Chapter Text
When a previously undefeated enemy general is not only defeated but taken prisoner, he can hardly count on being treated kindly. Death—likely public and gruesome, torture, or a long, painful imprisonment are all par for the course.
Hua Cheng spits out blood and sneers. He can withstand torture, and he’s not afraid of death, but when it comes to a country as rotten, perverted, and corrupt as the Kingdom of Xianle, the rules of warfare seem to be worth nothing at all.
After the death of the previous king some ten-odd years ago, the country is ruled by a regent, awaiting the crown prince’s majority. Yong’an has been at war with Xianle for three years now, and Hua Cheng has become more than passingly familiar with the key players of the Xianle court, may it be ripped apart by demons.
The regent is a terrifying man, a powerful cultivator, a person cruel and only interested in one thing—power. Under his rule, over the past decade, Xianle has quarreled with all its neighbors and has been fighting in one war or another nearly without pause. The strain on the kingdom’s resources has been enormous, but Jun Wu, it seems, won’t rest until he has all of the Central Plains under his fist.
The small kingdom of Yong’an was meant to be nothing more than a bump in the road for the usually victorious Xianle army. Yong’an used to be a part of Xianle anyway; Jun Wu considered it his before the war had even begun.
Yet unexpectedly, Yong’an not only managed to hold its own, but had turned its resistance into a full-scale offence, and began pressuring the overextended Xianle on all fronts. This was primarily the doing of Yong’an’s most efficient general—Hua Cheng, nicknamed Crimson Rain for his extreme boldness and ferocity in battle.
Not only did he manage to successfully defend Yong’an’s borders, he had gained territories for Yong’an. The order he established there was so much better than Xianle rule, that, after surviving the first fright, civilians in newly taken areas had taken to hang crimson banners from their windows to welcome him.
It was no wonder that such a person would be deeply hated by the enemy, but for a long time, Hua Cheng remained utterly untouchable and out of reach of Xianle’s troops. Until a month ago, when he was ambushed and not merely defeated but taken prisoner.
--
Hua Cheng is no wilting flower.
His mother died when he was four years old. His father treated him so harshly that, at just ten years old, Hua Cheng had joined the army. His father, he knows very well, had expected him to be killed.
Yet that wasn’t what happened. By thirteen, he was in command of a battalion. By seventeen, he’d been promoted to general, and in the ensuing years, he hadn’t suffered a single defeat. He’d fought off the northern barbarians, securing Yong’an’s border, suppressed a few uprisings in the lesser kingdoms, and for the past three years, he had been a constant irritant to the Xianle army.
He’s been wounded many times, and can suffer any pain stoically. So when they whip him and break his legs, he takes it in stride. When the regent himself comes to observe as Hua Cheng’s meridians are broken, effectively turning him from a god of war into a useless heap of flesh, he doesn’t make a sound. He expects death next and would have departed into the netherworld laughing, but the regent comes up with something else.
By his decree, as an act of final humiliation, the infamous Crimson General is to suffer the fate of a captured woman. He is to be married as a concubine to the crown prince of Xianle.
--
Bleeding, restrained, and in severe pain, Hua Cheng thrashes and snarls at the news, delivered by a smug-looking palace eunuch. To become nothing more than a bed warmer to Xianle’s corrupt royalty—a deeper humiliation is impossible to imagine. Only a kingdom as fully sunken in evil as Xianle could something like this even be conceived!
So yes, the regent gets what he wants at last. For a few crucial moments, Hua Cheng does lose his composure.
Later, alone in his cell again, he takes stock. Humiliating or not, he will survive this. Xianle’s dynasty needs to end, and Hua Cheng swears there and then and it will happen by his hand.
Decision made, analysis comes easier.
Of the crown prince himself, Hua Cheng knows little. His Highness has long been of age to hold a sword, but despite the near-constant wars his country started, he has never been seen on the battlefield. Yong’an’s spies at Xianle court reported that the prince was soft and spoiled, as even under the regent’s repeated requests, he refused to be a man and fight for his country. He was said to be frequently absent from important meetings as he evidently cared little for his people.
