Feng Jiu’er was just like she had been as a small child playing house — when she said she was not talking to someone, she meant it.

She had sworn a solemn oath. If she spoke to him, did she want to be struck by lightning?

Di Wu Ya truly wished he could just drop her and walk away, never sparing her another thought.

She had threatened him — and all for the sake of another man!

In his more than twenty years of life, had anyone ever dared to threaten him? Those who typically did were, for the most part, already paying their respects to the King of Hell.

His large hand clenched into a fist. He suddenly bent down, grabbed her, and hauled her upright, his eyes blazing with a fierce and savage ferocity.

“Do you know what becomes of those who dare to threaten this seat?”

Feng Jiu’er continued to bite her lip, steadfast in her vow of silence.

Di Wu Ya abruptly slung her over his shoulder again, turned around, and carried her back to the cliff’s edge. “I’ll give you one more chance. Open your mouth and speak.”

She only bit her lip harder, refusing to say a single word, refusing to acknowledge him.

“You foolish girl, are you sick of living?” He extended his long arm and held her suspended over the precipice of the cliff. “Very well — this seat will grant you your wish!”

His fingers released.

Feng Jiu’er plummeted like a kite with its string cut, dropping straight down toward the base of the ravine.

The wind screamed past her ears and whipped against her face — it truly hurt.

Feng Jiu’er was so frightened her heart nearly seized up entirely. This time, she had truly, through one moment of carelessness, gambled away her own little life.

Oh well…

…

The night had grown quite late.

The young girl sat in the room, refreshed and at ease after her bath, helping herself enthusiastically to a generous spread of food.

The man, who had likewise bathed and changed his clothes, set down his chopsticks, moved to one side of the room, and picked up a military strategy book to read.

And he still claimed he was not the Ninth Imperial Uncle? Even the military book he was reading was the same one!

These thoughts, however, Feng Jiu’er only dared to turn over in her own mind. They were not words she could casually speak aloud.

That the Ninth Imperial Uncle was Di Wu Ya — if word of that got out, it could easily throw the entire court into chaos.

That was a line she could never cross. As long as he chose not to say it himself, she did not dare to raise it.

Some jokes could be made freely. But some, once spoken, were deadly. Even if the Ninth Imperial Uncle appeared to truly dote on her, even that was something she could not say.

The Ninth Imperial Uncle was rescuing her under the guise of Di Wu Ya — the most likely explanation was that his identity as Ninth Prince was, for the moment, not suited to a return to the Longwu Academy.

Whatever grand schemes those powerful figures were engaged in, she had no idea. Regardless, she was nothing but a small and insignificant person. She would neither involve herself nor speculate. She would simply eat her meal in peace and contentment.

The food this evening was truly delicious — all of her favorites.

The thought of how Di Wu Ya had stood there with that dark, stormy expression after releasing her grip and then swooping down to rescue her made her feel inexplicably delighted.

She could not help it. A soft laugh escaped her lips.

The man in the room continued reading his military strategy book, ignoring her.

Feng Jiu’er finally ate her fill. She stretched languidly and looked over at him: “I’m full. Where is my room? May I go back and rest?”

In any case, she had already returned to the cave and left a message for Mu Mu on the ground. He should wait obediently and not do anything rash.

With that worry put to rest, Feng Jiu’er felt light and at ease.

She stood up. “Ninth… Honored Lord, I…”

But one glance at the cold aura seeping continuously from beneath his mask told her he was still displeased, and Feng Jiu’er found herself unable to bring herself to leave just like that.

She had upset him, after all. To leave without coaxing him even a little would be poor form.

More importantly — this was her dear Ninth Imperial Uncle!

If in a moment of displeasure he decided to wash his hands of both her and Mu Mu’s affairs, who would be left to clean up that mess?

Thinking it over, she pattered over toward him on cheerful, bouncy steps, pulled up a small stool, sat down in front of him, propped her chin in her hands, and looked up at him.

“Honored Lord, are you still angry? Why are you angry? I’m not even angry anymore and you still are — how petty can you be!” The more she said, the more tongue-twisted the words became.