I do not know how much time had passed when Rong Mian opened his eyes to find himself in a completely unfamiliar environment.
Above him stretched a vast and visually expansive sea of paintings. Master artisans had painted colorful directional charts across the palace dome. Rong Mian rubbed his eyes, the sleepy moisture dissipating, and his vision gradually cleared as he looked at the murals.
Interspersed with yellow, brick-red, and deep gray, the painting depicted a military commander wearing special Egyptian attire and a blue crown, standing atop a golden chariot pulled by two horses. With a quiver at his waist and a bow and arrow in one hand, he shot multiple arrows in rapid succession with heroic vigor. Ahead of the chariot, a group of enemy troops was routed and scattered. As the brave general galloped forward, enemies fell continually beneath his hooves. The brick-red warhorses were fully caparisoned with their front hooves raised; some enemies were mercilessly and brutally trampled by the chariot he drove, ultimately collapsing beneath the iron hooves to be slaughtered entirely.
Two colorful vultures flew across the upper dome, flapping their wings, accompanied by a line of hieroglyphs detailing this war and duel with the Nubians. Behind the general followed a row of infantrymen, each holding shields and swords.
The murals were framed by oval decorative borders, with a title carved inside each frame: Thutmose.
Rong Mian’s blood froze solid. Was this person painted here the Thutmose he knew?
Ancient Egyptian pharaohs generally had five titles after ascending the throne, but this man currently had only one given name. It appeared he should still be a crown prince at present. Looking around further, Rong Mian propped himself up with both hands on the quilt, his upper body barely managing to sit upright. A large bed leaned against the wall, taking up a vast area. One side of the window featured champagne-colored gauze curtains hanging down, and all other furniture was fully equipped. The indoor incense curled softly upward, soothing the body and mind, presumably serving to calm the nerves.
“Hiss!” Because his legs moved, a certain area ached at a most inopportune moment. That bone-piercing pain stabbed straight from his scalp deep into his heart. Shivering, he cautiously moved off the bed, looking at the white light exposed outside the curtains. It must be broad daylight by now.
The events of yesterday were already hazy in his mind. He only remembered returning from the tomb, sending Akka away, and going down to the river alone, where he seemed to bump into someone. He had not seen the man’s face, and what happened afterward was no longer very clear.
With his feet stepping onto the thick knitted carpet, Rong Mian looked around and found a door ahead. The decor here was certainly not that of the Priesthood. What on earth had happened last night? His head hurt so much!
At the mere thought of last night, he could not help but press his temples, feeling as though he had missed something important. Walking out of the bedroom, the carpet in the front hall stretched on for miles, and the sound of approaching footsteps came from ahead.
A maid walked in carrying a tray, her eyes widening in shock upon seeing him. She then covered her mouth with one hand, as if she had not expected to meet him here. Realizing her lack of composure, she immediately knelt and saluted: “Good morning, Grand High Priest.”
Rong Mian had no desire to linger in this unfamiliar environment either, so he waved his hand. He originally wanted to ask her where this was, but thinking better of it, he simply told her to leave. The maid hurried off with the fruit plate, her face flushed red as she departed. Heavens!
The Grand High Priest was dressed in plain white robes with a loose waist and a jade belt hanging down. His jet-black hair fell beside his ears, and his left ear exposed a small, exquisite agate stud earring. His brows and eyes were striking and ethereal, and an aura of cold detachment surrounded his entire person—a noble and elegant grace tinged with a hint of languor. Was this really the usually lofty and unreachable Grand High Priest?
And he… he had actually walked out of… the Prince’s bedroom?
With just this thought, the chaotic images in the maid’s mind surged uncontrollably, turning her ears mostly red and making her gait feel somewhat floating.
Rong Mian had no idea what others were thinking, nor did he have the heart to ponder what was in anyone else’s head. What he needed to do right now was to leave this place immediately.
After walking just a few steps, his body tingled and itched intensely. Suddenly, a terrifyingly clear image crashed into his mind: under the dark moonlight, a tall, handsome man was pinning him down, stroking his face. The prickly sensation of the dry wood-like skin was still there. Stretching out his sleeve, sure enough, a large area of his wrist was chafed and reddened, the light, faint marks not yet having faded. Rong Mian gnashed his teeth in hatred. This… son… of… a… bitch.
Who? Who was it?
Who dared to treat him like this?
He was going to dig up the man’s ancestral tombs, flog his corpse for eighteen generations, and hack him into ten thousand pieces.
