Seeing the Third Prince’s face remain cold as winter frost, Mu Xueshi suddenly dropped to his knees with a loud thud, wailing at the top of his lungs:
“Your Highness, you are magnanimous and merciful! I only wanted to sneak out for a stroll. If I didn’t bring some food, how was I supposed to buy anything? I was afraid I wouldn’t have enough to eat, so I took a little silver from that coin jar by the side. Surely you don’t care about those few taels… I’ll return them, all right? As for those golden jade fruits—we don’t even have them where I come from. I only ate a few extra. If it’s not enough, I’ll go pick some more to repay you, all right? Wuuuu…”
The “coin jar” Mu Xueshi spoke of was none other than the bronze effigy of the late emperor used in the Third Prince’s ancestral rites. At its base was a small aperture where offerings of silver were placed, symbolizing that wealth and treasure were entrusted to the imperial treasury by their forebears. Yet Mu Xueshi had dug the silver out without a shred of reverence.
And those golden jade fruits were no orchard fare. They were rare tributes presented by officials from the southern provinces. A single golden vine had to twist and wind a thousand times before bearing a few clusters, and after the long journey to the imperial capital, scarcely any remained. The Emperor had granted them solely to the Third Prince. The prince himself had not tasted a single fruit—yet Mu Xueshi had already eaten and pocketed more than half.
Kneeling below, Mu Xueshi’s pitiful expression failed to soften the Third Prince in the least. When the prince spoke, his tone was glacial, devoid of any hint of concession.
“You are not to go anywhere.”
“Why not?” Mu Xueshi’s sobbing ceased abruptly. He stared up in confusion. “With a face like mine, what use is it to keep me here? To ward off ghosts? Or to disgust yourself?”
He still believed his appearance to be as loathsome as the reflection he had once glimpsed in the pond. Yet within those crystalline eyes flickered unmistakable self-doubt. In another era, such words might be dismissed as false modesty, but from Mu Xueshi’s lips they carried an inexplicable sorrow.
Since birth, only the Grand Tutor had ever seen his true face. For over a decade he had lived beneath a mask. How could resentment not take root? If carving a few cuts into his own flesh would grant him freedom, he would have done so without hesitation. But one’s visage was bestowed by one’s parents—it was not something to destroy lightly.
The Third Prince had no such tenderness of heart. To him, Mu Xueshi was merely a captive slave, destined sooner or later to die by his hand. Yet in his present half-mad state, he required protection.
When the prince fell silent once more, Mu Xueshi’s patience frayed. Living with a man like this would surely dull one’s hearing—he had spoken enough for a cartload, and the man would not utter so much as a breath in reply.
The more you forbid me, the more I will go! Mu Xueshi raged inwardly.
He had to familiarize himself with this place. If misfortune struck, knowing the terrain would ease his escape. This man was a prince—when pleased, he might rescue you; when displeased, he could execute you without consequence. In an age of emperors and commoners, his life was worth no more than a stalk of straw.
At the very least, he needed to learn who he was in this era—what background he possessed, what advantages might be exploited. Only then could he use them to find the silver coin and complete his grand plan of returning home.
Futile Devices Scans 
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