The woman was sinking, her pale arms losing strength as they flailed above the water. Yet in her eyes burned both defiance and a desperate will to survive—like a drowning soul sending out a final plea for rescue.
In that instant, Cen Hejue thought of his father. Perhaps it had been in such a powerless state that his father had stepped closer and closer to death—bloodied, brutal, merciless. Distracted, he realized his hand had already reached out toward Qin Fei.
Qin Fei seized it with all her strength, finally breaking free of the water’s grip.
Now it was Cen Hejue who regretted it. She clung tightly to his neck, her soaked clothes plastered against his own. After coughing and choking up a mouthful of water, she nestled weakly against his chest. “Thank goodness… thank goodness you were here.”
Cen Hejue jolted, unable to believe what he had just done. He shoved her away and stood.
Qin Jin and the others rushed over, dragging the exhausted Song Jinglan from the water.
“Eighth Sister, you’re utterly reckless!” Qin Jin scolded, glaring at the collapsed Qin Fei. “If anything had happened to Jinglan, how would you explain yourself to the Minister of State?”
Qin Fei turned her head away, preferring to stare at Cen Hejue’s boots rather than Qin Jin’s nauseating face.
Most of those gathered were men, and Cen Hejue could feel their gazes lingering on Qin Fei’s drenched figure. His own eyes, unwillingly, flicked toward the way her soaked gown clung to her form.
Suddenly, a weight settled on her shoulders. Looking up, she saw Cen Hejue’s outer robe draped over her.
“I… I’m fine.” Song Jinglan, supported by others, caught his breath and gazed at Qin Fei with tender devotion. “As long as Your Highness is safe, that’s all that matters.”
Seriously? Even now, he couldn’t resist putting on the charm.
Qin Fei rolled her eyes. Spotting Gu Nian’s sorrowful expression in the crowd, she turned and left the grove.
“As for those who pushed the princess into the water,” Cen Hejue declared coldly, “don’t bother coming to class tomorrow. Stay home and reflect for three days.”
Huang Yingying and the others blanched, but none dared protest.
Impatient, Cen Hejue turned to leave—only to feel his trouser leg tugged.
“What now?” He frowned down at her.
Qin Fei’s face was pale. “I… I can’t stand. Could you lend me a hand?”
Unable to shake her off, he bent and pulled her up. But once she was standing, he realized he couldn’t even free his hand.
“It’s so cold.” Her tear-bright eyes gazed up at him, clutching his arm pitifully.
Cen Hejue ended up escorting Qin Fei back to the side hall of Mingxin Hall. “Rest here. Return once you’ve recovered.” He turned to leave.
But Qin Fei’s quick hand caught his sleeve. “Perceptor!”
His face tightened; what little patience he had was nearly gone.
“My clothes… if I go out like this, others will see. It wouldn’t be proper.”
His gaze swept over her damp figure. “Then what do you suggest?”
She pointed to the robe hanging on the screen. “That one. May I wear it?”
“That’s mine,” he said flatly.
“Which means I can.” She scrambled up from his chair and slipped behind the screen. No matter how displeased he was, Cen Hejue could only turn away. The rustle of garments falling to the floor reached his ears, and he strode toward the door.
“Perceptor, could you send word to my palace attendants to bring a sedan chair? I’ve spent too much strength just now—I can’t walk any further.”
Cen Hejue halted mid‑step, a dull ache rising at his temple. This woman truly knew how to take advantage of the moment. He had no intention of caring for her any longer. Leaving Mingxin Hall, he strode straight out. Nearing the palace gates, however, he slowed again.
From beside the carriage, Cen family’s shadow guard, Ah Yan, approached. “Master, shall we return to the residence?”
Cen Hejue gave a curt hum and stepped into the carriage. The wheels rolled, scenery flashing past the window. Soon, rain began to patter against the roof, growing heavier, hooves splashing mud onto the legs of vendors packing up their stalls.
