Chapter 54#

The group took advantage of the night to leave Liangzhou Prefecture. Looking back, the city walls of Liangzhou seemed to have been splashed with a layer of thick ink, quietly crouching in the darkness.#

The chill grew increasingly unruly. The withered grass along the official road rustled noisily, tugged by the night wind, mingling with the creaking of the carriage wheels rolling over the muddy ground. Listening closely, one could even hear the intermittent mournful cries of birds and beasts rising and falling in the distance.

Winter had not yet arrived, but judging by the state of things, the temperature had already neared freezing.

Shen Zheng sat upright, unmoving. Amidst the swaying, he suddenly recalled that this was precisely the Little Ice Age in history—a cold climate that had lasted for an entire century.

Because of the sudden cold snap, the land was plagued by persistent drought. Thousands of miles of fertile fields cracked like tree bark.

The cracked earth then gave rise to locust plagues. The locusts devoured the crops, leaving not even half a green sprout in the fields.

After the sky-darkening swarms of locusts passed, grain yields plummeted, and the price of rice soared several times over. To survive, the starving people had no choice but to dig up rat holes in search of food.

This act, in turn, led to a rampant plague of rats, and the epidemic spread across all of North China. In a short time, corpses littered the land for hundreds of miles, with nine out of every ten houses standing empty.

Natural disasters followed by man-made calamities threw the order of the world into chaos. Compelled by circumstances, rebellions erupted everywhere, and the hundred-year foundation of the Great Qian Dynasty was shattered amidst the devastation.

Over the course of this century, as many as ten million people met untimely deaths.

Just thinking about that number sent a chill down Shen Zheng’s spine—a mixture of trepidation and awe.

Would this precarious world be any different because of his arrival?

On the same side of the carriage, Wen Zhuo leaned against the backrest, his eyes lightly closed. Suddenly, he coughed twice, softly, and shrank his hands deeper into his wide sleeves, his shoulders curling inward as well.

To deliver the grain to Xing and Jing provinces within fifteen days, they had decided to travel for two days and rest for one.

Of course, this was an immense drain on everyone’s stamina, but with millions of lives at stake, there was no room for hesitation.

Sitting in the jolting carriage, Shen Zheng found it difficult to fall asleep anyway. So the moment Wen Zhuo coughed softly, he opened his eyes.

As soon as his eyes opened, they felt sore and dry. It took a while before he recovered.

The carriage was pitch black. Fortunately, the moonlight outside was bright, casting a silvery gleam over the official road.

The clear radiance seeped through the gaps in the carriage curtain, letting in a faint sliver of light.

In that dim light, Shen Zheng could see Wen Zhuo curled up in the shadows, sleeping restlessly.

He quietly raised his hand, unfastened his own outer robe, and gently draped it over Wen Zhuo, carefully covering his cold hands, his drawn-up knees, and his curled calves.

Opposite them, Huang Ting had also not been asleep. Throughout the journey, he had drifted in and out of wakefulness, dizzy and disoriented. He quickly raised his hand, as if to speak, then hesitated.

Shen Zheng immediately made a shushing gesture at him.

Seeing this, Huang Ting swallowed the words that had risen to his lips.

Suddenly having a warm robe with body heat draped over him—Wen Zhuo actually felt it. But he was too exhausted; his eyelids felt as heavy as lead. He struggled to move them several times but ultimately failed to open them.

“This position will hurt your back. Would Teacher like to rest his head on my lap?” Shen Zheng’s voice was extremely low, slow like the murmurs of a dream.

Without waiting for Wen Zhuo’s reply, he gently reached out, wrapped an arm around Wen Zhuo’s shoulder, and drew him closer.

During this process, Wen Zhuo became slightly more awake. His instincts told him he shouldn’t allow this, but in the brief moment of hesitation, his body had already obeyed and lain down.

This carriage was a specially designed warm vehicle for long journeys, spacious enough for one person to lie flat.

Shen Zheng then leaned down, lifted Wen Zhuo’s legs, and curled them partially onto the soft cushion. Now, the outer robe covered him like a small blanket, wrapping him entirely.

“Your Highness…” Wen Zhuo called out indistinctly. He forced his eyelids halfway open, but it was too dark inside to distinguish reality from dreams.