After cursing resentfully in his heart for a few moments, the various events of last night rushed in with increasing clarity. He had actually been—
Ah!
“Heh.” A light chuckle sounded from above. When Rong Mian reacted and looked toward the source of the sound, goosebumps broke out all over his body. The man in front of him had arrived at some point, tall and upright, wearing a magnificent dark-blue long robe with a wide, gold-embroidered belt at his waist.
Standing there facing the light bursting through the doorway, he looked like a deity descended.
Rong Mian glanced at him and found him looking familiar.
Maintaining a calm expression on the surface, the man’s handsome face featured narrow, deep eyes staring intently at him. Because of the height difference, it strongly conveyed a sense of condescendingly looking down upon him. That chuckle had been sent his way, and Rong Mian felt he had been offended.
He glared back coldly, only to see the other man smile more deeply: “Grand High Priest, so proactive?”
It was truly beyond his expectations. Last night, Rong Mian had been as gentle as water, even more radiant and bewitching than the flowers in the garden. With his arms hooked around the man’s neck, even after an interval of a night, the man could still clearly perceive how fragile and seductive those slender wrists had been when they climbed onto his body.
With that single word “proactive,” Rong Mian was ready to explode. He had just been wondering why the man looked so familiar—he was the very same general driving the chariot and slaughtering the enemy in the dome mural just now, as well as the one who had turned the world upside down and run wild with him through the night. Thinking back to a few hours ago when he had been lifted to the clouds and cast into the rain by the other party, Rong Mian’s pacified state of mind boiled over with surging blood, leaving his elderly face utterly at a loss for where to put itself.
Thutmose, the future Pharaoh of Egypt, renowned for his reverence of martial might.
No matter how large the Priesthood was, it could never surpass the Pharaoh; the Priesthood existed for the sake of the Pharaoh. This man was his direct superior. Rong Mian’s resentful aura instantly deflated. He could not be impulsive—impulsiveness was the devil!
He still had to scrape by and survive here; everything needed to be planned for the long term.
“Prince, good morning.” Rong Mian bowed slightly and respectfully to him as a greeting.
Thutmose observed him closely. Gone was the indulgence of last night; Rong Mian had resumed his usual refined, restrained, calm, and dignified self. As the Grand High Priest of the Priesthood, he stood above ten thousand people, and even the prince had to treat him with courtesy without the slightest transgression.
Yet the events of last night swirled uncontrollably in his mind once more. Having grown up in the palace inner court, what kind of storms had he not seen? But Rong Mian’s face looking proactive was unspeakably vivid and alluring—something he had never seen before. Right now, having just woken up with his clothes in disarray, the other man exuded a lazy, casual air and a unique temperament that inexplicably tugged at his heartstrings. A patch of fair, dainty collarbones was exposed at the neckline, and his slender neck curved all the way down to a sharp chin and rosy, thin lips. Last night, it was those lips that had first broken all balance, setting fires everywhere on his body and reducing his hard-earned composure of many years to shambles.
Returning this time, Rong Mian’s unexpected presence caught him completely off guard, yet he did not find it repellent at all.
“Prince,” a gentle voice sounded from the doorway, breaking the brief silence between the two men.
Holding a papyrus scroll, Imhotep walked into the room only to see the two of them confronting each other. His voice suddenly dropped a tier: The Grand High Priest?
Why was he in the Prince’s bedchamber?
After coming to a halt, Imhotep cast a suspicious glance between the two of them, immediately looking away when he saw Rong Mian. The gossip system in the depths of his heart went wildly active: What had he missed?
Yesterday, he was merely helping the Prince handle matters regarding the upcoming ascension; how could he have missed such an important drama?
The Grand High Priest and the Prince were walking this closely? Had their relationship reached the point where they could stand together under the same roof in disarrayed clothing and chat?
Thoughts aside, Imhotep maintained a deeply pious and respectful expression on the surface. After performing a proper bow, he looked at his Prince: “This is the guest list for the banquet a week from now. The venue is chosen as the Main Palace Banquet Hall. Queen Hatshepsut sent word that she is feeling unwell and cannot attend, and at the same time, she asked me to bring you her regards and wish you boundless blessings upon your ascension.”
Imhotep was a conscientious messenger. Having finished speaking, he glanced at Rong Mian again. The Priesthood had always stayed out of the struggles of the palace inner court, and Queen Hatshepsut had already shown ulterior motives while the old king was still alive. At the same time, she had been actively striving for the support of the Priesthood, though no one knew what Rong Mian truly thought in his heart.
