Mo Shen looked at his master, and his eyes suddenly felt a little warm. Ever since his master’s limbs had been crippled, he had never again seen that light in his eyes.
It was the same gaze that only the War King Zhao Jingyuan had once possessed—firm, sharp, and without fear.
He cupped his fists and said in a loud voice: “Yes, I understand!”
Footsteps faded into the distance as Mo Shen went to deliver the orders.
Only Zhao Jingyuan remained in the open clearing. He lowered his head and looked at his own hand, attempting once again to move his index finger.
Once—no movement.
Twice—no movement.
The third time, when he concentrated all his attention on the fingertip, the index finger twitched.
Very faint, but real.
Zhao Jingyuan closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Elder brother, wait a little longer.
Imperial Mother, wait a little longer.
Wait until I stand again, until I can once more hold a sword.
All debts owed to us—I will reclaim them one by one.
In the Imperial Prison of the Imperial Capital, the Wise Prince Zhao Jingyu curled up on a damp straw mat, clutching a hardened piece of steamed bun in his hand. It had been given by the jailer out of rare mercy the day before, and he could not bear to finish it in one go.
His legs had already festered to a horrifying state; every movement caused piercing pain.
But he made no sound. He only gritted his teeth and repeated in his heart again and again: Jingyuan is alive, Zhe’an is alive. As long as you are alive, I can still endure.
At the same time, in the study of the Cheng’en Marquis House in the Imperial Capital, the old Marquis sat under a dim lamp, holding a secret letter in his hands. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the contents made him burst into tears.
“Yuan’er is alive, recovering from injuries. Do not act. Protect yourselves.”
He read those twelve characters over and over again. In the end, he brought the paper close to the candle flame and watched it turn to ash.
The ashes fell into the inkstone, mixing with the ink until they could no longer be distinguished.
The old Marquis wiped away his tears, stood up, and walked to the window. In the courtyard outside, several chrysanthemums were blooming brilliantly, their golden petals still vivid under the night.
He looked at them for a long time, then turned and gave a low order to the steward waiting outside the door.
“Tell everyone in the manor—from today onward, close the gates and refuse all visitors. If anyone asks, say I am gravely ill and cannot see anyone.”
“Yes.”
The steward withdrew. The old Marquis sat back down in his chair and closed his eyes.
As long as he lived, there was hope.
At dawn in the valley, the mist was thicker than usual, a dense white veil wrapping around the pool, forest, and cliffs. One could not see anything beyond a few steps.
Tong Shuxue had woken earlier than usual.
The injury on her left leg had almost fully healed, and the pain in her ribs had mostly disappeared, though a faint pulling sensation remained when she took deep breaths. Doctor Jian had said she would recover completely after another half month of rest.
She had not returned to the dimensional space to sleep; she had stayed in the cave the night before.
Mo Shen and the others had built her a simple wooden shed. Though crude, it at least provided a private space.
Inside the shed was a folding bed taken from the dimensional space, with clean sheets and blankets. It was far better than sleeping on the ground.
At that moment, she sat on a small stool at the entrance of the shed, holding a cup of hot water and staring blankly into the thick fog outside.
Her communicator vibrated in her chest.
She took it out and saw a message transmitted from the Imperial Capital by Ling San.
The text was short, but shocking.
“The Wise Prince was subjected to punishment yesterday afternoon—water torture. His leg wounds have worsened. Prison guards are discussing that he may not survive this month.”
Tong Shuxue stared at those lines, her fingers unconsciously moving over the screen.
Water torture—she knew exactly what it was.
A method of interrogation used in ancient times: a person was bound to a bench, a wet cloth placed over their mouth and nose, and water poured over it.
Once soaked, the cloth clung tightly to the face, creating the sensation of drowning and suffocation. Repeated cycles could break even the strongest will.
Not to mention Zhao Jingyu’s already deteriorating body after enduring so long in the Imperial Prison.
Tong Shuxue closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Should she tell Zhao Jingyuan?
If she did, given his current condition, he would likely force himself to train harder again, possibly even re-injuring the newly healed tendons. If she did not tell him, and he found out later, would he blame her for hiding it?
While she hesitated, the sound of wheels crushing gravel came from within the mist.
She looked up and saw Mo Shen pushing Zhao Jingyuan toward her from the direction of the medical bay.
Zhao Jingyuan wore an outer robe—a coarse garment bought by Mo Shen from the foot of the mountain. Though rough in texture, it was clean.
His complexion was better than a few days ago. Aside from being slightly pale, the earlier unnatural flush had faded.
Mo Shen greeted her with a smile. “Miss Tong woke up very early.”
Tong Shuxue put the communicator away and stood up. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came out for some air. Where are you going?”
“Doctor Jian said the master needs half an hour of sunlight every day to supplement calcium. This place is good; the mist clears quickly.”
Mo Shen explained as he pushed the wheelchair toward a flat rock.
Zhao Jingyuan said nothing. He only looked at Tong Shuxue. His gaze was sharp—he immediately noticed something unusual in her expression.
He asked directly: “Is there news from the Imperial Capital?”
Tong Shuxue nodded. “Yes, but it is not good news.”
She handed him the communicator, still displaying those lines.
Zhao Jingyuan looked at it, his eyes settling on the screen.
Mo Shen also saw it. His expression changed instantly. “Water torture? How dare they!”
Zhao Jingyuan’s voice, however, remained calm. “Of course they dare. The Emperor is not killing my elder brother yet because he wants to force me to appear, force my maternal family to surrender, and force the Xuanjia Army to show themselves. As long as he achieves his goal, there is nothing he will not do.”
He lifted his gaze toward the slowly dispersing mist.
“Miss Tong.”
“Yes?”
“I want to increase today’s electrical stimulation therapy by fifteen minutes this afternoon.”
Tong Shuxue frowned. “No. I already told you yesterday that this is not allowed.”
Zhao Jingyuan turned to look at her. There was something almost pleading in his eyes.
“I know. But my elder brother cannot wait. I can feel it—my hand is recovering, truly. I can endure another fifteen minutes.”
They looked at each other.
The mist flowed between them like a thin veil. Tong Shuxue could see the bloodshot veins in his eyes, the tightness of his jaw, and the tension that seemed ready to break through his body.
In the end, she relented.
“Fine. Fifteen more minutes. Doctor Jian will monitor you. If anything is abnormal, it will stop immediately.”
The tension in Zhao Jingyuan’s shoulders eased slightly. “Thank you.”
Tong Shuxue waved it off, unwilling to continue the topic.
She turned and walked back into the wooden shed, taking several plastic bags from the dimensional space and placing them on the rock.
Inside were packets of seeds—one cabbage, one radish, and one she could not recognize. They were labeled as cold-resistant, high-yield improved varieties from the dimensional space seed archive, suitable for autumn planting.
Mo Shen leaned over curiously. “Miss Tong, what are these?”
Tong Shuxue replied: “Seeds. We cannot eat only meat with so many people. We need vegetables to supplement vitamins, or we will eventually get scurvy.”
She was speaking the truth. With over a hundred people under Zhao Jingyuan, food consumption was enormous. Although the mountains provided abundant game, relying solely on meat without vitamin C intake would eventually cause serious problems.
More importantly, she needed something to occupy herself. Staying in the valley every day—watching Zhao Jingyuan’s rehabilitation or waiting for news from the Imperial Capital—was becoming increasingly suffocating.