“Daydreaming?”
The light before her was blocked by a tall figure as Qi Biao spoke up, snapping Lin Fang out of her reverie. Curiously, she asked, “Brother Yi, what does it feel like to use qinggong and leap through the air? Is it like having wings?”
Qi Biao chuckled softly. “Childish talk. If I had wings, why wouldn’t I fly us out of this trench instead of being trapped here?” He lightly flicked Lin Fang’s now rosy forehead with his knuckles, then poured the hawthorns from the small basket in his hand into the larger basket on his back. “Qinggong is just faster and lighter than ordinary martial arts, not actual flight.”
Lin Fang thought to herself, *Of course I know that. I’m just curious. It’s not like Father would ever teach me martial arts anyway.*
With Qi Biao picking hawthorns—and better ones than she could gather—Lin Fang didn’t fuss and gladly left the task to him. After placing the medicinal roots into the basket, she wandered off to collect eggs. She carefully tucked each egg into the coarse cloth bag hidden beneath her thick cotton coat before making her way back to the basket to transfer them one by one.
Qi Biao, having answered her question, found her unresponsive and busy with the eggs. Accustomed to dominance, he lost interest in picking hawthorns. He wanted to help the clumsily dressed Lin Fang but felt awkward, so he simply stood there watching her move about.
At twenty-six, Qi Biao was experiencing his first crush, acting like a lovestruck boy—torn between hope and fear, too proud to admit his feelings. The object of his affection, however, was a woman whose combined age across two lifetimes exceeded forty. Having resolved to let go of this unspoken affection, she reverted to their childhood dynamic of mutual independence. To Qi Biao, whose feelings had shifted, this felt like indifference.
His confession met with silence. The usually composed and cold Qi Biao couldn’t contain his frustration. When Lin Fang returned to the basket to deposit more eggs, he grabbed her arm, locking eyes with her. Trying not to scare her, he asked carefully, “If I could promise to have only you in this lifetime, would you marry me?”
Lin Fang froze. She wasn’t unmoved, but his words were hypothetical—how difficult would it truly be to keep such a promise?
She didn’t answer immediately. Meeting his gaze, she saw hope and caution in his eyes, which pained her. Unable to bear tormenting him yet unwilling to agree, she turned her attention to the basket and asked lightly, “We have enough eggs and hawthorns. If we’re making syrup, we’ll need more roots. I’ll dig some more. Brother Yi, you’re taller and stronger—would you help me? You’d be much faster.”
Her evasion sank Qi Biao’s heart. Slowly releasing her arm, he turned to leave but suddenly spun back, pulling her into a fierce embrace. Without warning, he captured her lips.
Lin Fang, caught off guard, barely registered the assault before pain shot through her lips. His rough tongue forced its way into her mouth, exploring aggressively, devoid of tenderness. She struggled, but her strength was no match for his.
When she finally stopped resisting, Qi Biao withdrew reluctantly, releasing her swollen lips. Her face tilted up to his, eyes shut tight, tears streaming down. He licked her bruised lips and murmured, “The thought of Shi Binhua touching you here kept me awake at night. Fang’er, even if you hate me, I won’t regret this.”
Opening her tear-filled eyes to his blurred face, Lin Fang laughed bitterly. “Do I have the right to hate you? You saved my life. Your blood runs in my veins. You’re the noble son of a prince, untouchable, free to do as you please. And I? Just a common girl, an ant before you. If you want me to live, I crawl on. If you want me dead, how could I resist?”
“Fang’er, Fang’er, what’s wrong?”
Her voice grew weaker as she spoke, her body going limp against him, her face pale but tears still flowing. Qi Biao checked her pulse and saw blood seeping from her bitten lips. Horror struck him—she was poisoned by his own toxin.
When his blood had been used to cure her years ago, Master Shen had neutralized its other poisons with dozens of herbs. Though Lin Fang’s blood now shared similarities with his, his forceful kiss and the wound had introduced his venom directly into her bloodstream, overwhelming her.
Her earlier words had been sheer willpower.
His earlier bravado turned to regret, but there was no time for remorse. He sealed her acupoints to slow the poison’s spread, though prolonged blockage could harm or even kill her, given her lack of martial training.
“Fang’er, hold on. I’ll make the antidote. You must hold on.”
Carrying her, Qi Biao raced back to the estate with qinggong—a sight she’d have marveled at, had she been conscious.
He remembered Master Shen’s formula well. Back at the house, he laid Lin Fang down, tasked Aunt Liu with her care, and hurriedly wrote out the ingredients, dispatching his men to gather them.
The trench proved a treasure trove, yielding all needed herbs by nightfall. Too agitated to brew the complex antidote himself, he guided Aunt Liu through the process, as she’d done four years prior.
The brew took two hours—alternating high and low heat, staggered additions—until finally ready.
But Lin Fang couldn’t drink. Unsealing her acupoints to force-feed her risked the poison spreading faster. Aunt Liu offered to mouth-feed her, but the antidote was lethal to anyone but Qi Biao.
As Lin Fang’s breathing faltered, Qi Biao acted. Cradling her, he siphoned the antidote mouth-to-mouth, spilling much but hoping it’d neutralize his venom. If not, he’d join her in death.
Gradually, her breathing steadied, color returning—the antidote worked.
The minor New Year’s festivities forgotten, the household scattered. Qi Biao, fasting, moved into Lin Fang’s room, holding her through the night.
At dawn, guard Tan Si lit the kitchen fire. Qi Biao, red-eyed, asked after soft foods for Lin Fang, who’d eaten nothing. Finding only meat, he strode out to forage.
Despite no prior threats, his four guards maintained vigilant shifts. Aunt Liu’s erratic mind left cooking to them.
Qi Biao soon returned with Lin Fang’s basket, its top layer of eggs frozen solid. Tucking a few inside his clothes to thaw, he had the rest stored.
When water boiled, he cracked two eggs into a broth. Back in her room, he hesitated—how to feed her without risking re-poisoning?
“Fang’er, wake up. Eat something. Punish me however you like later, but don’t starve…”
“Master Qi, let me.”
Aunt Liu took the bowl, requesting a porcelain spoon. Baffled but compliant, Qi Biao fetched one.
Returning, he found her propped against pillows, Lin Fang cradled in her lap, swaddled tightly with a cloth at her chin. Aunt Liu stroked her hair, cooing:
“My, Sixth Miss has grown so big! Almost too heavy for this old woman. It’s early yet—no sun to tease you about lazing. But you must eat. Skipping meals leaves no strength for play. Some egg broth to warm your belly, hmm?”
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