Inside the sleeping chamber, candle flames flickered, casting shifting light and shadow upon the gauze canopy.
Ling Zhenli’s face was pale as she lay weakly on the bed. The stabbing pain in her abdomen was unbearable. Her slender fingers clutched the brocade quilt tightly, her knuckles turning white-blue. Beads of sweat seeped from her forehead, dampening the hair at her temples.
The blood flowing from beneath her had already soaked through the bedding. She hung onto her last breath, struggling on the brink of death.
Xiao Chongheng, who stood beside her, held her hand tightly. His brows were furrowed, cold sweat beading on his own forehead. He didn’t dare blink, afraid she might breathe her last in the next second.
“Madam suffered lingering illness for years. Now her pulse is disordered, her qi and blood severely depleted. I fear the child in her womb cannot be kept…”
The physician’s voice reached Ling Zhenli’s ears as though through a thick veil, broken and indistinct.
She wanted to open her eyes, but her eyelids were too heavy. The unbearable pain tearing through her body made her feel as if someone were slowly gouging out her bones and blood with a blunt knife.
A single tear slid from the corner of her tightly shut eyes, disappearing into the sheen of sweat.
Her child would not survive…
The child she had been looking forward to… she and Xiao Chongheng’s child…
In the end, she could no longer endure and fainted from the pain.
In her dream, Ling Zhenli sat on a chair, feeding porridge to a little girl.
“Be good, one more mouthful.”
“Okay.” The little girl obediently opened her mouth.
“One more, all right?” Ling Zhenli asked with a bright smile.
“But Mother, I’m full.” The little girl pouted and tugged on her sleeve, acting spoiled. “I want sweet osmanthus lotus-root starch cakes.”
“All right, look at you.”
Finding her impossibly adorable, Ling Zhenli couldn’t resist tapping the girl’s little nose. “Mother will go get them for you.”
Just as she rose, pushed open the door, and took a few steps outside, Ling Zhenli suddenly found herself floating within a vast white mist. All was silent.
Suddenly she remembered—her child was gone. A sharp, wrenching pain spread from the depths of her heart.
“My child… my child, where are you…”
She called out soundlessly, tears blurring her vision.
The mist thinned slightly. The little girl from before stood not far away, wearing a goose-yellow jacket. She stretched out her hand toward her, a sweet smile on her lips. The shallow dimples that appeared were strikingly similar to Ling Zhenli’s.
“Mother!” Her voice was crisp as a bell. “I’m here.”
Ling Zhenli trembled from head to toe. She rushed toward the child without caring about anything else and pulled her into her arms, holding her tightly.
The girl tilted her head, her eyes curved like crescent moons. “Mother, I have to go now. Let me go, you’re squeezing me too hard.”
The words pierced Ling Zhenli’s heart like a blade.
Her legs went weak and she fell to her knees before the child, covering her face as she wept. “No… please don’t go. I beg you to stay. I can’t live without you. I truly can’t live without you…”
The girl shook her head. Her tiny hand gently caressed Ling Zhenli’s cheek in a gesture of comfort—so real, yet as ephemeral as mist.
“Mother, don’t cry. Take good care of yourself.”
Ling Zhenli crumpled to the ground, her soul shattered. Tears fell one after another as she whispered, “Don’t go… please don’t go… What will I do without you…”
She reached out in despair to grab the child, but only caught emptiness.
Suddenly the mist turned blood-red. The surroundings shifted abruptly—she was once again on the day her family was executed.
Rain poured relentlessly. Ling Zhenli knelt in the storm with the rest of her family. The violent rain struck her face mercilessly. Water streamed down her hair, mixing with her tears and falling upon the bluestone ground.
She curled up from the cold, trembling violently, digging her fingers desperately into the cracks in the stone.
A man clad in golden armor approached, one hand gripping a sword, the other holding her father’s severed head. He stepped over the bodies of the slaughtered servants.
Though the sky was dark and the world around them dim, Ling Zhenli still did not dare look up.
