The group left Liangzhou Prefecture under cover of night. Looking back, the city walls seemed as though they had been splashed with thick ink, lying silent and dormant in the darkness.
The chill grew increasingly unrestrained. The withered grass beside the official road rustled as the night wind tugged at it, mingling with the rumble of carriage wheels crushing the muddy ground. If one listened closely, there were even the mournful cries of birds and beasts rising and falling in the distance.
Winter had not yet arrived, but judging by the situation, the temperature was already close to freezing.
Shen Zheng sat upright and motionless. Swaying with the carriage, he suddenly remembered that this was precisely the historical period known as the Little Ice Age—a bitterly cold climate that would persist for an entire century.
As the climate grew colder, the land suffered prolonged drought. Fertile fields stretching for thousands of li split open like tree bark.
The cracked earth then gave rise to locust plagues. The locusts devoured the crops, leaving not even half a green shoot in the fields.
After the locusts blotted out the sky, grain production plummeted and rice prices soared severalfold. To stay alive, starving refugees had no choice but to dig through rats’ nests for food.
That, in turn, brought about the rampant spread of plague. Disease swept across the entire North China Plain. For a time, corpses lay scattered for hundreds of li, and nine households out of ten were left empty.
Natural disasters followed one another, compounded by human calamity. The order of the realm descended into chaos, and rebellions broke out everywhere. The hundred-year foundation of the Great Qian Dynasty was ultimately ruined amid the devastation.
Over the course of that century, more than ten million people would die unnatural deaths.
Whenever Shen Zheng thought of that number, a chill ran down his spine—part terror, part awe.
Would this storm-tossed world become any different because of his arrival?
On the same side of the carriage, Wen Zhuo leaned against the backrest with his eyes lightly closed. Suddenly, he gave two quiet coughs and drew his hands farther into his wide sleeves, his shoulders curling inward with them.
To deliver the grain to the two prefectures of Xing and Jing within fifteen days, they had decided to travel for two days and rest for one.
Naturally, this placed an enormous strain on everyone’s stamina. But the lives of millions were at stake, and there was no room to worry about such things.
Shen Zheng found it difficult to sleep in the jolting carriage. Thus, the moment Wen Zhuo coughed softly, he opened his eyes.
When he first opened them, they felt sore and gritty. It took quite some time before his vision cleared.
The carriage was pitch-black inside, but the moonlight beyond the curtains was bright, spreading a blanket of silver across the official road.
That clear radiance filtered through a gap in the curtains, lending the interior a faint, fragile light.
By that dim glow, Shen Zheng could see Wen Zhuo curled up in the shadows, sleeping fitfully.
He quietly raised a hand, removed his own outer robe, and gently draped it over Wen Zhuo. Carefully, he covered the man’s cold hands, his knees pressed together, and his curled-up lower legs.
Huang Ting, opposite them, had not been sleeping soundly either. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness all along, dizzy and disoriented. He hurriedly raised a hand, looking as though he wanted to speak but did not dare.
Shen Zheng immediately raised a finger to his lips.
Seeing this, Huang Ting swallowed the words that had reached the tip of his tongue.
Wen Zhuo could actually feel the warm robe carrying Shen Zheng’s body heat settling over him. He was simply far too exhausted. His eyelids were as heavy as lead, and though he struggled several times, he ultimately could not open them.
“This position will hurt your back. Teacher, why don’t you rest your head on my leg?” Shen Zheng’s voice was very soft, smooth as a murmur in a dream.
Without waiting for Wen Zhuo’s reply, he gently reached out, wrapped an arm around Wen Zhuo’s shoulder, and drew him toward himself.
During the movement, Wen Zhuo became a little more conscious. Instinctively, he knew he should not allow this, but while he was still thinking it over, his body had already yielded of its own accord and lain down.
The carriage had been specially built for long journeys and was heated within. Its interior was spacious enough for one person to lie flat.