It had come to a head when he was openly revealed to be a cut sleeve in front of the entire court. Clearly, a person such as this was good for nothing, only caring about his pleasures.
What was more, the prince was said to be as cruel as he was perverted. Ever since he was a child, there had been rumors of deaths and debilitating injuries in his palace. After he was revealed as a cut sleeve, numerous male servants and staffers working for him were carried out of his residence in pieces. Obviously, the prince was that kind of sexual deviant, who had no morals and treated people as toys to be broken.
With him as the heir to the throne, Xianle is doomed, so Hua Cheng grits his teeth and endures it all. He wants to be the one to put an end to this rotten kingdom himself, and for that, he has to live.
If they make a mockery of him, so be it. If they throw him into the pervert’s lair, so be it. He will survive and bide his time until he can heal his legs and escape.
Then, Xianle will drown in blood, and he will cut the prince’s throat himself.
--
The day of the ceremony arrives. They clean him up perfunctorily, the stench of prison and fresh blood still clinging to him, as they put him in ill-fitting wedding robes, obviously cut for a woman. Hua Cheng clenches his teeth and endures the pain and humiliation without making a sound. He won’t give them the pleasure.
When he’s placed in a wheelchair and rolled out, he has to fight hard to suppress a smirk. He’s been disabled like this, can hardly move on his own, and still he warrants three dozen guards to accompany the bridal sedan? It seems Xianle army has suffered too many defeats from him, and they are now scared of him, even in this state. For the first time in days, Hua Cheng feels good.
As the procession moves through the royal capital, he ignores the crowds that have come to witness his disgrace, and thinks instead about something quite different and much more concerning. In that ill-fated battle where he’d been captured, the arrow that fell him had hit him in the back. It was only his good luck that it didn’t kill him, but this raised a very real possibility that he’d been betrayed.
The more he thinks about that battle, the less it makes sense. Hua Cheng frowns, ignoring the jostling of the sedan that aggravates his wounds. He’s used to wounds, used to pain. It’ll pass. The other thing, on the other hand…
Who could it be? The king of Yong’an is his uncle. He has no children of his own, and after Hua Cheng’s father died, he had adopted Hua Cheng’s eldest brother and made him heir. His second brother was also granted a title. Hua Cheng, on the other hand, wasn’t the son of a lawful wife, but instead a captured slave woman, and as such was too embarrassing to acknowledge.
He couldn’t have cared less. He’s always hated his brothers and wanted nothing to do with them. He commands the army for them—is that not enough?
But of course. A bitter smirk curves his lips. The army. His father, now gone, had sent him there, hoping to get rid of him for good. No one expected him to become the best general Yong’an has ever had. True, he lacks any sort of noble title, but his uncle likes him, and he is adored in the troops. He had shared life and death with these people—they are loyal to him. He has no proof, but almost without a doubt, both or either of his brothers must have had a hand in his capture.
Which means coming home could be a difficult and hazardous affair, even if he manages to escape. Hua Cheng smirks without humor. Looks like he has a bit of housecleaning to do, before he deals with Xianle once and for all. The prospect makes his blood race, but he reins in his dark excitement. If he wants to accomplish any of this, he has to survive this mockery of a marriage first.
--
The residence of the crown prince is festively decorated with red silk and lanterns to celebrate His Highness’s marriage. Hua Cheng schools his face into an expressionless mask he’s perfected back under his father’s roof, but internally he grimaces with distaste.
Fortunately—inasmuch as any of this can be called fortunate—the prince is only marrying a concubine, so the ceremony will be much simpler than for a wife. Hua Cheng grits his teeth as the sedan stops, and he’s settled into the poorly made wheelchair again. His face is covered with the veil.
