The Man Who Returned After Twenty-Five Years

The Qin residence was unusually lively that night.

Servants who normally retired early were all startled awake, shuffling about the kitchen in drowsy confusion, rubbing their eyes as they prepared water and medicine.

Someone with sharp ears whispered from the front courtyard that General Qin An, who always stayed overnight at the training grounds, had unexpectedly returned—carrying a woman in his arms.

The maids were thrilled.

“Could it be the General finally brought back Princess Jinxiu?”

Another message came soon after:
The woman was wounded, and the General had sent someone to fetch a physician.
But even unconscious, she was terrifying—she’d slapped the doctor across the room with one swing.
No one dared go near her again.

So the vast General’s estate descended into chaos—buckets of water sloshed, doors banged open, frightened servants scurried about.

After half an hour, hot water, clean clothes, and two taels of cinnabar were all sent to the General’s quarters.
Only then did the house quiet down, servants heaving sighs of relief before crawling back into bed.

From inside the chamber came the sound of splashing water and soft, intermittent moans—enough to make the servants’ imaginations run wild.

One hapless young servant, entirely lacking romantic sense, came running to the door and knocked.

“Who?”

After a long pause, Qin An’s voice came—deep, distant, clearly annoyed.

“General, terrible news!” the servant stammered.
“A message just came from the barracks—bandits have raided the camp! The soldiers are dying by the dozens!”

The air froze.

After a heartbeat, Qin An replied quietly:

“I’ll be right there.”

When I woke, I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming.

In that dream, the thirteenth thunderbolt had descended from the heavens—
a serpent of lightning splitting the skies, tearing through clouds of crimson silk, striking straight toward Bai Xi.

I screamed—
and slammed my head against something hard.

When I blinked open my eyes, a familiar face hovered over me.

“Well, you’re awake?”

The man grinned, his robe a bright, mocking shade of green.

That face… I knew it.

My heart lurched, but I didn’t answer. I reached down and pinched my arm—
no pain.
Still dreaming, perhaps.

“That,” he said dryly, “was my arm you just pinched.”

I looked down. Sure enough, there was a red mark on his skin.

“If you can’t bear to pinch yourself,” he said lightly, “allow me.”

He reached forward and pinched my cheek hard.

“Ow! Ow! That hurts!”

“Good. Now you know this isn’t a dream.”

“Xiao Lü…” I hissed through gritted teeth.

“Try calling me that again?” His fingers tightened.

“Tu Xin… Tu Xin!”

Satisfied, he let go.

Aside from my burning cheek, my head throbbed too—like I’d been struck with a club.
My memories were a mess: flashes of my fight with Qin An, losing, and some strange dream afterward.
Now, somehow, I was here.

I looked around. I was sitting in a wooden tub, half-submerged in steaming water.
On the nearby table, incense smoke coiled lazily into the air.

“Wasn’t I dreaming…? How did I end up here?”

Tu Xin lifted his cup of tea, voice calm.

“Since you now know you’re not dreaming, might you at least pay some attention to your appearance? You may not have much to show, but you’re still a vixen, after all.”

His eyes flicked over me, head to toe.

I froze.
I was naked in the tub, save for the flower petals floating artfully atop the water.

“If there’s nothing to see,” I snapped, “then why are you looking?”

He looked again—slowly, deliberately—then turned away with a shrug.

“I’m admiring my own artwork. That face, that skin—they’re mine. I painted them. Looking at you is no different from looking at a portrait.”

I was speechless.

Thankfully, a pale-pink robe hung nearby. I yanked it on hastily while blurting,

“Where have you been all these years?”

Tu Xin sipped his tea, unfazed.

“Out gathering herbs. Took longer than I expected. You’ve been waiting, I suppose.”

The words hit me like a lightning bolt.

The exact same words—
every syllable—
as the reunion I’d imagined a thousand times in my head.

All those years, I’d dreamed of him coming back just like this:
in his green robe, with a basket of herbs on his back, smiling softly as he said—

“I was out gathering herbs. Took a while. Qiao Qiao, you’ve waited long.”

And in my dreams, I’d blush and whisper:

“Not long. I would wait for you no matter how many years it took.”

Now, it was real.
And yet—I couldn’t speak a word.

Twenty-five years.
I’d waited twenty-five years for him.
Waited until the blood in my chest froze solid, until a lovesick heart withered into dead wood.
I’d rehearsed countless sweet, playful things to say—
but now, nothing came out.

He smiled lazily.

“What’s wrong? Too happy to see me?”

He hadn’t aged a day.

“Tu Xin—” My voice cracked.
“I’ve waited twenty-five years. Twenty-five years.”

The tears came all at once.

“You silly fox,” he murmured, brushing away my tears with two fingers.
“I went through all the trouble of painting you a lovely face, and here you are, ruining it with tears.”

“It’s this face!” I shouted, swatting his hand away.
“Because of this face, I’ve suffered so much! It’s not even mine—why did you have to put it on me?”

His expression darkened instantly, eyes sharp as poisoned blades.

“So now it’s my fault for giving you a beautiful face?”

For a heartbeat, he terrified me.
But the storm vanished as quickly as it came.

“You’re right,” he said gently.
“I didn’t think about the trouble it might cause you. Tell me, what kind of suffering have you endured?”

It was as if the menace had never existed.

I hesitated, then told him everything.
The strange dreams.
The woman called Bai Xi.
The man named Qin An.
Their tangled love and hatred.
The way those dreams felt too real, as if I’d lived them myself.

“Every time I dream of her, I wake up exhausted,” I finished.
“As though I’ve actually lived through it. Tu Xin, do you think I’m ill?”

He sighed softly.

“It’s nothing serious. Your soul is merely being summoned.”

“Summoned?!”

“Yes. The woman in your dreams—Bai Xi—was once of your fox clan.
By the timeline, she’s been dead three thousand years. She died unjustly, full of resentment, and couldn’t reincarnate. So she became a fragment of lingering hatred.
And you, quite unfortunately, have become her vessel.”

A chill crawled up my spine.

“You mean… she’s living inside me now?”

He nodded.

“Will she… take over my body?”

“Not yet. Her spirit is weak. But judging by how often you dream, it’s only a matter of time.”

I jumped to my feet—then smacked my head on the edge of the bed.

Tu Xin chuckled, leaning close to rub the bump on my forehead.

“Still as clumsy as ever.”

My cheeks burned. I turned away.

“Tu Xin, is there a way to stop her? I don’t want to be eaten—”

“Possessed,” he corrected.

“Same thing!”

“Simple,” he said. “Find her original body.”

“Impossible!” I yelped.
“Her body was burned to ash in heavenly fire. How could I ever find it?”

“You forget,” he said softly, “the skin that was flayed from her.”

The image of blood and torn flesh flashed through my mind.

“But… where would I find it?”

Tu Xin’s lips curled into a thin smile.
He pointed west.
Five quiet words:

“The Imperial Palace of Xihan.”

“How could it be there?”

“The Emperor stumbled upon her pelt once—and fell hopelessly in love with it.
The skin of a nine-tailed fox, sacred and radiant—far beyond his mortal touch.
He sealed it within his palace, where it remains.
Retrieve that pelt, and Bai Xi will return to where she belongs.”

I was about to ask more when hurried footsteps sounded outside.

Tu Xin met my gaze, eyes unusually deep.

“Remember what I said,” he murmured—and vaulted out the window in a flash of green.

I rushed to follow, but before I could call out, the door burst open—
and I was pulled into a firm, familiar chest.

A low, rough voice whispered above my head:

“Thank the heavens… you’re still here.”