Shen Zheng bent down and lifted Wen Zhuo’s legs, arranging them in a half-curled position atop the soft seat cushions. The outer robe now covered him like a small blanket, wrapping him from head to toe.
“Your Highness…” Wen Zhuo called indistinctly. His eyelids lifted halfway with difficulty, but the carriage was too dark for him to tell reality from dream.
“Mm.” Shen Zheng answered in a low voice, his palm gently patting Wen Zhuo’s back. “Sleep.”
Wen Zhuo was simply too tired. He no longer had the rationality to resist his instincts.
The position was too comfortable. He was enveloped by a warm, steady presence, and he did not want to leave.
The moment he relaxed, his eyelids closed again. He turned his face slightly and rubbed against Shen Zheng’s firm, powerful thigh, searching for the most comfortable position before slipping completely into unconsciousness.
His last thought before sleep was a hazy one: What a celestial visitor trespassing upon the Emperor’s throne—this was enough to shake the heavens.
When dawn broke, Wen Zhuo opened his eyes. It took him a long while to regain his senses, and then his entire body suddenly stiffened as though struck by lightning.
The sensation beneath his cheek was firm and warm, not the hard wall of the carriage. A man’s heavy outer robe covered him, shielding him from head to toe.
When he looked more closely, he saw the familiar hem of a black robe, slightly creased where it had been pressed down.
When had he ended up resting his head on Shen Zheng’s leg? And when had he taken Shen Zheng’s robe for himself?
He was a minister, yet he had made His Highness serve as his pillow for an entire night—and had even appropriated the imperial prince’s robe, wrapping himself in it.
Wen Zhuo felt somewhat mortified. No wonder he had slept so deeply the night before.
He was just about to rise without making a sound when he felt something heavy pressing against his waist.
Turning his head, he saw Shen Zheng’s hand. Its palm was broad, its fingers long, and it had him held securely, as though Shen Zheng had feared he might roll off and fall during the night.
The hand had hung there for an entire night. It was slightly swollen from poor circulation now, the blue veins raised beneath the skin and spreading clearly across the back of the hand and into the knuckles.
Wen Zhuo had no choice but to lie stiffly back down. He did not even dare breathe too loudly, continuing to support that hand with his waist.
His cheek was pressed tightly against the collar of Shen Zheng’s robe. The fine fibers at the collar brushed against his skin, making it itch and tingle, while the dry, distinctly masculine scent grew clearer by the moment, slipping into his nostrils and throwing his thoughts into disarray.
After enduring it for some time, Wen Zhuo unconsciously tilted his head backward, hoping to avoid those irritating fibers.
But the moment he shifted, the back of his head suddenly struck Shen Zheng’s hip.
Shen Zheng drew in a sharp breath above him, and his entire body instantly went rigid.
Wen Zhuo’s neck flushed bright red, the heat spreading all the way to his ears.
As men, they both understood what he had accidentally bumped into.
At dawn, a young man’s blood ran hot and his vitality was at its peak. Wen Zhuo had simply forgotten that for a moment.
He hurriedly shifted away, taking great care to avoid the thigh hard as forged iron. Then he tightly shut his eyes and pretended to sleep, deliberately adjusting his breathing until it was long and even.
Shen Zheng slowly opened his eyes. Every joint in his body felt frozen solid, with only one place surging with heat, restless and eager.
Only at this age, with such a strong constitution, could someone endure an entire night of travel by carriage and still remain full of vigor.
Looking down, he saw a small patch of hot red at the tip of Wen Zhuo’s ear, peeking out from his dark hair. A teasing smile tugged at his lips.
He raised a hand and lightly patted Wen Zhuo’s waist through the robe. His voice was lazy and husky.
“Teacher, stop pretending to sleep. The weight isn’t right.”
Wen Zhuo sprang upright. His long hair came loose and spilled over his shoulders, leaving him looking somewhat disheveled.
He forced himself to remain calm and smoothed back the disordered hair at his brow. “I was just about to get up.”