Under the circumstances, it’s a mocking and debasing gesture, but he finds he almost prefers it. Concealed by the sleeves of his wedding robes, he twirls a sharp wooden chip in his fingers. He’s broken it off the palanquin doorframe just now, and so now he has a weapon. The crown prince expects a disabled and demoralized prisoner. So much the better. If he is stupid enough to think he can play with a declawed tiger, he will pay for it with his blood.
A servant pushes the chair through an enfilade of rooms that Hua Cheng vaguely sees from underneath the veil. His eyes have always been sharp, and both of them happen to be uncovered now. His martial arts have been damaged, the flow of spiritual energy hopelessly stoppered, but his senses remain keen as ever. He extends them, taking stock of his surroundings, mapping out the territory.
If the prince tries to consummate this ‘marriage’ tonight, Hua Cheng can’t guarantee that he won’t kill him, unwise though it may be. In that case, the matter of his escape will become somewhat more urgent. Hm.
He’s finally wheeled into what he guesses is meant as the bridal chamber. The room doesn’t have a lot of furnishings, the giant bed domineering the space. Hua Cheng inwardly grimaces. In truth, he doesn’t have the same prejudice against cut sleeves as the people of Xianle seem to have. Hua Cheng himself has never cared about the gender of the person who’d join him for a night of pleasure here and there. As long as everyone is willing—who cares?
But this macabre theatre, this using sex to demean and hurt—this is truly despicable. He would really sooner die than let himself be used by a sadistic, rotten brat. They will have to break more than his legs for Hua Cheng to lie with someone like that, let alone under him. But if he has to die, he will do everything he can to take the prince down with him.
--
For the moment, though, there’s nothing to do but sit and wait. His veil has been adjusted, and he can’t see anything from under it anymore, but through the open doors of the bridal chamber, Hua Cheng can hear the assembled spectators outside. Some courtiers, probably, here to amuse themselves with the spectacle under the guise of witnessing the ceremony. The prince may be nothing more than trash, but he is the heir to the throne.
Hua Cheng doesn’t listen to the murmured jokes and insults, and instead focuses on the sounds coming from the open window of the chamber. Most people wouldn’t be able to discern voices at such distance, but his senses have always been preternaturally sharp. He can clearly hear two people talking.
“Your Highness, it’s time,” a rough, low voice is saying. “The bridal procession is here.”
“Already? What’s their hurry? Do they want the consummation to fall on the auspicious hour or something?”
That second voice is darkly amused, mocking, and full of disdain. It has the drawling lilt to it that sets Hua Cheng’s teeth on edge. As expected of a spoiled, pampered noble.
“Your Highness,” the first speaker insists, as if the prince hasn’t spoken. “I know how you feel, but it’s the regent’s decree. You can’t go against it.”
“Well, it’s not our fault they’re here ahead of schedule,” the second voice scoffs. “Don’t throw a fit. They can wait. They broke his legs, didn’t they? It’s not like the mighty general is going anywhere.”
Hua Cheng’s jaw clenches.
Unexpectedly, however, at that moment, a third speaker reveals himself, his voice quieter than the other two, yet gently melodic and clear as a bell.
“A-Jiu, enough. It’s not worth stirring up trouble because they’re here an hour early; we’ll just have to be quick.”
“Your Highness knows how this one hates to be rushed.”
“Whatever A-Jiu can do at this time is fine, I won’t blame you. Feng Xin, please go and tell them I’ll be there momentarily.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The first speaker departs, while the other two seem to move out of range of even Hua Cheng’s sensitive hearing. He ponders over the exchange, but apart from apparently some inconvenience due to the shift in schedule, there’s not much to chew on. Whoever this ‘A-Jiu’ is, he sounds deeply unpleasant. He must fit right in.
Hua Cheng waits on.
