Chapter 21 He Pushed Her Away in a Breakdown.

Their relationship was both close and distant. Guan Xuan did not think that just because he had become the purifying vase in Guanyin’s hands, he was particularly intimate with Guanyin. He knew that people were people, objects were objects—there would always be a chasm between him and the Princess.

The Princess stood up from the bed and paced over to him. Guan Xuan could clearly see her eyes reflecting the moonlight. Her gaze was scrutinizing, different from before. She slowly circled him once, then said, “Go back.”

The Princess had returned to her former self—composed and full of fighting spirit. She ate well and heartily at every meal, three times a day, and slept soundly and deeply each night. Ming Luo was delighted by this. Throughout history, those who achieved great things never neglected the matters of eating and sleeping. The Princess’s ability to recover quickly after a brief period of despondency made Ming Luo feel that she had not misjudged her—there was nothing in this world the Princess could not accomplish.

Matters were progressing more and more smoothly. Good news kept coming from Prince Su’s side, and the marriage alliance entourage had been preliminarily organized. After the Dragon Boat Festival and two bouts of rain, June was fast approaching.

As the summer heat grew, the heat toxin in Zhao Rongzhang’s body flared up more frequently. Just as Ming Luo had said, it was like something endless, each attack fiercer than the last. Under the Grand Empress Dowager’s arrangements, the Herb Gathering Department had once again been dispatched to gather herbs for the Princess. The Grand Empress Dowager said that even if the Princess were married to the ends of the earth, the Snow Essence Pill would be delivered to her hands year after year, unchanged for decades. However, Zhao Rongzhang’s informants discovered that many new faces had replaced the medical workers in the Herb Gathering Department, and the list of herbs to be collected now included a large number of unfamiliar ingredients. It seemed more like the Grand Empress Dowager was using the name of the Snow Essence Pill to produce other medicines.

As the departure date drew nearer, Zhao Rongzhang summoned Imperial Physician Yu every day to examine her. Imperial Physician Yu always frowned deeply and sighed in secret.

Imperial Physician Yu had watched the Princess grow from a swaddled infant to who she was now. With her impending distant marriage, he felt both concern for his sovereign and worry for a younger generation. He had volunteered to join the marriage alliance entourage as an attendant but was refused by the Princess. He then proposed that his grandson take his place, but the Princess refused again.

The Princess said that sometimes one physician was not enough for an illness, and adding more would not help either. But for her toxin, if one man was not enough, she could find several more—it was no trouble. She told him to continue searching for a permanent cure to rid her of this heat toxin, for she would return. Imperial Physician Yu was both worried and concerned for her, yet her words made him dizzy with dismay. He was a stubborn old man, but with a Princess like this, there was nothing he could do.

Hidden in a corner of the beam overhead, Guan Xuan listened clearly to every word with his exceptional hearing.

After seeing Imperial Physician Yu off, Zhao Rongzhang reviewed the secret reports Ming Luo had brought, deciding matters that would soon unfold thousands of miles away with a mere lift and drop of her hand.

“By the way, investigate the people on that list again. Confirm that their names and appearances match, and that their accents and household registrations align,” Zhao Rongzhang instructed, rubbing her temples. “Keep a close watch on those who don’t match.”

The Grand Empress Dowager’s pointed remarks that day forced her to maintain utmost vigilance, which was why she had repeatedly ordered investigations into the marriage alliance entourage these past few days, demanding to identify exactly who were Zhao Jue’s spies and who belonged to the Grand Empress Dowager. While the Grand Empress Dowager showed her both affection and displeasure, Zhao Rongzhang did not doubt her affection but also knew her displeasure was genuine.

It was hard to say whether she had detected her intentions or would obstruct her plans. And if she did, to what extent.

Having dealt with these matters, Zhao Rongzhang left the palace by sedan chair and headed to the suburban horse grounds. Dressed in lightweight northern attire, she mounted her horse and galloped against the wind under the scorching sun, taking in the sights of the capital.

Ming Luo rode alongside her, gazing at the distant mountains with her, wondering silently when they might return. The Princess seemed to hear her thoughts and laughed, “At the earliest, one or two years; at the latest, ten, twenty, or even thirty or fifty years. I will outlive them all, healthier and stronger, until the day of victory.”

The young woman laughed and spurred her horse forward, with Ming Luo smiling as well, urging her own horse to follow in a cloud of dust.

Victory and defeat were fated—they feared not the future, caring only for the present.

