For Gu Zhao, now twenty-three years old, killing was not an unfamiliar act.
This year, when he was suppressing salt smugglers in Yangzhou, even amid mass bloodshed, he could keep his heart as still as still water.
But over the years, he had never forgotten the face of the first person he ever killed—a middle-aged eunuch of ordinary appearance, so unremarkable he would be lost in a crowd, seen only once.
Back then, he was just twelve years old, Shen Xu was thirteen, and the Emperor was only ten.
Who could have imagined that in broad daylight, right in the imperial garden of the palace, the then Crown Prince—now the Emperor—was merely painting a spring scene by the lake on a fine spring day, only to be pushed into the water on the spot?
Gu Zhao had originally gone back to the Eastern Palace to fetch new paints for the Emperor. Halfway there, he felt an inexplicable pang of anxiety and rushed back. As soon as he reached the lake, he saw the Emperor being held underwater by a eunuch, struggling to rise.
And as luck would have it, not a single maid, eunuch, or patrolling guard was anywhere near the entire lakeside.
Back then, what did he use to kill that eunuch? A rock, probably—he smashed it hard against the back of his skull. Blood spurted out instantly, the man fell backward, and died on the spot.
It all happened so fast. By the time Gu Zhao pulled the Emperor out of the lake, he realized he had killed someone.
As for such a major case—someone openly plotting to assassinate the heir to the throne—it was investigated by the late Emperor, but in the end, it was quietly dropped.
And so the first killing led to countless others.
Even now, Gu Zhao still remembered the terror he felt when he killed for the first time: the sleepless nights of nightmares, the sensation of blood on his hands that no amount of washing could cleanse, even though he had done it to protect himself.
Today, when he threw aside the eunuch who had attempted to assassinate the Emperor, Gu Zhao cautiously kicked him once more, breaking his neck to ensure he could not fight back. But even as he did, he knew the man was already dead.
So, yes—Zhu Qingyu had indeed killed someone, in self-defense.
Gu Zhao sat up slightly, looked into her eyes, and said in a calm voice:
“No, you didn’t kill him. You only wounded him.”
Zhu Qingyu raised her hand and looked at the blood covering it.
Her throat was badly injured, making it difficult to speak. She looked into his eyes and mouthed:
“You’re lying to me. He must be dead.”
The right upper abdomen, where the liver is—even in the chaos, she could not miss it with her eyes closed.
Before she blacked out, she had felt the handle of the blade pressed against the upper abdomen, meaning the entire dagger had been thrust into the man’s liver.
The liver is the largest organ in the abdomen, rich in blood vessels. If pierced with force, it would cause immediate massive bleeding and shock—no god could save him.
But she had no other choice. That man dared to kill even the Emperor; he would certainly not spare her. She had to neutralize the assassin in the shortest time, or she would be the one dead.
She had seen through his lie.
Though he did not know how she was so certain despite being unconscious, Gu Zhao gave up fabricating other excuses and simply comforted her:
“You did it to protect yourself. You did nothing wrong.”
Perhaps because she had used too much force to subdue the assassin, Zhu Qingyu’s hands were now utterly weak and trembling violently. She let them drop helplessly and mouthed again:
“I know.”
Having narrowly escaped death, Zhu Qingyu felt cold and exhausted. She closed her eyes.
Although she knew she had done nothing wrong, the assassin’s fierce, murderous face drifted before her eyes as soon as she shut them.
A sharp pang seized her heart, and it became even harder to breathe—as if the assassin had returned, gripping her throat, about to kill her again.
She had killed someone. Though it was in self-defense, it was an objective fact.
For someone raised in a modern, law-abiding society, the immense shock of that fact was difficult to withstand.
Zhu Qingyu opened her eyes again, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out.
Gu Zhao saw the barely concealed fear in her gaze and said softly:
“Qingyu, you need rest. I’ll take you back to rest.”
She needed time, just as he once did.
And she was a doctor who saved lives, now having taken one—it would likely take her even longer than him to recover.
At least she was saved.
The imperial physician on duty came to ask Gu Zhao about what had happened. When he heard someone had tried to assassinate the Emperor, he was terrified out of his wits. After examining the wounds on Zhu Qingyu’s neck, when it came time to prescribe medicine, the physician lost his confidence and dared not write the prescription.
The Imperial Medical Institute was currently leaderless—the fifth-rank director and sixth-rank deputy director had both died in succession. The physician on duty was only of the eighth rank.
Doctor Zhu, who treated the Emperor himself, was naturally more skilled in medicine than he. The physician felt like he was just pretending to be an expert in front of a master.
Even after writing the prescription, he did not dare to prepare the medicine. Instead, he ran to show it to Zhu Qingyu for her opinion:
“Doctor Zhu, what do you think of this prescription? Both for internal use and external application are included.”
Gu Zhao watched as the physician consulted the patient about whether the prescription was correct, and said nothing.
Because he agreed with the physician’s judgment—Zhu Qingyu’s medical skill was likely superior to that of the imperial medical staff. It was only natural that she review her own prescription.
From Zhu Qingyu’s perspective as a lifelong practitioner, some of the precious ingredients in the prescription were unnecessary and simply a waste of money.
She had suffered external injuries, not a serious complication. The most common medicines for promoting blood circulation and resolving blood stasis would be enough.
Still, the royal family likely did not begrudge a few extra bits of silver. Moreover, doctors should not deceive one another when working together. Since the imperial physician had written a prescription for her, even if some ingredients did no good, they would also do no harm. There was no need to find fault now and offend someone for no reason.
So Zhu Qingyu nodded and mouthed:
“Thank you.”
The anxious physician breathed a sigh of relief:
“I’ll go prepare the medicine for you.”
After the physician finished, he left her medicine for both internal and external use, a large bundle of it.
Zhu Qingyu had been on duty in the Qianqing Palace earlier, where the indoor braziers burned hot. She had only been wearing an indoor outer robe.
Gu Zhao had ridden back to the palace on horseback, wearing a large cloak. He took off his cloak, wrapped it around her, and reached out to lift her:
“The Emperor is awake now. The Qianqing Palace will probably be chaotic today. Let’s go back to the Eastern Palace. I’ll take you there to rest.”
Zhu Qingyu’s injuries were on her neck, and her hands had gone weak—but her legs were fine.
She could walk back to the Eastern Palace on her own. She did not need to be carried.
As if reading her thoughts, Gu Zhao said again:
“You need to be warm now. I did back then, too.”
On the day he killed for the first time at age twelve, he had felt a strong urge—to flee this cold, dead imperial palace, to go somewhere warmer, or to find someone warm to hold.
But in the end, he never left. Because protecting the Emperor had been his duty from the day he entered the palace at age eight. Even though the nightmares tormented him for days on end, he never found that warm person to hold.
Because of his words—"I was the same back then"—Zhu Qingyu let him lift her into his arms without resistance.
On the way there, Gu Zhao had run all the way. On the way back, he took each step slowly and steadily.
The hour for locking the palace gates had already passed. The path was completely empty, with no one else around—only him and her, and the crescent moon in the sky.
Zhu Qingyu pressed her cheek against Gu Zhao's neck. A steady warmth radiated from him, warding off the chill that she could barely suppress from rising within her heart, melting the shivers that her body belatedly felt.
Step by step, from the Imperial Academy of Medicine back to the Eastern Palace, her entire body grew warm—even her heart felt warm.
He was right. At this moment, she needed warmth.
She needed someone warm, like Gu Zhao.
