To what extent could Zhang Zhixu’s life be described as extravagant?

Chen Baoxiang had previously thought that storytellers were prone to exaggeration — claiming that certain people would eat no meat unless it was freshly slaughtered, wear no clothing unless it was Snow Brocade, and set foot on no ground unless it was white marble. Who could possibly live so pampered a life?

But after observing him these past days, Chen Baoxiang felt that those storytellers had actually gone easy on the truth, perhaps out of consideration for their poorer listeners — they hadn’t told the half of it.

Zhang Zhixu didn’t merely refuse meat that wasn’t freshly slaughtered — everything that passed his lips had to be a rare breed, specially raised and specially supplied, and only the choicest cuts at that. To get him to eat even a few more bites, one needed a culinary skill of the highest order.

Snow Brocade was the cheapest fabric Zhang Zhixu had ever worn. What he more commonly dressed in was tribute satin worth ten times the price of Snow Brocade — fabric with a texture like clouds, draping with extraordinary smoothness, without a single crease.

The white marble, as it turned out, was just a rumor. Zhang Zhixu did occasionally walk the streets himself.

But the shoes he wore — Cloud Satin uppers with lambskin soles — after a single pass through filthy ground, had to be replaced with a fresh pair the moment he boarded the carriage.

Chen Baoxiang’s gaze toward Zhang Zhixu gradually shifted from admiration to bewilderment. “Does it really have to be this wasteful?”

“Wasteful?” Zhang Zhixu didn’t quite understand. “Isn’t this just normal expenditure?”

“What’s normal about it?” Chen Baoxiang, her body now halfway recovered, pointed at the large heap of leftovers on the table. “Was this how we used to eat?”

Zhang Zhixu paused.

He suddenly thought of those two great buckets of mixed-meat broth and the pitch-dark sewers.

If those poor and suffering common people could have had a table spread like this, they would not have left behind even a drop of soup.

Pressing his lips together slightly, Zhang Zhixu picked up his silver chopsticks again.

He ate without any enjoyment whatsoever, as though chewing on wax — it was painful just to watch. Yet that side profile of his was truly beautiful — the lines flowing with graceful rise and fall, his lashes catching the lamplight in fine, soft glimmers.

Chen Baoxiang watched him finish a large bowl of meat and then drain an entire bowl of soup. She had just been about to offer him a pleased compliment when she saw the immortal’s expression suddenly change.

“Master?” Jiuquan stepped forward, intending to support him.

Zhang Zhixu pushed him aside, shook his head, and with composed dignity strode quickly out of the room.

Chen Baoxiang couldn’t yet get out of bed, and could only stare blankly. “What’s the matter?”

Jiuquan waved his hands in a panic, grabbed a cloth and a teacup, and rushed out after him. Ningsu, who had been standing nearby, lowered his voice to answer her: “Our master has had a poor appetite and a weak constitution since childhood. Eating even a little too much tends to make him fall ill.”

“What?” Chen Baoxiang was stunned. “There are people in this world who can fall ill from eating too much?”

“It’s not just food. If the fabric of his clothing is of poor quality, he breaks out in a rash all over his body. If he bathes too infrequently, he runs a high fever. And if he overexerts himself, he’ll be coughing for more than half a month.” Ningsu lowered his gaze. “Our master doesn’t want to be this way either.”

How pitiful that sounded. The immortal had leapt from her body — sturdy as a mule — into this sickly one. Hadn’t he suffered terribly?

Chen Baoxiang furrowed her brows and gazed anxiously toward the door.

It was quite some time before the immortal returned.

From the look of his clothing, it was clear he had already changed, and his body still carried a faint, clean fragrance from bathing.

Chen Baoxiang fell silent watching him, not even daring to breathe too loudly.

Zhang Zhixu glanced at her and chuckled with mild disdain. “What are you so flustered about? It’s not as though I’m blaming you.”

Then he turned his head to address Jiuquan: “From now on, prepare fewer dishes. I can’t eat much to begin with.”

“Yes.”

After dinner, Zhang Zhixu began reviewing official documents.

Chen Baoxiang watched him — the immortal didn’t seem to have any desire to sleep at all. From the first lighting of the lamp to the deep of midnight, he could maintain a single posture and write without cease.

