Cross the Boundary GL - Chapter 24

In the corner, the smell of medicated oil lingered between the two of them. Li Chu watched helplessly as the other person poured the liquid onto her fingers and leaned closer.

She stumbled back in panic. “I’ll do it myself.”

Qin Song’s gaze was fixed on her. She thought this face would look better once healed. Besides, the wound was caused by Zheng Chengfeng, and to her, Zheng Chengfeng was filthy—everything he touched had to be carefully cleaned.

“Come here.” Qin Song’s hand beckoned lightly in the air. The honey-colored oil trembled, dripping down her slender fingers.

As the drops slid toward the veins on the back of her hand, Qin Song seized the chance to lean forward, her breath brushing across Li Chu’s eyelids.

The heavy scent of medicine drifted from her right cheek to her nose. Li Chu clutched the hem of her clothes, feeling an unbearable tickle where the oil spread—pulling her thoughts back to that night in the attic.

The night Qin Zhen died. The clash of cold chains and Qin Song’s burning fingertips had left her breathless, pounding with… that unsettling throb.

It was something bone-deep, pushing her into stray, chaotic thoughts—like the actors entangled in the video.

Li Chu hadn’t realized Qin Song had already begun applying the medicine. When she finally came back to her senses, strands of soft purple hair filled her vision, carrying a faintly Buddhist fragrance mingled with the oil—strangely serene.

She had always felt that Qin Song’s presence was faint, almost imperceptible if not for the rise and fall of her collarbone.

“Does it hurt?” Qin Song’s hand moved in circles, brushing so close to her ear it stirred Li Chu’s heartbeat like a drum.

“I-it doesn’t hurt,” she forced herself to say calmly.

The truth was, it did hurt. Zheng Chengfeng was tall, strong, and ruthless. When his palm struck, her hearing went blank, ringing for several seconds.

But when she thought of Qin Song—locked in an iron cage, tortured for over a decade, her body scarred again and again—Li Chu felt her pain was nothing in comparison. A scratch against a mountain.

Qin Song shifted her eyes slightly, meeting Li Chu’s gaze with calm detachment. She was judging whether the words were true, but Li Chu’s eyes were open and steady, clear as spring water.

Eyes like that—enduring pain—were far too enticing. The more she suppressed it, the more one wanted to break it. Just like her, who found strange emotions blooming in pain.

Li Chu’s breath stuttered under that stare. She turned away, avoiding it. In haste, she poured the rest of the oil into her palm and rubbed it over her face, hissing as the sting pulled at her lips and reopened the bloodied cracks.

Qin Song lowered her hand, suppressing the urge to touch. She capped the bottle lightly. “Go offer incense.”

She wiped away the dripping oil from her hand, the sticky residue clinging like her mood.

Qin An handed three incense sticks to Li Chu. The girl’s delicate fingers held them as she knelt with reverence.

She was an outsider; she didn’t have to be this devout. Yet after burning the incense, she also bowed three times, her black hair swaying forward and back across her lips and back.

Qin Song stared at the earnest curve of her back. A sharp ache pierced her chest, leaving her deflated, lost.

When the funeral ended, it was time to move the ashes into the cemetery. Galaxy Cemetery was nearby. Along the way, those who had held their tears now wept openly, their cries chilling the air.

The long procession stretched on. Qin Song walked at the very end, her black pants soaked to deep ink. Li Chu looked down for a while, then reached out to stop her.

“Let me fix this.”

She crouched to pull Qin Song’s cuff free from her shoe heel.

The storm beat down, soaking both their shoulders.

At the cemetery, Ye Wanqing clung to the tombstone, sobbing. Rain blurred with her tears.

Qin Song shifted the umbrella to shield her, her pale hand gripping the handle—veins stark against her fragile skin.

Li Chu couldn’t tell if the wetness on her face was from tears or rain. Qin Song was too calm, only her eyes holding a heavy dimness.

“Lele, say goodbye to your father.” Qin An’s eyes were red as he handed her a bouquet. “Don’t worry about Zheng Chengfeng. The Qin family can handle him.”

Qin Song said nothing. She bent, laid the flowers before the grave, and gently traced the carved characters with her fingertips.

The sight made Ye Wanqing break completely. She turned and clutched Qin Song tightly.