With daylight filling the heated carriage, there was no longer any of the secrecy or quiet intimacy of the night. The position they had shared now seemed all the more awkward.
Shen Zheng found it amusing, but his expression remained perfectly composed. He reached over, tugged the robe that had slipped from Wen Zhuo, and openly spread it across his own thighs.
He needed a moment to calm down before the excitement coursing through him finally subsided.
From the corner of his eye, Wen Zhuo caught sight of what he was doing and hurriedly turned his head toward the window. Gripping the carriage curtain with both hands, he pretended to admire the scenery outside while secretly praying that no one would bring up the matter.
The wild grass beside the official road was beaded with morning dew, and wisps of cooking smoke drifted up from the distant villages.
Just then, Huang Ting—who had aged ten years after enduring an entire sleepless night—chose the most inappropriate moment imaginable to wax sentimental.
“I have heard that Lord Xinling of the Warring States period treated men of talent with the utmost courtesy. He humbled himself to welcome Hou Ying, a mere gatekeeper, and even held the reins and drove his carriage for him through the marketplace, causing a sensation throughout the city. Your Highness, last night you did not hesitate to give Director Wen your robe, nor to offer him your knees as a pillow. Such breadth of mind and generosity are truly no less than those of Lord Xinling.”
Wen Zhuo immediately scratched at the window frame until it creaked.
…Why did he have to bring that up?!
Shen Zheng rolled his stiff shoulders and paused at the sudden praise. “Is that how you see it?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Huang Ting asked, bewildered.
Shen Zheng glanced at Wen Zhuo, who looked as though he would rather crawl out the window, then at Huang Ting’s moved expression. He smiled and forced out a single word.
“…Quite.”
The carriages and horses traveled day and night. As the rumble of wheels rolled past the gates of seven relay stations, they finally reached the outskirts of Gezhou on the thirteenth day, shortly before noon.
Gezhou was far less imposing and prosperous than the great cities of the north. Its city gates were mottled and dilapidated, with yellow earth showing through where the bricks and stone had crumbled away. Several sinister cracks spread upward from the base of the gates like venomous snakes coiled against a cliff face.
A few soldiers stood scattered atop the walls. Their armor was old, their weapons rusted, and their eyes, fixed on the distance, were full of exhaustion. Before long, they had yawned more than ten times.
Fortunately, Gezhou was not a strategic military stronghold. Peace had reigned there for centuries, and although it had suffered from the locust plague, it had managed to hold on.
For Shen Zheng’s party, however, Gezhou was where they would split up.
After the main force entered the city, they found several open spaces and temporarily settled there to rest. Wen Zhuo spread out a map, then turned his back and coughed twice.
The long journey by land and water, coupled with the strong night winds, had taken its toll. He had managed not to fall ill only by sheer determination—and by drinking a bowl of medicine prescribed by an old physician from Liu Qiying every night.
Fortunately, the farther south they traveled, the warmer the weather became. The biting chill had vanished from the wind, replaced by a gentle, moist warmth.
Wen Zhuo had long since removed his thick cloak. He now wore only a white-collared, loose-sleeved blue robe, and the cold illness everyone feared had yet to flare up.
Only after coughing did Wen Zhuo point to two intersecting official roads on the map and say, “Your Highness, Huang Ting, you and the Mohist disciples will take all the grain and soldiers directly to Ying and Jing Provinces to provide disaster relief. Remember to conceal your identities. I’ll take a few people secretly to Mianzhou and investigate whether the local disaster reports are accurate. We’ll meet up afterward.”
Huang Ting froze. “Director Wen, you intend to act alone?”
“There are matters that must not become known, and certain methods I would rather not put on display.” Wen Zhuo offered only a mild explanation. “Mianzhou does not yet know that we are bringing grain. If the prefect of Mianzhou has truly concealed the severity of the disaster, the docks will certainly be crowded with boats carrying grain sold at exorbitant prices. We cannot afford to waste that advantage. I intend to conceal my identity and enter the city to investigate.”