“Ling County Magistrate colluded with the rebel faction and is executed on the spot.”
His voice was as cold and hard as the Mo-blade at his waist. With that, he threw the head onto the ground.
It rolled to rest beside the kneeling family members, and cries erupted at once.
Suddenly a deafening clap of thunder exploded overhead. Already drowning in terror over her father’s death, Ling Zhenli was pushed past her limit. She jerked her head up in fright.
In the next moment, a flash of lightning lit the man’s face—his brow casting a cold shadow over his eyes, as deep and still as winter pools. His lips were sharp as a blade, his jaw chiseled like ice. His breath misted in the air. Rain streamed down his armor like silver rivulets.
And in that instant, he noticed her.
Ling Zhenli’s mind was nearly shattered with fear. The rain blurred her sight; she could neither see clearly nor remember his features.
Her father’s headless body remained kneeling on the stone, held upright by two Imperial Guards. His official robes were soaked with the blood flowing from the severed neck.
Ling Zhenli stared at her father’s corpse in horror, biting her lips until blood seeped out.
Cold rain filled her nose and mouth. The warm blood flowing across the ground blended with the downpour, forming red rivulets. Her vision wavered.
Her mother, driven mad by the horrific sight, crawled to pick up her husband’s head, then suddenly dashed forward and smashed her own skull against the red-lacquered pillar at the gate—dying instantly.
Ling Zhenli awoke with a start.
When she opened her eyes, Xiao Chongheng’s worried face came into view.
The shadows under his eyes were dark—he clearly hadn’t slept in days. She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. Light stubble covered his jaw, making him look unusually worn, a stark contrast to his usual noble composure.
Seeing her awake, Xiao Chongheng couldn’t hide his relief. He quickly called the imperial physician to take her pulse again.
Ling Zhenli had been unconscious for two days and three nights. The child could not be saved—she had miscarried.
After her family’s downfall, she had been forced into service as an official courtesan. Her body had long since been damaged; she was unable to endure the strain of pregnancy. She had spotted blood often, and this time a severe hemorrhage caused her to faint.
The situation had been too critical. There had been no time to hesitate. Xiao Chongheng had ordered the physician to administer medicine to expel the fetus. If they delayed, both mother and child would have died.
After checking her pulse, the physician sighed. “The madam’s miscarriage has harmed her vitality. She must remain in bed for a month and avoid cold or exertion. I will prescribe several tonic formulas to replenish her qi and blood. My lord must remember to have them decocted for her each morning and night.”
Once he finished, Xiao Chongheng signaled the maids to quietly escort the physician out of Zuixian Pavilion and back to the palace.
Ling Zhenli’s face was ashen. She was exhausted, unwilling to speak. Whenever Xiao Chongheng looked at her, she turned her face away.
He sighed. “Ali, are you still resentful toward me?”
Ling Zhenli remained silent. She closed her eyes, trying not to let her tears fall.
“I know you were upset after hearing that I am to be married. The emotional agitation caused the bleeding.”
In truth, Xiao Chongheng was just as heartbroken, but he had resolved to tell her that he would not redeem her or take her away, to reveal his true identity, and to inform her that he must marry Princess Roujia—his cousin—and sever ties with her forever.
But looking at her frail state, he couldn’t say it.
She had just lost her child, had barely escaped death. If he told her that the man she shared a bed with nightly was the very man who killed her father and destroyed her family—and that the child she had lost was his—wouldn’t that drive her to suicide?
But he was the Duke of Yan, a man who followed the emperor to conquer the realm, who commanded great power. His mother was the emperor’s sister, the illustrious Princess Wuyang; his father was the Right Marshal General. With such an exalted lineage, how could he allow an official courtesan from a disgraced family to remain by his side, much less bear his children?
She was unworthy.
Thinking this, Xiao Chongheng hardened his heart, released her hand, and said coldly, “You’ve just miscarried. Rest well. I’ll leave two maids to care for you. I’ve been very busy recently; I’ll come see you in some time.”
Then he left.
