Chapter 7 Guan Xuan stood obediently, clutching the hem of his clothes.
His back bumped against the bedside, into a corner formed by the canopy bed and the wall. The area around his waist and abdomen had completely melted, and the pink lotus-like existence beneath the fabric was also too delicate to withstand further handling. Guan Xuan desperately suppressed himself, yet desperately longed for release from the side, yet he could make no movement, and no sound could escape. He was like a toy meticulously designed by heaven for her, under intense stimulation believing he was about to die, though at most he would only break.
Zhao Rongzhang discovered the key to this toy. She deliberately bent her arm, holding him even tighter. The body in her embrace indeed trembled immediately, his head knocking against the corner of the wall, and the one in her palm grew so hot it seemed about to burn through.
How interesting—he couldn’t bear being held?
Recalling how, when she had embraced him earlier, his emotions had quickly shifted from overflowing sorrow to docile peace, Zhao Rongzhang had thought that holding him merely served a soothing purpose. But it turned out to be more than that—embracing could also provoke even more intense reactions from him.
In the chaotic darkness, they occupied each other’s every sense. Guan Xuan was torn apart by the excitement of his body and the shame in his heart, both fearful of the Princess who was toying with him before him and shamefully dependent on her. She was gentle and soft, yet aloof and distant.
He felt deeply ashamed—it seemed the Princess’s assessment was true: he was wanton. As he wallowed in shame, his lower back was kneaded with varying pressure, the assault from both front and back making him tremble again. Clutching his clothes, he wanted to cry. The Princess’s forehead brushed past his chest—she must have turned her face. He heard her voice, casual and indifferent: “Do you really think you’re a baby? So fond of being held.”
Guan Xuan was stunned, his face suddenly flushing hot. He gazed blankly into the darkness, where familiar demons seemed to lurk. He suddenly realized how vulnerable, how easily attacked he was at this moment—he was actually crying.
This single sentence was more damaging than any humiliating words, more like humiliation itself.
He couldn’t be like this; he desperately wanted to support himself. Yet, what felt particularly helpless was that he discovered his body was actually yielding, his waist growing increasingly numb and tingling. He wanted to explain, to speak, but it was pitch black here; even if he tried hard to gesture, the Princess wouldn’t see. The strange, melting sensation was like a waterfall gushing and crashing from a great height, surging forth and sweeping away all his consciousness in an unstoppable torrent.
At the brink of death, he thought of that stranded fish—its heaving gills, gasping mouth, and thrashing tail. The instinct for life gave him the same reaction: his eyes were open, yet unfocused; his mouth was agape, yet no sound emerged. His waist and abdomen were clearly his own, yet he couldn’t control them, continuously grinding against her fingers in small, greedy motions. He was that dying fish.
His body trembling, Guan Xuan wanted to collapse, but didn’t know where to fall. The dead always fall; the dead simply fall, yet he was bewildered about where to fall.
In his bewilderment, he heard the Princess’s voice again, tinged with a hint of laughter.
“Just being held can make you feel this good? What a good baby.”
Below his abdomen was damp and sticky. The Princess was still playing, the sensation slick, wet, and warm. His hearing was exceptionally sharp, able to catch the unbearable sound of moisture. Did she enjoy playing this much? He was so ashamed he wished to die, to perish completely.
A cold, fishy scent permeated the air, its chill reminiscent of walking past a snow-laden pine tree in winter—a fleeting encounter that leaves one cloaked in the crisp fragrance of pine. Yet this hint of coldness was utterly insufficient to suppress the overwhelming fishy odor, which seized the entire nasal cavity with the second breath. It was unpleasant, bordering on foul. Guan Xuan felt deeply ashamed, wanting to cry, wanting to flee.
But escape was impossible. He could only shut his eyes. As he did, he saw a procession of expressionless ghosts and demons.
Drip, drip, drip—what the silk robe could not contain fell to the ground, and with it, the last shred of dignity he had clung to in life solidified beneath the Princess’s feet. Filthy, lowly—he was like this foul, fishy stream. He was its source, its very essence. Guan Xuan kept his eyes closed, tears soaking his entire face, yet unseen.
Unseen, but the arm encircling his waist did not loosen, nor did the soft fingers, slick with cold stickiness, withdraw. She seemed still at play, delighting in the wet mire, her interest undiminished. Her hands were no longer confined to the part of him most useful to her; they began to wander elsewhere. As Guan Xuan wept, his thigh was pinched, his buttock squeezed. He trembled faintly, stiffening in discomfort, yet his body remained unforgiven.
Guan Xuan grew still, sniffling, belatedly realizing she seemed intent on tracing the lines of his muscles. The soft hand at his lower back slipped beneath his robe, lingering at his waist before pressing against his abdomen. It kneaded, squeezed, and pinched. Guan Xuan opened his damp, sticky lashes and looked down at the Princess.
His vision was sharp; even in the dark, he could clearly discern the outlines of people and objects, catching faint hints of color. He had not dared to look before, but the Princess would not know—or perhaps she simply did not care whether he looked. Through tear-filled eyes, he gazed at her: the distant-mountain-like brows beneath her fair forehead, the thick, upturned lashes, the high-bridged nose, and the pink lips. Her expression was one of pleasure, her eyes bright, the corners of her mouth slightly upturned.