“Mm.” Shen Zheng answered softly, gently patting his back. “Sleep.”

Wen Zhuo was far too tired. He no longer had the rationality to resist his nature.

This position was too comfortable; the warm, steady aura enveloped him, and he didn’t want to leave. The moment he relaxed, his eyelids closed again. He turned his head slightly, rubbed his cheek against Shen Zheng’s solid, powerful thigh, found the most comfortable angle, and then slipped completely into unconsciousness.

His last thought before falling asleep was a vague realization: this is truly “a guest star encroaching upon the Emperor’s seat—a disturbance in the celestial order.”

When the sky was just beginning to lighten, Wen Zhuo woke up and opened his eyes. After a long moment to collect himself, his body suddenly stiffened as if struck by lightning.

The touch under his cheek was solid and warm, not the hard wall of the carriage. A man’s heavy outer robe covered him, wrapping him securely from head to toe.

Looking more closely, he saw the familiar dark-colored robe hem, slightly wrinkled from being pressed.

When had he ended up resting his head on Shen Zheng’s lap? And when had he taken Shen Zheng’s robe for himself?

He, a subject, had made His Highness serve as a “pillow” for the entire night and even appropriated the prince’s fur-lined robe to wrap himself in.

Wen Zhuo felt a pang of chagrin. No wonder he had slept so deeply last night.

He was about to quietly get up when he felt something heavy pressing on his waist.

Turning his head to look, it was Shen Zheng’s hand—broad palm, long fingers, holding him firmly in place, as if afraid he might roll off during the night.

That hand had been hanging down all night, now slightly engorged with blood. Blue veins stood out on the back of his hand, extending to his knuckles, distinct and clear.

Helpless, Wen Zhuo stiffly lay back down, not daring to breathe too loudly, continuing to support that hand with his waist.

His cheek pressed tightly against Shen Zheng’s robe collar. The soft nap of the collar rubbed against his face, itchy and numb. The dry, masculine scent grew even more distinct, invading his nostrils and unsettling his mind.

After enduring it for a while, Wen Zhuo instinctively tilted his head back slightly, trying to avoid the annoying nap.

But the slight movement made the back of his head suddenly bump against Shen Zheng’s “hipbone.”

He heard Shen Zheng gasp sharply above him, his entire body tensing instantly.

Wen Zhuo’s neck flushed crimson in an instant, even the roots of his ears burning.

As a man himself, he understood what he had accidentally bumped into.

It was dawn; a young man’s blood ran hot. He had momentarily forgotten.

Hastily, he carefully shifted away from the thigh muscles that were hard as iron, then squeezed his eyes shut, feigning sleep, deliberately regulating his breathing to make it long and even.

Shen Zheng slowly opened his eyes. All his joints felt frozen, except for one place where hot blood surged, eager to stir.

Only at this age, with this kind of physique, could he endure a night of travel and still be full of energy.

He looked down at the small patch of red-hot ear tip peeking out from Wen Zhuo’s dark hair, and couldn’t help but smile teasingly.

He lifted his hand, patted Wen Zhuo’s waist lightly through the outer robe, his voice lazy and hoarse: “Teacher, don’t pretend to be asleep. The weight feels off.”

Wen Zhuo sprang up into a sitting position, his hair tumbling loose over his shoulders, looking somewhat disheveled.

He forced himself to stay calm, smoothing down the messy strands of hair on his forehead: “I was just about to get up.”

Daylight filled the warm carriage, stripping away the secrecy and quiet of the deep night, making their previous posture all the more awkward.

Shen Zheng found it amusing, but his face remained impassive. He reached out, grabbed Wen Zhuo’s fallen outer robe, and casually spread it over his own lap.

He needed a moment to calm his current excitement.

Wen Zhuo caught the movement from the corner of his eye and quickly turned his head to look out the window, clutching the curtain with both hands, pretending to admire the scenery outside, silently praying that no one would mention what had just happened.

The withered grass along the official road was wet with morning dew. In the distance, smoke rose from village chimneys.

Just then, Huang Ting, who looked ten years older after enduring a sleepless night, made an ill-timed observation.