The Mohist disciple’s thick brows drew tightly together. He hurried forward to dissuade him. “Director, you are the benefactor of our Jumuzi. Forgive my bluntness, but if the disaster in Mianzhou is truly as severe as His Highness suspects, the refugees outside the city will be as numerous as a rising tide, and among them will be no shortage of hardened bandits and desperate fugitives. Acting alone is far too dangerous.”
“It’s all right.” Wen Zhuo’s tone was firm and unyielding. “I’ll have Jiang Mannü with me.”
It had been ten years since he had fled the Wen household in Mianzhou in disgrace. This was the first opportunity he had ever had to return.
The bullying and humiliation, the heart-piercing pain, the torment that had entangled him for ten years—Wen Zhuo knew all too well that a hypocrite like Wen Yingjing would certainly have left no stone unturned to cover his tracks. This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to use the investigation into the disaster to root out the old poison and settle the hatred in his heart.
But he wanted to conceal those unsavory methods as carefully as possible, wait for Shen Zheng to arrive, and then distribute the grain and provide disaster relief together.
That way, he could remain a learned scholar with clean hands, rather than the ruthless villain he had been in his previous life.
Perhaps it was because Shen Zheng’s will was unlike that of the other princes. Shen Zheng upheld his principles and possessed a breadth of heart that made Wen Zhuo unwilling to sully it with even the slightest trace of dark, underhanded methods.
He had always believed that only by keeping his clothes immaculate and his heart pure could he preserve this rare affection—even if it was merely the respect a student held for his teacher.
If Shen Zheng knew that he was presently contemplating defying the moral order of the world, violating filial piety and human ethics, killing his father, his elder brother, and his younger brother, and forcing even his birth mother into a state worse than death… Shen Zheng would likely grow fearful and distant from him at once.
Wen Zhuo had once conspired with Shen Chen, and he had shown his ugliest face before Xie Langyang. But no matter what, he did not want to become a villain in Shen Zheng’s eyes.
At once, Jiang Mannü puffed out her chest. “I will protect my lord!”
Liu Qiying stood to one side, not daring to interrupt, but she secretly watched Shen Zheng’s expression with evident concern.
Shen Zheng stared intently at Wen Zhuo’s profile, as though weighing something.
Sure enough, after a moment, he suddenly spoke. “I’ll accompany my teacher to Mianzhou. The guards of the Yongning Marquis’s Residence will follow us in secret and keep us safe. Huang Ting, take my teacher’s edict and proceed to Ying and Jing Provinces to provide relief. Wait for word from us.”
Wen Zhuo’s whole body jolted. He whipped around. “Your Highness—”
“That settles it.” Shen Zheng rarely interrupted him, but his expression remained calm. “I promised Father Emperor that I would wield the Imperial Sword and give the people of the realm an accounting. Neither the relief effort nor the investigation can be delayed. As for the procedures governing the distribution of relief grain, both of you are far more knowledgeable than I am. I would only get in the way if I went.”
The Mohist disciple opened his mouth, clearly intending to say more, but Huang Ting cupped his fists and bowed, answering solemnly, “Very well. I shall do all I can to relieve Your Highness of this burden and fulfill my mission.”
Wen Zhuo stood there in a daze, at a loss. He truly could not understand why Shen Zheng insisted on coming with him. His carefully laid plans had now been completely disrupted, and he could only think of another course of action.
Shen Zheng acted as though he had noticed nothing unusual. He turned to the Mohist disciple and Huang Ting. “I would like to hear how you intend to deal with the layers of corruption and embezzlement that occur when relief grain is distributed.”
The Mohist disciple spoke first. “Human nature is greedy. It is unlikely that we can eliminate the problem entirely. In my opinion, we should replace one jin of grain with three jin of bran. It will be coarse and difficult to swallow, but it can save more people. Officials who still have grain stored at home will not come to compete for it.”
