The air in the study seemed frozen.
Even the annoying cicada chirps were completely shut out.
Her glassy phoenix eyes glinted with cold intent as the beauty’s sword-like brows furrowed slightly. She stood up without a word and walked slowly toward her.
Ever since Yan Yiqing had entered the room, Huairen’s expression had instantly darkened.
It was abundantly clear.
She did not welcome her arrival.
Yan Yiqing turned her head to avoid Zhao Huairen’s gaze, clenched her palms, and pursed her lips. “This official… just came to tell the Heir Apparent that the letter you had me write to Prince Gong—I already handed it to Sang Yue to send out.”
Maomao held her breath in anticipation.
Unfortunately, she received no response.
Her fluffy tail flicked irritably, and Yan Yiqing silently took a breath, comforting herself inwardly: Huairen is just in a bad mood; she doesn’t hate me… It’s just bad timing; it’s not my fault…
“Since the Heir Apparent doesn’t welcome me, then I—” Her wrist was suddenly gripped, and Yan Yiqing’s eyes widened in surprise as she lifted her gaze to meet hers.
The woman’s expression was still unpleasant.
Even her voice carried a faint chill.
“The robe you’re wearing, Young Master Yan, is mine.”
…
How could someone be so petty?
She had slept in her bedroom.
Without clothes, she naturally had to wear hers.
“If it’s compensation you want—”
“Sit down.” The woman’s fingertips weren’t heavy, but her voice carried an unquestionable command.
Her dark hair clung to her neck, and though Yan Maomao “reluctantly” sat down, her eyes flashed with defiance. She lifted her chin. “What? Does the Heir Apparent plan to strip me now?”
The fingers around her wrist paused.
Then, as if deliberately opposing her, they drifted to the collar of her robe.
“Have you gone mad!?” Yan Yiqing’s eyes widened as she frantically pressed down on the woman’s hand. In Maomao’s gaze full of panic, Zhao Huairen spoke, her voice laced with barely restrained anger—muffled and cool: “Yan Yiqing, can’t you… feel the pain?”
It hurt a little, sure.
But she could probably endure it?
Meeting Zhao Huairen’s gaze, Yan Yiqing suddenly realized something. Maomao lowered her head and followed her line of sight, only then noticing—specks of deep red had already stained the snow-white fabric in mottled patches.
“Do you know wounds can reopen? Excessive blood loss can kill you. You fainted last time, and now again… Why do you never take care of your own body?” Her voice grew sharper and sharper until, finally, Zhao Huairen’s tone completely changed.
The bloodstains reflected in her light brown pupils.
Like cinnabar dissolving into a lake, stirring massive waves in the serene, cold pool.
The heat in the woman’s eyes made Yan Yiqing’s heart tremble. Not understanding why Zhao Huairen was so angry, a flicker of faint guilt flashed in her eyes. Maomao explained softly, “I… I didn’t expect… the wound to reopen. At first… it wasn’t bleeding much…”
“Young Master Yan certainly didn’t want that.”
Huairen is so understanding! Yan Yiqing nodded, about to chime in, but the woman continued:
“It’s me who wanted your wound to reopen. I wanted to see you bleed.” Zhao Huairen suddenly leaned down, pulling away Yan Yiqing’s right hand from the back of hers. Seeing her try to dodge, she lifted her eyes and glared, her cool gaze piercing through everything. “You just got stabbed, then ran around making a fuss, and you still have the nerve to say… you didn’t expect the wound to reopen?”
Maomao silently hung her head.
She no longer dodged, allowing her to undo her robe.
With a soft rip, large expanses of snow-white skin were exposed to the air, along with the glaring wound—the thin cloth wrapped around it already soaked through with blood.
The red spread like rouge blooming on rice paper.
Conspicuous, abrupt, with moist traces at the edges.
The metallic scent of blood instantly overpowered the room’s ink fragrance, wafting freely and causing Zhao Huairen’s movements to stiffen abruptly.
Her pale lips drained of color.
Her jade-like face was hardly any better than Yan Yiqing’s.
Zhao Huairen pressed her thin lips into a straight line, her already gentle movements becoming even more cautious. Her eyes held both heartache and reproach. “What happened this time? Why were you in such a hurry… You could have sent someone with a message… Couldn’t you take it slow?”
Like a kitten that had knocked over an inkstone, Yan Yiqing hung her head and took the scolding without uttering a word in her own defense.
It was just a small injury.