“I have heard that Lord Xinling of the Warring States period treated the worthy with great respect, personally going to the city gate to welcome the minor gatekeeper Hou Ying, even holding the reins for him as he drove through the marketplace—a deed that caused a sensation throughout the city. Last night, Your Highness did not hesitate to remove your own robe for Chancellor Wen, and even offered your lap for him to sleep on. This breadth of spirit and magnanimity is truly not inferior to that of Lord Xinling.”

Wen Zhuo immediately began scratching at the window frame, making a scraping sound.

…Why did he have to mention it!

Shen Zheng, stretching his stiff shoulders and back, paused at this sudden praise. “That’s how you see it?”

“Is there something wrong?” Huang Ting asked, puzzled.

Shen Zheng glanced at Wen Zhuo, who looked as if he wanted to crawl out of the window, then at the moved Huang Ting. He smiled and forced out a single word: “…Right.”

The carriages and horses pressed on day and night, the rumble of wheels passing through the gates of seven relay stations. Finally, on the thirteenth day, close to noon, they arrived outside Gezhou City.

Gezhou was far less grand and imposing than the great cities of the north. Its city gates were mottled and weathered; where bricks had fallen away, the yellow earth beneath was exposed. Several jagged cracks ran from the base of the gates upward, like serpents coiled on a stone wall.

On the city wall stood a few sparse soldiers, their armor outdated, their weapons rusted. Their eyes, gazing into the distance, were filled with exhaustion, and in no time, they had yawned no fewer than ten times.

Fortunately, Gezhou was not a strategic military stronghold. For thousands of years, peace had prevailed, and even with the locust plague, it had barely managed to hold on.

But for Shen Zheng and his party, Gezhou was the point of diversion.

Once the large group entered the city, they found a few open spaces to rest temporarily. Wen Zhuo unfurled the map, turned his back, and coughed twice.

After days of travel and the strong winds at night, he had been holding on by sheer will, plus the bowl of medicinal broth that Liu Qiying gave him every night, brewed according to an old physician’s prescription, to keep from falling ill.

Fortunately, the farther south they traveled, the warmer the weather became. The wind no longer carried a biting chill but instead held a gentle warmth.

Wen Zhuo had already removed his wide outer cloak, wearing only a straight-cut blue linen robe with a white silk collar. The chills that had made everyone anxious did not flare up.

After coughing, Wen Zhuo pointed at two intersecting official roads on the map and said, “Your Highness, Huang Ting, you and the Mo clan disciples take all the grain troops directly to Xing and Jing provinces for disaster relief. Remember to keep a low profile. I’ll take a few people and secretly go to Mianzhou to investigate the actual extent of the disaster there. We’ll rendezvous later.”

Huang Ting was startled: “Chancellor Wen, you’re going alone?”

Some things should not be known to others, and some methods should not be displayed openly. So Wen Zhuo only explained briefly, “Mianzhou doesn’t know we’re bringing grain yet. If the prefect of Mianzhou has indeed concealed the true extent of the disaster, the docks will be filled with high-priced private grain ships. We can’t waste this advantage. I plan to enter the city incognito to have a look.”

The Mo clan disciple furrowed his thick brows and quickly stepped forward to dissuade him. “Chancellor, you are our Grand Master’s benefactor. Please forgive my bluntness—if the disaster in Mianzhou is as severe as Your Highness says, the area outside the city will be flooded with refugees, among them no shortage of bandits and desperadoes. Acting alone is far too dangerous.”

“It’s fine.” Wen Zhuo’s tone was firm. “I have Jiang Mannü with me.”

Ten years. This was his first chance to return since he had fled the Wen family in Mianzhou in disgrace.

The bullying, the humiliation, the heart-piercing pain—they had haunted and tormented him for ten years. He knew that a hypocrite like Wen Yingjing would definitely have dirty hands. This was an unparalleled opportunity: to investigate the disaster and, at the same time, root out the old rot and avenge his grievances.

But he wanted to keep his darker methods carefully hidden, waiting quietly for Shen Zheng to arrive, and then distribute grain and provide relief together.

That way, he could remain the learned, clean-handed teacher, not the unscrupulous villain he had been in his previous life.

Perhaps because Shen Zheng’s will was different from any other prince’s—the integrity he upheld, the breadth of mind he possessed—Wen Zhuo was unwilling to sully it with even half a scheming trick.

He always believed that only with neat attire and a pure heart could he retain this precious regard, even if it was merely a student’s respect for his teacher.

