in the living room came from the candle on the coffee table. Zong Ying walked to the sofa and sat down, her slender frame still cold in the black silk robe.

The candle flame flickered gently. The two sat on the sofa, guarding this faint light, momentarily speechless—yet no words were needed.

Sheng Qingrang handed her a cup of hot water and picked up a woolen blanket beside him. Leaning slightly, he reached his right arm over her shoulder to drape it around her. Zong Ying tilted her head, and their faces suddenly came within inches of each other.

In the dim light, not only could their breaths be felt, but even the subtle shifts in their facial muscles were visible. Sheng Qingrang's eyelashes trembled imperceptibly. Their noses brushed, so close that only a blur of hazy yellow remained before their eyes. The moment their lips nearly touched, Sheng Qingrang abruptly turned his face away and withdrew his hand.

Zong Ying's fingers tightened around the teacup for a moment before loosening, trembling slightly. The tension in her shoulders suddenly eased.He deliberately avoided her gaze and said steadily, "There are two hours left. You should rest for a while, and I’ll wake you when it’s time."

Zong Ying sat silently for half a minute, tightened the blanket around her shoulders, and finally responded with a quiet acknowledgment before picking up her teacup and heading upstairs.

A candle of that length typically burned for about sixty minutes. Sheng Qingrang sat silently on the sofa, watching the wick burn down, then lit another one. When the second candle had nearly burned out, he stood and went upstairs.

He knocked lightly on the door—no response. He tried again, but still, there was no answer.

A terrible premonition surged through him. Sheng Qingrang immediately pushed the door open, calling out "Miss Zong" repeatedly, but Zong Ying lay unresponsive, as if unconscious.

The grandfather clock in the living room ticked steadily, its hands inching closer and closer to ten o’clock.

Sweat beaded on Sheng Qingrang’s forehead. The moment the clock began to chime, he scooped Zong Ying into his arms and carried her downstairs, flipping the hallway light switch—illuminating the apartment in 2015.

Uncertain of the emergency number in this era, he grabbed the landline receiver and dialed Xue Xuanqing’s number instead.

"Hello? Zong Ying? What’s wrong?" Xue Xuanqing sounded surprised. When she heard no response, she repeated, "Hello?"—only to hear Sheng Qingrang’s voice instead.

"Miss Xue, I apologize for disturbing you so late. Zong Ying has suddenly lost consciousness. I’m taking her to the hospital, but I don’t know her medical history, nor do I have the authority to make decisions for her. I wanted to notify her family or friends, but your number is the only contact I have. So I’m asking for your help—either to reach her relatives or to come to the hospital yourself."

His tone was urgent but still coherent.

After listening, Xue Xuanqing suppressed her unease, snatched her car keys from the table, and said firmly, "Take her to the nearest hospital. I’ll be there right away."

Sheng Qingrang hung up, rummaged through the entryway cabinet for the last bit of cash, then carried Zong Ying downstairs.

For the first time, he felt the modern elevator descended too slowly—each change in the floor number on the display was agonizingly sluggish.

The moment they rushed out of the apartment building, a taxi happened to pull up to drop off a passenger. Just as it was about to drive away, Sheng Qingrang stopped it.

The driver took one look and realized the urgency, even stepping out to help open the door.

The car sped down the dry road, streetlights lining the path, a bright moon overhead, and the hospital’s illuminated sign glowing tirelessly in the night.

Breathless, they arrived at the emergency room. Zong Ying was rushed into the resuscitation area and hooked up to monitors, leaving Sheng Qingrang completely shut out. After the frantic rush, his shirt was soaked through with sweat, and exhaustion weighed heavily on him.

A neurosurgeon hurried in for consultation. After examining Zong Ying, the doctor stepped out to speak with the family. He approached Sheng Qingrang, scribbling on a clipboard as he spoke, "She was brought in just in time—any delay would have been dangerous. What’s your relation to Zong Ying?"

As he looked up, his eyes met Sheng Qingrang’s face.

A nurse called out from behind, "Dr. Sheng, you’re needed over here!"

Sheng Qiushi’s pupils constricted abruptly, his pen freezing mid-air. "Who are you?"