Huang Ting pondered for a moment, stroking his beard. “During the Northern Song, when Chen Prefecture suffered a disaster, Bao Zheng was ordered to distribute grain there. After discovering that corrupt officials were withholding the relief supplies, he came up with a plan: he mixed sand into the grain. Grain mixed with sand could not fetch a good price, but the common people could still survive.”
Shen Zheng had heard of both methods. Yet whether they were forced to eat bran or rice mixed with sand, it would be unbearably harsh for the people.
In the midst of a great disaster, surviving at all was indeed a blessing. But Shen Zheng still wished to preserve a little of their dignity as human beings, rather than forcing them to swallow food meant for livestock.
“Is there really no better way?” Shen Zheng knitted his brows tightly.
Suddenly, he thought of the people in the imperial capital. When a black bird had flown into the palace, they had made a great fuss, calling it an omen at every turn. In the blink of an eye, the news had spread throughout the entire palace.
His eyes lit up. “This place is close to the sea. Have them get some squid ink and drip it onto the rice. Then spread the word that it’s spoiled rice from the north—that eating it will leave women barren, men impotent, and send the elderly to an early grave. I suspect that anyone who can still stay alive won’t touch this rice.”
Everyone stared at him, dumbfounded.
The idea sounded absurd, but it actually worked!
Huang Ting was the first to recover. He clapped his hands in admiration, dazzled by the brilliance of it. “Your Highness is truly wise. These are the things ordinary people care about most. Unless they were on the verge of starving to death, who would willingly give up having children?”
Shen Zheng waved a hand and quickly went over the disaster-relief plan with them. After confirming that everything was in order, he completed the necessary procedures, signed the mountain of paperwork, and urged them to set off ahead of him.
Wen Zhuo had not said a word from beginning to end. He merely pressed his lips together, his mind heavy with worries.
Once everything had been arranged, Shen Zheng turned back and asked with a smile, “Teacher, when shall we depart?”
Wen Zhuo focused his gaze on him. After a long pause, he slowly answered, “Naturally, now.”
Shen Zheng acted as though he had not noticed the worry in his heart and waved to order the guards, “Go prepare the carriage.”
Wen Zhuo lowered his lashes. “No carriage. We need to hurry. Your Highness, take me on horseback.”
Shen Zheng raised an eyebrow and turned to look at Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü, silently asking for confirmation.
Liu Qiying hurriedly said, “Your Highness, rest assured. Jiang Mannü and I both know how to ride.”
Shen Zheng smiled. “We’ll do as Teacher says.”
He guessed that the little cat was in such a hurry to reach Mianzhou because he intended to do something behind Shen Zheng’s back.
Since Mianzhou was involved, it must have something to do with the cat’s birth family. And it certainly could not be unrelated to the two burn scars on the inside of his thigh.
Shen Zheng did not want to be kept in the dark like he had been with Mo Shu. At the very least, he did not want to be absent when Wen Zhuo’s trauma was triggered.
In the stable, Taibai Sha saw Wen Zhuo and rubbed his head against Wen Zhuo’s arm.
There were only a few carrots left. Wen Zhuo was in low spirits, so he washed one again and again, broke it into two pieces, and fed one half to the horse himself while Shen Zheng fed it the other.
Taibai Sha was deeply puzzled. Once again, he stared at Wen Zhuo with his large, round eyes.
Wen Zhuo stroked his mane, then lifted his arm. Understanding, Shen Zheng wrapped one long arm around him and lifted him securely onto the horse’s back.
After mounting behind him, Shen Zheng adjusted his seat, tightened the reins, and drew Wen Zhuo into his arms.
He tilted his head, his breath brushing Wen Zhuo’s ear. “Does Teacher have something on his mind that he’d like to tell me?”
Wen Zhuo shook his head, a shrewd glint in the corner of his eye. “No.”
Shen Zheng fell silent for a moment. Then he lightly nudged the horse’s belly and smiled. “All right.”
