When Fang Linyuan leapt onto the rooftop, the scene before him was just this:

Zhao Chu's snow-white robes were half-soaked in blood. The arrow that had pierced deep into his flesh had somehow been forcibly pulled out by someone, causing blood to stream freely from his shoulder.

He seemed to be struggling just to stay upright—so much so that he had dropped to one knee, head bowed low. Though his expression was obscured, the posture was unmistakably one of extreme fragility.

Yet even so, he still appeared to be gathering every last ounce of strength to restrain the assassin leader.

Fang Linyuan felt a burn rise uncontrollably in his eyes, but still reminded himself he mustn’t call out Zhao Chu’s name... Even though those two characters were right on the tip of his tongue—vulnerable, and dry hot.

His lips trembled slightly. He could no longer speak—only silently vaulted forward.

Zhao Chu seemed to hear him and turned his head.

The moonlight rendered his skin almost unnaturally pale, and the blood on his robes was vivid and warm, making him look as fragile as a trembling white flower petal.

Fang Linyuan said nothing, only knelt down beside him and reached out to support his body.

“…If you were already wounded, why did you keep chasing after him?”

When he finally spoke, Fang Linyuan’s voice was shaking badly.

He could feel the chill of Zhao Chu’s clothing, soaked through, and the hot, sticky blood.

Fang Linyuan couldn’t say another word.

He fell silent again, tearing a large strip from his own robe and, without a word, began expertly binding Zhao Chu’s wound.

He knew this would temporarily stop the bleeding and stabilize the injury, but he also knew how much this kind of field dressing would hurt.

He kept quiet. Though his hands trembled, they moved with steady precision, lest Zhao Chu suffer even more pain because of him.

That took all the focus he could muster—yet Zhao Chu’s current state completely unsettled his heart. In his eyes, in his mind, there was nothing else—only the wound on Zhao Chu’s shoulder.

So he didn’t realize just how close they were at that moment. Nor did he notice the way Zhao Chu, after a slight pause of surprise, turned his eyes quietly to study the side of his face.

His arm nearly wrapped around Zhao Chu’s whole shoulder and back.

After a moment, he finished bandaging the wound.

The next step—tightening the knot—was the most painful. Only if the knot was cinched tightly enough could it prevent further blood loss.

“Hold on. Just a second—it’ll be over quickly.” Fang Linyuan said softly.

As he spoke, he clenched his jaw, shut his eyes, and abruptly pulled the cloth tight.

And at that very instant, a cool fingertip brushed beneath his eye. “I’m fine.”

It was Zhao Chu’s voice—calm and steady. He was the one injured, yet somehow it felt like he was the one offering comfort.

Fang Linyuan turned toward him and saw that Zhao Chu’s fingertip, having traced beneath his eye, was faintly damp—he had wiped away some trace of moisture.

Clearly… Zhao Chu had been the one enduring the pain.

And yet Fang Linyuan was the one with wet eyes.

Meeting Zhao Chu’s serene and gentle gaze, something deep in Fang Linyuan’s chest seemed to give way all at once.

He’d lost so much blood—how could he still be worrying about him?

Fang Linyuan’s lips trembled again. Then, looking at Zhao Chu, he couldn’t stop himself from asking: “Does it hurt?”

Zhao Chu smiled at him. “No,” he said softly, lowering his voice as though coaxing a child, “it doesn’t hurt.”

Liar.

Fang Linyuan’s eyes reddened.

A wound that deep—how could it not hurt?

“All the assassins have been captured. I’ll take you back first and get a military doctor to treat your wound.” Fang Linyuan sniffled lightly, then carefully helped Zhao Chu to his feet with one hand.

For Zhao Chu, this kind of injury was hardly worth mentioning. Even now, if ordered to ride a thousand li through the night, he could manage it on sheer will.

His life had never held much worth—not even to himself.

But then, he saw how Fang Linyuan was helping him up with such care, as though afraid he might shatter. The young general truly seemed to care deeply about the arrow he had taken. Or perhaps...

The young general’s heart ached for him.

This realization made the heart near Zhao Chu’s wound tremble faintly—as if it, too, had been stabbed again by a small, invisible blade.

Zhao Chu didn’t want to frighten him—because Fang Linyuan truly seemed like someone who couldn’t handle being frightened. His eyes were slightly wet, looking pitiful like a wounded deer struck by an arrow.