If Shen Zheng knew that he was now contemplating defying the world’s norms, violating filial piety and human decency—killing his father, his brother, his younger brother, and driving his biological mother to a life worse than death—he would surely be filled with fear and estrangement.

He had once conspired with Shen Chen, been unrecognizably transformed in Xie Langyang’s eyes, but no matter what, he refused to become the villain in Shen Zheng’s heart.

Jiang Mannü, upon hearing this, immediately puffed out her chest: “I will protect the Chancellor with my life!”

Liu Qiying stood nearby, not daring to interrupt, but she discreetly observed Shen Zheng’s expression, a hint of worry in her eyes.

Shen Zheng fixed his gaze on Wen Zhuo’s profile, as if pondering something.

Sure enough, after a moment, he suddenly spoke: “I’ll go to Mianzhou with my teacher. The guards from the Marquis Yongning estate will follow discreetly to protect us. Huang Ting, take my teacher’s imperial decree and go ahead to Xing and Jing to carry out the relief. Await our news.”

Wen Zhuo jolted, turning his head sharply: “Your Highness—”

“It’s settled.” Shen Zheng rarely interrupted him, his expression calm. “I promised Father that I would wield the Imperial Sword and give the world an accounting. Both disaster relief and investigation cannot be delayed. You two are far more skilled in relief procedures than I am. If I go, I’d only be in the way.”

The Mo clan disciple opened his mouth, about to say something else, but Huang Ting clasped his hands in a salute and replied solemnly: “Very well. I will do my utmost for Your Highness and not fail this mission.”

Wen Zhuo stood frozen, at a loss. He truly couldn’t understand why Shen Zheng insisted on coming along. This had completely thrown off all his carefully laid plans, and he would have to devise alternative strategies.

As if completely unaware of his unease, Shen Zheng turned to the Mo disciple and Huang Ting: “I’d like to hear your thoughts on how to deal with the layers of embezzlement when distributing relief grain.”

The Mo disciple spoke first: “Human greed is deep-rooted. Completely eliminating it is impossible. In my opinion, it’s better to replace one jin of grain with three jin of bran. Though coarse and hard to swallow, it can save more people. The officials, big and small, who still have grain at home won’t bother to fight for this.”

Huang Ting pondered for a moment, stroking his beard: “In the past, during a disaster in Chenzhou in the Northern Song Dynasty, Bao Zheng was dispatched to distribute grain. When he discovered that local corrupt officials were skimming the relief supplies, he came up with a plan: he mixed sand into the grain. Grain mixed with sand couldn’t fetch a high price, and the people managed to survive.”

Shen Zheng had heard of both methods. But whether it was eating bran or eating sand-laced rice, it was too harsh for the people.

Survival was a blessing during a great calamity, yes, but Shen Zheng always wanted to leave them a little more human dignity, not force them to swallow what was meant for livestock.

“Isn’t there a better way?” Shen Zheng frowned deeply.

He suddenly thought of those people in the imperial city—how they had made a huge fuss over a black bird crossing the palace, crying “portent” at every turn, the rumor spreading through the entire palace in the blink of an eye.

His eyes lit up: “This area is close to the sea. Have some cuttlefish ink dripped into the grain, then spread a rumor that this is ‘dead grain’ from the north—that eating it will make women infertile, men impotent, and the elderly short-lived. I suspect that anyone who can still survive by other means will not touch this grain.”

The words left everyone stunned.

This method seemed absurd, but it really would work!

Huang Ting was the first to snap out of it, clapping his hands in admiration: “Brilliant, Your Highness! These are precisely the things ordinary people care about most. Unless they’re on the verge of starvation, who would willingly accept childlessness or a cut-short life?”

Shen Zheng waved his hand, quickly reviewing the relief plan with them, confirming every detail, completing the formalities, and signing the cumbersome documents. Then he urged them to set off immediately.

Wen Zhuo had not uttered a single word the entire time, his lips pressed together, his mind heavy with thoughts.

Once everything was arranged, Shen Zheng turned back and asked Wen Zhuo with a smile: “Teacher, when do we leave?”

Wen Zhuo looked at him steadily, then slowly uttered two words: “Right now.”

Shen Zheng, as if not noticing his troubled expression, gestured to the guards: “Prepare the horses.”