The characters laid down by that vermillion brush were bold and forceful, yet the one wielding it looked like a slip of paper — when the wind blew, his wide sleeves billowed, as though he might catch the breeze and float away.

Frightened, she hurriedly used a paperweight to pin down the corner of his robe.

Zhang Zhixu glanced sideways at her, his mind seemingly still immersed in the documents, his gaze stern and cold — but upon meeting her face, that sternness dissolved helplessly. “What are you doing?”

“I’m afraid you’ll get blown away by the wind,” Chen Baoxiang said, wrinkling her nose. “This body of yours is far too fragile.”

“I’m not quite as frail as all that,” he said, shaking his head.

“Stop pretending to be strong.” Chen Baoxiang muttered and grumbled as she fetched another paperweight and pressed it down. “I used to think someone like Pei Ruheng was already delicate as a willow, but it turns out the Second Young Master Zhang is the one who’s truly too frail for this world. No wonder he’s approaching twenty with no marriage prospects — who would marry into a life of tending to a bedridden husband?”

Zhang Zhixu: “……”

The ignorance of ordinary people gave rise to much reckless speech. One could not take issue with all of it.

He drew a deep breath, intending to compose himself and continue writing.

But the more he thought about it after setting brush to paper, the more irritated he became. Even when ill, he was absolutely not weak — the physique he had built through years of martial training was nothing like that embroidered pillow Pei Ruheng.

Chen Baoxiang was looking left and right, wondering whether she should fetch something else to weigh down the hem of his robe, when the figure behind the writing desk abruptly stood up.

“You should return to your room and sleep,” he said.

“Looking at the hour, it is about time.” She nodded and reached out to push the wooden wheelchair beneath her.

But before she had even managed to push it, she was suddenly swept up, lifted horizontally into the air. The blanket draped across her legs fluttered upward, then settled back down in place.

Chen Baoxiang let out a startled cry and instinctively reached out to wrap her arms around his neck, looking first at herself and then at him. “Jiuquan specifically gave me the wheeled conveyance — I can get back on my own.”

“It’s nothing. A convenient matter along the way.” Zhang Zhixu said it with total ease, carrying her out as he walked.

His arms held steady beneath her back and the bend of her knees. Whether crossing thresholds or descending steps, there was not a single pause or sign of strain. He even seemed to find the distance between the study and her room too short, and deliberately took a longer route — past the flower garden, the well, the rear courtyard, and the covered corridor — before conveniently stopping by the medicine room to collect the medicine she would need the following day.

Chen Baoxiang stared in slack-jawed astonishment, then immediately regretted her earlier words. “I was wrong. This body of yours is quite impressive.”

“Oh, is that so?” Zhang Zhixu looked straight ahead with an expressionless face. “And yet it’s probably still a step below Pei Ruheng.”

“It’s not that far off.”

The immortal’s expression didn’t improve. His jaw remained tightly set.

Seeing that he showed signs of wanting to detour toward the front courtyard as well, Chen Baoxiang quickly tightened her arms around his neck. “Not just not far off — the immortal is far, far superior to that sort of ordinary mortal! Truly a man of towering strength, divine power, and matchless valor!”

Zhang Zhixu’s expression eased. At last, he let out a soft snort and carried her back the way they had come.

Chen Baoxiang laughed despite herself. “How did you end up in a contest with Pei Ruheng? He doesn’t hold a candle to Second Young Master Zhang in any respect.”

Doesn’t hold a candle in any respect?

Zhang Zhixu gave a slow, enlightened nod. “The two of them — their family backgrounds?”

“Second Young Master Zhang is far, far ahead!”

“Their appearances?”

“Second Young Master Zhang is far, far ahead!”

“Their wealth?”

“Second Young Master Zhang is far, far ahead!”

“Then if you had to choose between Pei Ruheng and Zhang Zhixu to marry?”

“……I’d choose Pei Ruheng first.”

Zhang Zhixu laughed from sheer exasperation.

The arms holding her tightened slightly. He worked hard to keep his tone sounding composed: “As expected. That’s exactly the judgment I’d expect from you.”

The words sounded like a compliment, and yet they didn’t quite.

Chen Baoxiang looked straight ahead, and couldn’t help but notice that the bedroom which had seemed so close just a moment ago — how had it ended up getting farther and farther away again after they turned that corner?