The words struck like a sudden thunderclap, shattering the fragile quiet of the manor.
For a moment, Bai Wan’s mind went entirely blank. She hurried forward, her embroidered silk skirt brushing against the threshold with a frantic rustle. Just as she reached the inner chamber, Mo Xia emerged, carrying a heavy copper basin in both hands. The water inside was no longer clear; it was thick with blood, dark and glistening beneath the flickering lamplight. A white handkerchief draped over the rim was soaked through, the red blooming across the fabric like a violent peony in full, macabre blossom.
The sight stabbed into Bai Wan’s eyes. Her pupils contracted sharply, and her legs gave way. She leaned heavily against the carved rosewood doorframe, her lips trembling.
“How… how could this be…”
Was it because of her? Had her clumsy attempt to turn him earlier truly caused this?
Inside the room, chaos reigned. Huifang [personal attendant to the Virtuous Consort] stood rigidly, her aged face pale with fury. She pointed a shaking finger toward the imperial physician.
“He has been unconscious for more than half a month! How could he suddenly vomit blood?” Her voice rose, sharp and accusing. “Imperial Physician Li [Taiyi Li – a court-appointed physician of the Imperial Medical Bureau], did you harm him—or is someone plotting against His Highness?!”
Imperial Physician Li trembled in his official robes [dark blue court attire embroidered with rank badges indicating his bureaucratic position]. Sweat dotted his brow. “Mama Huifang, please be at ease,” he stammered. “His Highness’s vomiting blood… is not a bad sign—”
Huifang nearly choked on his words. “Are you mad, or am I?!” She gestured wildly toward the dark stains upon the floor. “Look at this! And you dare call it a good sign?”
Imperial Physician Li swallowed and forced himself to explain. “There were accumulated blood clots within His Highness’s chest—difficult to expel. Now, for reasons unclear, the stagnant blood has drained. The meridians are clearing. This… is beneficial.”
The room fell into a heavy silence. Huifang’s eyes darkened as she turned toward the unconscious figure upon the marriage bed. Prince Ning—Ning Wang [a first-rank imperial prince, addressed as Wangye by subordinates]—lay pale against the crimson bedding, his chest rising and falling in a faint, rhythmic ghost of life.
After a long pause, Huifang exhaled slowly. “If Her Majesty were present today…” she said, referring to the Virtuous Consort, “I fear your explanations would not suffice.”
The imperial physicians bowed repeatedly, nearly folding themselves in half. “We will exert our utmost effort.”
As they retreated, Huifang brushed past Bai Wan. Her gaze swept over the young Princess Consort. “I will report today’s matter truthfully to Her Majesty,” she said coldly. “All of you—conduct yourselves carefully.”
The physicians fled as though escaping a den of bandits. Silence slowly returned to the chamber.
Bai Wan stepped quietly inside. Mo Xia was already by the bedside, preparing a small porcelain cup of medicinal decoction. Bai Wan glanced at it; less than one-tenth had been swallowed. Her heart sank. If he could not even ingest medicine, how would he ever awaken?
As Mo Xia prepared to change the dressing, Bai Wan instinctively stepped forward.
“If Princess Consort fears the sight, you may turn away,” Mo Xia said.
Bai Wan shook her head. “If I do not see, how can I understand his condition?”
Mo Xia lifted her eyes. She saw that Bai Wan’s eyes were faintly red, her anxiety and urgency laid bare. Her heart softened slightly. If the girl wished to look, then let her look. She would not offer comfort if she fainted.
Layer by layer, the gauze was removed. The innermost cloth had adhered to the flesh, darkened with dried blood. When peeled away, the wound beneath revealed itself—raw, jagged, and horrifying. The metallic scent of blood thickened the air.
Bai Wan’s breath caught. She turned her face away for a moment, fighting nausea, but forced herself to look again. This was a wound from close combat, the edges irregular and deep. But the discoloration of the surrounding skin told her a darker story.
Poison. The blade had been poisoned.
She inhaled sharply. Before she could speak, Mo Xia sighed heavily. “So many imperial physicians have been consulted. Silver poured like water. Yet we still cannot find the root.”
Bai Wan hesitated. “What do you mean… cannot find the root? Is it some rare affliction?”
Mo Xia paused, then shook her head. “This servant does not know.”
