The man in white standing before her had only just turned twenty. His pair of innocent eyes were cool and clear, touched here and there with a hint of bewilderment and naivety.

His tall, slender figure, paired with the awkward, fumbling unease he showed in his own men’s attire, would have made any woman in the world feel an irresistible surge of tender affection upon seeing him, wishing they could simply take him home and care for him.

His hair hung in disarray, and he had no idea what to do with it. He wanted to tie it up, but he had likely never once bound his own hair in his entire life, so the strands kept slipping loose in disorder, leaving him at a complete loss.

A few stray locks fell across his face, doing nothing to diminish his handsome looks — if anything, they lent him a touch of untamed, wild charm.

Not a single man of the imperial family was ever anything less than good-looking. The Ninth Imperial Uncle was beautiful as a painting; the Seventh Prince before her now was beautiful as a poem.

Living amid such picture-perfect, poetic surroundings, even a great beauty like Feng Jiu’er often felt a stirring of inferiority.

A man more beautiful than a woman was, no matter how one looked at him, a pleasure to behold. But what exactly did he mean, staring at her now with those big, innocent eyes? If she kept looking, she might not be able to stop herself from pouncing on him!

Feng Jiu’er swallowed, hastily pulling back her wandering gaze, and stepped inside: “What are you doing, dressed like that? Your clothes are all in disarray — are you trying to seduce young ladies?”

Zhan Luori’s cheeks flushed red — how could he have expected her to speak so boldly?

“I just… didn’t know how to put it on.” Though it seemed simpler than women’s clothing, really — he simply wasn’t used to it.

Feng Jiu’er hadn’t expected that the Seventh Princess, now restored to being a man, would be so easily flustered by teasing.

Just a couple of joking remarks, and already the flush on his face had spread all the way to his ears.

“Fine, I’ll stop teasing you. But honestly, you look really handsome in men’s clothing — standing next to your Ninth Imperial Uncle, you wouldn’t be outshone at all.”

“What nonsense are you talking?” Zhan Luori shot her a glare. No one could be compared to the Ninth Imperial Uncle — that was something everyone in the world knew.

Feng Jiu’er stuck out the tip of her tongue, saying nothing more, and picked up a comb as she walked behind him: “Come, sit down, I’ll tie your hair up for you.”

Zhan Luori was somewhat unused to letting anyone touch his hair. Ordinarily he combed it himself, simply tying it back carelessly behind his head.

And this was exactly why, despite the Seventh Princess having such exquisitely beautiful features, no one had ever felt she gave off an air of being truly pretty.

For one thing, the height alone was simply too formidable — standing nearly one meter ninety. One had only to ask: had anyone ever seen a young lady grow so tall?

This was probably something even Consort Jing had never anticipated — had she borne a slightly shorter son, disguising him as a woman might have been far more convincing.

Who could have known he would keep growing taller and taller, until in the end he reached the very same height as the Ninth Prince who had captivated the whole realm?

Second, the Seventh Princess had never enjoyed dressing up. Aside from wearing women’s clothing and not tying up his hair the way men did, in what other way did he ever resemble a young lady?

Pretty? Not really. The most one could say was that he looked striking and handsome.

This was the first time Zhan Luori had ever had his hair tied up. Seeing, in the bronze mirror, that pair of hands tying his hair for him, he couldn’t help feeling his eyes grow warm, his spirits sinking low.

Jiu’er knew — he must be thinking of Consort Jing again.

Mother and son had depended on one another for survival for so many years. Every small detail of daily life, if he hadn’t handled it himself, had certainly been handled by Consort Jing.

The first time his hair had ever been combed, it must have been Consort Jing who did it, mustn’t it?

This fellow really was rather pitiable — unable to show his true face to anyone since childhood, with his mother consort being exceptionally strict toward him besides. Consort Jing had probably already resolved, since he was small, that once he grew up he would become ruler of the nation, to wash away their past disgrace.

A woman who had lived for so many years steeped in fear and resentment — could the child she raised ever truly be happy?

That Zhan Luori had never been tainted by hatred was, in its own way, the greatest protection Consort Jing had ever given him.

“Are you afraid of Nanmeng Rong?” she suddenly asked.

Zhan Luori said nothing. Apart from his mother consort’s death, he had never known what fear truly was.

Feng Jiu’er smiled faintly: “Since you’re not afraid, then from today on, you are the Seventh Prince — no longer the Seventh Princess. Your Ninth Imperial Uncle will restore your true identity for you!”

…

Late at night, Xuanhua Hall had lost its earlier bustle, yet an undercurrent of restlessness lingered, with not the slightest trace of the stillness one would expect so deep in the night.

Nanmeng Ye had returned to his residence, but Nanmeng Rong still lay in bed, unable to rise just yet.

In one corner of the room, Feng Qingyin was pressed down into a chair, watching as maids and an elderly matron brought out knives and vessels, while a man dressed as an Imperial Physician stood off to the side, his intentions unclear.

The whole scene was enough to make one’s scalp prickle and one’s hair stand on end.

“Em— Empress, Your Highness…”

“Shut up!” Nothing irritated Nanmeng Rong more right now than being called Empress. The decree deposing her had come down just days ago — she was no longer the Empress.

For Feng Qingyin to still dare call her Empress — was she mocking her, or deliberately rubbing salt in the wound?

Word of her deposal had spread rapidly through the court, and before coming here, Feng Qingyin had already heard some of it from her own father.

It was only that, having grown used to addressing her as Empress, she simply hadn’t managed to change the habit all at once.

She bit her lip, and seeing the maid hand the knife to the Imperial Physician, a wave of unease swept through her: “My… my lady, what… what is this for?”

Nanmeng Rong glanced sidelong at her. After several days of rest, her spirits had improved somewhat, but she still could not walk on her own.

Leaning back against the cushion at the head of the bed, she said languidly: “I’ve heard that the blood of a Feng woman can dispel any poison and cure any illness. In my current state, I’m afraid I won’t recover anytime soon — but I’d like to be up and walking about sooner rather than later.”

She eyed Feng Qingyin, whose face had gone deathly pale, and let out a cold snort: “How have I always treated you?”

“My… my lady has always treated Qingyin very well.” Feng Qingyin already understood what they intended to do, and her frail body trembled at once.

“My lady!” Her mind was thrown into panic; she wanted to flee, yet she knew that if she tried, she would surely die.

“My lady, what… what are you planning to do? I… I am a Feng woman, I cannot… cannot die…”

“Of course I know you’re a Feng woman.” If she weren’t, would she even still have a life left to be standing here talking to her right now?

Nanmeng Rong gave a cold snort: “Since you’re a Feng woman, you ought to make some contribution to me. Right now, I’m gravely injured, and all I want is a little of your blood to treat my wounds — and you still feel wronged by that?”

Feng Qingyin truly wanted to bolt for the door. Just a little blood? No — it was never going to be as simple as just a little.

Nanmeng Rong was malicious by nature, never once regarding others’ lives as anything that mattered. And if the treatment failed to heal her, Feng Qingyin herself would likely not survive either!

“My lady, Qingyin’s constitution is weak. If you draw any more blood from me, I’m afraid I won’t survive either!”

“If you truly can’t survive it, then don’t live!” Nanmeng Rong’s expression darkened. “And what’s all this talk of being a Feng woman — after all this time at my side, have you ever been of any use to me at all?”

All that effort she had poured into her, wasted — and in the end, the girl wouldn’t even give her a little blood!

What good could keeping a woman like this by Heng’er’s side possibly do for herself?