“Master, it’s time for your medicine.” Youxiang walked over with a tray in hand and stopped under the tree in the courtyard. At that moment, Shangguan Ye stood there with his hands behind his back, eyes closed in rest. He wore a leopard fur coat—one Murong Qiufeng had practically forced him to wear before leaving that morning, insisting he wear it both indoors and out. Looking at him now, you’d never think he’d been stabbed just recently.
“Mm.” Shangguan Ye responded lightly, opening his eyes. He took the bowl of herbal medicine from Youxiang and downed it in one gulp, not even flinching. He looked nothing like the picky, reluctant patient he was when Murong Qiufeng was around.
Only someone like Murong Qiufeng, who didn’t really know him, would fall for that act and try to coax him into drinking medicine. He wasn’t always successful in war; it hadn’t all been luck. It was grit, pure and simple. He’d downed more bitter decoctions than most people had water. This mild remedy? Barely worth noting.
After handing the bowl back, he noticed Youxiang hesitating and raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
Youxiang furrowed her brows, paused, and finally asked, “Shouldn’t we help Young Master Murong?”
Since the prince was injured, Murong Qiufeng had taken over his responsibilities almost entirely. But he was new to this world, and too kind-hearted—easy prey. That’s what worried her. She didn’t understand why the prince had agreed in the first place.
Shangguan Ye looked up slightly, shielding his eyes as he stared at the sun filtered through bare winter branches. He smiled faintly, eyes filled with trust and certainty. “He can handle it.”
Youxiang still looked worried, but since her master had already made up his mind, there was no point in arguing. She nodded and turned to leave with the tray—then suddenly stopped. “Right, Master. About Zhao Xiru—what should we do with her?”
“Zhao Xiru?” Shangguan Ye lowered his hand, his brows arching just slightly. His expression turned dark and sharp. “What’s her condition?”
“She’s been throwing a fit since yesterday morning. Probably exhausted now—seems to have quieted down.”
“Throwing a fit? About what?”
Youxiang sighed. “She… wants to see the young master. Says she wants to tell him everything—but only him.” Seeing Shangguan Ye’s face darken, she quickly added, “But the young master’s been caring for you these past two days. He’s been ignoring her. That’s why she’s getting worse. According to Yang, the young master might’ve said something that set her off.”
“Oh?” Shangguan Ye turned to her, calm on the surface, though the earlier malice in his eyes had softened. He was genuinely curious—what could that little guy have said to drive Zhao Xiru this mad, even to the point of betraying her own country?
Youxiang subtly let out a breath. Only when she brought up Murong Qiufeng would the prince loosen up a bit. She’d honestly been worried he might just execute Zhao Xiru on the spot.
While her death wouldn’t matter much to them, Murong Qiufeng had treated her kindly. If she were suddenly killed, it might weigh on him. Plus, she was a princess—if they executed her, it’d give the Zhao Kingdom a perfect excuse to rally the Six Kingdoms for war.
Not that they feared war. But they didn’t want to hand the enemy such an easy victory either. And she hoped the prince could have some peace now. After all, things were different—he was no longer a lone wolf. He had someone beside him now. Someone he loved. Someone who mattered.
If possible, she wished there would be no more wars, that the prince could finally find peace, maybe even go traveling with Murong Qiufeng, seeing mountains and rivers together.
So she relayed what Zanyang had told her about the night Murong Qiufeng spoke to Zhao Xiru—word for word, with almost no changes.
As Shangguan Ye listened, the gloom on his face gradually gave way to light. Even the corners of his eyes lifted in a smile. His arms crossed, he let out a low chuckle. “Heh. What a…”
…cute little thing. So cute it made him fall even deeper.
Maybe this was the first time he’d treated anyone like this—especially someone he once regarded as a sister. Those words of Qiufeng’s had sounded casual, but to someone like Zhao Xiru, they’d cut deeper than any blade. No wonder she’d panicked enough to betray her country just to see him again, to try to undo the damage.
To be hated by someone you once adored, after having tasted their warmth—that was worse than death.
But what truly made Shangguan Ye so happy was this: outwardly, Murong Qiufeng looked like he was angry over Murong Hao’s death and his family’s injuries. But in truth, that outburst had more to do with the stab wound Shangguan Ye took. When the prime minister’s wife was hypnotized and the minister himself stabbed, Qiufeng hadn’t reacted like this.
That meant the knife wound had touched his bottom line. In other words—he, Shangguan Ye, was that bottom line. His top priority. His most important person.
How could he not be overjoyed? He felt like kissing that man silly right now.
Youxiang could almost feel the air around her master turning warmer, more alive. She couldn’t help but marvel at Murong Qiufeng’s influence. Who else could make their normally cold, bloodthirsty master soften like this?
Three words came to mind—“wife-controlled husband.” He might’ve caught Murong Qiufeng, but truth be told, it was the other way around—he’d been caught completely.
Shangguan Ye finally broke her inner monologue. “Where is she being held?”
Youxiang straightened. “In Murong Hao’s old courtyard.”
He nodded. “Alright. Take me there.”
—
At that moment, across the street from the An family estate, a window in a small tavern creaked open slightly.
Hou Qianxing frowned as he stared at the seemingly peaceful An residence. “To protect Consort An, His Majesty assigned an imperial guard unit to the estate. Are you sure they’re hiding inside? This isn’t something we can afford to misjudge. Maybe we should question Princess Zhao Xiru first.”
It wasn’t that he was being overly cautious. But he’d always worked with hard evidence—he wouldn’t act unless he was at least 80% sure. And right now, there wasn’t a shred of proof. All they had was Murong Qiufeng’s suspicion. If it had been the prince speaking, he’d have more confidence. But Qiufeng was still new to officialdom, not yet seasoned in handling such matters.
Besides, this wasn’t some random civilian’s house—it was the An estate. The home of Grand Preceptor An. Inside was Consort An, the emperor’s most beloved concubine, still recovering from illness. There were imperial guards stationed there. If they made a wrong move and it turned out to be a false alarm, the fallout would be enormous.
Murong Qiufeng leaned sideways against the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed calmly on the An residence across the street. Though he didn’t smile, he didn’t appear cold or stern either. He seemed serene, composed—a quiet kind of elegance.
Hou Qianxing had his reasons for being uneasy, and Qiufeng didn’t fault him for it. He simply said, “Lord Hou, you’ve heard the saying, ‘a cunning rabbit has three burrows.’ I’ve always wondered—every time we’ve dealt with assassins, there’ve been so many of them. Just where could such a large force be hiding in broad daylight, coming and going undetected?”
Hou Qianxing looked at him, thoughtful.
“At first I suspected the Dugu estate… even the Prime Minister’s residence. I had my doubts about the An estate too. But then Consort An appeared, and it seemed to clear them of suspicion. So I dismissed it.”
“And now? Why are you doubting it again?” Hou couldn’t help asking.