Wen Zhuo lowered his eyelashes: “No carriage. We need to be fast. Your Highness will take me on horseback.”

Shen Zheng raised an eyebrow, turned to look at Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü, a question in his eyes.

Liu Qiying quickly said: “Rest assured, Your Highness. Jiang Mannü and I both know how to ride.”

Shen Zheng smiled: “Whatever my teacher says.”

He guessed that the kitten was in such a hurry to get to Mianzhou because he wanted to do something behind his back.

Since it involved Mianzhou, it must be related to the kitten’s original family. And that, in turn, was tied to the two burn scars on the inside of his thigh.

Shen Zheng didn’t want to be kept in the dark like last time with Mo Shu. At the very least, he didn’t want Wen Zhuo to be alone when he was triggered.

At the stable, Tabai Sha saw Wen Zhuo and rubbed his head against his arm.

Carrots were running low. Wen Zhuo, in low spirits, washed a carrot thoroughly, broke it in half, fed one piece himself, and gave the other to Shen Zheng to feed.

Tabai Sha was quite puzzled, once again fixing his round horse eyes on Wen Zhuo.

Wen Zhuo stroked his mane, then raised his arm. Shen Zheng understood, reached out, and steadily lifted him onto the horse’s back.

Shen Zheng mounted after him, adjusted his seat, tightened the reins, and drew Wen Zhuo into his arms.

He tilted his head, his breath brushing against Wen Zhuo’s ear: “Does Teacher have something on his mind to tell me?”

Wen Zhuo shook his head, a shrewd gleam in his eyes: “Nothing at all.”

Shen Zheng was silent for a moment, then lightly squeezed the horse’s flanks and smiled. “All right.”

Tabai Sha had been plodding along slowly behind the grain convoy for the entire journey, his restless energy pent up. Now that Shen Zheng finally urged him on, he shot forward like an arrow, his four hooves flying.

Gezhou was still three days’ journey from Mianzhou. The farther they traveled, the more desolate and lonely the landscape became. Occasionally, a corner of indigo linen clothing could be seen in the grass by the roadside, flapping noisily in the wind—details one preferred not to dwell on.

Along the way, they left messages at every relay station: any letters sent from the capital to Mianzhou were to be intercepted, and violators would be prosecuted.

Shen Zheng was well aware that once Prince Xian learned they had diverted to borrow grain from Liangzhou, he would scent danger.

There were plenty of clever people among Prince Xian’s faction. With a little thought, they would realize that the disaster in Mianzhou had been exposed early, and that Emperor Shunyuan had ordered them to investigate en route.

At this juncture, every second counted.

They galloped for another full day. As dusk deepened, Shen Zheng wanted to stop at the next relay station to rest.

By now, Wen Zhuo’s lips were pale, his face full of exhaustion. Yet he still reached out and gripped Shen Zheng’s wrist, puzzled: “We agreed on two days of travel and one day of rest. Why stop now?”

“That was for the carriage. Now we’re riding. Your body can’t take it.” Shen Zheng reached out, brushed aside the dry, brittle strands of hair on Wen Zhuo’s forehead, and patiently explained.

“The people of Mianzhou are still suffering from the locust plague. Every day we delay means countless more will fall. How can we stop!” Wen Zhuo refused to yield.

“But you—” Shen Zheng started, only to be cut off.

“Your Highness, I am only one person. If we are to act for the sake of the world, we cannot focus solely on the person right in front of us,” Wen Zhuo said calmly.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Wen Zhuo himself froze.

He had actually said something like that.

Xie Langyang’s words that day in the Qingliang Hall still rang in his ears: “A king takes the world as his home; how can he be partial to one thing?” “The time to discard the old and establish the new, to cleanse the foul and usher in the pure,” “Perhaps not a good student, but he will surely be a good emperor,” “For the sake of the common people, put aside personal grudges”…

He suddenly wanted to laugh, yet his eyes stung.

He and Xie Langyang—they had studied the same teachings of the sages, recited the same classics and histories, and together had extracted those strategies for governing the state from books, breaking them down and teaching them to the heir of this nation.

When they recited those grand principles, neither of them had imagined that they themselves would be the ones abandoned.

Or perhaps they had imagined it, but for the sake of what they called justice, they had accepted it.

