He slowly straightened up, adjusting his slightly disheveled robes, and once again assumed his usual otherworldly, icy demeanor, as if the feral, almost demonic man from moments before had been nothing but a hallucination.
"She has a fair bit of fire in her," he remarked coolly, before raising his voice to call toward the door, "Attendants."
Two maids slipped in at once, heads bowed and eyes lowered, not daring to glance around freely.
"See to it that Miss Shao bathes, changes her clothes, and has her meals," Gu Wangchuan ordered. He did not spare Shao Yutong, who had collapsed limply on the bed like a broken, discarded doll, another glance before turning and walking out of the room.
He had not locked the door, but Shao Yutong knew full well that invisible chains had already coiled tight around her, trapping her fast.
She lay face down on the bed, which still carried his faint, sharp scent of mixed medicinal herbs, her tears soaking through the silk quilt, her heart turning to ice in her chest.
How on earth could she get a message out for help? How could she escape this dreaded Valley of No Emotions!
……
The next day, the exile procession trudged slowly along the official road.
Zhu Zhixin and Wang Bohai had grown far more brutal. The whips in their hands snapped like venomous snakes, lashing out at any convict who moved even a little too slowly. They reveled in this sense of holding absolute power over other people's lives, while Zhang Dapeng hovered nearby, fawning and agreeing with everything they did, only egging their cruelty on.
Young and hotheaded Zhan Yunpeng watched as one of his elderly uncles from the clan, already worn thin, stumbled and lagged a little from exhaustion, only to have Wang Bohai's whip crack down hard across his back, tearing skin open to reveal raw, bleeding flesh. His blood boiled over, and he could hold back no longer. He threw himself in front of the old clansman, spreading his arms wide and roaring, "Stop that! He's half dead already and you're still hitting him—are you even human?!"
He said that as he helped the elder back to his feet.
"Oh ho? A snot-nosed kid trying to play the hero?" Zhu Zhixin jeered. He and Wang Bohai exchanged a look, then both lunged forward, seized Zhan Yunpeng, and rained blows down on him like a hailstorm.
"You little mongrel! How dare you rebel against us!"
"Beat the insolent little wretch to death!"
Zhan Yunpeng was young and strong, but he stood no chance against these two fierce, seasoned Black Armored Guards, who were more than a match for him in skill and brute force.
In moments, he was knocked flat on the ground, blood trickling from his nose and mouth, curled into a ball and only able to let out soft, pained grunts.
"Stop."
The voice that cut through the chaos was low, hoarse, and faintly weak, yet carried an unshakable, undeniable authority.
Zhan Haoting, who had been leaning back on a wheelbarrow, slowly opened his eyes.
His cheeks were sunken and his face was deathly pale, but the moment his deep, piercing gaze swept over Zhu Zhixin and Wang Bohai, it carried the cold, overwhelming pressure of a man who had held power over the entire court for years, looking down on all beneath him.
The two men froze, their movements grinding to a halt.
They could bully and torment the other exiles all they liked, but they instinctively feared this former God of War, who had once commanded the empire, and still radiated the lingering, unshakable aura of his former status even in his current downfall.
"We are prisoners, yes—we may be sentenced, we may be punished, we may even sicken or starve to death along the road. But we will not be beaten to death by the likes of you."
Zhan Haoting's voice was not loud, but every word struck the two guards like a hammer blow.
Zhu Zhixin and Wang Bohai's faces twisted with unease. Eventually, they backed off, swearing under their breaths as they snapped at the procession to keep moving, and did not dare lay a hand on any other convict again.
Zhan Jianping hurried over to help the badly bruised Zhan Yunpeng to his feet, his eyes fixed on Zhan Haoting with nothing but utter reverence and reliance.
By evening, the procession stopped to rest on a wide, flat stretch of riverbank.
Zhu Zhixin and Wang Bohai strictly enforced their "no water, no rations" punishment. They refused to hand out any food at all, and even restricted the exiles' access to the river, allowing only one person per family to go and fetch water.
No one dared to speak up in their anger, but Cheng Yao acted as if she had never even heard the order. She calmly carried over a few stones, stacked them up to make a simple stove, and set her small iron pot on top.
In this desolate, empty stretch of land, a crude earthen stove was built, and a small flame flickered to life.
From her seemingly shabby, meager bundle, Cheng Yao pulled out dried wild mushrooms, a stack of sliced cured wild pork, a large bundle of flatbreads, and mint, perilla, and other wild greens she had foraged along the way.
Then, right in front of the whole crowd of starving people—especially Zhu Zhixin and Wang Bohai, whose faces had turned dark with rage—she poured water into the pot, tossed in all her ingredients, and lit the firewood.
She was making hot pot.