Taibai Sha had spent the previous stretch following the grain carts at a leisurely pace and had long since built up a store of restless energy. Now that Shen Zheng finally urged him on, he shot forward like an arrow, all four hooves flying.
Ge Prefecture was still three days from Mianzhou. As they traveled, the land grew increasingly desolate and deserted. From time to time, a corner of indigo clothing would appear from the roadside grass, fluttering wildly in the wind—something no one wished to think too deeply about.
Along the way, they had left messages at every relay station: any letters sent from the capital to Mianzhou were to be intercepted, and anyone who disobeyed would be punished according to the law.
Shen Zheng knew perfectly well that once Prince Xian learned they had borrowed grain from Liangzhou instead, he would immediately sense danger.
There were no shortage of clever minds among Prince Xian’s faction. With only a little thought, they would realize that the disaster in Mianzhou had been exposed ahead of time and that Emperor Shunyuan intended for them to investigate while passing through.
The situation had become a race against time.
They rode hard for the entire day. As dusk deepened, Shen Zheng wanted to stop and rest at the relay station ahead.
By then, Wen Zhuo’s lips had turned pale and his face was full of exhaustion, yet he still reached out and seized Shen Zheng’s wrist. “We agreed earlier that we would rest for two days after every day of travel. Why are we stopping now?”
“That was when we were traveling by carriage. You won’t be able to endure this on horseback.” Shen Zheng brushed aside the dry, brittle strands of hair stuck to Wen Zhuo’s forehead and explained patiently.
“The people of Mianzhou are still suffering through the locust plague. If we delay even one day, who knows how many of them will collapse. How can we stop?” Wen Zhuo refused to yield in the slightest.
“But you…” Shen Zheng began, only to be interrupted.
“Your Highness, I am only one person. If I am acting for the sake of the realm, I cannot concern myself only with the person before me.” Wen Zhuo’s voice was calm.
The moment he said it, Wen Zhuo himself froze.
He had actually said something like that.
Xie Langyang’s words in the Hall of Cool Serenity that day still echoed in his ears: “A ruler takes the realm as his home—how can he show partiality toward one thing?” “This is the time to cast off the old and usher in the new, to purge corruption and promote integrity.” “Perhaps he will not make a good student, but he will certainly make a good emperor.” “For the sake of the common people, set aside your personal grudges”…
He suddenly wanted to laugh, yet his eyes stung.
He and Xie Langyang had studied the same teachings of the sages, memorized the same classics and histories, and together had extracted, broken down, and explained the strategies for governing and protecting the state from the pages of books, teaching them to the heir to the throne.
When they recited those lofty principles, neither had imagined that they would one day be the people cast aside.
Or perhaps they had imagined it, but for the sake of the so-called greater good, they had accepted it without hesitation.
That was why Xie Langyang could not understand his anger and suffering. And some part of Wen Zhuo, buried deep in his bones, could not understand them either.
Seeing how serious Wen Zhuo’s tone was, Shen Zheng had no choice but to comply. He calculated that the next relay station, the Water Horse Station, was only forty kilometers away. They could reach it in at most three hours, and rest there without delay.
So he said no more and raised his whip once again, urging the horse onward.
The horse’s hooves sent clouds of dust scattering across the official road. More and more gray-blue and ragged hemp garments flashed past along the way.
Above them, vultures circled low, crying out before diving down in flocks and vanishing into the roadside grass. The sight made their scalps prickle.
Shen Zheng could not bear to look any longer and turned his gaze away.
Night fell deeper. The heavens were thick with stars, brilliant and dazzling, as though they belonged to another world entirely, starkly at odds with the desolate land beneath them.
Taibai Sha stopped and lowered his head to nibble at a few blades of grass that had somehow survived.
Before them stood an exceedingly crude relay station. Its walls were made of rammed earth, the lower half softened by muddy water and collapsed in great sections.
The station’s entrance consisted of two rotten wooden doors. Their hinges had long since broken, and one door had simply half-fallen onto the ground. Rust covered the area around its pivot.