Yet judging by the current state of affairs before his eyes, could he interpret and guess that the Grand High Priest had already chosen a side?
Rong Mian, having pried into things he had never understood before, noticed someone repeatedly glancing at him sideways and assumed these matters were inconvenient for him to hear while present. Thus, he sought an excuse: “If Your Highness has matters to attend to, please proceed. The Priesthood still has affairs to handle.”
You must be joking; if he stood around for too long, that spot on his body would not be able to take it. Last night was a storm of bees and butterflies, and the other party was magnificent and brilliant—he had almost fallen apart. Having just woken up hungry and thirsty, where would he want to continue lingering here?
He lifted his foot to leave, but was stopped by a voice: “The Grand High Priest can just stay and give me some reference on the choreography for my ascension ceremony.”
Reference your mother’s, Rong Mian wanted to die of annoyance in his heart. He had no wish to give this man any references, but outwardly he had to put on a full act. Suppressing the rising anger in his heart, he feigned a submissive smile: “Your Highness, this subject is feeling unwell and fears it may not be suitable…”
Imhotep felt a jolt in his heart: feeling unwell, unwell where?
Circle that—this was the key point! He was dying of anxiety inside, hoping they would reveal a little more to satisfy his humble curiosity.
“Just right. Having fought wars for years, I also picked up some medical skills from military doctors. If the Grand High Priest doesn’t mind, I will take a look for you.”
He was about to become the Pharaoh and yet he still spoke to him with such courtesy; he certainly did not dare accept the honorific “you.”
Seeing that leaving was impossible, Rong Mian simply abandoned all pretense of decorum to see what tricks the man could pull. Smiling, he replied: “This subject is ashamed. Since that is the case, I dare not refuse.”
“Put the things down and step outside,” Thutmose said indifferently. Imhotep looked around, realizing the order was meant for him. If he put the things down, who would explain the detailed procedures of the banquet and the newly uncovered classified secrets to him?
The Grand High Priest?
Ah, understood. Imhotep instantly wore a look of sudden enlightenment. How could he have been so foolish as to have doubts? The Prince clearly wanted to be alone with someone else, yet he had rushed to act as a third wheel. After serving for so many years, his sensitivity must have been eaten by a donkey.
“Understood.” He immediately presented all the documents, saluted, and slipped away in a flash.
“Um, this subject suddenly doesn’t feel uncomfortable anymore.” Once the person left and the main hall returned to its previous quiet, Rong Mian felt that rather than wasting time locked in a stalemate with him here, it would be better to slip away as fast as possible.
Who knew what kind of medical examination this morbid Prince would subject him to?
Besides, he wasn’t sick at all.
“The Grand High Priest is in such a hurry to leave; do you dislike being with me?” Coming straight out with a direct pitch, Rong Mian almost failed to catch it. He coughed twice and feigned hypocrisy: “Where would that be? This subject is just afraid of delaying Your Highness’s precious time.”
Looking at the documents in the man’s hands, there should be plenty of matters to attend to, right?
“That means you enjoy spending time with me.” Those elegant and gentle words struck straight to the heart. Rong Mian’s scalp tingled—he had not said anything of the sort!
Thutmose walked over and took out the medicine chest. Seeing this, Rong Mian immediately chimed in: “Your Highness, this subject is already free of any discomfort.”
Was this guy really going to check him?
“The Grand High Priest was rather… surprising last night.” Saying this, Thutmose’s lips curved slightly upwards, and a hint of teasing flashed within those deep, hazel eyes. Rong Mian cursed silently in his heart, instinctively sensing the man was about to bring up something bad. Sure enough!
“You begged me not to leave.” Clang, his brain bloomed.
What kind of wild, aggressive wording was this?
“To that end, you even scratched me.” In order to make him stay.
Having finished speaking, Thutmose stared unblinkingly at Rong Mian, stars twinkling in the depths of his eyes. Rong Mian hardened his heart and stepped forward: “This subject is terrified. The events of last night are no longer very clear in my mind; it must have been an unintentional act, and I kindly ask Your Highness not to take it to heart.”
Did he really have such… unrefined tastes?
“Is the Grand High Priest apologizing to me?” Thutmose stared at him, not letting go of even a sliver of expression on his face.
Rong Mian was currently riding a tiger and hard to dismount. As the future ruler of the country, the man was accusing him of scratching him; even if he hadn’t scratched him, he’d have to own the crime.