After finishing the dressing, Mo Xia withdrew. Bai Wan wasted no time. She sat upon the bed’s edge and gently took Prince Ning’s wrist in her hand. His skin was cool. She lowered her gaze, focusing. The pulse was rapid and forceful—like a torrent bursting through a mountain gorge. Excess heat. Toxicity. It was the pulse of a fresh poisoning.
Her brows knitted. More than a month had passed since his injury. The pulse should not still resemble fresh poisoning… unless the toxin had been administered recently.
How? Through the wound? Food? Who could approach him so closely? Someone within the manor? Or someone from the Palace? A chill crept up her spine. Her instinct screamed at her to stop, but her heart as a healer would not allow it.
She grew paler by the moment, wholly absorbed in the pulse beneath her fingertips. Thus, she did not hear the soft footsteps approaching from behind the sandalwood screen.
A young man in white stood there. His robes were plain yet elegant [white scholar-style robes often worn by physicians or literati], his bearing calm.
Bai Wan felt cold from head to toe. She rose slowly, slipping her hand into her sleeve and gripping a hidden hairpin.
The man inclined his head. “I am Fu Guanchen,” he said evenly. “Forgive the intrusion.”
“This is His Highness’s bedchamber,” her voice trembled. “How dare you trespass? Leave at once!”
Fu Guanchen did not retreat. He stepped forward, his eyes unfathomable as still water at midnight. Bai Wan swung the hairpin before her defensively. “Guards—!”
His gaze flicked to the hairpin. “Princess Consort was holding His Highness’s hand just now?” he asked quietly. “For what purpose?”
Her wrist trembled. “I… his hand was cold. I was warming it.”
“Is that so?”
He moved past her with effortless ease to the bridal bed. Prince Ning’s arm hung partially off the bed—the arm she had flung aside in her panic. The back of his hand bore a faint redness from striking the wood.
“I did not mean to…” she whispered miserably.
Fu Guanchen sat and placed two fingers upon the Prince’s pulse. Bai Wan stared. “You… are a physician?”
“A military doctor,” he replied.
Relief flooded her. Of course—no assassin would enter so openly. She tucked away her hairpin. “Please, Young Master, rest a moment. I will fetch someone…” and she fled the room.
After her footsteps faded, Fu Guanchen’s brows furrowed. He lowered the Prince’s hand, then paused. He bent slightly and inhaled near the wrist. A faint trace of feminine fragrance lingered there. Curiously, none clung to the fingers—only the wrist bore signs of prolonged contact. His gaze darkened thoughtfully.
Meanwhile, in the small kitchen courtyard, Mo Xia fanned the medicine stove. “She seems kind,” she murmured to Chi Jun. “Her eyes are clear. I feel uneasy treating her with such suspicion.”
Chi Jun [personal guard to Prince Ning] leaned against a pillar, his sword at his waist. He snorted. “What are you worried about? It was only a sleeping draft, not poison. If she truly died, it would save trouble.”
Mo Xia frowned. “You accuse her of being a spy without proof. If His Highness learns of this, he will punish you.”
Chi Jun stiffened. “She never leaves his side. It is inconvenient. Better to kill the innocent than let the guilty go. What if she learns the truth of his condition?”
A shadow fell across the doorway. Fu Guanchen entered. “I have seen him,” he said. “The blood is not grave.”
He looked at the simmering pot. “This medicine?”
“For the Princess Consort,” Chi Jun admitted. “If His Highness is stable, perhaps we need not—”
“Send it,” Fu Guanchen said quietly. “Observe her reaction.”
That evening, they gathered again. “She drank it?” Chi Jun whispered.
“All of it,” Mo Xia confirmed, holding up the empty bowl. “I said it would calm her. She did not question.”
Fu Guanchen took the bowl and inhaled. The scent of a powerful sedative was unmistakable to anyone versed in medicine. If she truly possessed medical knowledge, how could she fail to notice?
His eyes narrowed toward the warm pavilion window. Could he have misjudged her?
I was originally planning to carry her to the couch, but she said she was tired of standing and went to lie down in the warm pavilion before taking her medicine.” Mo Xia snatched back the bowl and took it to be washed, her voice fading into the distance with her footsteps, “What a pity I didn’t get to carry the beauty…”
Fu Guanchen: “…”
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