That single needle was lodged right beside the acupoint, and the poison master rushed anxiously to retrieve it, but Ziqing, drawing on some unknown reserve of strength, suddenly broke free of Imperial Physician Gu and kicked out viciously at him with her left foot.

That kick used up the last of her strength entirely. She had lost all control of herself, and with a heavy thud, she crumpled to the floor—the moment she fell, her hand shot straight toward that needle.

For an instant, the poison master went blank with shock. If she managed to seize that final needle, what on earth would the consequences be?

It wasn’t just the poison master—Imperial Physician Gu and Yingzi were equally stunned, their hearts skipping a beat as they scrambled forward together to snatch it away. But they were no match for Ziqing’s speed—she had already pulled the needle free.

For a moment, everyone froze, utterly at a loss for what to do.

Should they fight her for it?

Could they even win that fight?

Could they win it without hurting her?

What should they do?

Should they try to reason with her?

Could reasoning even work? Han Ziqing herself couldn’t reason with herself—how could any of them?

But just as everyone stood frozen, uncertain, something unexpected happened—Ziqing, gritting her teeth tightly, slowly raised her hand.

What was she doing?

To everyone’s astonishment, she reached her hand out slowly toward the poison master. Though it wavered, hesitated once or twice, in the end she extended it fully, gripping the needle tightly, holding it out right in front of him.

Was she… was she handing the needle over to him?

No one dared to speak, barely dared to breathe too loudly. The Princess Consort of Prince Yao’s household was, by now, utterly wretched—her face deathly pale, her features twisted, her long hair a tangled mess, her whole body drenched in sweat.

Her brows, her nose, everything on her face was contorted together, her jaw clenched so tight her whole face trembled and spasmed—as unsightly as could be.

Her arm was stretched out ramrod straight, her fist clenched tightly around the needle.

The poison master didn’t dare even breathe too hard, tense with fear. That fist could snap open in an instant—and it could just as easily come crashing down onto his skull in that very same instant.

The choice rested entirely with the Princess Consort. Such an overwhelming addiction, such terrifying pain in her leg—none of it had been fully suppressed even now.

Should he trust her?

The poison master hesitated. But when he looked into Ziqing’s eyes—bloodshot, clouded, murky—despite everything, they still shone with an unmistakable glimmer of resolve.

The poison master found himself, unconsciously, cheering for this woman in his heart. Come on!

He had witnessed all manner of addictions before, but this was the first time he had ever seen one like this—and the first time he had ever witnessed a woman so unyieldingly strong.

Come on, Han Ziqing!

Everyone in the room found themselves silently cheering her on, forgetting entirely to guard against the possibility that she might lose control again. In this moment, they all found themselves fervently believing she would make it through.

And on the rooftop, the two men could no longer help themselves, murmuring quietly under their breath.

“Ziqing, come on, you can do this! Hold on!”

“Little Qingqing, come on! You’re the best there is—come on!”

…

Her fist trembled. Inside, Ziqing struggled with herself, encouraging herself all the while. If the fist opened, the cure would succeed. If it came crashing down, she would have given up entirely.

The craving grew more and more monstrous, her body’s instinctive hunger for poison demanding, ruthlessly, that she bring the fist down—kill the poison master.

But her reason told her: let go, let go now, this was the very last step, and it would all be over, she would have made it through.

Locked in this standoff, the fist trembled harder and harder.

“Your Highness, please, hold on!” Yingzi couldn’t help crying out in alarm.

But Ziqing still didn’t release her grip. She wanted to—but her hand simply wasn’t hers to control anymore.

Staring at her own fist, Ziqing felt, for the first time in her life, the urge to cry.

There were many kinds of tears. There were tears carefully calculated and staged over time. And there were tears that came from being unable to hold back anymore, from pain, from grief—the most instinctive, unthinking response of all.

And she—she wanted to cry.

Powerless to the point of helplessness, so utterly at her wit’s end—that was surely why she wanted to cry.

“Han Ziqing, open your hand!”

She screamed at herself internally, raged at herself.

“Han Ziqing, do you hear me? Let go. Now. Hurry!”

“Han Ziqing, let go! Do you hear me!”

…

But it was still so hard, so unbearably hard—as if she were being asked to give up her own life.

What could she do? Such a long, drawn-out struggle, such prolonged torment—she truly, desperately wanted to cry.

This anguish was worse than the addiction itself—this uncontrollable struggle between instinct and reason, between body and mind.

At last, she clenched her jaw tight and squeezed her eyes shut.

But she never noticed that after Yingzi’s cry of alarm, everyone in the room had gone completely still. Her attention was entirely on herself—she had no way of noticing anything else.

“Qing’er, be good… come now, open your hand, it’s all right, be good, I’m here.”

Suddenly, a gentle voice reached her. Ziqing froze, startled. Was that her own voice, speaking to herself?

She could barely tell anymore, but this voice—it had clearly come from behind her.

This voice—it was so achingly familiar.

Ziqing moved abruptly to turn around, but in that very moment, the person behind her suddenly drew closer, pulling her trembling body into his embrace, one arm wrapping tightly around her waist, the other closing over her clenched fist.

In an instant, Ziqing was completely enveloped by that familiar embrace, that familiar scent, that familiar large hand—an embrace that seemed to shelter even her very soul, wrapped securely within it.

It was him!

He had woken—Jun Beiyue!

Once there was an embrace to lean into, even the strongest heart would surely crumble in an instant.

Ziqing’s whole body went limp, every ounce of tension in her suddenly giving way, her entire self collapsing into the man behind her. But in that very moment of release, the craving she’d been suppressing surged back like wildfire catching in dry grass, wild and unstoppable.

But by then, it was already too late—her fist had already been pried open, and the poison master had seized the needle, driving it swiftly into the acupoint. This time, with perfect precision.

Instantly, Ziqing’s limp body went rigid all at once, the sensation like her very soul leaving her body—in that instant, every trace of poison planted within her seemed to evaporate from every pore of her body at once, vanishing completely, entirely.

Finally, she let out a breath.

Finally, it was over. She had made it through.

She went utterly limp in Jun Beiyue’s arms, unaware that behind her, Imperial Physician Gu and Yingzi had already, quite deliberately, turned and made their way toward the door, both of them clearly shaken—they had just been thoroughly frightened by the fierce look in Jun Beiyue’s eyes.

The poison master and his assistant were even more terrified. Had they not been standing directly in front of Jun Beiyue, they might have fled already. Right now, this man’s unrivaled handsome face had darkened like the sky before a storm, utterly terrifying.

No one knew that Jun Beiyue, consumed by such towering fury just moments ago, had somehow managed to speak those gentle words to her.

Ziqing, entirely unaware of any of this, lay limp and powerless, letting Jun Beiyue lift her up in his arms. He had regained consciousness far earlier than she’d expected, but she was grateful nonetheless—that he hadn’t woken too soon.

He had helped her through in this final, crucial moment, without having witnessed too much of her humiliation, the ugliness she couldn’t even bear to face herself. He had only held her—he had never had to wield the knife against her himself.

She caught her breath, several times over, slowly steadying herself. She was so tired, more exhausted than she had ever been in her life, but she still wanted to look at him. A faint smile touched her lips as she lifted her head to look up at him—only to have that smile freeze the instant she saw his face.

He…