An extra layer of white jade cooling mat had been laid over the carpet on the floor. The Princess had just emerged from a hot bath, her body carrying a light floral fragrance. Guan Xuan lay pinned beneath her, their fluids mingling, soaking the jade mat and dampening the carpet. His skin, initially cool from the spring water, gradually warmed to match hers, as if merging into one.

Lately, the Princess was sometimes focused, sometimes distracted, and at times even discussed important matters through the door while relieving her heat toxin. His muteness provided her with great convenience. He disliked the feeling, finding it uncomfortable each time, yet his discomfort only heightened the Princess’s excitement. In his heart, Guan Xuan still felt happiness, for whenever she needed his release, she would hold him tightly and praise him with a smile.

The Princess cared only for the present, while Guan Xuan’s entire life was confined to the present, never contemplating tomorrow. But today, as she held him tightly again and again, he found himself frequently distracted, recalling her words earlier: if it didn’t work, she could always find more men.

The Princess was the Princess—whatever she wanted, she would have; whatever she wished to do, she could accomplish. Guan Xuan had always known that the Princess would have many toys in the future, perhaps a consort, perhaps others like him. She had ordered him to kill those men not because she was unwilling, but because she did not want them. If those men posed no threat to her grand plans and happened to appeal to her tastes, she would certainly take them.

In the future, would she hold others just as tightly and praise them as good boys? Perhaps with so many “good boys,” she would no longer need him. This was actually a good thing—he had never enjoyed being her toy, exploited so thoroughly even physically, and he was often in pain. The need for tenderness and embraces was essentially a means to numb the pain. Once the source of pain was gone, he would no longer need such numbness.

Amid intense sensory stimulation, Guan Xuan gazed into the Princess’s eyes, unable to muster dislike or affection for her. It wasn’t that he felt nothing toward her, but rather that he felt nothing toward his own fate. Fate had given him enough sorrow and enough luck to survive in pain until now, leaving him unable to dislike or like anything at all.

The Princess hummed a tune, returning for the second time in high spirits, whispering in his ear, “Too little. This time, give me more.”

Guan Xuan did not like the Princess. She used everything of his, including his essence and tears—all of it had become hers, no longer belonging to him. How could he not despise her? As the Princess neared her climax, her hips moved urgently. Guan Xuan felt himself being held tightly again, embraced so firmly he could hardly breathe. Her eyes shimmered with a faint smile as she praised him, calling him a good boy.

Guan Xuan hated the Princess, utterly despised her. To extract everything from him, she spun lies and wore a hollow, artificial smile. If he failed to produce, she would curse him as useless, threatening to replace him. Her praise was never sincere.

He continued to stare into her eyes as they began to lose focus. Held so tightly, his body gently caressed, yet the terrifying thing was that his body did not release the warm, pungent fluid as they had anticipated. The Princess trembled and finished alone.

Guan Xuan touched his own body, unsure where the problem lay. The Princess needed his release—without it, how would her heat toxin be treated? He reached out and roughly kneaded his chest, tensing his neck to tease and stimulate his body, putting on every lewd display, then inwardly shaming himself with the words the Princess would use, trying to force it out. He did not succeed.

He grew anxious, exhausting every method to play with his own body. Suddenly, the words he used to shame himself felt true. How could he be so wanton, so base? Wasn’t his need for her tenderness merely to numb the pain?

The Princess did not hold his failure against him this time. These past days, she had demanded relentlessly; it was only natural that Little Mute had been drained dry. She patted his cheek, sighed, and began to rise. Halfway up, her wrist was caught.

Guan Xuan hated himself for hearing her words. From then on, his happiness would be fraught with fear, trembling at the thought that the Princess might go seek another “good boy.” He desperately wanted to speak, his fingers touching his eyes, then his lips and neck, yet he could not convey a single coherent thought. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say. The Princess sat upright on his waist, watching quietly. Guan Xuan’s movements stilled—how could he not recognize the knowing smile in her eyes?

He understood the logic all too well. How could he possibly expect the Princess to have only him as her toy? Even if he exhausted himself trying to seduce and keep her, she would inevitably have the next one, and the one after that—those who could speak, who were eloquent, who could ease her worries and please her. Hadn’t using him been a last resort from the start? With more choices available, his eventual discard was inevitable.

Guan Xuan withdrew his hand and lowered his gaze.

In the early morning, the sunlight was pale gold, and the leaves and grass were still wet with dew that had not yet dried. Guan Xuan hid in the shadows, cupping his chin, watching as the dew was quickly evaporated by the sun or brushed away by a gentle breeze stirred by passing palace attendants. The Princess sat inside the hall, waiting for Imperial Physician Yu to take her pulse.