Fortunately, lamplight still burned within, and the sound of horses snorting drifted out. It seemed the station was still operating normally.
Cold sweat poured from Wen Zhuo’s body, and his throat was painfully dry. “Why have we stopped?”
Shen Zheng looked at him with concern. Wen Zhuo was still sitting on horseback, yet he swayed as though he might fall at any moment. His entire body was rigid, stiff as iron, and the clothes at his collar and back were already soaked through with sweat.
That usually radiant face was now utterly bloodless. Only his clear eyes still held their unyielding resolve.
Yet he seemed completely unaware of his own condition.
“All of you, stop at the Water Horse Station and rest. We will not set out again until everyone has recovered!” Shen Zheng suddenly issued the order in a deep voice.
“Your Highness?” Wen Zhuo stared at him in disbelief.
“If you cannot even see the suffering of the person before you, how can you expect me to pity lives far away?” Shen Zheng said, leaving no room for argument. He dismounted, then lifted Wen Zhuo securely from the horse.
Wen Zhuo had never heard anyone say such a thing before. As a result, it took him several moments to chew over those few dozen words.
He stared blankly at Shen Zheng, only to realize that from this perspective, the words actually made perfect sense—so much sense that he could not refute them.
It turned out that what he longed for was tenderness, a good ending, freedom from being sacrificed and abandoned—and the right to stand in the light without being deemed contemptible.
The only difference was that Shen Zheng was not a prince shaped and disciplined by the rites and laws of Great Qian. He had grown up freely and did not believe in any of that.
Wen Zhuo suddenly felt both legs go numb, and his body slid downward uncontrollably.
Seeing this, Shen Zheng swiftly caught him. Then, using the light spilling from the relay station, he took a closer look and saw faint traces of blood where the saddle met Wen Zhuo’s thigh.
Shen Zheng’s heart churned violently, aching unbearably.
He simply scooped Wen Zhuo up around the waist and strode toward the relay station.
“Your High—”
Wen Zhuo had only managed to utter a single word before forcing the rest back down, for Shen Zheng was looking at him with deep eyes that held both tenderness and a warning.
Tenderness from Shen Zheng, and a warning from His Highness.
“My lord!” Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü hurried after them when they saw what had happened.
They had grown up scrapping and struggling, and their bodies could endure far more than Wen Zhuo’s.
When Wen Zhuo had first dismounted, his legs had actually been numb, and he had felt no pain. But during the journey Shen Zheng carried him into the relay station, pain seemed to bore out from every joint, invading every nerve in his body.
He could not stop trembling. His scalp throbbed, his vision repeatedly darkened, and he nearly fainted.
The guards and the relay-station official presented their travel credentials. Holding up a lamp, the official carefully verified the official seals stamped across the seams and their corresponding serial numbers. He then hurriedly knelt to pay his respects and arranged rooms for Shen Zheng and Wen Zhuo, while ordering the station staff to see to their horses.
Throughout the entire process, Shen Zheng held Wen Zhuo in his arms without once showing any intention of putting him down.
“Your Highness, let me do it.” Jiang Mannü patted her sturdy arm, indicating that she could carry the Director as well.
But Shen Zheng merely turned away from her, as though afraid she might snatch Wen Zhuo away, and said, “No need.”
Jiang Mannü: “…”
What was going on? She was only trying to help!
Fortunately, although this relay station looked dilapidated from the outside, the guest rooms were fairly clean and orderly.
Shen Zheng ordered the servants to bring hot water, then carefully laid Wen Zhuo down on the bed.
By the light of the two sesame-oil lamps that had been lit, he saw that Wen Zhuo had bitten his lower lip until it bled. The fact that he could still maintain his composure was entirely due to sheer willpower.
“Wait for me.” Shen Zheng patted his shoulder lightly, then turned and went out. Before long, he returned carrying a small cloth pouch and a bowl of warm water.
He closed and locked the door, then sat beside the bed and fed Wen Zhuo the water. The small pouch lay to one side, filled with various medicine bottles Jun Mulan had prepared for him.