Watching, Cen Hejue thought of Qin Fei—alone, clad in his robe, waiting for someone to fetch her. In such a downpour, she could never make it back to her palace.
The carriage grew stifling with the damp, earthy smell of rain. A low curse escaped his lips.
Alarmed, Ah Yan lifted his rain cloak and peered inside. “Master, what’s wrong?”
“Back to the palace,” Cen Hejue ground out.
Startled, Ah Yan quickly turned the carriage around.
At Mingxin Hall’s side chamber, the brazier glowed warmly. Qin Fei had dozed comfortably on the couch. Waking to the storm’s fury, she dug into the pocket of her soaked gown and pulled out a handful of sunflower seeds. The shells were damp, but the kernels inside were still crisp.
She munched seeds by the fire, thinking that if she hadn’t asked Cen Hejue to summon attendants from Baohua Palace, she might have happily stayed here for the night: no duties, no competition—bliss.
But then a gust of wind swept in, rain snuffing out the fire. Qin Fei cursed, crouching to inspect the brazier.
That was the sight Cen Hejue walked in on: Her jade‑green robe hung loosely, bare feet pressed into the carpet, hair disheveled, cheeks streaked with soot. Shivering in the cold draft, her eyes rimmed red, she looked pitiful indeed. Was she crying because he had left her alone?
“You’re back?” Catching sight of him, Qin Fei lit up as though seeing salvation. She rushed forward and threw herself into his arms.
His body stiffened, mind in chaos—so much so that he didn’t notice her slyly smearing soot onto his back. Only once her hands were clean did Qin Fei slip from his embrace, stray locks clinging to her cheeks, bright eyes and radiant smile framed by the loosened collar of his robe. She gazed at him, utterly unguarded.
Cen Hejue tore his eyes away first. “The sedan chair is here. Go.”
The timing was perfect—the fire had just gone out.
Er Ya arrived with an umbrella, waiting outside. Qin Fei slipped on her shoes, gathered her soaked garments, and was about to leave when she noticed Cen Hejue still inside. Taking the spare umbrella from Er Ya, she ran back and pressed it into his hand.
“The rain is too heavy, Perceptor. Don’t get drenched.”
Her figure vanished swiftly into the curtain of rain. Cen Hejue stood motionless for a moment, glanced at the umbrella in his hand, then let his gaze fall to the desk.
Where did these sunflower seed shells come from?
…
Qin Fei had exerted herself greatly during the day, so at night she slept soundly—so soundly she even dreamed. In her dream, her fellow disciples at the martial hall had prepared a bubbling hotpot with chili oil, fragrant sesame paste, and tender slices of beef.
“Your Highness, Your Highness, it’s time for class.”
Her dream dissolved. Opening her eyes, Qin Fei saw Er Ya’s expressionless face.
“Ah—” She sighed as she walked to Mingxin Hall. Several students had already arrived. Looking more closely, she noticed a food box on her desk.
Lifting the lid, a rich aroma of pastry filled the air. Inside lay rabbit‑shaped cakes, lifelike and delicate, resting on fine oiled paper—the work of someone meticulous.
Qin Fei picked one up and took a bite. The flavor was far superior to anything from Baohua Palace. Glancing around, her gaze settled on Gu Nian, who was bent over a book.
“Did you give this to me?” She set the box on Gu Nian’s desk. The girl froze, emotions flickering in her eyes—hesitant, wary. “Thank you, Your Highness, for saving me yesterday. I… have nothing else to offer. If you dislike the cakes, you can throw them away…”
Before she could finish, Qin Fei had already emptied the box. Gu Nian stared, stunned. Qin Fei had never bullied her like the others, but she had never looked kindly on her either. Yesterday’s rescue had already been baffling; today’s acceptance of the cakes was beyond expectation.
“You’re quite skilled,” Qin Fei said, returning the empty box with a wave. “As for yesterday, don’t dwell on it.”