Guan Xuan’s mind wandered, listening for a long while to the sparrows quarreling in the trees.

In the afternoon, as the hottest hour of the day approached, Guan Xuan went to Wild Mountain Spring to bathe. The waterfall crashed against his body, its roar loud enough to drown out all the sounds of the world. Guan Xuan spread his palms, opening and closing his fingers, repeatedly trying to catch the spray.

When his skin had nearly lost all sensation of the pond’s temperature, Guan Xuan stepped out, dried himself, and dressed. He shook the water from his wrist guard, then suddenly froze, lifting his gaze.

The thick, towering bushes allowed almost no sunlight to filter through, and a deep layer of fallen leaves covered the ground. Beside a distant elm tree stood a familiar figure. A heavy blade was cradled in his arms, its sheath smooth, its hilt wrapped in coarse cloth stained repeatedly with blood.

Ren Ping looked at the black-clad youth before him, who now stood taller than himself, and smiled. “You’ve grown so much.”

At this moment, if he were to shoot the silver needles from his wrist guard, there was a seventy percent chance he could kill him. Even if Ren Ping dodged, a quick move to his blind spot could sever his neck. Yet Guan Xuan took no action.

The leaves beneath his feet had sunk half an inch, and fresh fallen leaves clung to his boots—signs he had been here for a while. He hadn’t come to kill him; otherwise, he would have acted sooner.

The youth’s brows and eyes were still damp, water dripping from his fanged mask. Ren Ping stepped closer, closing the distance to within two zhang. Those round eyes merely followed his movements, still holding that transcendent, unadorned wisdom—a kind of insight others seldom grasped, often mistaking it for clumsy childishness. Only those accustomed to life-and-death struggles could truly understand it. No wonder his skills had advanced so swiftly, so astonishingly.

Ren Ping himself was a martial arts prodigy, and also a scoundrel. He understood well the allure of talent; without it, even the most heartfelt efforts were futile. He had always envied those with greater talent than his own, resorting to countless underhanded schemes to cut down those geniuses before they could rise to fame. But those were the follies of his youth.

After passing his prime, old age crept near. Dynasties rose and fell, time flitted by, and his glory faded, twisted by the whims of emperors into a tool for others’ mockery. All the schemes of his life, the wounds he bore—for what purpose, in the end?

With ambition lingering but strength waning, his idle thoughts turned to reflections he’d never entertained before. True genius, it seemed, could not be easily extinguished, even in its most vulnerable, powerless moments. Yet this genius would never be known to the world, forever lost between the punctuation marks of future histories. The envy he’d felt for genius in his youth had, in old age, transformed into empathy and admiration.

Ren Ping drew a small porcelain vial from his robe and tossed it to him.

The young Mysterious Cat caught it with deft fingers, lowering his gaze to examine it.

“This is the antidote to the Heart-Devouring Gu. In the struggles of the mundane world, only the victors are etched into history. But if you wish it, there is a vast realm where your name can endure.” Ren Ping glanced up at a sliver of sunlight struggling through the dense foliage, his tone light. “You are far freer than I.”

The weather was scorching, the sun blazing, its heat easily raising body temperature on contact. Guan Xuan moved through the shadows, avoiding the light, and by the time he returned to the Princess’s chambers, the droplets on his brows had not yet dried.

The Princess had prepared two bowls of medicine, both already cooled. Medicine tasted even more bitter when cold. Guan Xuan lifted and drank them both. The Princess stood beside him, reaching out to touch his cool skin.

Guan Xuan still hadn’t thought of a way to make himself overflow quickly. He forced himself to focus as much as possible, to only look at today, only at this very moment, and not to think about the future—after all, he didn’t have many tomorrows left to live.

Today, the Princess wasn’t in a hurry to push him down. When she rubbed the spot on his chest where the scab had fallen off and new flesh had grown, she tilted her face to watch his expression. Guan Xuan thought of that day when they had gone on for so long, the desire in the Princess’s eyes never ceasing as she looked at him, and his heart could still ripple with emotion. Happiness couldn’t withstand deep thought or comparison, so he mustn’t think too deeply or compare. Up until today, the Princess had only ever been satisfied with him as a toy—why couldn’t he feel happy about that? Besides, the Princess was very good to him, very gentle.