“This subject… knows his crime.”
“The Grand High Priest works conscientiously and wholeheartedly for the two lands. A word like ‘crime’ does not suit being placed on you.” Thutmose pulled over a chair and sat down, his spine straight, his exquisite visage carrying an unangered majesty and a natural, innate imperial dignity and pride.
“Bandage my wound.” It was still an indifferent tone, yet it carried an inescapable command—a command from a living mortal god. Rong Mian’s heart shook.
The medicine chest was opened. It was an extremely exquisite, three-dimensional gold-plated wooden box. The sides of the box depicted a Pharaoh in magnificent attire alongside his queen. The queen held a jar of fragrant ointment to wipe his body, and their gazes met with extreme affection. Glancing over the ancient and rustic tones, Rong Mian surveyed the bottles and jars, having no idea where to begin.
What on earth did this blockhead want him to bandage?
He couldn’t distinguish what was stored inside these colorful little porcelain bottles at all. Thutmose looked at him: “Do you know what must be done first before bandaging a patient?”
How would I know what to do?
Rong Mian retorted in his mind, but outwardly he remained supremely humble: “Disinfect the wound.”
Hearing this, Thutmose smiled. “You must first locate the wound on the patient.”
With that, he signaled Rong Mian to step forward. Rong Mian was already a step away from him; if he took another step closer, wouldn’t that be zero-distance contact? How could that do?
Once his rationality recovered, he was unwilling by any means to get an inch closer to the man before him.
Where on earth had he injured the man last night? Rong Mian didn’t remember a single bit of it, whereas his own body was still aching faintly all this time.
Ultimately, under the gaze of the man before him, Rong Mian figured that enduring for a moment would buy long-lasting peace. He just needed to finish bandaging quickly and get out. Instinct told him that the longer he stayed in contact with the person in front of him, the worse it would be for him. Endure!
He took a step forward, looked at the man taking it easy, suppressed his reluctance, and asked, “May I ask where Your Highness is injured?”
Thutmose smiled and nodded. Rong Mian hesitated for two seconds before understanding—could it be?
The luxurious robe was torn open at a moderate tear, revealing astonishingly well-defined pectoral muscles and clean lines, resembling a masterpiece meticulously carved by nature, making it difficult to resist the natural radiance of masculine charm. Yet upon that fascinating, robust physique, red marks were clearly visible. At a glance, one could tell they had been frantically scratched during a state of clouded consciousness. Rong Mian’s heartbeat stopped for a second as memories rushed back like a tide—these were his fingernail marks! Terrifying!
“Has the Grand High Priest remembered something?” With a bantering tone, Rong Mian didn’t dare look up for fear of meeting that hazel gaze as deep as an abyss. Involuntarily, a layer of sweat coated his forehead. Shifting his gaze, he saw the man sitting with an upright posture, looking extremely straight and handsome from his angle. Rong Mian felt as though something was stuck in his throat, making it difficult even to breathe. He reached out and picked up a jade-colored porcelain bottle, unscrewing it only for a pungent odor to assault him. Rong Mian frowned—what on earth was all this?
“This is hemostatic medicine; I have no use for this one,” Thutmose kindly reminded him. Sitting with a broad and expansive posture, even while seated he still radiated a majestic and heroic presence. Rong Mian’s flushed little face happened to be captured entirely within his line of sight, causing the corners of his lips to curve even deeper.
To him, a few claw marks were actually nothing to write home about, having long been accustomed to the iron and blood of the battlefield. It was just that for some reason, he suddenly wanted to see what kind of reaction this mortal half-god, who was usually immune to worldly fires, would have when facing such a situation.
Fortunately, Rong Mian only looked calm on the surface; this realization brought him cheerful amusement. Even the aloof Grand High Priest had moments of inner turmoil.
Under the man’s guidance, Rong Mian took a delicate, woven linen cloth, dipped it in the disinfecting herbal juice to clean the area, and then picked up another jar of thick ointment. The cooling ointment adhered to his skin, and Rong Mian used a thin wooden spatula to smooth the medicine back and forth. The feather-light pressure triggered an unprecedented sensation of ants gnawing at the skin, adding a different shade of color to the calm and composed depths of Thutmose’s hazel eyes.