Apparently, ancient parents were no different from modern ones. Whenever their children traveled far from home, they would stuff a bundle of medicines into their luggage.
Shen Zheng had once scoffed at this. Now, however, it seemed it really could come in handy.
Wen Zhuo drank the water slowly. His throat finally felt a little better, and he said softly, “Since we’re stopping to rest, Your Highness should retire early as well. A-Liu and the others can attend to me.”
“Your legs are rubbed raw. Why didn’t you tell me?” Shen Zheng ignored his words, his gaze falling on Wen Zhuo’s still-trembling knees. “How painful this journey must have been.”
Wen Zhuo stiffened. He hurriedly tugged at the hem of his robe, trying to cover the mottled bloodstains on the inner trousers beneath. “Your Highness, it doesn’t hurt.”
Shen Zheng gave a quiet laugh and reached out to pinch his chin, forcing him to unclench his teeth and stop tormenting his poor lower lip. “When my mother pinched your wrist until it turned red, you were on the verge of tears. When you tripped in the military tent, you said it hurt a little. Why doesn’t it hurt now?”
“…”
Wen Zhuo was speechless. His eyes shifted toward the slightly rough fingers resting against his skin.
He had stopped biting his lip. Why hadn’t His Highness taken his hand away yet?
“I brought golden wound medicine and muscle-regenerating powder,” Shen Zheng said. The dancing candlelight traced his deep-set features with exquisite delicacy, lending his face an indescribable tenderness.
Wen Zhuo did not dare meet that gaze. He was afraid he would become lost in it, and that it would give rise to ambitions and sinful thoughts he could no longer control.
“All right… After I’ve washed up, I’ll—”
“Let me see the injury, all right?”
Wen Zhuo stared at him in astonishment.
The abrasion was on the inner side of his thigh. He was not even certain how deep it went, or whether it extended into a private area that no outsider should see.
Shen Zheng explained gently, “I need to know how badly you’re hurt and whether we need to stay here and rest for a few more days.”
“There’s no need—”
“Teacher, you’re always too determined to push through, and you never take proper care of yourself. You’re constantly getting hurt. Can you really bear to have me worrying and fretting the entire journey?”
Wen Zhuo was utterly confused.
When had he ever failed to take care of himself?
Or was that simply what His Highness thought—that Wen Zhuo did not take proper care of himself?
Could it be that he had been deceived by the false image Wen Zhuo had deliberately put on?
Wen Zhuo was clearly selfish and calculating, and he had always cared very much about himself.
“That still wouldn’t be appropriate…”
“I’ll only examine the injury. I absolutely won’t look at anything else, and I won’t tell anyone. You can’t even walk right now. What if the wound becomes inflamed and infected?”
“That still…”
“Lie down, Teacher. If you’re embarrassed, you can cover your eyes. All right?”
At his words, a rare flush spread across Wen Zhuo’s pale cheeks. His fingertips gripped the bedding beneath him, wrinkling it into several small hollows.
“That still…”
“Shall I roll up your lower robe for you?”
As he spoke, Shen Zheng placed a pillow and folded blankets against the head of the bed, helped Wen Zhuo lean back comfortably, and gently bent his knees.
Then he carefully rolled up Wen Zhuo’s dust-stained blue robe, securing it against the jade belt at his waist.
His movements were clearly slow, giving Wen Zhuo every opportunity to resist. Yet there was also a firm, unquestionable authority in his manner that brooked no refusal.
Wen Zhuo’s heart clenched. The blood in his entire body seemed to rush toward his neck and face.
He turned his face away, inadvertently revealing ears flushed bright red. He wanted to hide them, but his face felt even hotter.
Completely at a loss, he could only cling to what remained of his dignity and force a single word through his lips.
“Then…”
Shen Zheng’s fingers came to rest on the tie of his undergarments, poised between loosening it and not. His voice was low.
“Wanshan, spread your legs a little.”