--
Finally, the crowd of spectators audibly stirs outside the chamber doors, with many voices greeting the prince who’s arrived at last. Clothes rustle as people bow. The servants stop at the doors, as only two men enter the chamber proper, one striding quickly toward Hua Cheng seated in his chair and stopping in front of him. From under the veil, Hua Cheng can only glimpse the hem of red wedding robes. The prince is apparently taking this charade seriously and is dressed for the occasion.
For a while, however, nothing happens. Hua Cheng sits motionless, fingers pressed so tightly around the wooden chip, he’s in danger of breaking skin. It’s chokingly quiet, and the tension is mounting.
A voice comes from the prince’s right, and Hua Cheng recognizes the first speaker from earlier.
“Your Highness, the veil.” Feng Xin, apparently, clears his throat. He sounds awkward. “You have to lift the veil.”
The prince’s silhouette stiffens at the reminder, as if the man has just woken up from slumber. Hua Cheng braces himself, schooling his features into impassivity, though the sneer curving his lips is hard to fight.
An elegant hand, white as jade enters his field of vision, taking hold of the silk and pulling it up in one sharp arc. Hua Cheng lifts his eyes to look at his new chief tormentor and freezes. All he can do is stare.
For what feels like a long time, his mind is wiped clean, until the first absurd thought flashes through it.
Eyes.
The most perfect peach blossom eyes he’s ever seen stare back at him—huge, gentle, warm and luminous with specks of gold, framed by thick, sweetly curling lashes—an utterly compelling vision. Slowly, around those eyes, the rest of the prince’s appearance coalesces in Hua Cheng’s perception.
The prince looks no older than seventeen, though that can’t be right. His skin is smooth as jade and just as pale and flawless. He has high cheekbones and elegant eyebrows; thick, softly gleaming locks of dark chestnut hair are pulled away from his face to spill over his shoulders and down his back. His pink lips are parted in startlement like petals of a flower, unconsciously luring in predators and drawing the eye away from the strong, determined line of his jaw.
He’s slender and tall, though if Hua Cheng were able to stand, he’d easily tower over him. The rumored cunning and vicious fox demon in reality looks like a wide-eyed little rabbit, an impossibly bewitching one at that, and Hua Cheng feels utterly thrown. Only years of discipline over his own body save him from gaping.
Fortunately for him, the prince seems equally perturbed. His expression is that of a man who’s been furious for a good while and was unexpectedly snapped out of it through sheer astonishment or perhaps confusion. The veil slips from his hand unnoticed to land on the floor, red silk gleaming in the candlelight like a pool of blood.
He must have lingered long enough for the assembled courtiers and attendants at the doors to begin clearing their throats and whispering.
At last, the man standing next to the prince shifts his weight, and says quietly, “Your Highness, the wine.”
The ceremony for marrying a concubine really is that simple—lift the veil and drink the wine. Only now does Hua Cheng manage to look away from the prince to take the measure of the man at his side.
Feng Xin is taller and a great deal bulkier, a fighter by his build and posture. Hua Cheng scoffs internally. The prince’s trusted bodyguard, if indeed that’s who he is, is nothing more than an oaf. Hua Cheng knows the type—they rely on their physical strength above all else, the definition of ‘brawn over brain.’ The man is currently holding a tray with two golden cups on it.
The prince starts at his voice as if coming out of a trance, looks at the cups, and instantly a frown clouds his features. Hua Cheng was right. His Highness seems angry about something.
Without looking at anyone, he picks up one of the cups and drinks it clean, before setting it back on the tray. From the doors, comes a positive outpour of startled gasps and whispers, rising at times to full volume.
Feng Xin looks panicked for a moment, and whispers urgently, “Your Highness, that’s the nuptial wine!”
The prince frowns, yet ignores him, as if entirely unaware that he was supposed to hand the cup to his new concubine as well before drinking. Hua Cheng would not have taken it. It’s insult enough that he has to sit here through this farce. To force him to pretend to consent to it would have been too much.