After he departed, Ling Zhenli ordered everyone out. Only when the room was empty did she allow her tears to fall.
She touched her now-flat abdomen—there had once been a living child inside.
Four months old. The physician had said it was a girl.
She had even made tiny clothes for her—soft goose-yellow silk embroidered with small flowers—hidden at the bottom of her dressing chest.
She knew Xiao Chongheng had treated her well—fine clothes, rare treasures—he had even given her the best quarters in Zuixian Pavilion.
But what did that matter? She was still an official courtesan, unworthy of bearing his children. She had thought that since the baby was a girl, posing no threat, he would allow her to give birth. But he still had the physician terminate the pregnancy…
The miscarriage had been triggered after the maids who cared for her “accidentally let slip” that Xiao Chongheng was about to marry his cousin. Her pregnancy had already been fragile; the shock had caused unbearable pain and uncontrollable bleeding.
But without Xiao Chongheng’s instruction, how could those maids possibly have told her?
There was nothing more to be done. She could only hope that he would take pity on her and redeem her from Zuixian Pavilion.
Half a month later, one night, Xiao Chongheng came again. Ling Zhenli was asleep when he arrived.
She had been plagued by nightmares recently and slept lightly. When he got into bed, she seemed to sense it but didn’t speak, merely turning slightly. Xiao Chongheng took the chance to wrap his arm around her waist.
Ling Zhenli allowed him to touch her listlessly, letting him explore her body for a moment before he pulled her into his embrace.
A year ago, her father had been executed on-site by troops led by Xiao Chongheng for colluding with rebels. Ling Zhenli, once a pampered young lady, had fallen to the status of an official courtesan.
On the day of the raid, during that single moment when she lifted her head as lightning flashed, Xiao Chongheng had seen her face clearly—and had taken a liking to her. She had looked like a broken doll whose soul had been ripped away.
But Ling Zhenli had been too terrified to remember his appearance at all.
Thus, the courtesan who should have been sent to be used by countless men was instead locked away by Xiao Chongheng for his own amusement.
He had once wanted to torment her—make the daughter of his enemy bend beneath him night after night, and one day reveal the truth, so she would go mad on the spot.
In the past year, Ling Zhenli had suffered greatly. A young woman who had never even heard brothel stories without blushing was now worn down until her body was soft and yielding.
At first, Xiao Chongheng had been playful and cruel, finding ways to tease and mock her reactions. Ling Zhenli, low-born in status, believed he was her savior and felt she should be grateful. She offered no resistance.
Gradually, he softened. Though he refused to admit it, he had fallen for this woman he believed unworthy of him.
“Did I wake you?”
Xiao Chongheng’s steady breathing shifted as he spoke—he clearly had not been asleep.
“I had a nightmare,” Ling Zhenli murmured as she turned and nestled into his arms, inhaling deeply.
Breathing in the familiar scent of agarwood on him, she slowly relaxed.
Since losing the child, this was the first time they had been this physically close again.
“A nightmare?” His tone was still cool. “Will you sleep more?”
“I’m so tired.” Her voice softened as she leaned against him. “Let me sleep a little longer.”
“Mm.”
After a long while, just as Ling Zhenli was drifting off again, Xiao Chongheng suddenly spoke: “I might not be able to visit you often in the future, you—”
Before he could finish, Ling Zhenli whined in sleepy displeasure, refusing to let him continue. Lost in drowsiness, she didn’t hear what he was trying to say.
Xiao Chongheng sensibly fell silent.
Moonlight filtered through the gauze curtains, casting fragmented shadows beside the bed.
Ling Zhenli breathed evenly, already asleep. Her curved eyelashes left faint arcs on her cheeks.
But Xiao Chongheng could not sleep. Propped on one elbow, he looked at her. His fingers hovered above her hair but never touched.
He thought of the words he had been unable to finish, and so he looked even more carefully at her face.
This bewitching beauty was too exquisite to destroy. Any man, upon seeing her once, would fall under her spell—willingly drowning in it.
He and she—what a pity theirs was a doomed, ill-fated bond.