It would heal soon. Why was Huairen so angry?
And she was worried about her, after all… As she thought about it, Maomao’s long lashes trembled, and she sneaked a peek at Zhao Huairen’s expression.
Catching Yan Yiqing’s cautious glance, Zhao Huairen furrowed her brows tightly. She seemed to guess something from Maomao’s eyes, but said nothing, only pursing her lips as she instructed, “No running around. Stay right here and wait for me.”
As if she dared to run.
It was laughable—complete nonsense.
Yan Yiqing pouted and nodded obediently, sitting properly on the couch. Her indigo robes brushed the edge of the couch as Zhao Huairen strode out, carefully closing the study door behind her after stepping out.
It was like she was hiding a lover in a golden house.
Making a fuss over nothing. Yan Yiqing didn’t know why Huairen was being so fierce.
She glanced in the direction Zhao Huairen had gone, inwardly grumbling while picking at the thin callus on her fingertip. Suddenly, her dark pupils lit up. Her mind, filled with “Zhao Huairen,” finally clicked—Huairen was just overly worried out of care!
…
Less than half a tea’s time later.
The study door was pushed open again.
Soft hair draped over her shoulders, her teeth biting her lips to a soft pink. Her crow-wing lashes trembled. Yan Yiqing stared at the figure a few steps away, her dark peach-blossom eyes flickering slightly.
The beauty was all sculpted perfection.
Even her wrist was deliberately exposed just a little.
Taking in Yan Yiqing’s vulnerable yet alluring posture, helplessness colored Zhao Huairen’s eyes. Carrying the medicine box and fine cloth, she walked toward her. “Sit properly. Pull your leg back.”
Huairen is so composed…
Maomao pouted resentfully, withdrawing her display of charm.
Click. Zhao Huairen set the sandalwood medicine box aside. She tensed her shoulders, her slender fingers reaching for the blood-soaked cloth on Yan Yiqing’s shoulder.
“It might hurt a bit.” Before her fingertips could touch the edge, Zhao Huairen pursed her lips reassuringly, her voice gentle: “Count to three. It’ll be quick.”
The woman who had once pulled out an arrow single-handedly.
Now suddenly wanted to act spoiled.
“Mm! I… I’m actually really scared of pain…” Yan Yiqing blinked her eyes, her obsidian gaze reflecting the figure before her. She tried her best to exude charm, clumsy like a novice little fox spirit.
Zhao Huairen glanced at her, expression calm. “Count.”
“Okay, I’m counting then…” Yan Yiqing stared unblinkingly, her heart sweet as honey, her voice much softer than usual: “One, two—Ow!!”
The woman’s movements showed no hesitation.
She pinched a corner of the cloth and yanked it down sharply.
“Hiss…” Yan Yiqing couldn’t help sucking in a cold breath, but upon glimpsing the sweat beading on the woman’s forehead, she forcefully swallowed the cry of pain that almost escaped.
The hemostatic ointment had been diluted by blood, and the cloth stuck to the wound was fully peeled away, revealing the gruesome injury. The inch-long knife wound had flipped flesh, red-swollen edges, and warm blood beads seeping continuously from the depths.
Her light brown pupils contracted sharply, fine beads forming on her nose tip, but Zhao Huairen’s hands didn’t pause for a moment—astonishingly swift.
She quickly took clean cotton cloth from the box.
Leaning in close, she wiped away the bloodstains around the wound bit by bit.
Zhao Huairen’s movements were extraordinarily gentle, careful as if handling a feather—completely different from the decisiveness when tearing off the cloth. She pressed her palm lightly against Yan Yiqing’s uninjured skin to steady her, preventing struggles from the pain.
After the initial agony passed.
A cool, steady sensation came from her shoulder.
Her crow-black lashes cast faint shadows under her eyes. Zhao Huairen’s gaze was focused; every lift and press of the cotton cloth was cautious. Her thin lips pressed straight, sweat sliding down her pale skin.
Gazing at the Zhao Huairen so close at hand, Yan Yiqing’s breathing gradually evened. At this distance, she could see Huairen’s slightly trembling lashes, her perfectly shaped thin lips, the glistening drops rolling from her forehead…
Aside from the time she beheaded Yelü Qi.
This injury was the most worthwhile of her life.
“Heir Apparent… you remind me of someone.”
Her movements paused almost imperceptibly, a shadow flashing in her light brown pupils. Zhao Huairen suppressed her displeasure and said coolly, “Mm. If you have the mind to think of others, the wound truly isn’t painful enough.”