So Xie Langyang could not understand his anger and pain, and deep in his own bones, a part of him did not understand either.

Seeing Wen Zhuo’s serious tone, Shen Zheng had no choice but to comply. He calculated that the nearest water-and-horse relay station was only forty kilometers away. At most, they could reach it in three hours and rest there then.

Without further argument, he raised his whip again and urged the horse forward.

Hooves kicked up clouds of dust on the official road. Along the way, more and more gray and blue cloth—tattered hemp garments—flashed past.

Above, vultures circled low, crying out, then swooped down in flocks into the grass by the roadside, a sight that made one’s scalp crawl.

Shen Zheng couldn’t bear to look any longer and averted his gaze.

The night deepened. Above, the sky was thick with stars, brilliant and dazzling, as if belonging to another world—completely at odds with the barren land below.

Tabai Sha stopped and lowered his head to nibble at a few blades of withered grass that had survived by chance.

Before them stood a very crude relay station. The courtyard wall was made of rammed earth, the lower half softened and partially collapsed by mud and water.

The station’s gate was made of two rotten wooden planks. The hinges had long since broken, and one plank was half-lying on the ground, rust at the hinge points.

Fortunately, a lamp was lit inside, and the sound of horses snorting could be heard. It seemed to still be in operation.

Wen Zhuo was drenched in cold sweat, his throat dry and raw. He asked, “Why have we stopped?”

Shen Zheng looked at him with concern. Wen Zhuo sat in the saddle but was swaying as if about to fall. His whole body was stiff as an iron board, the fabric at his collar and back soaked through with sweat.

His usually animated face was now completely drained of color, leaving only a pair of clear eyes still burning with unyielding obsession.

But he himself seemed unaware.

“Everyone, rest at this relay station. We’ll set out again only when we’re fully rested!” Shen Zheng suddenly issued the order in a deep voice.

“Your Highness?” Wen Zhuo looked at him incredulously.

“If I can’t even see the pain of the person before me, how can you expect me to care for distant lives?” Without waiting for a reply, Shen Zheng dismounted and carefully lifted Wen Zhuo down.

Words like these—Wen Zhuo had never heard them before. Those few dozen syllables required repeated chewing before he could grasp their meaning.

He stared blankly at Shen Zheng, only to find that, viewed from this angle, it actually made sense—so much so that he couldn’t refute it.

So, his longing for kindness, for a good end, for not being sacrificed and abandoned—these were things he could openly desire, not shameful after all.

The only difference was that Shen Zheng was not a prince molded by the rites of the Great Qian Dynasty. He grew up free, unbound by their codes.

Wen Zhuo’s legs suddenly went numb, and his body began to slide uncontrollably downward.

Shen Zheng caught him swiftly, and by the lamplight spilling from the station, he saw faint bloodstains on the saddle where it met Wen Zhuo’s leg.

Shen Zheng’s heart churned, aching intensely.

He simply lifted Wen Zhuo in his arms and strode toward the station.

“Your High—”

Wen Zhuo managed only one syllable before swallowing the rest. Because Shen Zheng was looking at him, his deep eyes filled with a mixture of tenderness and warning.

Tenderness from Shen Zheng, and a warning from His Highness.

“Chancellor!” Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü hurriedly caught up.

Having grown up rough-and-tumble, they were more resilient than Wen Zhuo.

When Wen Zhuo first dismounted, his legs had no sensation, and he felt no pain. But as Shen Zheng carried him into the station, pain seemed to seep out from every joint, ravaging every nerve.

He couldn’t stop trembling. His scalp felt tight, his vision dimmed, and he was on the verge of fainting.

The guards and the stationmaster presented their travel permits. The stationmaster lit a lamp, carefully examined the official seal and corresponding serial numbers, then knelt to pay his respects before bustling about arranging rooms for Shen Zheng and Wen Zhuo and seeing to the horses.

Throughout the entire process, Shen Zheng held Wen Zhuo in his arms, making no move to put him down.

“Your Highness, let me,” said Jiang Mannü, patting her sturdy arm to show she could carry the Chancellor too.

But Shen Zheng twisted away, turning his back to her as if afraid she might snatch Wen Zhuo away. “No need.”

