Xing Muzheng looked at the woman in front of him through his own eyes. Her wheat-colored skin lacked the delicate polish of a noble lady. Her bright apricot-shaped eyes shifted from hope to disappointment. There were a few faint freckles on the bridge of her delicate nose, and her white teeth lightly bit down on her rosy lips.
This woman… was his wife.
Xing Muzheng was trapped inside his own body. It felt like his soul had been bound in chains, locked away deep within him, while something else—some ghost or demon—had taken over and turned him into a lunatic.
He remembered that day clearly: he had been discussing matters with the steward in his study when suddenly, it felt like a sharp iron spike was driven into his skull. For a moment, he thought he had died. When he regained some sense, he saw that he had destroyed the entire study, pummeling the steward with fists and feet. He tried to regain control of his body—but he couldn’t even move a single finger. It was as if his soul and body had been severed: one trapped and powerless within, the other running wild and mad.
He could only watch as Feng Yuyan and Steward Zhou summoned doctors to check his pulse, monks to chant over incense, Taoists to spit on him while drawing talismans on his body—and even a spirit medium who stripped him naked to paint charms all over him.
Never had he been so humiliated. Never had he felt such fury.
He wanted to scream, to explain everything, but all that came out were hoarse, wordless shouts. The thing possessing him wasn’t afraid of those charlatans—it wrecked everything. So Feng Yuyan had him chained with iron shackles.
Of course, the creature went berserk. But no matter how it struggled, self-harmed, screamed—Feng Yuyan never once showed her face. The steward obeyed that foolish woman, and even the servants who used to fear him had learned to handle him indifferently. His whole body stank. His wounds festered. He was like a lump of rotting flesh, locked in a lightless room.
Eventually, even the demon lacked the strength to keep raging.
Xing Muzheng had once galloped through mountains of blades and seas of fire, clad in armor and astride his warhorse. He had cut a bloody path through tens of thousands of enemy troops, crawled out of heaps of corpses drenched in blood, and never once felt despair. But now, his body was shackled within a room, his soul locked inside that body. Only then did he truly understand what it meant to cry out to the heavens and receive no answer, to plead to the earth and find no solace—utter despair.
Yet what he never expected was that it would be Madam Qian who pulled him out of that abyss.
His official wife, Madam Qian—he didn’t even know her given name. To Xing Muzheng, Madam Qian had always been just a stranger brought home on his mother’s behalf—a peasant woman meant to bear his heirs and care for the elderly. When he had gone back to his hometown to fetch his mother, had she not been living in the Xing household with a child who bore his features, he might not even have recognized her as his wife.
But Xing Muzheng had never planned to cast her aside. Illiterate as she was, she had seen to his mother’s burial during the hardest decade, and she had given birth to his eldest son.
Xing Muzheng’s intention had simply been to let Madam Qian live out her days quietly in a corner of the marquis estate, growing old in peace.
Who could have imagined that this forgotten woman would be the one to save him?
“Mother, how is Father?” Xing Pingchun walked in carefully, carrying a meal prepared for Xing Muzheng in both hands. Doctor Jian had said he should eat soft foods for the time being, so the kitchen had prepared shredded chicken and blood-swallow bird’s nest congee with small side dishes. Xing Pingchun placed the silver tray on the table.
From outside, the only maid in Jiaoniang’s courtyard, Qingya, walked in. She wore no makeup, her face pale as jade, elegant as an orchid—looking more like the mistress of the house than Jiaoniang herself.
“Chou’er, let me do it,” she said gently.
“No need, Sister Qingya. You go take care of your tasks,” Pingchun replied. He opened the bamboo container’s lid, releasing the fragrant scent of rice porridge, then ladled a spoonful into a green jade bowl and stirred it.
Qingya smiled and turned to Qian Jiaoniang. “Jiaoniang, is there anything else you need me to do?”
Jiaoniang? So that’s her name… Xing Muzheng heard it.
Qian Jiaoniang said, “Qingya, go to the Marquis’s courtyard—actually, no, go find Steward Zhou and tell him to gather the Marquis’s usual belongings and send them over.”
Qingya looked at Xing Muzheng on the bed, then at Qian Jiaoniang. Jiaoniang gave her a small nod, and Qingya turned and left.
Xing Pingchun puffed his cheeks and gently blew on the steaming porridge. His father had wounds on his lips, and he was afraid it would hurt him if it was too hot.
From the dull, lifeless gaze of what once seemed like a mad beast, Xing Muzheng caught sight of his eldest son from the corner of his eye. Back then, it had only been to put his mother at ease that he had allowed Madam Qian to conceive. He hadn’t even known whether the child was a boy or girl before leaving Gui County. In the years that followed, he had fought east and west, completely cut off from home. It wasn’t until half a year ago that he learned he had a son already grown.
As for affection—he probably had more for the subordinates who had followed him through blood and fire than for this boy.
Xing Muzheng had never paid his son much mind. It was only when Madam Qian approached him half a year ago that he remembered Xing Pingchun was of schooling age. He found a teacher for him, but never asked about his studies. At most, they exchanged greetings in passing when the child came to pay respects.
“Father, the porridge isn’t hot anymore. Let me feed you,” Xing Pingchun said softly as he moved closer and raised a spoonful to his father’s lips.
This child had cared for his bedridden grandmother before, so Qian Jiaoniang had no concerns about him doing it right.
Looking at the boy before him, eyes filled with sympathy, a sudden surge of rage rose in Xing Muzheng. Had he fallen so low that even a mere child pitied him—had to feed him?!
