Why did Feng Jiu dare to actually undress in front of the Ninth Prince? It was because, beneath her sleep-garment, she also wore a layer of false skin.
This was a layer of fabricated skin that had taken over a month of painstaking effort to perfect, made from medicine and animal hide—once applied to a person’s body, it looked no different from real human skin.
She, Qiao Mu, and Xiao Yingtao each had their own such skin-garment. They didn’t wear them under normal circumstances, only putting them on at specific times when they sensed there might be danger.
Tonight, Feng Jiu herself didn’t know why, but after seeing the Ninth Prince during the day, she had felt, after bathing that night, that she should put it on.
She couldn’t say exactly why—she had simply felt she should. She hadn’t expected that tonight it would actually come in handy.
This skin-garment, covering from the arms to the torso in one seamless piece, might not reveal any flaw even in broad daylight, let alone on a pitch-dark night lit only by candlelight.
She simply hadn’t expected that, upon seeing her “male body,” the Ninth Imperial Uncle would become so distressed as to vomit blood.
Gathering her clothes closed in one motion and tying her sash, she quickly walked over and took hold of Zhan Qingcheng’s wrist.
After a moment, she said, “Ninth Prince, you’ve been overexerting yourself lately. Your breath and qi are in disorder, and after such great damage to your vital energy, you haven’t rested properly to recover. Your health is not good at all.”
He said nothing, only stared coldly at her face—a face utterly unfamiliar to him, and yet one in which no flaw could be detected.
Just like her body—it was unmistakably a man’s body!
His gaze was extremely cold, as cold as if it had been quenched in ice.
Being stared at like this made Feng Jiu’s scalp prickle. To claim she wasn’t nervous, being watched so closely, would be a lie—otherwise, cold sweat wouldn’t have beaded on her temple once again.
Right now she was clearly, plainly, a man—at this close distance, he ought to be able to see that this face of hers was real too. Why was he still staring at her without letting up?
Feng Jiu didn’t dare think too much on it. She released Zhan Qingcheng’s wrist, then looked again at the blood at the corner of his mouth. She tried to hold back, but in the end couldn’t help herself—she pulled a brocade cloth from somewhere and wiped the trace of blood from the corner of his lips.
“Your Highness, if you don’t mind, would you let me prescribe you a remedy?”
How had his body deteriorated to such a state? Insufficient blood and qi, vital energy gravely depleted, the heart meridian damaged, his entire body’s essence drained—just like a machine that had run for too long without rest, every component starting to fail.
Yet he still appeared so robust and commanding, not in the least like someone with a problem.
This man—clearly already worn to exhaustion like this—had been forcing himself to hold up in front of others all along.
“Your Highness, exactly… how long has it been since you last properly rested?”
He still said nothing, only watching her coldly.
Well, never mind—the Ninth Imperial Uncle had never been a man of many words; in most situations, he simply disliked speaking at all.
“Let me go brew you a remedy, would that do?” She suspected that even if she wrote out a prescription, he wouldn’t take it back with him, much less have someone fetch the herbs and decoct them for him.
“I’ll go and be back in no time, at most half an hour… no, the time it takes two sticks of incense to burn, all right?”
He still didn’t make a sound. Feeling helpless, Feng Jiu took an outer robe down from the screen, threw it on, and went straight out the door to the pharmacy.
The east and west wings were separate; although everyone usually ate together, each wing had its own kitchen.
Feng Jiu simply hadn’t expected that, just as she’d taken the herbs and begun brewing them in the kitchen, that black-clad figure would walk in through the door.
He wore robes of deep black, a color he hadn’t favored much in the past—he had always preferred pure white.
Now, this set of black robes actually looked quite striking—wild, alluring, displaying his fine physique to the fullest.
The only thing that left her feeling a little uneasy was that he looked even more solitary and coldly aloof now.
“Aren’t you resting in your room, Your Highness?” Feng Jiu asked, while brewing the medicine, stealing a glance back at him, fearing this man might suddenly do something again.
With the things the Ninth Imperial Uncle did, who could ever guess his thoughts? No one knew what shocking thing he might do next.
Zhan Qingcheng did nothing at all, simply standing behind her, staring blankly at her back.
Those cold, detached eyes still carried little warmth, but Feng Jiu noticed that, while gazing at her back, his eyes seemed to have softened a fair amount—at least, not as cold as before.
Did he like watching her figure because it resembled someone’s so closely?
It had already been half a year. The Ninth Imperial Uncle… had never given up, had he?
Feng Jiu felt a bit helpless—brewing medicine wasn’t something done in a brief moment; saying it would take two sticks of incense earlier had already been a stretch.
Of course the medicine needed to simmer longer for the broth to grow more concentrated and the effect to be better.
She searched around the kitchen and finally found a stool, which she carried over and set in front of him. Feng Jiu said gently, “Your Highness, you really have been overexerting yourself. If possible, please rest more.”
This silent gourd of a man still said nothing, but he did at least comply, sitting down on the stool she had brought over.
Only, just as he sat down, a sudden gurgling sound rang out.
Feng Jiu froze, lowering her gaze to the strikingly handsome man who had just sat down. That gurgling sound… had it come from his stomach?
“Your Highness… have you had dinner?” Oh no—at this hour, what was she even asking about dinner for? It was already too late even for a midnight snack!
This time, Zhan Qingcheng finally reacted—though he still pressed his lips together without speaking, he at least shook his head.
He hadn’t even eaten dinner! How on earth was this man living his days?
Feng Jiu felt a flash of anger—was it because he constantly neglected himself like this that his health had deteriorated to such a state?
The questions in her heart were, of course, not something the Ninth Prince would answer. He simply kept staring at her body, utterly absorbed, as if he hadn’t even heard whatever she said afterward.
Honestly… that foolish, blank expression of his—why was it so captivating?
Feng Jiu quickly pulled her gaze away. Food and desire were both human nature, but it was the dead of night, and the two of them were both supposedly men—she absolutely could not start having indecent thoughts about the Ninth Imperial Uncle.
She turned and walked to the stove, and however she managed it, the fire was soon blazing.
Only after lighting the fire did she scrub the pot, add water, wash vegetables, and put in the noodles—in short, in less time than it took a stick of incense to burn, a bowl of fragrant noodles had been placed before Zhan Qingcheng.
He lowered his head and stared at the bowl of noodles still steaming with heat. Such a tall, cold, composed man—and yet because of this one bowl of noodles, his nose stung with emotion.
Feng Jiu’s heart gave a sudden lurch; she nearly choked up and shed tears herself at the Ninth Imperial Uncle’s sudden wave of sorrow and loss.
It truly was… with such a handsome man right in front of her, it was so hard to keep her own emotions in check. When he was sad, she felt as if she might cry along with him—this sensation of being swept along by his feelings was honestly frightening!
But why would the Ninth Imperial Uncle grow sad over a mere bowl of noodles—was it… that he’d been reminded of some memory from the past again?
But did he even realize that, with looks as breathtaking as his, the slightest hint of sorrow or melancholy was enough to drive women wild over him?