Duan Yan entered the room and glanced toward the bed. Seeing that Song Fengsui had finally woken up, he let out a faint sigh of relief.
Earlier, An Ge'er had gone in to check on him, only to rush back out moments later, saying that Song Fengsui was not only unconscious but burning with fever—his fair face flushed a deep red, with symptoms resembling the epidemic currently spreading through the countryside.
Fortunately, after the female physician examined him, she said last night's medicine had run its course, but because his constitution was weak and he had been through further strain, he had caught a chill and developed a fever—not the epidemic itself.
Even so, despite not having the plague, the man had been slow to wake, and Duan Yan couldn't help but grow anxious. He had quickly fetched the physician's medicine and gone to watch over its preparation.
Now, though the man had regained consciousness, he still looked terribly frail—listlessly propped against the bed, a mess of ink-black hair scattered over his shoulders, the flush on his cheeks yet to fade, his spirits even lower than the night before.
Duan Yan, seeing the state he was in, felt a pang of guilt. The heart he had only just managed to relax upon seeing the man awake tightened once more.
"An Ge'er."
Duan Yan called the servant over and gestured for him to approach.
He handed over the medicine, instructing the boy to go close and feed it to Song Fengsui, while he himself stood a little further back, not drawing near.
This way, he could avoid forcing Song Fengsui to waste his energy on being on guard against him. And truthfully, Song Fengsui seemed to have recovered slightly—though his head still felt heavy and unclear, at least the blood was no longer rushing as violently.
He also feared that if he got too close to Song Fengsui, some other bizarre condition might be triggered.
Song Fengsui, leaning against the soft cushion, cast a low glance at Duan Yan. His expression didn't change, but he did appreciate Duan Yan's sense of boundary. So he slowly drank the medicine.
Seeing the man willing to obediently take his medicine without making a fuss, Duan Yan felt a subdued sense of relief. After he finished, Duan Yan asked once more:
"Are you hungry? I bought some plain congee earlier and had Madam Lin in the kitchen warm it up. Or is there something else you'd like? I can go fetch it for you."
Song Fengsui lightly wiped the corner of his mouth, thinking to himself: this man acts just like his grandmother—the moment he sees you, he asks if you're hungry, then fusses over getting you food.
A young man, carrying himself like an old elder.
Of course, he made no comment aloud, nor did he say what he wanted to eat. Instead, he said, "An Ge'er, go fetch it."
Duan Yan's brow twitched slightly, assuming Song Fengsui simply didn't want to deal with him and refused to speak to him. Seeing An Ge'er leave, he hurriedly tried to slip out after him.
Noticing this, Song Fengsui's lips tightened. Not only was this man old-fashioned, he was also dense—couldn't he tell that he was trying to send the others away so they could speak alone?
He had no choice but to call out: "I have something to say to you."
Duan Yan, who had already made it to the doorway, stopped short at the sound and turned back to look at Song Fengsui on the bed.
The delicate young man, calm and composed, looked like a white tea flower in a forest glade. Duan Yan cleared his throat awkwardly. "What is it?"
Having taken the medicine, Song Fengsui found his throat somewhat soothed, despite the foul taste, and could speak a bit more easily.
So he asked Duan Yan directly: "What exactly would it take for you to let me go?"
He didn't have the strength to beat around the bush with words. He only wanted to know the man's true intentions—if there was something he could do, then laying it out plainly was better than wasting time like this.
Duan Yan, seeing the question, realized this was in fact a conversation he had intended to have anyway, and so took the opportunity to speak plainly: "I'm not trying to restrict your freedom. You can leave whenever you want, do whatever you like. But right now, your body is far too weak, and you still have a fever. You're in no condition to handle anything."
"What I mean is—once your health recovers somewhat, then it won't be too late to leave. Rest easy here and recover. I swear I won't lay a hand on you during this time. And if you still don't feel at ease, I'll go stay at the shop instead."
Duan Yan hadn't slept a wink last night. He had been thinking a great deal.
Now that he had taken over this body, given a second chance at life, he shouldered the responsibility of all the good and bad deeds the original owner had done—and he had to answer for them.
Song Fengsui ending up in this state had much to do with the original owner, but also with his own mishandling of last night. He couldn't, and wouldn't, beat a man down like this only to casually send him on his way.
Though he did wish Song Fengsui could leave sooner—after all, facing a young man whose blood ran hot at the sight of him was mortifying to even think about. If not for the necessity of resolving this, he would be too embarrassed to keep interacting with him.
But letting him go now, while appearing to grant his wish, would in truth be pushing him straight into the fire.
With that frail, fragile frame and that face he had, here in a town like Rockford, the moment he dragged his sickly body out of Duan Yan's door, he could easily be snatched up again by the next person who laid eyes on him.
Duan Yan simply couldn't bear to see something like that happen. So even at the risk of Song Fengsui misreading his intentions, he had to consider the man's well-being.