Guan Xuan’s face flushed hot again. He tilted his neck, averting his gaze, yet the familiar swelling sensation unexpectedly returned. He belonged to the Princess, and she so enjoyed toying with him. She was still stroking his thigh muscles, the slick tip brushing against her arm. Clutching his robe, Guan Xuan stood obediently. Though the anguish had lessened, embarrassment remained.
Zhao Rongzhang chuckled, returning her fingers to half-encircle the base, idly defiling. The little mute’s breaths hitched and faltered—clearly ensnared once more. She controlled his body, aware of every reaction, knowing he wept from shame yet soothed himself in her embrace. She had not expected him to be so endearing.
“Enough. The water must be growing cold.”
The Princess spoke abruptly, and Guan Xuan snapped out of his daze. She withdrew the hand whose temperature matched his own, and as his back pressed against the corner, he felt an unexpected pang of loss and reluctance. Gathering his emotions, he adjusted his robe, waiting for the Princess to step back, ready to obey her command.
Unexpectedly, the Princess did not completely release him; she still held onto his waist. She stepped back, but with a hook of her arm, she pulled him along as she retreated. The Princess’s eyes were fixed on him. Even though the height difference forced her to look up at him, her gaze still held absolute authority. She said, “Take Little Cat for a bath.”
Guan Xuan’s eyes widened until the Princess turned him around, changing their direction. The candlelight in the room fell on his eyelids, and the colors belonging to the Princess in his eyes became vivid and clear once more. He avoided her gaze, his entire body burning with heat. The Princess began to push him back, and Guan Xuan was completely thrust into the light. He saw his own shadow merge with the Princess’s, and he felt an inexplicable sense of safety.
Perhaps he really was a cat, just in human form, Guan Xuan suddenly thought. He had seen people raising cats—they would indeed hold them in their arms all the time and even personally carry them into the water to bathe them.
Only after he entered the water did the Princess finally let go of him completely. The Princess tilted her head to look at her hand, while Guan Xuan, sitting in the water, also secretly glanced up. The Princess’s fingers were slender and pale, with milky-white mucus hanging between them. His body remembered the process of it clinging to him all too well.
Zhao Rongzhang first wiped her hand with the clothes he had just taken off, then rinsed it in the water. Little Cat still had tear stains on his face and was secretly watching her, but his eyes were round and bright, completely giving him away. Zhao Rongzhang felt like laughing again, thinking it was fortunate he was a Shadow Guard and not a spy—otherwise, he truly wouldn’t be able to hide anything.
“Don’t go anywhere these days. Stay in the residence and serve me well.”
The cat nodded.
Zhao Rongzhang looked at his chest. Perhaps due to the repeated surges of qi and blood, the wound that had stopped bleeding earlier was now oozing fresh blood, staining his fair and tender left chest with several streaks.
“Have you run out of wound medicine?”
The cat gestured: “Not much left.”
“Use it when you need to. Having the scent of blood on you makes it easy to be exposed. When it runs out, I’ll get more. Are you worried about that?”
Worried that she, now fallen from grace, couldn’t even afford medicine for him?
The cat remained silent, washing away all the bloodstains. Before returning, he had cauterized the wound with fire, and it had mostly stopped bleeding afterward. Everything that had happened tonight was still far beyond his expectations—he hadn’t anticipated it would turn out like this.
The Princess’s situation was no longer as free as before. With the Herb Gathering Department disbanded, obtaining any medicine wouldn’t be easy. He didn’t want to cause more trouble.
The Princess came over and gently tousled his hair, as if stroking the feathers of a small bird: “I can’t bear not to care for you. After your bath, eat the pastries and rest well.”
By the time Ren Ping arrived at Jinshen Hall, half of the fire had already been extinguished. The new emperor, who had been reading memorials by lamplight, reacted quickly enough and was not injured. Despite this, he was furious and had already ordered all the eunuchs and palace maids on duty in the hall to be beaten to death.
The sound of the beatings echoed incessantly, and the cries of the palace servants were piercing, yet no one admitted to causing the fire. The Western Depot had conducted a preliminary investigation of the situation. Although a few suspicious individuals had been identified in the heat of anger, there was no concrete evidence. The Three Judicial Offices, already overwhelmed by the case of the late consort’s sudden death, hurried over only to face another outburst of the new emperor’s wrath.
Ren Ping knelt before the new emperor along with the others, yet his thoughts kept drifting back, back to the moment he entered the Princess’s Mansion. He recalled everything he had seen, smelled, and heard—every trace seemed like it could serve as evidence, yet if taken as such, each felt far too tenuous. This fire was undoubtedly the work of the Grand Princess. What kind of powerful and hidden forces had the late emperor left her, capable of driving so many to madness? As the late emperor’s most trusted Imperial Guard, how could he have known nothing of it?
Anger would eventually subside. Two days later, faced with the clamor of court and public opinion, the new emperor agreed to the Turks’ request for border trade. Moreover, to appease the ambitious Turkic king, he decided to preside over a marriage alliance between the two peoples, sending Princess Yingrong to the royal tent of the Turkic king.
When the news reached Zhao Rongzhang, she was sitting in the courtyard, watching Little Cat pounce at butterflies. The princess smiled as she sipped her freshly brewed tea, knowing that her chance to feast had finally arrived.