Thinking this way, Guan Xuan’s body gradually stirred under her touch. Today, the intensity of his arousal seemed much deeper than before, and it came much faster. Guan Xuan secretly felt happy.

As he was feeling happy, the Princess joined him, stripping off all his clothes. Her embrace came forward, pressing him close, holding him tight. The Princess’s upper body was always fully clothed; only occasionally, when she got carried away in play, would she press against him intimately. Today, she had undone half of it, and her warm skin, along with the slightly cool silk fabric, brushed against and clung to his chest—the softness and hardness both clearly perceptible.

Guan Xuan’s body, which had soaked under the waterfall for so long, also heated up quickly today. He found it strange, but with the Princess pressing down on him, his mind grew dizzy, and he had no thoughts to spare. She swallowed him inch by inch, savored it for a moment, and then began to play with him leisurely. Guan Xuan felt his blood surging through his body, almost boiling, his entire being parched as if he had been drained in a desert. He couldn’t moan, his lips parted toward her as he panted, his consciousness blurred, sensing something was wrong.

It wasn’t until he saw the Princess’s deliberately observant expression that he finally realized—the extra bowl of medicine had been an aphrodisiac.

It was excruciating; he didn’t know whether his body or his mind would collapse first. He forced himself to press down on his waist, barely restraining the urge to writhe. He wanted to turn on his side, curl up to find relief, but the Princess was still sitting on him—she needed to play with him.

Guan Xuan’s muscles swelled, the veins on his chest bulging, every part of his body craving intense relief. The Princess began to move then, holding him as if she were enjoying herself greatly, pulling him into her arms and encouraging him: “Give it to me.”

Guan Xuan could neither live nor die; her gentle embrace and the moisture only made him feel irritable. He didn’t want to look at the Princess—if he did, countless lewd fantasies would flood his mind, as if defiling a deity. No, he didn’t want the Princess to become disheveled; her pride couldn’t bear it, and she would be heartbroken. She would never allow it either. If he dared to lose control and soil her, she would despise him, hate him enough to make him die. She had drugged him deliberately to watch him suffer and tear himself apart like this.

Guan Xuan felt utterly helpless, sobbing as he gripped her arm, enduring the torment. She must have grown tired of him, bored with him, and no longer wanted him—that was why she was torturing him like this. At her core, she enjoyed tormenting him; she had never seen him as human, and that was the greatest humiliation of all. How could she not enjoy tormenting him? He was a toy, and injuries didn’t look good on him—that was why she said she didn’t like seeing wounds. He knew it, he had always known.

Guan Xuan felt terrible, utterly heartbroken. He knew he was a toy, something for her to play with, but he had been so obedient, trying so very hard not to think of himself as human. Why did she have to make him break down in such agony? Was it too much to ask for just a hug from her? Couldn’t she have simply refused him outright? Guan Xuan hated her, resented her. In his collapse, he pushed her away.

In his entire life, he had never been angry, never felt rage, and his mouth could not utter a single word. He bit down hard on his lower lip, tears streaming from his eyes, his flushed fingers jabbing fiercely at his own chest, as if shouting countless loud cries of “me.”

Little Mute’s sudden defiance and angry tears made Zhao Rongzhang frown. What was wrong with him?

She had specifically asked Imperial Physician Yu to prepare medicinal ingredients, instructing him to concoct something that would boost energy, enhance essence, and facilitate intimate relations—so he could better help her detoxify. Who would have thought that a careless remark she made that day would upset him so much that he couldn’t perform? He was so frantic, tormenting himself, looking utterly pitiful, as if afraid she would abandon him over such a trivial matter. A little medicine to help him, to let him release smoothly—surely that would put his mind at ease.

Yet he showed no gratitude.

What she had told Imperial Physician Yu was indeed the truth. If this poison were life-threatening, of course she would need to cultivate more men to gather yang energy. But where in this world could she find so many men she could trust? Men were inherently cruel and filthy; with even a bit of social connection, they became a mob, easily ruining her grand plans. She had no intention of looking elsewhere anytime soon—otherwise, she wouldn’t have taken only him in the first place.

Moreover, relying on indiscriminate gathering was no long-term solution. If her appetite were opened too fiercely all at once, she feared she might one day become completely enslaved by desire. Better to endure occasional hunger than take such a risk. The best course, of course, was to find a permanent detoxification method as soon as possible.

Her goodwill was wasted, and she had even been pushed away by this Little Mute. When had Zhao Rongzhang ever been defied like this?

She was about to lose her temper, but seeing Little Mute’s resentful expression, she suddenly found it amusing.