Song Fengsui's eyes flickered. Perhaps being ill did soften a person's resolve; seeing Duan Yan speak this way, and observing how straightforward and earnest the man seemed—lacking the oily slickness of ordinary men—he found himself oddly trustful.
Moreover, Duan Yan wasn't wrong. In his current condition, he couldn't even make it back on his own strength.
Though a part of him still thought that anyone showing him kindness in such circumstances must have ulterior motives, Duan Yan's attitude was good, and he had shown no malice. Song Fengsui was hardly foolish enough to use his frail state to pick a pointless fight.
So he momentarily sheathed his sharpness and hardness.
"My grandfather has contracted the epidemic," he said. "He was already advanced in years, and his health had further deteriorated during exile. If not treated in time, he will surely die. And the epidemic is highly contagious—with the family caring for him under the same roof, they've likely all caught it as well."
"Even if, by some stroke of luck, his condition doesn't worsen and the family isn't infected—I've been gone for two days with no word. How worried must they be? How could I possibly rest easy while they worry, uncaring of anything else?"
Duan Yan's brow furrowed deep. He understood Song Fengsui's thoughts; any normal person would feel the same way.
But even though he hated to add to the man's worries, he had to tell him: "This is exactly what I wanted to bring up, but I was afraid of troubling you—still, you have the right to know the truth."
Duan Yan let out a soft sigh. "Liuzhu Village is under lockdown now because of the epidemic. To prevent it from spreading further, no one inside is allowed out, and no one outside is allowed in."
Hearing this, Song Fengsui froze completely. Then, he struggled to get off the bed.
Duan Yan, who had been sitting nearby, immediately stood up. "Don't panic—we can figure something out! If you act like this, how am I supposed to be willing to tell you anything in the future!"
Song Fengsui took the words to heart. He gripped the edge of the bed, his knuckles white, but ultimately did not throw himself off it.
He believed Duan Yan's words, not blindly, because he truly knew that when a difficult epidemic broke out in a place, it would indeed be quickly sealed off to prevent the situation from spreading further.
Seeing that he had calmed down somewhat, Duan Yan continued, "There are officials from the government stationed at the entrance of the village. Going in openly right now definitely won't work. Let me first try to find someone to pull some strings and get a message in to your family, so they know you're safe, and also to check on the situation at your home, so you have some peace of mind."
"Although having family by your side when you're sick can indeed be comforting, the village is riddled with plague. Given your current physical condition, even if we could bribe the people guarding the entrance to let you in, I'm afraid you wouldn't be able to take care of your family—you'd likely catch the plague yourself soon after."
"Your family, once they know you're safe, would probably rather you not risk going back."
Song Fengsui felt a slight stir in his heart. He was silent for a moment, then said, "I roughly know how to deal with this plague, so I must go back."
Duan Yan paused. He remembered that the book had indeed mentioned that Song Fengsui knew medicine, but how skilled he was had not been specifically detailed.
He said, "If you know how to treat the plague, that's a good thing. But you're not some divine immortal—you can't just point a finger and heal people. In the end, medicine has to be used."
This struck a nerve with Song Fengsui. The reason he had fallen ill was precisely because he had some ideas for treating the plague, but no usable herbs to work with.
Helpless, he had no choice but to go negotiate with the village head, Chen Hu. His original plan was to ask the headman to lend him medicine to treat his family, and in return, he would provide the method for curing the plague.
Such a mutually beneficial deal—surely any smart person would agree. But who would have thought the village head didn't believe a young man like him had the ability to heal people, especially from a deadly plague? Instead, he mocked him, joking that the man's only skill should be using that pretty face to warm a man's bed.
Afterward, he was drugged and brought here.
Now that he thought about it, he had been foolish as well. This remote place in Qian was isolated and backward—men held all the power and tightly controlled everything. It wasn't like the capital, which was prosperous and open-minded, where plenty of capable women and young men earned people's respect.
Men in this closed-off area were arrogant in their ignorance and naturally wouldn't value a young man they believed should only exist in dependence on men. Any ability he might have was dismissed—they only judged by appearances.
Duan Yan didn't know what he was thinking. He continued with his own plan: "From what I see, I'll first make contact with your family. In the meantime, you take your medicine and rest, get that fever down, build up some strength. Once you're better, we'll find the herbs and prepare the medicine, then figure out a way back."
"You have ideas for treating the plague, and your family's hopes all rest on you. With such a heavy responsibility, you should take better care of yourself first."
Hearing this, Song Fengsui couldn't help but turn his head to look directly at Duan Yan: "You actually believe I can cure the plague?"
Duan Yan hadn't really thought deeply about it. He said, "Believing or not isn't that important. What matters is trying."
Song Fengsui paused, as if trying to figure out where this man's thoughtfulness and open-mindedness came from, but a person isn't so easily seen through.
So he asked outright, "Why are you helping me?"