It could be that the prince had intuited this, or that he’s simply too arrogant and self-centered. In any case, he ignores Feng Xin’s words, and turns around to walk back toward the audience. His voice sounds cheerful as he addresses them.
“My lords, please express my sincere gratitude to my Lord Regent for his generosity. The official ceremony is now concluded, and this prince begs for privacy to become better acquainted with my new spouse. Pray my lords will excuse me.”
He gives a perfunctory bow to the crowd that reluctantly begins to disperse. The servants linger, but after the prince says, somewhat tersely, “Leave us,” they, too, begin to withdraw.
The bodyguard remains after everyone has cleared out and seems startled when the prince looks at him and says, “Feng Xin, you too.”
“Your Highness!” Feng Xin is instantly at his side again, hovering over the prince in a way that appears threatening and definitely disrespectful. Throwing Hua Cheng a suspicious look, he says in a loud, urgent whisper, “You want me to leave you alone with him?! What if he… does something? I know his martials arts are sealed, but—”
The prince lifts his chin and gives his bodyguard a cold look. “Do you expect me to consummate my marriage with you in here? I’m sure the court will be delighted by this development. Not so sure about Lady Jian.”
Feng Xin’s ears turn red, and, with one last menacing glance in Hua Cheng’s direction, he finally withdraws. The prince waits for the heavy doors to close, then abruptly turns around and quickly strides to Hua Cheng’s side.
Hua Cheng notes distantly that the rumors seem to have been wrong about one thing for certain. Hua Cheng has been in the army since he was ten years old; he can take the measure of someone’s skills and proficiency simply by the way they carry themselves, possibly with his eyes closed.
The prince, said to be too soft and spoiled for the sword and thus never having been seen on a battlefield, moves like someone who not only knows martial arts, but who’s been training for days on end since early childhood. His bone structure and body shape, the very way he cuts through space firmly attest to that. Combined with his gentle, somewhat androgynous features, the effect is maddening.
The dark red silk of the wedding robes casts a slightly sinister shadow onto his face, bellied by the expression in his liquid peach blossom eyes, suddenly wide with what appears to be concern. Trying to grasp any proper measure of him is giving Hua Cheng whiplash.
The prince halts right in front of him and asks, voice gentle yet urgent, “General Hua, are you in very much pain?”
--
At first, Hua Cheng thinks he has misheard. Surely, his new jailor could not have asked that?
The prince, however, only looks more worried, his eyebrows drawing closer together, white teeth sinking mercilessly into his lower lip. Hua Cheng abruptly experiences an absurd urge to press his thumb to the abused spot and rub the hurt away. He blinks. Has he been drugged?
“I can smell the blood on you,” the prince says apologetically, traces of anger lurking in his voice again. “And I know my Lord Regent. They wouldn’t have treated your injuries in prison unless they were immediately life-threatening. Please allow me to take a look?”
Hua Cheng stares at him, unblinking. He knows very well the power of his stare—the sight of his red eye alone is enough to send most people cowering on the floor, let alone when he uses it intentionally. The prince is peering at him warily, but it’s not the kind of wariness that Hua Cheng is used to.
Normally, people would look at him warily, wondering if they are about to die. This here, however, is the way one would look at something precious and fragile, wondering how to handle it without breaking.
Before Hua Cheng can come close to figuring out what kind of game the prince is playing and how to respond, His Highness kneels beside the wheelchair, carefully pulls the skirts of Hua Cheng’s wedding robes up, then, even more cautiously rolls up his pants to the knees, exposing his injuries. Hua Cheng has gone speechless, but the prince gives the wounds an assessing look, before quickly glancing up.
“Even though these are only skin wounds now, it’s best not to delay treatment. I’m sorry, General Hua, for tonight you’ll have to make do with this one’s meager skills.”
Before Hua Cheng can make sense of that, the prince rises and disappears through the door at the back of the room, presumably leading to the washroom. Within a few moments, he comes back, carrying a small basin, a cloth, and bandages. He kneels again, setting his supplies within easy reach, then pulls his sleeves out of the way and proceeds to clean and bandage Hua Cheng’s calves, where most of his visible injuries are.
