The presence within the bedchamber made Feng Jiu’s steps — just as she was about to enter — halt at once.

He did not wish to deceive her, and so had made no effort to conceal his aura. But at this moment, she had no desire to see him.

She was just about to turn and leave when his low voice drifted out from within the room: “Wherever you go, this Prince goes as well.”

Feng Jiu drew a deep breath, tamping down her fury, and at last turned herself back around. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“I have no wish to speak with you. Your Highness, please take your leave.” She walked in without so much as a glance in his direction.

Zhan Qingcheng simply watched her. If she did not wish to speak, then so be it — watching her was fine enough.

Feng Jiu had a very strong urge to kick him, for she had suddenly realized she had dug her own grave. He was not a man who liked to talk in the first place — he could go an entire night without speaking, if that was what it came to.

Yet here was the thing: with him simply sitting here saying nothing, she only felt more irritated.

It truly was as they said — a woman could be hopelessly contrary. She herself was the one who told him not to speak. He listened and held his tongue. Yet that very compliance only made the frustration coiling in her chest grow heavier still!

And the most impossible thing of all: driving him away was simply out of the question.

She could resent him, berate him, even raise her hand against him — knowing the Ninth Imperial Uncle’s character, if he felt he was in the wrong, he would not fight back even if she beat him to death.

But even beaten to death, if he did not wish to leave, he would not leave.

This man — there truly was nothing to be done with him.

Feng Jiu breathed in and out deeply, working to calm her own state of mind, working to ignore his presence.

She called for a servant to bring the bathwater to the door outside. She carried it in herself. The moment she stepped through the door, the weight in her hands suddenly lightened.

He had taken the two large wooden tubs from her. The exalted Ninth Prince — actually drawing her bathwater with his own hands.

Four tubs of water poured in were more than sufficient for her to bathe and change. Feng Jiu turned and fixed him with a glare, her voice cool: “I need to bathe. Your Highness, please step aside first.”

“Why should I step aside?” Zhan Qingcheng’s brow furrowed slightly. He asked this with such genuine perplexity, as though it had been his right to remain all along.

“In the middle of the night, a lone man and lone wom—” Feng Jiu caught herself and nearly stumbled — what lone man and lone woman? Was she not currently presenting herself as a man?

And had she not already let him see this male form of hers?

Between two men, bathing and changing in the same room was nothing at all — why should he step outside?

If the Ninth Prince put it that way, it seemed he was not without a point — yet did he not already know that she was, in truth, Feng Jiu’er?

Only — since neither of them said it aloud, that matter was treated as though it simply did not exist.

There was a suffocating frustration in Feng Jiu’s chest that simply would not ease, and she felt a sudden urge to shout, to curse, even stronger still to lash out at someone!

Yet in the end, she forced it all down herself.

“When I bathe, I am unaccustomed to having others in the room. Your Highness, would you be willing to step aside, please?”

“In the end, one must grow accustomed.” What Zhan Qingcheng said was truly enough to vex someone to death without demanding a single life in return.

She wanted so badly to hit him — yet what was their relationship? They were nothing to each other; what right did she have to strike anyone?

And more than that — what did the Ninth Prince’s words even mean? That she would have to grow accustomed sooner or later?

What was the point of saying something so ambiguous? After tonight, were they not already enemies?

Feng Jiu did not quite know why she had suddenly become so childish, but tonight she was simply furious.

She abruptly sat down in the chair, glaring at him: “If you will not step aside, then I simply will not bathe at all. I shall sit here the whole night!”

The Ninth Prince looked at her, his gaze soft — soft, and laced with a thread of helpless indulgence.

A moment later, he finally rose to his feet and walked toward the window.

Feng Jiu felt nothing more than a strand of hair near her ear stirred gently by the breeze. When she looked again, he was no longer in the room.

On instinct, she walked to the window and looked outside. He had made no effort to conceal his aura. Not far away, in the great tree, that dark-clad, slender figure sat leaning against the trunk.

His long shadow had nearly merged with the night itself. The sight of it — there was something solitary about it, something that tugged at the heart.

No — why should she feel for him! If she was going to feel for anyone, it ought to be for Feng Yinan, who had been wounded by Leng Yue!

With a sharp sound, Feng Jiu shut the window, refusing to look at that silhouette any further.

Yet she lingered against the closed window, and her heart simply would not settle.

She knew he had been helpless in it, too. Yet she could not excuse him.

She was furious — and what she was most furious about was that she had not protected Yinan well enough. She had failed to properly shelter the man who, for her sake, had nearly sacrificed the rest of his life.

No matter what, the fact that Yinan had come to harm right beneath her watch was her fault — hers alone.

In truth, she did not resent Zhan Qingcheng. She resented only her own powerlessness.

She stepped into the bathing tub, shed the outer guise of a man, and carefully wiped clean the prosthetic skin she wore — and she was not afraid that Zhan Qingcheng would suddenly come barging in.

In fact, precisely because the Ninth Prince was just outside, she felt a measure of ease.

At the very least, in this moment, he would not allow anyone to enter the room. In a way, he had given her a certain protection — one that allowed her to reveal her true self as a woman without fear.

The prosthetic skin was washed clean. Feng Jiu dried it with a cloth, draped it over the screen, and then began to wash herself.

Outside, the wind blew. The tree’s shadow swayed. And with it, that dark, slender silhouette swayed gently in the night.

Sleeves rippled softly — the sight of it was beautiful, yet truly too cold.

Qiao Mu, watching from a distance, could only let out a quiet sigh before turning and walking away.

Had the Ninth Prince done wrong? Perhaps it was not truly his fault. Yet how could this resentment be untangled?

Even knowing it should not be so — the lives of these two people seemed to have been wound together already, impossible to separate, strands of black silk that could not be severed by any blade.

Even having transformed into Feng Jiu — the Ninth Prince had still recognized his own girl at a single glance. How could one escape a fate like this?

She suddenly felt a pang of sorrow — not for her own feelings of admiration for the Ninth Prince, but for this God of War Prince: a man who had lived in solitude for over twenty years, who had only just encountered a woman capable of bringing brightness into his life.

He was always so alone. Only Jiu’er could bring him happiness.

Yet why must the path of these two always be fraught with difficulty — so close to one another, yet as though divided by ten thousand rivers and a thousand mountains?

The figure sitting in the tree was so beautiful to behold. In this moment, even the stars scattered across the sky had lost their luster in comparison.

A man that beautiful — who would not wish to hold him tenderly in the palm of their hands?

Even if he had, tonight, held Feng Jiu back and prevented her from striking at Leng Yue — Qiao Mu could not bring herself to resent him.

She was simply far too fond of him. So fond that no matter what he did, she could forgive him.

And Jiu’er? Could Jiu’er forgive him too?

A faint, subtle sound drifted from within the room. Qiao Mu’s heart gave a small ache, and she quickened her steps away.

She truly envied Jiu’er — envied her for being the sole recipient of the Ninth Prince’s tender care and affection. Fate was determined by heaven. She could only hope that neither of them would squander the bond that heaven itself had granted them.

As for herself… she glanced back one last time at that silhouette, and Qiao Mu smiled, gently and quietly.

A presence of such otherworldly grace — one she could never be worthy of. Knowing that, what was there left to envy?