Yan Yiqing tilted her fluffy head, not understanding what she was upset about now, and didn’t press further. Her misty peach-blossom eyes surged with emotions—nostalgia, heartache, and a thread of inexpressible, quietly growing dependence.
“My mother used to treat me like this.”
Her long lashes trembled faintly.
Unobtrusively covering the embarrassment in the woman’s eyes.
Not dwelling on Zhao Huairen’s sudden silence, Yan Yiqing’s fingertips curled slightly as she murmured to herself, “When I was young, I was always stumbling around. Every time I got hurt, Mother would scold me while applying medicine… just as carefully…”
“Then get hurt less.” The bloodstains were wiped clean. Zhao Huairen lifted her eyes to her and tossed the cotton cloth aside.
“Heir Apparent—”
Yan Yiqing had originally wanted to recount the origins of this injury, but remembering something more important, she changed tack: “Has the Heir Apparent heard a rumor? I… crawled out from a pile of corpses.”
Her sword brows knit tightly, and Zhao Huairen’s fingertips gripping the medicine jar whitened with force. “I never like listening to rumors.”
The wind brushed over old scars.
Suddenly, much of the pain dissipated like smoke.
“It’s not a rumor,” her watery ink-jade eyes misted over. Yan Yiqing paused before saying softly, “I truly crawled out from a pile of corpses.”
The red threads had long wrapped her heart; now, a light tug on the other end—and it ached. Brows heavy with stifled gloom, Zhao Huairen lowered her phoenix eyes and sat beside her. “Talk less. Apply the medicine.”
Two commands.
The little cat chose only one to obey.
Yan Yiqing turned her body to make it easier for her to apply the medicine, her voice soft and slow—the first time she voluntarily uncovered that painful, bitter old wound. “Everyone was someone I knew. Some had held me, some fought me for food, some took the blame when Mother was angry…”
“And my father.”
“So many eyes on me, and I on them, watching helplessly as blades pierced their bodies…”
“They all died. I lived… but I did nothing.”
“The blood was hot at first. Then night fell, rain came… all mixed into the mud, indistinguishable.”
“No sound around. The enemies left… I left them all there and fled back to Youzhou…”
Zhao Huairen clenched her fists, nails digging deep into her palms unnoticed. Every word from Yan Yiqing’s mouth was like a sharp thorn, an indescribable bitterness surging in her heart, scalding magma lodged in her throat.
Qingqing was born the same year as her.
In the twenty-ninth year of Anqing, she was still just a child in elementary studies.
She remembered Qingqing back then—fair and soft… tiny like a civet cat, at an age afraid of the dark… How terrified she must have been…
“Would they hate me?” Warm mist blurred her vision. Yan Yiqing raised her hand, wiping away her vulnerability before the tears could fall. “Blame me… for not saving them then. Would my father blame me?”
Heartache gnawed at Zhao Huairen’s lungs like ants.
“This—”
Only when she spoke did she realize her voice was hoarse beyond recognition. She tried to steady her breathing, but an invisible hand strangled her throat. Even exerting all her strength… she couldn’t convey her feelings to her Qingqing.
“This… wasn’t your fault.” Her lashes could no longer hold the tears’ weight; they overflowed her reddened eyes, like melted snow falling into her collar.
Her pert nose tip tinged with faint sourness.
Yan Yiqing blinked hard, but the mist blurred her sight.
Like two little beasts huddling for warmth.
She, unable to shed tears, could only watch her lover cry.
“Comforting someone and crying yourself first—what kind of thing is that?” The ice-covered light brown pupils thawed completely, faint warmth shining through from beneath. Zhao Huairen reached out, gently wiping the tears from her face with her fingertips.
“I don’t care!” Yan Yiqing sniffled, grabbing Zhao Huairen’s wrist, her eyes wet yet stubborn. “Heir Apparent… you were about to say it—this wasn’t my fault.”
Zhao Huairen lowered her gaze. “You already know everything?”
She hadn’t intended to hide it from her anyway.
She just hadn’t expected her to… find out so quickly.
“Mm.” Gazing at Zhao Huairen, Yan Yiqing’s eyes held a complex mix of emotions and heartache. She rubbed her wrist and asked in a muffled voice, “I… Are you very sad?”
“I don’t know.”
Yan Yiqing persisted, “But… you said it wasn’t my fault.”