Duan Yan met those phoenix eyes—still beautiful, but because of his illness and weakness, they held even less spirit than last night. Clearly, the sickness had taken a heavy toll on him.
Yet despite carrying such a sickly body, he didn't seem to ache for himself. Instead, his entire heart hung on his family.
Duan Yan let out an almost imperceptible sigh: "Rather than saying I'm helping you, it's more accurate to say I'm cleaning up the mess from before. You were living peacefully with your family, but my men brought you here—you were frightened for no reason, and now you're sick in bed from the ordeal."
"What I'm doing is only right. You don't need to feel burdened."
Song Fengsui remained silent, offering no response.
This speech was too righteous—it left him with nothing to argue against. Back in the capital, when his family was at its peak, he would often hear such considerate, pleasant words.
But after his grandfather was stripped of his title and the family was implicated, their wealth and status collapsed. Those same people who had once been humble and upright before the Song family all changed their faces—every one of them cruel and venomous, only wishing they could kick the family while it was down.
Throughout the exile, he had seen just about every kind of treachery he'd never encountered before.
Now, when his fate was like a duckweed drifting on a lake, at the mercy of anyone, to hear such words again—even with a hardened heart, he couldn't help but feel a wave of complicated emotion.
He lowered his eyes and gave a soft "Mm": "I'll trouble you to inquire about my family. I'll focus on recovering my health first."
Duan Yan saw that Song Fengsui was listening to reason. He found the young man intelligent—not one of those boys who only knew how to throw tantrums. This saved them a lot of unnecessary trouble.
An Ge'er returned carrying congee and two small plates of light side dishes. Neither of them spoke further; they had reached a mutual understanding.
"Eat something first," Duan Yan said. "After you eat, see whether you want to write a letter to your family, or send some token they'll recognize, and I'll have it delivered for you."
Duan Yan took a small foldable table that could be used on the bed and had An Ge'er set it up beside Song Fengsui's bedding before arranging the dishes.
Song Fengsui hadn't eaten since last night. His body was already weak; if he didn't take in some food, not only would recovery be impossible, but downing medicine on an empty stomach would ruin his digestion.
The congee bought earlier in the morning wasn't all that thick, but reheated twice, it had thickened somewhat and was easier to eat.
Seeing the porridge and dishes, Song Fengsui didn't put on airs of refusing to eat or drink. He'd barely had a bite since yesterday, and his stomach was already aching dully.
An Ge'er lifted a bowl and tried to feed him, but he refused: "I'll do it myself."
An Ge'er glanced at Duan Yan beside them. Seeing him give a slight nod, he complied with Song Fengsui's wishes.
Lifting a small spoonful of congee slowly to his lips, Song Fengsui wasn't afraid of troubling others—he simply didn't like leaving the choice of food to someone else.
Take right now, for instance: the moment his tongue touched the plain congee, he knew it wasn't to his taste. If someone else were feeding him, he'd have no chance to avoid it. Feeding himself, he could linger and use less per bite.
This was a habit he'd developed since childhood.
But although the congee and dishes weren't to his liking, he said nothing. He just mechanically lifted food to his mouth a few more times, urging himself to eat more.
Back in the capital, he had truly been a spoiled, fastidious person. If the food wasn't to his liking, the jade chopsticks wouldn't move an inch—his picky tongue was famous.
Later, during exile, with meals uncertain and some days not eating at all—even after settling in Liucun Village, that remained the case—he could no longer afford to be picky.
Forced by circumstances, he had reformed many of his old wealthy habits. When his health was fine, he tried his best to eat whatever was available, not distinguishing between good or bad food or flavor. He had managed to do that.
But now, with this illness weakening him, all his old finicky habits came surging back out while he was vulnerable. He was even harder to please.
He forced himself to eat half a bowl of congee before he simply couldn't manage another bite.
Somewhat guiltily, he set down the spoon. Without meaning to, he glanced at Duan Yan, who was not far off, watching him like a stern tutor supervising a student's homework.
He saw the man's brow furrow noticeably. He thought Duan Yan was about to tell him to keep eating, but instead the man pressed his lips together and only told him to rest for a while, then went out to fetch paper and a brush.
Song Fengsui didn't know why, but even such a small matter made him let out a faint sigh of relief.
As Duan Yan stepped out of the room, his brows knit together, racking his brain to think:
Just now, watching the boy drink his congee, his expression had clearly shown that he found it unpalatable and could barely choke it down. Though it was also possible that he had no appetite because his mind was troubled by matters concerning his family.
But Duan Yan figured that given how long it had been since the boy last ate, and since they had already settled on the arrangements ahead, even if he was in a hurry, it didn't warrant skipping a meal over a little time.
His instincts, plus the setup from the book, told him that this young lad was simply being picky about his food.
After a few steps, Duan Yan headed straight for the kitchen.
He needed to have a word or two with Madam Li.