The martial hall’s rule was clear: do not bully the weak, do not fear the strong, and always step forward bravely.
“But I do want to ask you for a favor.” She glanced at Cen Hejue stepping onto the dais, then signaled to Gu Nian.
“What favor?” Gu Nian asked.
Class ended early. Qin Fei dragged Gu Nian to Baohua Palace.
It was Gu Nian’s first time there—grand and luxurious, befitting the princess’s usual manner. “Why bring me to the kitchens, Your Highness?”
Qin Fei dismissed the attendants and looked at her expectantly. “Your cooking is so good. Could you teach me?”
Gu Nian was flattered but puzzled. “Why would a princess need to learn to cook?”
Qin Fei sighed. “Don’t mention it. If only princesses didn’t have to marry.”
Gu Nian understood immediately. “You want to cook for the Perceptor? But I’ve heard he’s very particular—he usually cooks for himself, never relying on others.”
Qin Fei found that hard to believe. A lofty Perceptor, cooking his own meals? Weren’t gentlemen supposed to stay far from the kitchen? But then again, he was a villain, not a gentleman. A passion for food seemed fitting.
“I tasted your cakes today. Even if his palate is exacting, he’ll like them,” Qin Fei said with a raised brow.
Gu Nian studied her. “But Your Highness… you’ve never seemed fond of me.”
Of course not—who would like their rival in love? But Qin Fei kept that thought to herself. Outwardly, she smiled. “Have I ever told you I dislike you?”
Gu Nian shook her head.
“Have you ever heard me say I like anyone?” Qin Fei pressed.
“Song Jinglan, perhaps?” Gu Nian ventured.
“That doesn’t count.” Qin Fei waved it off. She had planned to persuade Gu Nian further—Song Jinglan was hardly worth liking—but the genuine light in Gu Nian’s eyes when she spoke his name gave her pause.
“Anyway, I don’t admire him. He’s not for me.” Clearing her throat, Qin Fei returned to the point. “I used to be spoiled and willful. But now that I must marry, I want to change. And I don’t dislike you.”
Though she couldn’t understand Gu Nian’s willingness to die for a man, she kept that thought private.
Gu Nian’s lips curved gently. “If Your Highness doesn’t dislike me, that’s enough. Perhaps you’re the only one in this palace who doesn’t.”
Qin Fei blinked.
Gu Nian rolled up her sleeves. “But the cakes I made for you are complicated. It’s late—you may not have time to learn. Why don’t I make them, and you can give them to the Perceptor?”
That was a fine idea. Qin Fei had never been good at cooking—university meals were from the cafeteria, work meals from takeout. She had neither time nor inclination.
Fortunately, Gu Nian was quick. While Qin Fei napped, she prepared a fresh plate of cakes. “Now it’s late. You should deliver them to him. I’ll take my leave.” She packed the cakes neatly into the box.
Qin Fei sent Er Ya to escort her out, then hurried to Mingxin Hall.
Usually, Cen Hejue left immediately after class. She wasn’t sure if he was still there. She searched the side hall—empty. Looking at the box in her hands, she sighed. At last, she had a chance to please him, and he was gone. Dragging her feet down the corridor, she suddenly heard a familiar voice from a small room beside the hall.
“Come in.”
Her heart leaped. He was here! But how did he know she was outside?
She pushed the door open. A dense mist enveloped her, steam rising.
“Here,” Cen Hejue’s voice came from behind a white curtain, lower and more relaxed than usual.
She had never been in this room. Curious, she lifted the curtain—and froze.
The man leaned against a bath barrel, strong arms draped lazily over the rim, black hair unbound and trailing. His broad back was fully exposed to her view. One step closer, and she might glimpse beneath the water.
“Why aren’t you coming over?”
He turned slightly, his features softened by the dim light, lips and nose perfectly proportioned, expression languid.
…
Qin Fei swallowed hard, rubbing her nose. “Isn’t this… moving a bit too fast?”
The man in the bath stiffened.