The rain had stopped. Qian Jiaoniang stepped forward and lifted Xing Pingchun by the arm, trying to get him to sit up so she could carry him back to their courtyard. He was limp in her arms, utterly lifeless. Her nose stung, and just as she turned to carry him on her back, Xing Muzheng swooped in and lifted him off.
The weight vanished from her back. Qian Jiaoniang spun around and glared at him. “What are you doing?”
Seeing how she guarded against him like he was a thief, Xing Muzheng swallowed his anger. “I’ll carry him over.”
“No need to trouble yourself!” Qian Jiaoniang reached out to take the child back.
Xing Muzheng clenched his jaw, pretended not to hear, and cradled Xing Pingchun horizontally in his arms as he strode out the door. Qian Jiaoniang had no choice but to follow.
Ding Zhang came forward. “My lord, outside there’s—”
“Not seeing anyone! Get lost!” Xing Muzheng barked.
Ding Zhang was so frightened he scurried aside, not daring to anger his master again.
Xing Muzheng carried Xing Pingchun all the way back to Qian Jiaoniang’s small courtyard and laid him on her bed. After a while, a servant brought in freshly boiled medicine. Qian Jiaoniang fed it to the child spoon by spoon while Xing Muzheng turned and left. She didn’t even look up.
In the afternoon, Xing Pingchun woke briefly but refused to eat. Qian Jiaoniang forced a few mouthfuls of porridge into him before laying him down again. He quickly drifted back to sleep, but the fever still hadn’t gone down. Qian Jiaoniang feared fevers the most—she had seen a child die from an unbroken high fever before. She remembered one winter when Xing Pingchun burned with fever for days. Even the doctors had given up, telling her to leave it to fate. She had held snow in her hands and wiped him down again and again to lower his temperature, dragging him back from the brink by sheer will.
Ever since then, each time he fell ill, she feared he’d never get back up.
By dusk, Xing Muzheng returned. When he arrived, Xing Pingchun was still lying on the bed. Qian Jiaoniang sat on a round stool by the bedside, head bowed in embroidery. Her back was delicate and slender, like a willow that could snap in the wind.
Hearing footsteps, Qian Jiaoniang glanced back slightly and, seeing it was Xing Muzheng, her eyes turned cold. She looked away, ignoring him.
“Has Chou’er woken up?” Xing Muzheng asked. He already knew from Ding Zhang that the boy had stirred, but now he didn’t know what else to say.
Qian Jiaoniang said nothing and kept her head down, focused on her needlework.
Xing Muzheng stepped forward and reached out to pat her shoulder. The moment his fingers touched her, she slapped his hand away. His hand stung slightly. He tried again, and she slapped him once more, then stood and glared at him.
Face darkening, Xing Muzheng grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his arms, encircling her waist with his other hand. Qian Jiaoniang struggled fiercely, and it took all his strength to hold her still.
“I would never harm my own son!” Xing Muzheng said roughly.
Qian Jiaoniang didn’t believe him—but she couldn’t break free either. After all, he was nearly twice her size and trained in martial arts. With just a little force, he could lock her in place. Tired of her resistance, Xing Muzheng tightened his grip, pressing her body against his with no space in between. Her soft form was enveloped in his solid embrace. He lowered his head and caught the scent of her hair. His arms drew even tighter, almost embedding her into himself.
Qian Jiaoniang pinched his arm, but his muscles were like stone—unmoving.
The warmth in his embrace intensified. Xing Muzheng rested his chin atop her head. “I would never harm Chou’er. I’m his father.” With those words, he suddenly let go of her—as if her body had burned him.
Qian Jiaoniang said nothing. She bent down, picked up the embroidery she had dropped during their struggle, dusted it off, and let out a weary sigh, as if burdened by the weight of the world.
Xing Muzheng’s heart tightened slightly.
When Qian Jiaoniang looked up again, her face was already filled with sorrow. She wiped the corners of her eyes and said, “My lord, I was reckless earlier. I apologize to you!” She lowered her head and bowed deeply. When she looked up again, her eyes were even redder. “My lord, I, Qian Jiaoniang, may be lacking in talent and virtue, but for all these years I’ve served Mother-in-law with full devotion. Even if I’ve earned no merits, I’ve certainly endured hardship. Could you please let me and my child go? Look at how I live now—no name, no status, and burdened with a reputation for being unfaithful. Every day I stay in this manor is another day of shame. If you truly wish to repay the small favor I did by caring for you back then, then let us mother and son leave. In any case, you’ll have many wives and concubines, and your descendants will fill the halls. You won’t miss one Chou’er. Just take pity, let me have someone to rely on in my old age. I’ll kneel to you!”
She choked up and began to kneel. Just as her hands were about to touch the floor for a kowtow, a strong force lifted her up. Xing Muzheng stared at her deeply, unreadable. Qian Jiaoniang sniffled, looking pitiful and delicate.
“Jiaoniang…” Qingya suddenly stepped out from behind the screen. She started to speak but froze mid-sentence. Seeing the two so entangled, she didn’t know how to react.
Qian Jiaoniang threw her a look. Qingya understood and quickly bowed before leaving in a hurry.
Xing Muzheng only glanced at her and then looked away. He released Jiaoniang and leaned close to her ear, saying slowly, “Next time, pinch yourself harder. Only when you cry will I believe you.” He had nearly fallen for her act. Her tearful, fragile look had almost made him agree to anything she wanted.
Qian Jiaoniang’s sobbing expression froze—he had seen her pinching her leg?
Xing Muzheng let out a cold snort, glanced once at the bed where Xing Pingchun lay, and left.