But Zhao Chu couldn’t help himself—he couldn’t resist the warm, taut strength of Fang Linyuan’s body pressed so closely against him as he supported him.

He was like a boat caught in a whirlpool, being drawn in deeper and deeper—no longer able to free himself.

*

After Fang Linyuan brought Zhao Chu back to the military camp and confirmed with the army physician that the injury was not life-threatening, he was finally able to relax a little.

Just then, a soldier arrived requesting an audience, reporting that the merchants from several firms, along with the assassins who had just attempted to murder the imperial envoy, had all been captured and were now being escorted back to the capital, awaiting the general’s judgment.

Fang Linyuan had no choice but to go.

Seeing that the military doctor was already cleaning and dressing Zhao Chu’s wound, Fang Linyuan left the medical tent and followed the soldier toward the prison within the main camp.

Heng Feizhang was already waiting outside the prison.

He held several account books in his hands, which had just been seized from the homes of a few merchant families. Upon seeing Fang Linyuan approach, Heng Feizhang came forward, unable to conceal his excitement in his eyes.

“General! These account books contain a wealth of correspondence with Jiang Huaqing. Deals for grain, manipulation of grain prices—all of it is irrefutable evidence!”

Fang Linyuan gave a small nod. “Then, Sir, you must be sure to keep them safe.”

Heng Feizhang nodded earnestly in agreement, then noticed Fang Linyuan seemed somewhat drained of energy. He quickly asked, “I heard the general was attacked outside the camp today. Were you injured?”

Fang Linyuan shook his head. “I’m fine.”

At that, Heng Feizhang nodded, though he still looked at him with concern as he accompanied him into the prison.

He arranged for the assassins and the merchants to be securely detained, went over the physical evidence and the letters in the ledgers, and then ordered that the crucial parts be copied and delivered to his tent.

Once all of that was handled, Fang Linyuan turned and headed to the cell holding Jiang Huaqing.

Since no official verdict had yet been passed, Jiang Huaqing and Tan Ji were living quite comfortably in the prison.

When Fang Linyuan arrived, Jiang Huaqing was in the middle of dinner. Snow-white rice and three well-balanced dishes of meat and vegetables—one glance was enough to tell that the jailers dared not offend him. His food and lodging were all treated with utmost caution.

Jiang Huaqing himself looked relaxed and at ease.

“The general is here. Have you eaten?” he asked slowly, eating as he spoke.

Fang Linyuan didn’t respond. He pulled up a chair and sat down outside the cell.

“Lord Jiang certainly has talent—far off in Yanzhou, and yet still capable of cultivating a force of death-sworn assassins of this scale,” he said.

Jiang Huaqing’s hand paused slightly. “…What did you say?”

Fang Linyuan looked at him and smiled faintly. “I said, you raised death-sworn assassins. It’s just a shame—they failed to kill me in broad daylight.”

Jiang Huaqing stared straight at him. After a moment, he slowly put down his chopsticks. “You can’t prove they were mine,” he said.

Fang Linyuan sighed.

“Do you take me for a fool?” he said. “You know better than anyone how stringent the conditions are for raising death-sworn. To produce so many, and leave no trace at all—do you really think you’re that flawless?”

Jiang Huaqing looked at him, and slowly, the calm and leisurely expression on his face began to crack and fade.

“And what can you do about it?” he said at last, staring at Fang Linyuan. “Until the day you stand in the Golden Hall before the emperor himself, even if you hold the Imperial Sword of Authority, you still can’t take my head.”

Fang Linyuan looked at him, then chuckled softly. “All right,” he said. “Many thanks, my lord—I’ve gotten the answer I was looking for.”

Jiang Huaqing blinked in confusion. “What did you say?” he asked hastily.

Fang Linyuan didn’t reply. He simply stood, and placed the chair he had pulled over back in its original spot.

Jiang Huaqing began to panic. “What answer? Tell me—what do you know?”

His hand fumbled, knocking over all the dishes on the table. But he didn’t care. He stumbled to the iron bars, pressed his hands against the cold, unyielding metal, and urgently asked again.

Fang Linyuan turned back to look at him. “The assassins you raised failed even the most basic test. Do you know what that was?” he asked.

