LBLCPCB C22

by berry

Chapter 22

Zhu Song could not withstand the sudden shock, the drug surged through him, and he collapsed in a faint.

By the time he awoke, the sun was already high. His temples pounded, his head blank. He remembered nothing of last night—which was precisely why Zhu Song rarely consumed alcohol. Once drunk, his memory always shattered into nothing.

Rubbing his temples, he forced himself to recall. He remembered only this: Yi Kangning, that wretch, had not only fed him peppers but forced white spirits on him. He had gotten drunk, and Yi then had the nerve to try to “escort him back to chambers.” He had resisted, so he went to look for Zhu Lingye instead.

He looked around now—this was not Lingye’s room. More like a storage chamber.

Stepping outside, he caught a nearby guard. “Who resides in this room?”

The man blinked, glancing back. “No one, sir. It’s a storeroom.” He stared oddly at Zhu’s lips.

Zhu felt a sting there and asked, “What’s wrong with my mouth?”

The guard answered honestly: “Swollen.”

“Tsck.” Zhu’s heart burned with fury. Yi Kangning, that old villain—only such petty tricks did he know. Chili peppers! How vile.

When I get hold of him, I’ll cleave him twice at least.

With curses whispered to himself, he felt lighter and strode toward the main hall. Passing a closed room, he paused. From within, Yi Kangning’s voice, babbling in delirium.

“…Nothing happened? Impossible…”

“…He was like that, how could nothing have happened? He may be weak, but fine‑looking—gods above, if you attached yourself to him you’d never want again.”

“…And you let riches fall into your hand without clutching them?!”

Zhu Song stood there, half amused at the nonsense, not fathoming what Yi raved about. No matter—it was chance for mischief. He called lazily from outside:

“Well well, Yi‑daren so spirited today. Must mean the disaster silver’s been recovered.”

Instant silence within. Zhu smiled and went on his way.

He had barely reached the front hall when a runner reported: “My lord. At the gates kneels a woman, saying her nephew lies gravely ill. She has begged for two hours.”

Zhu raised brows. “Bring her in.”

Soon, a woman in white skirts entered. A paper flower pinned her hair. Frail, trembling, pitiful—yet lovely. Cradled in her arms was a small child, two, maybe three years old, eyes closed, cheeks crimson with fever.

“Has Lingye returned yet?” Zhu asked.

“Not yet.”

“And physicians?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Fetch one.”

“Yes.”

As the runner departed, the woman dropped weeping to her knees. “Boundless thanks for your mercy, my lord!”

Zhu lifted a hand, half in dismissal. “Rise. A child so small cannot withstand wind and rain. My heart is troubled to see it.”

Tears glistened. “The people of Jizhou are blessed to have you here.”

“Rise.”

She rose, but stumbled, near dropping the babe. Fearing the child’s fall, Zhu instinctively steadied her. She collapsed against him, face flushing. He frowned, pushed her upright, coughing lightly. “Careful—don’t drop the child.”

Her head tilted down shyly, cheeks pink. “Yes, my lord.”

Something felt wrong. Zhu summoned an officer. “Escort this woman to the physicians.”

Before leaving she murmured, “My name is Xue Cainíng.”

Zhu inclined his head, then left. At the door he met Lingye returning.

“Brother. I’ve summoned seventy or eighty Xu‑hall doctors to Jizhou.”

“Plenty,” Zhu replied briskly. Together, they organized them, dividing by districts. Refugees cooperated, order maintained.

That evening Zhu retreated to the office, combing through boxes of materials on the construction of the levee. Candlelight flickered. A knock rapped.

“Enter,” Zhu called.

Wind fluttered flames as Xue Cainíng entered, carrying a plate of lotus‑flower pastries. Grace soft as verse, eyes full of longing.

She set it gently before him. “I can offer nothing but plain cakes. Please, do not disdain them.”

Zhu nodded curtly. “Thank you. How is the child?”

“Better since acupuncture, though still unconscious. It will take time.”

“Go, tend him.”

She bowed, turned away—but lingered at the door, eyes burning upon him till he looked up. “What else?”

She started, flustered, shook her head, fled.

Zhu sighed. Later, as he left for bed, sleep heavy upon him, he noticed the pastries—took one. Rain lashed outside, drenching him on the way to his quarters.

Pushing the door, a wave of strong fragrance engulfed him. Fruity, yet strange. His brows knit at once. Yi Kangning again.

He meant to turn back—but soft hands seized his wrists. Painted nails cold as ice slid across his skin, soothing the fever that suddenly blazed through him. Dragged inside, the scent thicker, head spinning. Voices, silken:

“My lord… come…”

“Joy awaits, my lord…”

Delicate whispers, winding as creepers into his ears. His blood surged. Yet though not a saint, he knew a trap. To fall now meant ridicule from Gu Huaiyu to his dying day.

Slim fingers slipped beneath his robe. Zhu drew cold steel, slashing blindly. Darkness hid the result—perhaps fingers spilled blood, perhaps not. Screams tore out, a flock of geese honking at once. The chamber filled with chaos before they scattered panicked, leaving him alone.

Clutching the table, drenched in sweat, he rasped a single word: “Out.”

And silence returned.

But a moment later, the door creaked. A candle lifted high. Xue Cainíng again, rainwater on her cheeks gleaming. “My lord… let me help you.”

Zhu’s sword lashed toward her instantly. “Out.”

Tears brimmed. She shook her head fiercely, stepping close, clasping his hand. “I am willing. From the first moment I saw you, my heart was yours. Please—let me serve you.”

Steel glinted as he rammed the blade into her shoulder. Blood welled. “Dare to ensnare an imperial envoy? How many lives have you left?”

Her eyes widened, breath trembling: “I did not—”

“Out,” Zhu repeated, ripping the sword free, scarlet dripping. “Leave now, or die.”

She bit her lip, fear breaking resolve, and fled.

At the threshold, waiting, Yi Kangning and Duan Zhenghong glared upon her with fury. She wept, but Duan gathered her at once to his arms, anger softening into lust. He embraced her, ignoring her wound.

Yi scowled venomously. Enough of failed stratagems. Only one final bait remained—

The man whose beauty outshone the world.

Footnote

Lotus‑flower pastry (荷花酥) — an intricate Chinese pastry, symbolic of refinement and feminine skill. Here used as a insinuating form of “home‑made affection.”
Painted red nails (豆蔻染甲) — aesthetic of courtesans or concubines, infused with symbolic seduction.
“Reborn Parents” (再生父母) — refugees earlier hailed Zhu as this; contrast: now corrupt officials try to sully and trap him with false intimacy.