“He cannot be moved!” Feng Jiu’er moved quickly and pushed aside the guard who had been about to help Zhan Yuheng up.

“Moving him now will cause his blood loss to surge. Do not touch him!”

The guard wiped the sweat from his brow, terrified that any rash action on his part might truly cause the Crown Prince to bleed even more.

But then — what now?

They had already sent someone riding hard to notify the imperial physicians to prepare, but this location was too far from the palace.

“Qing Yun, have someone clear this entire area, put up curtains, station guards, and let no uninvolved persons approach.”

“Send someone to the nearest apothecary — bring me notoginseng ground to powder, and freshly ground mugwort and crane’s herb, right away, in large quantities.”

Qing Yun stood frozen for a moment, then gave a swift nod. “Yes!”

The moment he saw Feng Jiu’er’s long acupuncture needles fall — right onto the Crown Prince’s chest — Qing Yun did not dare delay a single moment longer and immediately dispatched someone to fetch the medicine.

They were still within the imperial city, and there was no shortage of apothecaries nearby. But freshly grinding the herbs would take time, and not a moment could be wasted.

Mu Mu channeled his inner energy to settle the unease stirring in his chest, then joined the guards in partitioning off this section with curtains.

He himself stood watch outside the curtained area, keeping his attention on the movements of the surrounding environment at all times, guarding against another attack.

The First Assassin of the Bei Mu nation — that title had been bestowed three years ago, when he drove a single sword through the leader of the Demonic Sect. After that, for three years, Jue Yan had vanished entirely.

Some said it was because no one could afford his fee. Others said that the assassination of the Demonic Sect’s leader had left him wounded, and he had gone into seclusion in the mountains to recover.

But regardless, this marked the first time in three years that Jue Yan had resurfaced in the martial world.

That whoever stood behind this had deployed Jue Yan to assassinate Zhan Yuheng spoke volumes about the reach and power of those pulling the strings.

Zhan Yuheng had not lost consciousness. After the sword struck, his awareness had been drifting in and out — but the moment he heard Feng Jiu’er’s voice, it sharpened again.

She was here. Right beside him now. Those gentle hands, busy working at his chest.

She was already the Ninth Imperial Uncle’s. Having followed him all this time, sharing his bed night after night — could she still be untouched?

He had thought this lifetime would bring no further entanglement between them. Yet here he was, struck down by assassins, and she had come back to his side once again.

Even if only to save him — at the very least, in this moment, she was truly beside him.

He wanted to lift his hand and touch her face, yet did not dare. In his hesitation, his palm gradually lost its strength. By the time he thought to raise it again, the last of his energy had abandoned him.

Before the medicine arrived, Feng Jiu’er could only insert needles to seal the acupoints and stem the bleeding. But his wound was genuinely severe — the sword’s edge had not pierced the heart, yet the sword force had damaged the heart meridian.

Had he not been treated in time, his chances of survival by now would have been very slim.

After working through one round of acupuncture, Feng Jiu’er suddenly drew the short knife from her boot and aimed its tip at Zhan Yuheng’s chest.

“Insolence!” The guard stationed at the front rushed forward at once. Qing Yun had not yet returned, and here, this man was the one in charge.

Seeing Feng Jiu’er point a knife at the Crown Prince’s chest, he moved immediately to draw his weapon and stop her.

Zhan Yuheng, however, said calmly, “Stand down. I… trust her.”

The guard captain hesitated. After all, the Crown Prince had only just survived one assassination attempt — if this young woman was another assassin, would there be any hope of saving his life at all?

Feng Jiu’er did not even glance at him. The short knife slid in a swift motion, and with a clean tearing sound, the clothing across Zhan Yuheng’s chest was cut completely open.

“If I were an assassin, all I would need to do given His Highness’s current condition is to do nothing at all — he would not survive regardless.”

The guard captain had no answer to that. Watching her tuck the short knife back into her boot, he quickly stepped back two paces, not daring to disturb her further.

So she had only meant to remove the fabric around the Crown Prince’s wound — she bore His Highness no ill will.

The fact that His Highness had suffered such an ordeal today was something none of them could escape blame for, and every one of them had become acutely, painfully careful as a result.

The small disruption brought Zhan Yuheng’s awareness a little more into focus. Looking at Feng Jiu’er’s fair, clear face, a dull ache settled deep in his heart. “Since you have always been you — why have you kept deceiving me? Why have you never been willing to face me as your true self?”

These questions Feng Jiu’er had absolutely no way to answer. The person she had been then was not truly “her” — and the person she was now was not the “her” of the past ten years either.

Forget it. Saying any of that aloud was tangled enough — and hoping anyone would understand it was an even harder ask.

The truth was, she still did not understand why Zhan Yuheng was so certain that the Feng Jiu’er standing before him now was the one from his memory.

When she was, in fact, a counterfeit.

A complete mess. An absolute muddle.

“Your Highness, please don’t speak for now. Your bleeding has not fully stopped.”

But he suddenly seized her wrist, agitation overtaking him. “Jiu’er, tell me why. Why have you hidden the truth from me, deceived me, all this time?”

“Your Highness, don’t get agitated!” Disaster — the moment he grew agitated, blood began to pour from the wound in heavy waves, flooding past every point the acupuncture needles had sealed.

“Your Highness…”

Feng Jiu’er’s face was taut with alarm. She inserted three more needles, yet the blood from his wound continued to surge, beyond all control.

“Your Highness, you must stay calm. Your life is at stake. Do not get agitated.”

“Tell me why. Jiu’er, why have you kept deceiving me?” Zhan Yuheng seemed to be summoning the very last of his strength, yet still gripped her hand with unrelenting force.

He clenched his jaw against the searing pain from his wound, his gaze tinged red. “Tell me — just tell me why.”

“Your Highness!” Where on earth was all this ‘why’ coming from? She didn’t even know the answer herself — how was she supposed to give it to him?

“Tell me…” Zhan Yuheng’s fingers trembled. The wound on his chest continued to bleed, and even the final three silver needles had completely lost their effect.

She had saved countless wounded people. Never once had she seen someone this gravely injured, still managing to be this agitated.

It was precisely because of the agitation — the blood was circulating too fast. There was simply no way to stop the flow.

“Because… because I had disfigured myself. When it first happened, I was truly disfigured. I thought I was no longer worthy of Your Highness — so I wanted nothing, nothing at all.”

Would this explanation work? Could he please stop getting agitated now?

“Your Highness, you must calm down. If you keep this up, I truly will not be able to save you.”

“Call me Brother Heng.” His voice softened, as though he was finally, slowly, beginning to learn how to be calm.

The blood from the wound visibly slowed — the reduction was clear to the naked eye, happening at a pace one could actually watch.

Something warm surged in Feng Jiu’er’s chest. Without thinking, she called out, “Brother Heng — now please lower your hand. Stop moving. Be good. I will do everything I can to save you.”

He truly let go of her. Obedient in a way he had never been before. He laid his hand at his side, and almost all strength left him entirely.

The very last of it he spent to ask the questions that had weighed on his heart most heavily. “You and the Ninth Imperial Uncle… have you… given yourself to him?”