The night was deep and heavy when a nimble figure, ghostly in its swiftness, melted into the darkness. It leaped from rooftop to rooftop, vanishing without a trace in just a few breaths.
When the figure reappeared, Gu Lianzhao had already arrived atop the main building in the Meng Mansion’s rear courtyard.
Unfortunately for him, Meng Yuanfeng had no intention of sleeping that night, despite the moon hanging high in the sky. Instead, he was reveling with his delicate wife and beautiful concubines.
Three young beauties clustered around him. One held a candle for him, another lifted her slender jade arm to offer him wine, and the third—completely naked—straddled his body, “massaging” his shoulders.
In the center of the room hung a ger clad only in a red shirt. Ropes stretched taut from both ends, binding his legs tightly. As hot wax dripped onto him, the handsome-faced ger threw his head back in agony, letting out one shrill cry after another.
“You worthless bone! You dog! You rotten whore!” Meng Yuanfeng flung the candle aside and seized the ger’s chin with one hand, slapping him viciously across the face several times. Drunk beyond reason, the man could no longer tell who was before him. He simply vented his pent-up rage with curses. “You think you’re safe just because you’ve latched onto that prince? You think getting me fired will ruin me? Dream on! My own sister is the emperor’s woman! I’m the Second Prince’s blood uncle! What the hell are you? Just a cheap ass-peddling slut, lower than a dog! I’ll beat you to death…”
The thugs of the Meng Mansion stood guard outside the door. Hearing the curses mingled with cries, they remained unmoved—even exchanging lewd, malicious glances, wishing they could burst in and take Meng Yuanfeng’s place to enjoy such “boundless pleasures.”
Meng Yuanfeng spewed his filth, his blows varying from heavy to light. Only when he had tortured the suspended ger to the brink of death did he finally feel a wave of exhaustion.
“I’ll let you off for today. Hang in there. If you survive until I’ve vented my spleen, I’ll give you a quick end…” The ger was already beaten senseless and couldn’t make out his words, but at the sound of his voice, he trembled instinctively.
Meng Yuanfeng let out a “haha” laugh and collapsed onto the wide couch with his three concubines, giving not a single thought to the ger’s survival.
The night deepened. Everyone inside had fallen into a heavy sleep, and even the two guards at the door were growing drowsy. They yawned as they scanned the surroundings half-heartedly.
Gu Lianzhao lay perfectly still, his body one with the shadows. He felt no anger at Meng Yuanfeng’s depravity, nor pity for the ger’s plight. He had not come tonight to dispense heavenly justice—only to exact revenge.
He knew exactly what sort of scum Meng Yuanfeng was. Back at the Taichang Temple, the man had used casual conversation as a pretext to degrade and insult him from head to toe, all while making “ger” the topic. Later, he had pinched Gu Lianzhao’s weak spots and beaten him savagely while he couldn’t fight back, even trying to smear him with false accusations.
Gu Lianzhao had been stripped of his post then and couldn’t touch Meng Yuanfeng—but that didn’t mean the matter was forgotten.
Revenge was a dish best served with patience. If the offender couldn’t be killed on the spot, then let them live in constant fear.
Gu Lianzhao was like a vicious wolf: once he sank his teeth into an enemy, he never let go until the moment was right.
The darkness grew thicker with each passing hour. Only when the guards at the door leaned against the frame, nodding off from sleepiness, did Gu Lianzhao silently ease open the window and slip inside like a gentle breeze.
From the moment he infiltrated the Meng Mansion, no matter what he heard or saw, he remained utterly calm. Even now, standing just half a step from Meng Yuanfeng, his expression stayed serene.
He clapped one hand over Meng Yuanfeng’s mouth and nose, the other gently tracing his neck. In his drunken haze, Meng Yuanfeng thought it was one of his concubines and chuckled, kissing the hand that muffled him.
Gu Lianzhao didn’t flinch or show disgust. He simply felt for the cervical vertebrae, confirmed the spot, then struck. One hand sealed the mouth while the other twisted the neck bone with clean, precise force.
The over ninety-kilogram Meng Yuanfeng—known among the Divine Martial Guards as a mighty warrior—was reduced to mere spasms. A wooden “crack” echoed from his throat like a falling log, and then he went limp.
Seconds later, a foul stench wafted from his crotch. The three sleeping concubines subconsciously covered their noses.
Gu Lianzhao didn’t linger to admire his handiwork. He withdrew calmly and departed as silently as he had come.
The next morning, a concubine’s piercing scream from amid the pile of filth shattered the Meng Mansion’s tranquil dawn.