Under Jiang Huaqing’s wide, furious stare, Fang Linyuan continued calmly: “They were stopped before they could take their own poison—leaving me with a living witness. A true death-sworn carries their poison in a tooth capsule, designed for instant suicide, leaving no one alive to be questioned. But these men—if they could be stopped—they lacked the will to die. They weren’t fanatics at all.”

Jiang Huaqing stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Fang Linyuan said coolly, the corners of his lips curling slightly, “since those men weren’t loyal-to-the-death, yet you still dared to lower your head and admit to a capital crime punishable by beheading—it shows you’re a willing scapegoat.”

“The men were raised by you, but not for your own use. You were raising them for someone else. That person can protect your life—or take it. So you’re willing to take the fall for them, and you can only take the fall for them,” Fang Linyuan said.

“Am I right, Lord Jiang?”

*

Fang Linyuan truly wasn’t in great shape—he looked as if he were the one who had taken an arrow.

Even though he was trying to focus all his attention, he still couldn’t suppress the stifling, numbing ache in his chest.

Because of this, he didn’t bother wasting more time on Jiang Huaqing. After confirming his suspicions, he left the prison.

The documents to be delivered to Heng Feizhang would be sorted by tomorrow. The assassins, since they weren’t true death-sworn, wouldn’t hold their tongues as tightly, and might reveal more information. Once their confessions were in hand, interrogating Jiang Huaqing again might finally reveal whether the mastermind behind it all was Sang Zhixin—or the Third Prince.

Fang Linyuan pondered it. The logic was already clear and well-structured, yet for some reason, his mind was still a bit unsettled. By the time he returned to himself, he had already stopped outside Zhao Chu’s tent.

It was late at night, and the lights inside had been extinguished. Two soldiers stood guard outside the entrance and reported that Young Master Zhu had already gone to bed. The military physician had said the wound dressing could be changed the next morning.

Fang Linyuan nodded, hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’ll go in and take a look.”

The soldiers, of course, didn’t dare stop him. One stepped forward respectfully to open the tent flap and was about to go in to light a lamp.

Fang Linyuan raised a hand to stop him. “Young Master Zhu was injured today because of me. Since he’s already resting, let’s not disturb him.”

The soldier quickly complied.

Thus, Fang Linyuan entered the tent alone. It was pitch dark inside. He lit only a single lamp near the bed, its faint glow just enough to let him see Zhao Chu’s figure in a vague outline.

Zhao Chu was lying on the bed, asleep—but still wearing the golden beast mask.

Fang Linyuan crept quietly to the edge of the bed and leaned forward.

It was truly strange.

He had been a mess of nerves all night long, but somehow, in this moment—seeing Zhao Chu sleeping peacefully, the smell of blood on him now faint to the point of disappearing—he felt a strange and inexplicable calm wash over him.

The chaos in his mind faded away, leaving only the sound of Zhao Chu’s slow, steady breathing.

Fang Linyuan’s heart gradually settled as well. He lay there at the bedside, quietly watching Zhao Chu sleep.

This man really is foolish… Who in the world uses their own body to block an arrow for someone else? Only the characters in storybooks do things like that.

He looked at him, his gaze slowly drifting from Zhao Chu’s injured shoulder, to his steadily rising and falling chest, then down to his slightly pale, soft, thin lips.

For some reason, when his eyes fell there, Fang Linyuan suddenly felt nervous. Just one glance, and he couldn’t bear to keep looking. He quickly shifted his gaze to the cold metal beast mask.

Wearing it even in sleep—it must be uncomfortable, right?

Seeing that there was no one else around, Fang Linyuan cautiously reached out his hand and gently removed the mask.

And just then, a voice suddenly sounded right beside his ear. “What is it?”

It was Zhao Chu’s voice, startling Fang Linyuan so much he jolted. His hand twitched, and the mask slipped from his grasp—about to fall right onto Zhao Chu’s face.

Fang Linyuan lunged to catch it.

But since he was kneeling and leaning over the bedside, the sudden movement caused him to bump hard against the bedframe. Losing his balance, he lurched forward—

And ended up falling straight into a firm, solid embrace.

--

Author's note:

Zhao Chu: My HP (NT: health points) bar may be thin, but I can still outplay ten of you on a sliver.

Fang Linyuan: You're hurt!

Zhao Chu: …(silently wraps his blade) (looks aggrievedly at Fang Linyuan) (nods obediently)

 

Translator : DarNan