Chapter 19: A Midnight Visit to the Boudoir

A vast, blinding whiteness surrounded her. Shen Qianmo felt as though she were lying on a bed, with many people gathered around: Captain Yuan Lie of the Criminal Investigation Division, her assistant Xiao Ma, and colleagues from the Forensics Department—all encircling her, their faces etched with sorrow.

Had she died? Or had she been transported back yet again? If a beating could send her home, perhaps it was worth it! She struggled with all her might to open her eyes, but her efforts were futile.

Suddenly, she sensed something cool and smooth at her lips—a pill that melted instantly in her mouth. A gentle warmth spread from her chest, soothing the anxiety in her heart, calming her entire being, until her mind grew clear and lucid.

Shen Qianmo slowly opened her eyes. Moonlight, flowing like water, spilled through the latticed window. The first thing she saw was a face—cool as jade, striking in its austere beauty. She stared, momentarily stunned; this face was vaguely familiar... It was Prince Xuan!

She blinked in disbelief. Was she still dreaming? But why would she dream of him? Had the beating left her so muddled?

She blinked again, confirming that the man before her was indeed Prince Xuan and not a figment of her imagination. Frowning slightly, she asked, confusion in her voice, “Why is Your Highness here?” This was her own room, wasn’t it?

Meng Yuanheng’s cool and handsome face was darkened by displeasure. His deep eyes fixed on her, and his voice was its usual hoarse murmur: “I thought you were clever. Who would have thought you could be so foolish? Is that maid’s life truly more precious than your own?”

How did he know about the beating? And from the disapproval in his tone, was he blaming her for stepping in to defend Lvzhu? But Shen Qianmo cared nothing for the rigid hierarchies of this era. She replied calmly, “In my eyes, every life is equal—there is no distinction between noble and humble.”

“So you would rather take twenty strokes yourself than let that girl die? Don’t you know twenty strokes could very well have killed you?”

Meng Yuanheng’s fists clenched as he struggled to contain his rising anger, his teeth gritted as he spoke. He wanted nothing more than to pry open her skull and see what strange ideas were hidden inside.

In the Da Sheng dynasty, the social hierarchy was strict; slaves were the lowest of the “despised class,” considered the private property of nobles and wealthy families, denied both personal freedom and dignity, their lives wholly at the mercy of their masters or the “slave laws.” For a household to cane a few servants to death was commonplace. Naturally, Meng Yuanheng could not comprehend Shen Qianmo’s notion of “equality for all.”

This woman was an enigma: her thoughts unique, her actions eccentric, her courage unmatched, and her skill in autopsy on par with the best coroners in Da Sheng. He could not believe a sheltered noblewoman could possess such abilities. Yet for all her strangeness, she intrigued him, and he could not turn away.

“What kind of person are you, truly? How many secrets do you hide?” he murmured, half in question, half in wonder, a trace of bewilderment softening his cool features.

Shen Qianmo’s instincts told her this man surely knew she was Moxin, and the last time he had stepped in to save her was no coincidence.

She met his gaze openly, glanced at his perfectly sound legs, and said, “Your Highness seems to have secrets of your own.”

A man who needed a wheelchair by day could move freely at night, appearing and disappearing at will. Meng Yuanheng was the real marvel.

He was silent for a moment, then the corners of his mouth lifted in a self-mocking smile, his stern expression relaxing slightly. “Perhaps that’s only fair.”

He placed a delicate white porcelain vial by her bedside. “This medicine will help your injuries. Take one pill a day—don’t forget.”

Before she could respond, he turned and, with a swift movement, leapt out the window. In a few bounds, he vanished beyond the courtyard wall.

Shen Qianmo stared in shock. Was this agile figure truly the same man who sat in a wheelchair by day? Had she not seen it herself, she would never have believed it.

She struggled to sit up, leaning against the headboard, and picked up the small vial he had left. Inside were several pills—the same type, she supposed, as the one she had been given in her unconscious state. The medicine was indeed effective; she already felt well enough to sit up.

At that moment, she heard the sound of Madam Xu’s footsteps approaching. Shen Qianmo realized at once why Meng Yuanheng had departed so hastily—he must have heard Madam Xu coming. Could it be that the infamous crippled prince was, in truth, a hidden master of martial arts?

“You’re awake, miss!” Madam Xu cried with delight as she entered, seeing Shen Qianmo already sitting up in bed.

Shen Qianmo nodded, then remembered that Lvzhu had also been beaten. “How is Lvzhu? Is she all right?”

Madam Xu wiped her eyes. “That poor girl is badly hurt—she’s burning with fever even now.”

“Has the physician come to see her?” A fever could be serious; it must be treated promptly.

“This morning, the physician looked in on her after seeing you, but because she is only a servant, he barely examined her and prescribed a few simple remedies. They’ve had little effect,” Madam Xu replied truthfully. For a servant, the fact that the physician even came was only because of the young lady’s influence.

Shen Qianmo could not accept the disregard for human life so common in this era. She told Madam Xu, “Tell the physician these are my orders: he must do everything in his power for Lvzhu. If anything happens to her, he need not remain in the household.”

They say a physician’s heart should be compassionate, that in the healer’s eyes there should be no distinction between high and low. For her, every body was equal, no matter who they once were.

Meng Yuanheng vaulted over the Shen family’s courtyard wall and, as if summoned by shadow, his chief guard, Chang Dong, appeared at his side. Chang Dong’s face was as impassive as ever, but his tone held a trace of feeling: “Master, this is not a good idea.”

Meng Yuanheng ignored him, striding toward a carriage waiting by the roadside. He lifted the curtain and slipped inside, giving a terse order as he did: “Fetch Master Yun.”

Chang Dong watched the receding carriage, then looked up at the sky. What time was it—nearly the third watch? Was it really wise to disturb Master Yun from his nightly revels? But the master’s command could not be disobeyed. Caught between duty and sympathy, Chang Dong hesitated for a moment, but duty won out. If his master was angered, the consequences would be dire. As for Master Yun, he would simply have to tread carefully in the future to avoid retribution.

Inside the carriage, Meng Yuanheng reclined with his eyes closed, exuding an air of languid seduction. Only he knew the agony that wracked his body. Forcing his inner energy to move, using lightness skill—his legs now felt as if pierced by a thousand silver needles, the pain excruciating. But he had long since grown used to pain; for seven years, had there been a single day without it?

Yet tonight, seeing Shen Qianmo unconscious, he realized that the pain in his body was nothing compared to the ache in his heart. His hand still remembered the sensation of brushing the scar on her face—the first time he had truly felt its roughness. To think of her frail body enduring twenty strokes made his heart twist in anguish.

Anyone who dared harm what was his would pay the price for his wrath.