Jiang Mannü: “…”

What’s with him? I was just trying to help!

Fortunately, though the station looked dilapidated from the outside, the rooms were reasonably clean and tidy.

Shen Zheng ordered attendants to bring hot water, then carefully laid Wen Zhuo on the bed.

Under the light of two oil lamps, he saw that Wen Zhuo had bitten a bloody mark into his lower lip. He was staying calm by sheer force of will.

“Wait for me.” Shen Zheng patted his shoulder, then turned and left. A moment later, he returned carrying a small cloth bag and a bowl of warm water.

He locked the door securely, sat on the edge of the bed, and fed Wen Zhuo the water. The small bag he set aside—it contained various medicine bottles that Jun Mulan had prepared for him.

It seemed that ancient parents weren’t so different from modern ones; they always pack a bag of medicine when their child sets out on a long journey.

Shen Zheng had once scoffed at such preparations, but now he saw how truly useful they were.

Wen Zhuo slowly finished the water, his throat finally feeling some relief. He said softly, “Since we’re resting, Your Highness should also turn in early. I have A-Liu and the others to attend to me.”

“Your legs were chafed raw. Why didn’t you tell me?” Shen Zheng ignored his suggestion, his gaze falling on Wen Zhuo’s still-trembling knees. “How much pain must you have been in this whole journey?”

Wen Zhuo stiffened, hurriedly reaching down to adjust his robe, trying to cover the bloodstains on the inner leg of his trousers. “Your Highness, your teacher does not feel pain.”

Shen Zheng let out a soft laugh, reached out, and gently pinched Wen Zhuo’s chin, forcing him to unclench his jaw and stop tormenting his poor lower lip: “You cried when Mother merely squeezed your wrist red. You said ‘a little pain’ when you tripped in the military tent. How come now you don’t feel pain?”

“…”

Wen Zhuo had nothing to say. His eyes slid to the slightly rough fingers pressed against his skin.

He had stopped biting his lip, so why hadn’t His Highness taken his hand away?

“I brought wound ointment and a salve for regeneration,” Shen Zheng said. The flickering candlelight traced the contours of his deep eyes with delicate precision, as if giving birth to an ineffable tenderness.

Wen Zhuo dared not meet that gaze. He was afraid of sinking into it, of giving rise to uncontrollable ambition and sin.

“Good… after I wash, I will—”

“Let me see the wound, okay?”

Wen Zhuo was stunned.

He had chafed the inside of his thigh. He wasn’t sure how deep the injury was, or whether it might involve areas that could not be exposed to others.

Shen Zheng explained softly: “I need to know how badly you’re hurt, whether we need to rest a few more days.”

“There’s no need—”

“Teacher is too stubborn and too hard on himself. You always get hurt. Would you really have me spend the whole journey worried and uneasy?”

Wen Zhuo was baffled.

When had he ever been too hard on himself?

Or was it just that His Highness thought he was too hard on himself?

Had he been deceived by the facade Wen Zhuo had constructed?

He was clearly selfish, calculating, and always looked out for himself.

“That’s still not—”

“I’ll only look at the wound, nothing else. I won’t tell anyone. Teacher can barely walk now. What if the wound gets infected?”

“That’s not—”

“Teacher, lie down. If you feel shy, cover your eyes, all right?”

Hearing this, Wen Zhuo’s pale cheeks finally flushed with heat. His fingertips twisted the bedding beneath him into several small pits.

“That’s—”

“I’m going to roll up your lower robe now?”

As he spoke, Shen Zheng propped up the pillows and bedding at the head of the bed, helped Wen Zhuo lean back comfortably, and gently bent his knees.

Then, with gentle movements, he rolled up Wen Zhuo’s dust-stained blue robe and tucked it into his jade belt.

His actions were deliberately slow, each step leaving Wen Zhuo ample room to resist, yet there was a firmness and authority about them that brooked no opposition.

Wen Zhuo’s heart tightened. All his blood seemed to rush to his neck and face.

He turned his face away, but inadvertently exposed his bright red ear. He tried to hide his ears, but his face burned even more.

At a loss, he forced out a single word from between his lips, clinging to his dignity.

“That…”

Shen Zheng’s fingers rested on the tie of his undergarment, hesitating to undo it, his voice low: “Wanshan, spread your legs a little.”