The water is treated with herbs, the scent more medicinal than sweet. The prince, Hua Cheng notes in between questioning the surreal nature of it all, has a practiced hand and doesn’t seem to be squeamish. He goes about his task, meticulous and careful, hands steady and gentle. Even if Hua Cheng’s meridians hadn’t been broken and he could feel more than some faint echoes, he’s fairly certain the touch wouldn’t have been painful.
What. In the hell. Is going on here?
“Tomorrow,” His Highness says, oblivious, not lifting his eyes from his work, “after we’ve spent a night together, I will have the excuse to call in the physician to treat you, General Hua. I’d give you a pain reliever now, but I have a feeling”—his lips curve in a wry smile—“that the general won’t accept anything like that from my hand?”
Well… he’s definitely not stupid. Hua Cheng would sooner willingly swallow nails than take medicine from the enemy. He presses his lips together tighter and doesn’t reply.
The prince goes quiet for a while, then, pausing in his work, looks up again, his mesmerizing eyes glinting gold in the soft light.
“General Hua.” He speaks quietly yet clearly. “I am very well aware that no apologies can make up for this treatment, but I must apologize on behalf of my people that this has happened. Even though you are Xianle’s enemy, you are someone I have admired from afar for a long time. Your courage in battle, your honor in treating civilians, the discipline you maintain in your troops… Even from your opponents, you deserve nothing but the utmost respect. I am sorry that—” His Highness swallows. “I’m sorry that it’s come to this.”
Hua Cheng clenches the wooden chip in his hand so hard he breaks skin. The prince is either a superb actor, or… Since arriving to the prince’s mansion, Hua Cheng had gotten the impression that, despite what his jailers and torturers had told him, the crown prince was no happier with this marriage than he was. He really seems to be unfavored by the regent, who used Hua Cheng as a tool to humiliate him.
But now—this? It’s too good to be true. Too close to what Hua Cheng wants to hear. He can’t trust this.
He narrows his eyes and, with every bit of revulsion he feels for this whole charade, grits out, “What good are your apologies? Words are cheap from someone who hasn’t fought a single battle to defend his people.”
The prince recoils as if slapped. For a moment, his eyes turn huge and moist like those of a doe whose heart has been pierced by an arrow. Then, he hastily looks down, returning to his task without saying a word. His hands don’t shake, but they appear less nimble than before.
Hua Cheng suddenly wants to swear. He’s the prisoner here—how come he feels like a bully? How dare this man make him feel like this? Hua Cheng has never once raised his hand to a child or a woman, and this person is neither! He’s the enemy, and a cruel, sadistic, licentious waste of space! How come rebuking him as he deserves makes Hua Cheng feel like this?! The man must really be a demon.
The suddenly subdued-looking demon finishes bandaging Hua Cheng’s legs and rises without a word. He collects the cloth and the basin, the water having turned a reddish brown, and walks into the washroom again. Some minutes later, he comes back and glances at Hua Cheng hesitantly, seemingly debating with himself.
At last, he asks, “Can you get on the bed or would you allow me to help you?”
Hua Cheng’s patience snaps and he sneers. So, an act after all.
“His Highness will have to excuse me,” he drawls acidly, glaring. “This lowly prisoner is unable to serve him in bed tonight. If His Highness wants any pleasure from this body, he will have to work for it himself.”
All color drains from the prince’s face, and he even takes a reflexive step back.
“General Hua, you misunderstand!” he exclaims, seeming anxious. “I… the bed—with your injuries, I thought…”
He trails off, a blush now spilling over his cheekbones, inadvertently giving him a flustered, impossibly attractive look. The prince seems unaccustomed to being unable to express himself clearly and visibly works to regain his composure.
