"Everyone out."
Chu Mingzhao's lazy voice rang out above, carrying a hint of impatient willfulness.
"I want to train this dog myself. With others watching, I won't have any fun."
Cuizhu and the few old maids exchanged glances but dared not disobey. They quickly bowed and retreated, pulling the heavy carved wooden door shut behind them.
A soft click echoed through the silent warm chamber—the sound of the lock engaging.
Pei Yan's heart leaped. That ominous feeling grew stronger.
She was sending everyone away to do it herself?
Of course. That venomous woman loved watching people writhe in their death throes. Having a servant do the deed would rob her of much of the pleasure.
Chu Mingzhao rose from the couch, stepping barefoot across the soft Persian carpet until she stood before Pei Yan.
As she approached, that overpowering rose fragrance invaded his nostrils with greater urgency.
"What are you standing there for?"
Chu Mingzhao looked down at him from her height, toying with a small glass bottle filled with a pale pink liquid. Her fingertips gently traced the bottle's surface as if caressing a lover's skin, but her eyes held a bone-chilling amusement.
"Strip."
Pei Yan's head snapped up. His long lashes trembled from sheer fury.
"...What did you say?"
"I said, take off your clothes and get in."
Chu Mingzhao gestured with her chin toward the steaming bath. Her tone made it sound as if she were ordering some trivial matter.
"What? Do you need me to do it for you?"
Pei Yan clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his palms.
The single remaining thin undergarment was already soaked through, clinging to him miserably—but it was the last scrap of dignity he had left.
If he were stripped bare here, then scalded until his flesh split open...
A scholar could be killed, but not humiliated.
"Chu Mingzhao, if you want to kill me, just do it," Pei Yan said, his voice like crushed ice forced from his throat. "Why must you humiliate me like this?"
"Humiliate?"
Chu Mingzhao let out a light laugh, her voice crisp and pleasant—but the sound seeped into Pei Yan's heart like bone-cold frost.
"Pei Yan, get this straight. You're my servant now. Your mistress granting you a bath is a great honor. How could that be called humiliation?"
She suddenly bent down, her face—as beautiful as a peach blossom in full bloom—closing in.
Their breaths intertwined.
Pei Yan could even see his own pathetic reflection in her pupils.
"Or..." Chu Mingzhao lowered her voice, her warm breath brushing against his ear, "do you want me to call those old maids in right now to force you into the tub?"
Pei Yan's pupils shrank.
He knew this madwoman was capable of it.
He closed his eyes, forcing down the murderous rage and humiliation boiling in his chest.
He wasn't strong enough yet. He couldn't die.
Even if he had to crawl, even if he had to suffer the deepest disgrace—he had to survive.
Only by living could he have a chance to turn things around.
Pei Yan raised his hands, his expression blank, and stiffly untied the soaked sash.
The wet clothes fell to the floor with a dull thud.
The boy's lean body was exposed to the air.
Despite maintaining a cruel smirk on the surface, Chu Mingzhao was inwardly reciting a vehement mantra to calm herself.
So this was what a male lead in a web novel's body looked like?
Broad shoulders, narrow waist—his muscles lean and defined, not overly bulky, yet brimming with explosive potential. But the skin that should have been fair was covered in crisscrossing scars.
Fresh wounds—from the lashes she'd just given him.
Old wounds—from the abuse he'd suffered in the stables these past days.
And large patches of purple-black frostbite on his elbows and knees, some areas already festering and weeping, the sight heartbreaking.
Chu Mingzhao's heart twinged as if stung.
So this was what an emperor looked like in his youth.
Battered and bruised, covered in wounds.
"What are you staring at? Get in."
She didn't want to look any longer, afraid her cruel mask might slip. She urged him coldly.
Pei Yan pressed his lips together, stepped barefoot across the cold tiles, and walked to the edge of the bath.
Steam rose. The water rippled, a thick layer of rose petals hiding what lay beneath—and the unknown danger.
He took a deep breath, and with a look of grim resignation, stepped in.
Splash—
Water sloshed.
The searing heat he'd braced for never came. Instead, the water was perfectly warm.
...Not boiling oil. Just water?
Pei Yan was stunned.
Warm water instantly enveloped his frozen limbs. His stiff joints ached as the heat seeped in, followed by a fine, prickling pain.
That was the normal response of frostbitten skin meeting warmth. It hurt, but it also made him feel alive for the first time in ages.
Pei Yan looked suspiciously at Chu Mingzhao standing by the tub.
She stared back at him with obvious disgust, as if he'd dirtied her fine bathwater.
"You're lucky," she snorted, raising the glass bottle.
Every muscle in Pei Yan's body tensed instantly.
So this was the trap. Soften him up with warm water first, then pour in the boiling oil or poison.
"This bottle of rose oil is a tribute from the Western Regions," Chu Mingzhao said, swirling the pale pink, oily liquid in the bottle, a wicked smile curling at her lips.
"I hear a single drop can make flesh tender and bone melt. I wonder if you're tough enough to stay rigid."
With that, she uncorked the bottle and slowly poured the pink oil over Pei Yan's bare shoulders.
He instinctively closed his eyes, turned his head away, and gritted his teeth, bracing for agony.
But what landed on his skin wasn't boiling oil. It was a cool, slippery liquid.
It carried a rich, sweet rose scent, sliding down his collarbone and into the water.
Then a hand, soft as if boneless, pressed against his skin.
Pei Yan's eyes flew open. He went rigid as stone, as if struck by lightning.
"You—" His voice came out hoarse, his eyes wide with shock and dread.
Something worse than being whipped or scalded was happening.
That venomous woman... was touching him?
"Don't move."
Chu Mingzhao felt the iron-hard tension under her palm and silently cursed her luck.
Who wants to touch you! Do you think you're some kind of divine monk? Her inner self was wailing in despair.
The system had just warned her that since she'd changed the scalding oil to essential oil, there needed to be a matching plot. Otherwise, the scene would be deemed illogical, the edit voided, and the original plot restored.
To save her own skin, she had to grit her teeth and go through with it.
The sensation under her hand was strangely pleasant.
The man's back was lean, but the muscles beneath were smooth and firm, brimming with buried power.
The oil reduced the friction between their skin. As she massaged, warmth slowly seeped into his flesh.
