Before Imperial Physician Liu could even finish saying “forgive this subject,” Feng Xuanyi had already lost patience with watching the portly old man totter to his knees, trembling so badly that he could barely get the words out. He waved him off impatiently. “I don’t care what method you use. I want Virtuous Lord completely unharmed—not even a scar is to remain.”
“This subject obeys.” Liu Yong had not even finished kneeling before he had to scramble back to his feet. Panting and drenched in sweat, he carried his medicine chest to the bedside. Though advanced in years, he was anything but careless when it came to medicine. He swiftly opened the chest and took out a pair of scissors along with several medicines for stopping bleeding and promoting healing. After instructing Xiao Dezi to fetch hot water, he turned respectfully to Nalan Xuan. “This subject must be somewhat rough. Young Master, please forgive any offense.”
Imperial Physician Liu deftly cut upward along the seam of Nalan Xuan’s sleeve. The farther he went, the wetter the cloth became and the more tightly it clung to the skin. When he reached the shoulder, he put the scissors aside. He had already been there for some time, yet the sweat covering his forehead had not diminished. Whether it came from running all the way there or from the pressure of the responsibility now resting upon him was impossible to tell. “This subject begs your pardon.”
The words had barely left his mouth when the elderly physician pulled sharply with both hands. With a loud rip, the inner robe tore apart, its ruined front and back panels hanging lifelessly on either side of Nalan Xuan’s neck. Only once that obstructing layer had been removed did everyone truly understand what it meant to have a bloody hole torn through one’s body. Xiao Dezi happened to enter carrying a basin of hot water and sucked in a sharp breath at the sight. Even Imperial Physician Liu could not help thinking of the pampered inhabitants of the inner palace he normally treated. A sneeze was enough to cause a commotion as though the sky were falling: an imperial physician had to be summoned, the pulse carefully taken, prescriptions written, dietary tonics arranged, and every precious medicinal ingredient imaginable brought out whether it was needed or not. It often seemed less about genuine illness than making certain everyone knew they had so much as a headache, simply so that concern and attention would pour in from every direction.
Yet here sat one of the most prominent figures in the imperial harem with a wound hideous enough to make anyone recoil, and not only had he failed to frantically demand an imperial physician, he had not uttered a single sound from beginning to end. As a physician, how could Liu Yong not understand how much agony such an injury caused? A sword had pierced straight through the shoulder blade. The assassin’s strength and skill with a blade were obvious. Strangely, however, when the weapon had been withdrawn, the movement had lacked the same decisiveness and speed as the original thrust, almost as though something had impeded it and the blade had struggled and twisted on the way out. The uneven path of the sword had left numerous small tears of varying depths on both sides of the wound. Not only had this ripped the injury wider, it had displaced what should have been relatively clean edges, leaving flesh torn and mangled. Blood continued flowing as though a sluice gate had been opened. It was no longer pouring as violently as it had immediately after the attack, but it showed no intention of stopping. And yet this newly risen favorite, though his face had gone white with pain, merely clenched his teeth. His brows were drawn tightly together, and a faint trace of blood had appeared at the corner of his mouth where he had bitten down, but still he refused to make a sound.
Feng Xuanyi’s expression was grave, his entire face nearly black with fury. It was almost as though he had entered a stubborn contest with Nalan Xuan: if Nalan Xuan refused to make a sound, then Feng Xuanyi would say nothing either. After a long while, apparently unable to tolerate either Nalan Xuan’s silent endurance or the gruesome sight of the wound any longer, Feng Xuanyi abruptly turned his head away. Only then did he notice the guard captain who had saved Nalan Xuan at the most critical moment but had remained kneeling in the hall ever since, awaiting punishment for failing to protect his master properly. At last Feng Xuanyi found somewhere to vent his rage. Without another thought, he strode over and kicked the man to the floor.
“You useless waste! What do we feed men like you for every day? An assassin can wander through the inner palace as freely as though no one lives here, enter Moon-Embracing Palace without making a sound, and then escape completely unharmed, while you fail to keep so much as his shadow behind! What use are any of you?”