“Lele, you don’t have a father anymore, do you understand? No one will protect you silently now. Cry, just cry for once…”

Qin Song stood stiff in her arms, lips pressed bloodless and tight.

She had no father anymore.

She didn’t need reminding. She knew well how Qin Zhen had worked in the shadows for decades, pulling strings just so she could escape Zheng Chengfeng’s cage.

But now… he was gone.

Her fingers dug into the tombstone’s edge, while Ye Wanqing shook her like a rag doll.

Li Chu’s heart clenched. She knelt quickly, stopping Ye Wanqing’s movements. “Auntie, please, don’t—Qin Song’s health isn’t good.”

Ye Wanqing let go, her body collapsing slowly downward.

How could she blame his daughter?

Night fell. Streetlights dotted the path as two silhouettes returned to kiss.me, one trailing the other.

Qin Song had been silent the entire way. At the door, just as Li Chu pushed it open, she finally spoke.

“What do you do when you’re sad?”

Li Chu blinked in surprise. She hadn’t expected such a question. Qin Song always seemed so… unaffected.

The woman stepped inside. In the shift from light to dark, her face was unreadable. “What would you do?”

Her voice was flat, emotionless. Li Chu raised her eyes, searching her expression in the shadows. “I… would probably cry.”

Yes, that was what she usually did. Qin Song forced her lips into a mechanical curve. She lit a cigarette, but her trembling fingers failed to spark it several times. Li Chu worried she’d burn herself.

“I don’t cry,” Qin Song said at last. She didn’t smoke—just pressed the cigarette to the counter, hand braced. “Crying doesn’t solve anything.”

The still shop grew stifling. Li Chu unbuttoned her coat quietly, whispering, “But it can release emotions.”

Whether joy or grief, emotions spilled over eventually. Especially sorrow.

In the sliver of moonlight through the door, Li Chu saw Qin Song close her eyes, hair falling forward. Sadness clung to her like smoke.

She suddenly understood. At this moment, Qin Song was fragile.

Her soul drifted, leaving only a shell leaning against the wall.

It wasn’t the first time Qin Song had fallen from her pedestal before her, but each time was harder to bear.

Li Chu had grown used to her being untouchable—cold, aloof. Now, faced with her grief and helplessness, Li Chu felt her heart being torn apart.

She stepped forward, gently taking the cigarette from her hand. The glowing tip arced through the air before fading into the shadows.

“Are you… very sad?” she asked softly. “There’s no one else here. I can go upstairs if you want.”

After a long silence, Qin Song laughed faintly. “Upstairs?”

She suddenly flicked on the light. Her sharp features blazed into reality, almost unreal. “Then let’s go upstairs.”

The attic’s air was comfortably cool. Qin Song walked in and immediately noticed the computer on the desk, her expression shifting meaningfully.

Li Chu followed her gaze—and instantly flushed.

The screen still displayed the same video as before. As soon as it powered on, sound and image filled the room, painting it with a hazy, suggestive glow.

Li Chu froze. Should she turn it off? Pretend nothing was there?

The click of high heels approached. Qin Song bent down, bracing a hand on the desk. With the chair on the other side of the bed, Li Chu—half crouched before the computer—was suddenly trapped beneath her shadow.

The scent of incense from the funeral still clung to her, mingled with the dampness of rain-dried clothes. Though Qin Song looked frail, her body radiated feverish heat.

As Li Chu faltered in thought, an arm slid around her from behind, fingertips pressing against the faint bite mark on her collarbone.

The scar was old, yet still tender. Qin Song pressed hard, making Li Chu instinctively flinch, wanting to lift her head.

But her face was caught, her chin forced still. A cool, husky voice grazed her ear.

Her legs trembled from the dull ache; she could no longer hold herself up. Yet she didn’t fall—Qin Song’s arm caught her.

Then, like a serpent, her fingers brushed aside the strap on her shoulder.

Heat spread through her skin. It felt like fire had caught her entire body, boiling her blood from toes to scalp.

Li Chu’s breathing quickened, lips parting slightly for air.

Qin Song had already undone every button. Her hair brushed Li Chu’s chest as she pressed her lips to her neck.

Her voice, hoarse with restraint, whispered: “Do you want to?”

The same question—three times now.

The third time.

And this time…

Li Chu had nowhere left to retreat.

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