Night had fallen, and the cold wind bit deep into everyone's bones.
But right in front of her, the red broth bubbled and rolled, its spicy, rich scent bursting out, the sharp kick of Sichuan peppercorns and chili mixing with the deep, savory aroma of the pork, cutting through the cold night like a jolt of raw, warm life.
The thick, mouthwatering scent spread far and fast with the gurgling, bubbling sound of the boiling pot, and everyone could smell it. It was no illusion—this was hot, fragrant, oily food, the kind that could keep a person alive.
Cheng Yao stood in the glow of the fire, her clothes gilded with the orange light, her strands of hair lifting in the wind, looking bold and unyielding.
"Cheng Yao! What do you think you're doing?!" Zhu Zhixin shouted at the top of his lungs. "Who gave you permission to light a fire? Smash that pot for me!"
He stormed over, lifting his foot to kick the pot right over.
But Cheng Yao had been ready for him. She nimbly shifted the pot out of his path.
She stood up, meeting Zhu Zhixin's furious glare without a hint of fear, her voice clear and steady. "Sir Zhu and Sir Wang ordered that we are not to receive official rations or official water, but you never said we prisoners couldn't fend for ourselves and find food on our own, did you? This pot was bought with my own money, the firewood I picked up myself, and everything inside was either bought with the private silver I hid away long ago, or wild vegetables I foraged along the road. What rule have I broken?"
She made her case calmly and logically, every point impossible to argue against.
Many of the exiles stared hungrily at the steaming pot, swallowing their saliva, their hearts full of admiration for her courage and her sharp, reasonable words, and even more resentful of Zhu and Wang.
"Spitting nonsense!" Wang Bohai stepped forward too, his broad, heavy face twitching with rage. "I say no eating, so no eating! Tip that pot over right now!"
Cheng Yao's eyes turned sharp, and she was just about to act when the scout who had gone ahead to check the road came scrambling back, pale as a sheet, his voice cracking with terror.
"Report! Report to the heads! Sir Zhu! Sir Wang! Up ahead—through the woods beside the official road—there are bodies. So many bodies! There must be a hundred Black Armored Guards, all dead! And another group of unknown men too! It looks like... it looks like both sides killed each other off, all of them dead!"
"What?!"
Zhu Zhixin and Wang Bohai were thunderstruck, frozen in place on the spot. All their ferocity drained away, replaced by overwhelming, cold terror. The Black Armored Guards? All wiped out? That meant Commander Zhou must be dead too...
They no longer cared at all about Cheng Yao's pot of fragrant hot pot, or their stupid no-food no-water punishment. They both jumped to their feet at the same time, screaming at the scout, "Hurry! Lead the way! Take us there at once!"
They didn't even wait for him to lead them. They bolted off in the direction he had pointed, running like panicked, lost dogs, leaving the rest of the exiles standing there, staring at each other in shock and confusion.
Cheng Yao watched them vanish into the dark, her eyes narrowing slightly.
The news had finally arrived, just as she knew it would. But the storm that would follow was only just beginning.
She glanced down at the bubbling pot of food, then looked around at the gaunt, hungry faces of her clansmen, who were all staring at the pot longingly. She sighed softly to herself.
She ladled out the first bowl of spicy soup, then turned and walked over to the wheelbarrow.
Zhan Haoting sat there with his eyes closed, his face set and cold as a carved statue.
When the sharp, warm steam drifted over to him, his eyelashes fluttered faintly, and he opened his eyes.
Cheng Yao looked up at him, her voice soft. "General, this spicy broth will warm you up and get your blood circulating. Would you like to try a sip?"
He did not answer, but he did not refuse her either.
She carefully scooped up a spoonful of the soup, and lifted it to his lips.
The rich red broth hit his tongue. At first, the sharp spiciness burned his throat so badly that Zhan Haoting's brows drew tight, and he was just about to spit it out when a warm current rose from his stomach, surging straight to every limb and bone in his body.
His body, which had been a little numb and icy, was now suffused with a faint warmth, as if his blood and qi had been lit, beginning to flow slowly once more.
He stared at her, his gaze dark and unfathomable.
She met his gaze, the corner of her lips curving slightly. "In this world, there is no such thing as a true dead end. There are only people who dare not stoke the fire."
In the glow of the firelight, her eyes shone with a startling brightness.
It was the exact kind of light he had once seen on the battlefield — the unyielding fighting spirit of a lone wolf that would never bow its head.
Zhan Haoting's jolted sharply.
This mysterious young wife of his, from the look in her eyes to every action she took, carried a fearless boldness that could pierce straight through the sky.
She was truly and thoroughly daring to the extreme.
But with him around, what did it matter even if she did pierce the sky?