The kick was far from light. Feng Xuanyi might ordinarily appear like a pampered man who did nothing but amuse himself, but only he knew how much martial training he had practiced in private or how deep his foundations truly ran. In his anger, he had held nothing back. The blow carried formidable internal force. The guard captain had assumed it would merely be a kick that he could brace himself against and endure. He had not expected it to nearly cost him half his life.
Perhaps intentionally, perhaps not, Feng Xuanyi’s foot struck his left shoulder—the very same place where Nalan Xuan had been wounded. The captain toppled sideways. His breath stopped, darkness flooded his vision, and it felt as though an immense boulder had crashed down upon his chest. A piercing dull pain followed, then sweetness surged into his throat. He spat out a mouthful of blood with such force that it sprayed across the floor.
His entire body felt as though it had been broken apart. His head rang and swam, the world tilting so violently beneath him that he could scarcely stand. Yet instinct for survival and the absolute hierarchy between ruler and subject made one thing painfully clear: even if he had to crawl, he had to return to his place and kneel respectfully. Even if Feng Xuanyi kicked him again. Even if the emperor beat him to death on the spot. He could only accept it.
Staggering and half crawling, the captain managed to kneel once more without making a sound. He was shocked that the emperor possessed such internal strength, but as his muddled mind gradually cleared, he realized Feng Xuanyi had actually shown mercy. Had the force been even slightly greater—or had the kick landed upon his chest rather than his shoulder—he would already have been dead.
“Thank you for Your Majesty’s mercy.” The moment he opened his mouth, another mouthful of blood spilled out.
That kick seemed to restore some measure of Feng Xuanyi’s reason and composure. His expression remained dark and severe, as though another eruption might come at any moment, but he no longer radiated quite the same uncontrolled fury as before.
While everything on that side of the room had unfolded with shocking suddenness, Imperial Physician Liu’s hands had remained swift and steady. By the time Feng Xuanyi turned back to examine Nalan Xuan, more than half the treatment was already complete. A thick layer of premium wound powder had been applied to the injury, while imperial tribute healing ointment had been spread evenly across several superficial scrapes. Xiao Dezi hurried back and forth, passing bandages and scissors, wiping the sweat from his master’s forehead at appropriate moments, and assisting Imperial Physician Liu without the slightest delay. If not for the basin of clean water brought in earlier now having turned completely red with blood, and for Nalan Xuan’s complexion having gone from merely white to deathly pale, no one observing the quiet efficiency of the scene would have guessed that he had suffered an injury severe enough to leave a hole through his shoulder.
Nalan Xuan’s stubborn silence once again grated against Feng Xuanyi’s nerves, which had only just been soothed somewhat by venting his anger. Looking as though he wanted to pry Nalan Xuan’s mouth open by force, Feng Xuanyi stormed over and dropped heavily onto the seat at Nalan Xuan’s right. His eyes fell upon Nalan Xuan’s right hand, resting on his thigh yet clenched so tightly that even his knuckles had turned blue-white. Assuming it was because of the pain, Feng Xuanyi immediately felt his temper rising all over again. Yet remembering that the other man was injured, he forced himself to soften his voice. “If it hurts, say so. What good does enduring it do? No one told you that you had to keep it bottled up.”
He reached out and covered Nalan Xuan’s clenched right hand with his own. His large, warm palm enclosed that cold, damp fist, heat steadily passing through the back of Nalan Xuan’s hand. A tenderness unknown to almost anyone else revealed itself through the emperor’s words, gestures, and even tiny unconscious movements. Every servant in the room saw it. Some were envious, some delighted, while others—like Mo Yan—looked on with complicated expressions and silent sighs. Any other consort might have been moved beyond measure by such treatment, enough to pledge complete devotion and willingly sacrifice everything for the emperor. Yet not even the slightest trace of warmth reached Nalan Xuan’s heart.