Zhan Qingcheng finally accepted the chopsticks Feng Jiu pressed into his hand and lowered his head to eat.

Soon, the entire bowl of noodles was cleaned out, and he even drank down every last drop of the broth.

Afterward, he pushed the empty bowl toward her. Though he said nothing, his look of unsatisfied longing made it obvious at a glance that he wanted another bowl.

“You still need to drink the medicine in a bit. You shouldn’t eat any more—being too full will affect how well your body absorbs it.”

Seeing his brow sink as if displeased, Feng Jiu could only continue coaxing him: “Once you’ve finished the medicine, get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow I’ll make you something delicious again.”

Zhan Qingcheng no longer raised any objection. Only then did Feng Jiu realize what nonsense she’d just spoken—tomorrow? No, he shouldn’t be coming again tomorrow.

She felt a pang of wistfulness—why did it suddenly feel as though she’d been pulled back into the past again?

Beyond feeding him medicine, she even found herself fretting over his diet—was she truly not born with some kind of innate submissiveness toward the Ninth Imperial Uncle? The moment she saw him not eating enough or sleeping poorly, she grew anxious.

A bowl of pitch-black medicinal broth was soon set before him. Seeing the resistance written plainly on his face, Feng Jiu thought for a moment and suddenly said, “Ninth Prince, does the young lady in your life know about your poor health?”

Zhan Qingcheng’s brow furrowed slightly. His young lady!

Feng Jiu said with a faint smile, “When a man’s body remains in a state of depletion for a long time, it can affect certain aspects of life—for example… matters in the bedchamber.”

Zhan Qingcheng’s gaze deepened, uncertain what she was getting at.

Feng Jiu nearly blushed herself, but she had likely come to understand certain aspects of the Ninth Imperial Uncle’s temperament quite well by now—this approach was sure not to fail.

With a perfectly earnest expression, she said, “When a man’s body remains depleted over a long period, his yang energy will suffer for it, and in the future, he won’t measure up to other men in matters with a lady in the bedchamber.”

“You…”

“Your Highness, please forgive my presumption, but as a practitioner of medicine, I would never joke with you about a matter like this.”

Feng Jiu was being sincere. Although this bowl of medicine wasn’t actually meant to make him more vigorous in certain matters, nourishing the body did involve nourishing the yang as well, and long-term overexertion was certainly never a good thing.

“If Your Highness’s body remains damaged for too long, your yang energy will, over time, also fall short of other men’s. If the lady you favor were to one day feel Your Highness lacking in this regard compared to other men, wouldn’t that be a terrible thing?”

Without another word, Zhan Qingcheng lifted the bowl and drained it completely in two great gulps.

Feng Jiu frowned, feeling a pang of reluctance—the medicine was still scalding hot, and yet this man had simply gulped it down like that.

Half a year apart, and his temperament hadn’t changed one bit—even when angry, he wouldn’t allow himself to fall short of others in “that regard.”

He was clearly a fierce, battle-hardened warrior prince, and yet so often, he behaved just like a child.

She walked over, gazing at the still-wet drop of medicine at the corner of his lips, and nearly couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to wipe it away.

But she was Feng Jiu now, not Feng Jiu’er—certain things were simply not appropriate for her to do.

After all, right now, she was a “man.”

“Your Highness, it’s late into the night—please head back.” Stepping back twice to put distance between them, Feng Jiu spoke with respectful courtesy.

He said nothing—the entire evening, he had barely spoken at all.

He had disliked speaking before, and now he had grown even more taciturn.

This time, however, Zhan Qingcheng finally rose to his feet and walked toward the door.

Feng Jiu let out a breath of relief—was this man finally willing to leave?

Staring at his tall retreating figure, her eyes still couldn’t hide a hint of longing—she wanted to brand that silhouette deep into the very bottom of her heart, to fix every part of him, every detail, firmly in place.

He paused at the doorway. Feng Jiu’s heart jolted, and she hastily lowered her head, fearing that if he turned to look at her, he might see the longing in her eyes.

In the end, Zhan Qingcheng didn’t turn back; he simply strode forward with his long legs.

Feng Jiu only felt a cool breeze sweep past behind her ear, stirring a few strands of her hair, and when she lifted her head again, that tall figure in black robes had vanished from sight.

She instinctively rushed out after him, gazing at the vast, silent sky beneath the boundless night, taking a long while to come back to her senses.

The man had gone, the night had turned cold. After tonight, perhaps he wouldn’t come again—after all, she wasn’t the one he was searching for.

Turning back, she looked at everything in the kitchen—the stool he had sat on, the two bowls, large and small, that he had used, and those chopsticks.

She walked over and picked up the chopsticks, as though holding the Ninth Imperial Uncle’s large hand once more. The chopsticks had already gone cold, yet she could distinctly catch the scent of him still lingering.

She wondered whether, once he returned, the Ninth Imperial Uncle would heed her words and properly rest, eat well, and sleep well.

She hoped he wouldn’t exhaust himself like that again, wouldn’t keep sleeping poorly night after night.

Whether or not he wanted this realm, if his body itself was failing, what use would the realm be to him even if he obtained it?

But getting this man to listen—how could that be easy? After all these years by his side, Yu Jingfeng certainly couldn’t make the Prince behave obediently, and even Emperor Ji couldn’t manage that either.

Thinking it over carefully, only the Feng Jiu’er of the past could have managed it.

But Jiu’er was already dead…

After finally tidying up everything in the kitchen, Feng Jiu stepped out and headed back toward her own bedchamber.

But just as she reached the door, before she’d even stepped inside, she froze in her tracks, her brow furrowing once more.

There was someone in her room!

Carefully pushing the door open, she found the candlelight inside still burning, and there, seated at the edge of the bed, was that figure, his black robes trailing down to the floor.

He seemed to be looking at something, though certainly not at her—even knowing she had entered, he didn’t so much as glance her way.

The feeling of having lost him and then regained him left Feng Jiu’s chest a tangle of conflicting emotions—yet, the Ninth Imperial Uncle hadn’t left after all, and now sat right here on her bed. What exactly was he up to?

She stepped inside, hesitated a moment, then closed the door behind her.

It was as if he had been deliberately waiting for her—once she’d entered and shut the door, Zhan Qingcheng simply kicked off his boots without ceremony and lay down to sleep.

“Your Highness, this… isn’t appropriate.” She was a man, after all!

No, wait—even if she were a woman, this still wouldn’t be appropriate. What exactly was he trying to do, acting like this now?

“This Prince is requisitioning your room tonight.” That sentence was, for once, one of the rare complete sentences he’d spoken.

Feng Jiu paused for a moment, then let it go. “Very well then, Your Highness, please make yourself comfortable. I’ll go next door…”

“You stay and attend to me.” He even pointed at a couch not far away. “Sleep there. At once!”

At once! Just who did he think he was?

Ah, right—he was the supremely exalted Ninth Prince. This imperial city might not be his, but if he wanted it, it wasn’t out of his reach either.

So really, everything here was his to decide.

If the Ninth Prince so much as expressed displeasure, her entire Tianji Hall could turn to ash in an instant.

But at least he wasn’t demanding she share his bed—could this perhaps count as a small stroke of luck amid misfortune?

Feng Jiu’er walked over to the couch and, to avoid further complications through the night, lay down and closed her eyes at once.

“Turn around.” From over by the large bed, the man’s low voice suddenly sounded again.

Feeling she had no choice, she turned to face away from him.

Zhan Qingcheng made no further fuss, simply staring at the figure turned away from him, drowsiness gradually settling into his eyes.