With the other man sitting and him standing, Rong Mian’s lower back felt as though it was about to break. Fortunately, the medicine application was finally finished, and he immediately returned the bottle to the medicine chest. Having stood for too long, the soles of his feet grew numb. Just as Rong Mian turned around, he suddenly lost his footing and tripped over the other’s legs. With a thud, a medicine bottle rolled to the ground, and his entire body tilted sideways. In an instant, the liquid inside the medicine bottle spilled out, filling the entire room with an overpowering scent of herbal juice that unpleasantly stung their nasal passages.
Amidst the chaos, Rong Mian was grabbed by a strong force and spun around, crashing directly onto the freshly bandaged linen cloth over the solid, broad chest that radiated strength and resilience. By some twist of fate, Rong Mian’s lips pressed against a patch of smooth, fair skin, his thin lips distorted under the pressure against that wheat-colored expanse. As if scalded by boiling water, Rong Mian instinctively sprang back up. He truly wished he could just smash his head against something and die so he wouldn’t have to face anyone ever again.
Alas, his white robes brushed the floor, and amidst the fluttering light gauze, he clumsily stumbled a second time, falling right back into the exact same spot. This time, the man’s arm caught him just in time: “Grand High Priest, in such a rush?”
Rush your mother.
Even if Rong Mian tried his utmost to maintain his composure, he couldn’t pretend not to care at all. His little face blushed all the way to the tips of his ears as he gnashed his teeth: “Your Highness is revered by ten thousands, a mortal Horus. This subject is merely like everyone else, respecting and loving you.”
“Is that so?” Thutmose watched him, seeming to ponder something before nodding a moment later in utter agreement: “Then I accept the Grand High Priest’s love.”
With that, those deep hazel eyes seemed to gaze straight into the depths of a person’s soul. Trapped within the crook of the man’s arm, Rong Mian tried to get up but found himself unable to move. The tea on the table also sloshed wildly in the commotion, scattering everywhere, with some drops dampening his long hair and dripping wetly. Seeing this, Thutmose reached out and tucked his slender, dark hair behind his back bit by bit, leaving his long, delicate neck completely exposed. Thutmose’s fingers pinched the exact center of the back of his neck—where a blood-red winter plum blossom had bloomed proudly the previous night. The thought flashed a sharp, possessive glint in his eyes: the Grand High Priest’s secret had been spied upon by him.
Rong Mian was so angry he practically wanted to curse. With the man holding him in this awkward, up-and-down lockdown, lying horizontally in the other’s arms felt both exhausting and bizarre: “Your Highness, your wound is not suited for such close proximity with this subject.”
Having said as much, anyone with a shred of tact would know to let him go.
Thutmose asked, “Want to get up?”
Nonsense. If all the weight weren’t resting on the other person and he weren’t completely devoid of strength, he would have kicked the man away long ago.
“This subject has other matters to handle and should be returning.”
Endure, continue to endure.
“Alright.” The man nodded, and Rong Mian let out a sigh of relief.
“Beg me.”
What?
Rong Mian thought his ears had played tricks on him. Thutmose looked steadily at him and repeated: “Beg me, and I’ll let you go.”
Your mother, you’re sick.
This idiot… … (omitting ten thousand words here)
Thutmose lowered his head, slowly closing the distance until he stopped right with their nose tips almost touching, a teasing glint flashing in his eyes. He loved seeing the Grand High Priest look like this under him—quietly angered and enduring without being able to vent it. Clearly wanting to smash him to death, Rong Mian could only choose to yield again and again. Bulling someone who was usually accustomed to being high and mighty to this extent brought an unprecedentedly clear and bright mood to his heart.
Rong Mian pressed his lips together, his eyes holding a dead silence.
Ah, angry?
Truly angry?
Thutmose raised an eyebrow. Oh well, he was the head of the Priesthood after all; there would be plenty of time to deal with him later. Pushing him over the edge right now wouldn’t be good either. Since that was the case.
Thutmose released him, looking as graceful and composed as if nothing had just happened: “The Grand High Priest is busy with a thousand tasks, so I won’t delay your official duties any longer.”
Rong Mian smoothed down his clothes. He was truly fit to be pissed to death, though fortunately the man became normal in the end; otherwise, he would have completely thrown a tantrum.
Rong Mian bowed, and just as he turned to leave, a low, deep voice sounded from behind: “The Grand High Priest forgot this.”
With that, a jade-colored porcelain bottle swung back and forth before his eyes, and Thutmose offered full concern: “This is specially prepared for me to promote blood circulation, reduce swelling, and disperse blood stasis.”
Rong Mian: … …