“General Hua, I only sought to make you more comfortable in view of your wounds,” the prince says, meeting Hua Cheng’s blazing eyes squarely. His face is still flushed, but his voice is firm. “General, you can rest assured that I have no interest in that sort of relationship with you. The regent is watching my residence closely, so tonight, we both have to stay here. But tomorrow, you will be moved to your own courtyard, and I will not enter it without invitation.”
He pauses, biting his lip again as his shoulders sag.
“General, I know my word means nothing to you, and rightfully so, but I do give my word that I will never seek to impose myself on you. For as long as you are in my care, you will not be mistreated. Please, just… bear this one night.”
Without waiting for a response that he can probably sense isn’t coming, the prince turns away from him and walks over to the opposite side of the room toward a narrow couch. It clearly has never been meant for sleeping or even resting, the lacquered wood unforgivingly hard.
The prince, however, extinguishes the candles, and lies down without a word, only covering himself with a thin decorative quilt, his back to the room. Then, it’s quiet.
--
Hua Cheng sits in his chair, seething. He’s angry—and how, but his anger seems to be unable to settle on a clear target. He wanted to fight the prince—but the prince had yielded before the battle and left the field, depriving Hua Cheng of something to lash out against. What a cowardly move!
And what does he want, anyway? It seems that at least some of the rumors regarding His Highness are false. He’s been called spoiled and vile—but not foolish. Yet here he is now, going to sleep with his back turned toward his enemy! Is he a naïve idiot or is he so arrogant that he thinks Hua Cheng harmless?! Why is he so infuriatingly unfathomable? Or is this all part of some cunning, complex manipulation designed to lull his prisoner into docility?
Hua Cheng blows out the last candle and waits. His keen ears soon catch the sound of the prince’s breathing deepening into a slow, calm rhythm of a sleeping person. Fool. Truly what a fool. Hua Cheng is not here to solve puzzles. If someone is that much of an idiot as to be asking for death like that, they deserve what they get.
Cautiously, he moves his wheelchair closer to the window—and the couch. He can only move it little by little to avoid making noise. The wheelchair was hastily constructed out of a prison wagon, and the craftsmanship is that in name only. It’s heavy and unwieldy, yet another instrument of his humiliation. But little by little, he does move. It takes him perhaps a quarter of a shichen to make his way over, but at last he’s right at the prince’s side.
In his sleep, the evil schemer has turned on the couch that is nothing short of a torture device up close, and is lying on his back now, head lolling to one side, face illuminated by the moonlight streaming from the window. His long pale neck is partially exposed, where it isn’t covered by a silk band, entirely defenseless. Hua Cheng grips the wood chip firmer in his hand, and—pauses.
He can’t do it.
Perhaps this person truly is rotten to the core. Gods know, this wouldn’t be the first time someone’s innocent appearance has been deceiving. But the more Hua Cheng sits here looking at the prince’s sleeping face, the more he wants to take him into his arms and use himself as a shield for his protection.
Perhaps, it is a spell. A drug. Some kind of trickery. And it’s making Hua Cheng feel things he’s never felt before, and—toward this person.
He frowns. He’s always prided himself on being clear-headed where most would be reined by their emotions. Reasonably, the prince is not a threat. Even if he is trying to play Hua Cheng, he’s obviously foolish enough to believe it’s working. And if he was telling the truth, so much the better—he can even be used. Indeed, he can be used either way. There is… no need to kill him. At least not yet.
Just as painstakingly slowly, Hua Cheng makes his way back. With little difficulty, ignoring the pain from the wound on his shoulder, he transfers himself to the bed, lies back, and closes his eyes. Something, the moonlight perhaps, seems to have drained his anger.
He’s on the verge of falling asleep when he hears a quiet voice say:
“Thank you for changing your mind, General Hua.”
Hua Cheng’s eyes fly open wide, but the prince still appears to be sleeping. Has he progressed to outright hallucinating?
Hua Cheng doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.