At that very moment, the thing possessing him suddenly flew into a rage. With a violent sweep of its long arm, it knocked over the jade-green bowl—smashing it right into Xing Pingchun’s face. The porridge inside was still hot, and it splashed all over him. Xing Pingchun let out a cry and stumbled back two steps. The jade bowl hit the ground and shattered on impact.
“Chou’er!” Qian Jiaoniang quickly rushed to steady Xing Pingchun.
Just then, the bald Ah Da and the mustached Wang Yong burst in from outside. Xing Muzheng flailed his arms and tried to rush out. “Commander!” the two men shouted as they threw themselves forward to restrain him.
“I’m fine, Mother! The porridge isn’t that hot! How’s Father? Is he okay?” Xing Pingchun cried anxiously, his eyes squeezed shut, still worrying about his father even as hot porridge burned his face.
Qian Jiaoniang glanced up at Xing Muzheng, now wrestling with the soldiers, then quickly looked down again and used her handkerchief to wipe her son’s face. “He’s fine. Let me see your eyes—don’t rub them!”
Xing Muzheng wanted to see how badly Xing Pingchun was hurt, but the ghost inside him was too caught up in struggling.
Qian Jiaoniang wiped her son’s face clean. Fortunately, his eyes weren’t injured—just several patches of redness on his cheeks. She sent him to rinse with cold water, then turned her attention back to Xing Muzheng, who was now pinned down from exhaustion. The two soldiers were panting, with fresh scratches on their faces. The bald one scanned the chaotic room, breathing heavily. “Madam, what’s going on with the Commander?”
“Chou’er was trying to feed his father porridge, but he knocked it over,” Qian Jiaoniang replied. She crouched down to gather the shards of the jade bowl and placed them on the table, heart aching. That was real jade! Who had the bright idea to serve a sick man with such an expensive bowl? She thought bitterly, This could’ve sold for a good amount!
She wrapped the broken pieces in a handkerchief, wondering whether she could still sell the scraps. Afterward, she scooped some porridge into a wooden bowl, mixed in the pickled vegetables and chopped scallions, and gave it a stir.
“Madam, should we hold the Commander down again?” the bald one asked.
Qian Jiaoniang gently blew on the porridge, then after a pause said, “Let me try again. We can’t keep pinning him down every time.”
Ah Da and Wang Yong exchanged a glance, then nodded and stepped back. They weren’t eager to restrain the Commander either.
Qian Jiaoniang blew on the porridge a few more times, then said fiercely to Xing Muzheng, “If you splash this on my face, you won’t get any more milk!”
The Marquis leaned against the bedframe, too weak to act up. He bared his teeth and let out a growl at her.
Qian Jiaoniang wasn’t fazed and barked right back at him, even louder than he had. They glared. The two soldiers stared in shock—this Madam… sure isn’t delicate.
Dingxi Marquis glared for a moment, then suddenly slapped the bed and broke into a foolish grin, actually laughing.
Qian Jiaoniang nearly rolled her eyes. Is he an idiot? A full-grown fool?
Xing Muzheng couldn’t bear to watch—whether it was his wife or the ghost inside him.
Seizing the moment while he was in a good mood, Qian Jiaoniang fed him a spoonful of porridge. The Marquis opened his mouth, and the porridge dribbled down the corner of his lips.
“Chew, like this,” she said, lifting his chin and exaggerating her own chewing. The Marquis stared at her blankly, then either understanding her or simply driven by hunger, he gulped it down. Qian Jiaoniang quickly fed him another spoonful. The Marquis tasted the flavor and nearly swallowed the spoon along with it. She barely managed to pull it out.
“Brothers, your Marquis wants to eat now! Quick, pour the rest of the porridge into another bowl and let it cool. One container won’t be enough—go get more from the kitchen!” she ordered.
The bald one immediately sent Wang Yong to the kitchen, then grabbed the pot and filled a large bowl, puffing up his cheeks and blowing hard to cool it.
Meanwhile, the crazed Marquis thought Qian Jiaoniang was feeding him too slowly. He snatched the bowl and tried to gulp it down. The porridge was still warm and salty—it seeped into the cracks on his injured lips, making him cry out in pain. He flung the wooden bowl, smashing it into pieces across the floor.
“Yes, yes, it hurts! I’ll blow on it for you,” Qian Jiaoniang said hurriedly. She had no time for anything else and began soothing him like a toddler. She held his face and puckered her lips, blowing warm air on his wounds. The Marquis calmed down after a few breaths. His gaze fixated on her soft, red lips—then, suddenly, he grabbed her hair and bit down hard on her mouth.
Not only did he bite—he even ground his teeth like he wanted to chew it off and swallow it.
Qian Jiaoniang winced and groaned, shoving him away. A few strands of her hair were yanked out in the struggle. Her scalp hurt, her lip hurt—tears nearly sprang to her eyes.
“Are you trying to kill me, you d*mn—” she started to curse but bit her tongue halfway through. She’d worked hard not to swear in front of her son, and now she’d nearly lost control.
“Madam, what happened?” Ah Da asked. He’d had his back turned, busy blowing porridge, and hadn’t seen anything.
Qian Jiaoniang’s face turned red. Thankfully her skin wasn’t fair, so it didn’t show. “Nothing. Your Marquis just wanted to eat meat.” That last word came out between gritted teeth. She wiped her lips forcefully and spat in Xing Muzheng’s direction.
