After returning from Prince Ning’s place, Wanqing told Qingfeng halfway that she still had something to do and asked him to go back first. She then wandered with Honglian along the sparsely populated streets.
Too much had happened today, and she needed to sort through her thoughts. Seeing her preoccupied expression, Honglian and the other maids obediently followed behind her.
“Young Mistress, you’re finally back. Young Mistress…” Just as they reached the entrance of the Marquis’s residence, a figure called out with evident joy.
“It’s you? Did you find the medicinal herbs I mentioned before?”
Recognizing the burly man stepping out from the shadows, Wanqing raised her hand to stop the maids behind her from intervening. She recalled her promise to save his master, remembering the man lying behind the gauze curtains.
Though she had been puzzled—his voice clearly belonged to a man, yet he hid behind the curtains as if afraid of being seen. He claimed to have leg ailments, only extending one injured leg for her to examine.
She remembered his master had a festering sore on his leg. Though she could treat it, she lacked the necessary ingredients. The cure required a specific worm found only in the damp regions of the southwestern border.
In modern times, it was known as a slug—a soft, shell-less creature. Such creatures were absent in the north or central plains but thrived in the rainy, humid southwest.
Dried over a gentle flame and ground into powder, or applied alive to the leg, it could cure the sore. Though she had another method—scraping the infected flesh and suturing the wound—the burly man and the frail scholar attending the patient had refused.
Thus, she had only administered acupuncture to drain some of the poison and prescribed external and internal medications, leaving them to find the key ingredient themselves. The burly man had promised to send someone to search for it.
Having heard nothing from him for days, his sudden reappearance likely meant he had obtained the remedy. Wanqing asked calmly, “Yes, did you bring the medicinal ingredient?”
The burly man nodded earnestly, his eyes pleading. “Indeed, Young Mistress. Please, help our master as soon as possible…”
Chunlan, noticing Wanqing’s exhaustion, interjected, “Mistress, it’s already so late. After everything today—the Marquis’s affairs and that Lady Mu’s antics—you must be exhausted. How can you treat someone now?”
Wanqing waved it off. “It’s fine. This man is surely anxious for his master’s sake. With the remedy, the treatment will be much easier. Let’s go take a look.”
Though her attire—elaborate palace robes resembling a royal consort’s—was mismatched for the occasion, she prioritized the patient’s condition. Seeing the desperation in the burly man’s eyes, she led the way.
“Young Mistress, this way…” They arrived at a modest house where they had stayed before. A guard at the gate tensed slightly but stepped aside as the burly man ushered them in.
“Zhao Zhong, has Lady Mu arrived?”
Inside, they approached a secluded room. The burly man knocked, and a scholarly-looking man peeked out.
“Scholar Wen, Lady Mu is here. Please, Young Mistress…” Zhao Zhong bowed respectfully before gesturing for Wanqing to enter.
“Mother… you…” The scholarly man stared at Wanqing, stunned by her appearance under the lamplight. He began to kneel but hesitated mid-bow upon seeing her serene smile.
“Scholar Wen, what’s wrong? Is there something about my attire?”
The man’s startled expression and aborted bow puzzled Wanqing. Though she heard him murmur “Mother,” his subsequent behavior was odd. His reaction mirrored Prince Ning’s—both seemingly recognizing her resemblance to Consort Hui.
“Beautiful, simply beautiful. If not for your voice, I might have mistaken you for someone else,” Scholar Wen chuckled, recovering swiftly and inviting her inside.
“Young Mistress, you’ve come.”
Inside, the patient sat up weakly, his face hidden beneath a large hat. He greeted her as she entered.
“Lie down, please. Brother Zhao, where is the remedy?”
Perplexed by the hat but prioritizing his condition, Wanqing helped him lie back before turning to Zhao Zhong.
“Ah, I’ll fetch it at once,” Zhao Zhong replied, hurrying out.
“Do I have something on my face? Why do you keep staring?”
A stern-faced middle-aged man in green robes entered, pausing in shock upon seeing her. Like Scholar Wen, he stared unabashedly.
Embarrassed but composed, Wanqing touched her cheek with a wry smile. “Is there something unusual about me?”
“N-no, nothing. Your attire is simply magnificent, exuding an air of nobility. Have you… heard of Consort Hui?”
Before she could ponder their identities or respond, the man on the bed suddenly removed his hat and grabbed her shoulders, trembling.
“Lier…”
Startled, Wanqing stumbled forward, catching herself against the bed. When she saw his face, her breath hitched.
His eyes, though pained, burned with emotion. But his face—half-scarred by fire, the other half slashed—was horrifying. Even she, accustomed to gruesome sights, recoiled internally.
Tears welled in his eyes as he reached trembling fingers toward her face.
“Release my mistress!” Chunlan and the others, recovering from their shock, moved to intervene.
“Stand down,” Wanqing ordered coldly without turning. They halted, confused.
For some reason, this disfigured man’s gaze—filled with anguish and joy—stirred an inexplicable sorrow in her. His pain resonated deeply, though she couldn’t fathom why.
Shaking off the strange empathy, she gently removed his hand and stepped back. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else, Uncle.”
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