Doctors came and went in haste, famous physicians cycling through one after another, but the diagnosis was unanimous: Meng Yuanfeng, the Meng family’s only son, was completely paralyzed, his mouth twisted and eyes askew—a total invalid.
Chaos engulfed the Meng Mansion, but Gu Lianzhao was already galloping southward on horseback, bound for Tonglu County.
…
In the days Gu Lianzhao was absent from the mansion, Liu Yuanxun’s condition worsened by the day.
He had planned to rest for a couple of days, recover his spirits, and then study the zither score. But this time, it seemed he wouldn’t last. On the day he first awoke, he could still sit up, but two days later, even twitching a fingertip took effort.
Physician Wang felt his pulse, his brows furrowed as if to crush a mosquito. He touched the scorching sheets beneath Liu Yuanxun, then glanced at the sky outside the window and let out a deep sigh. Winter was so hard to endure.
Ling Ting offered him a cup of tea and probed cautiously, “Does Physician Wang have any new insights?”
“No new ideas at all.” Physician Wang had no interest in tea; he set it aside and fretted, “The days are growing colder by the hour, but we’ve tried remedy after remedy to nourish his qi and blood, and His Seventh Highness shows no improvement. This is dire.”
Qi and blood formed the foundation of life. There were three sources of vital qi, and lacking any meant a shortened lifespan. Yet the Seventh Prince suffered from all three deficiencies.
The first was the innate essence granted by one’s parents, but the Seventh Prince had been frail from birth, his prenatal qi inherently weak. The second was the grain qi from food and drink, but medicines had damaged his stomach; no matter how refined the meals, they weren’t absorbed properly. The third was the pure qi of nature, drawn through daily breathing—but in summer it was manageable, while in winter, the Seventh Prince hardly ventured out, depriving him of that too.
With his own qi and blood deficient, he needed external supplementation. The Life-Nourishing Pills he took daily were meant for that, but every medicine was three parts poison; drug tonics weren’t a long-term solution. Another way had to be found.
Physician Wang asked, “Still no sign of someone with a Pure Yang Physique?”
Ling Ting’s face fell. He wanted to reveal the truth so Physician Wang could persuade his master, yet he also hesitated to betray his lord’s command for secrecy. Weighing the two, he settled on his own course.
He asked, “Can a Pure Yang Physique truly save my master?”
“It can’t cure him outright—the root is too deep,” Physician Wang said. Seeing Ling Ting’s disappointment, he quickly added, “But it’s the only hope.”
As a physician, what troubled him most was facing a patient’s loved ones speechless, for it meant the patient was beyond saving. In the past, Physician Wang had felt guilty under Ling Ting’s earnest gaze. Today, he finally had something to say and expounded at length: “This essence resides in the kidneys, flowing through the triple burner to the whole body, along the breath channels to the heart meridian. Only then does qi and blood circulate freely, perpetually generating life.”
“But the Seventh Prince’s illness stems from insufficient qi and unfulfilled blood—like a parched stream with scant water and sluggish flow, doomed to dry up. Find someone who cultivates Blazing Yang Internal Force and possesses a Pure Yang Physique, however, and the deadlock breaks!”
Growing animated, Physician Wang’s furrowed brows relaxed. “Ordinary people’s qi is diffuse, intangible. But martial artists condense it into true qi that can both harm and heal.”
Ling Ting said excitedly, “What about me, then?”
“You’re not suitable,” Physician Wang shook his head regretfully. “Common true qi is impure and unruly—fine for hanging on temporarily, but for long-term nourishment, it must be the purest internal force. The Seventh Prince’s constitution is yin-cold; pure yin won’t do. Only pure yang internal energy can assist his qi and blood circulation—like a parched river meeting a pumping source of water, gaining the momentum for endless renewal.”
“Alas,” Having said all he could, Physician Wang returned to reality with a sigh. “Yin and yang harmony is the norm. Pure Yang Physiques are rare enough, but it wouldn’t suffice. The person must also be a martial prodigy versed in Blazing Yang inner arts, with internal force so profound it can withstand the Seventh Prince’s ceaseless demands. It’s a tall order…”
At this, Ling Ting fell into utter despair.
Not because Pure Yang Physiques were scarce, but because only now did he realize his master… had long harbored thoughts of death.
Before Physician Wang explained, Ling Ting hadn’t grasped what a Pure Yang Physique meant for the prince. But His Seventh Highness, well-read in a hundred arts and versed in medicine and martial ways, surely knew it could save his life. Yet not only had he not pressed the matter—he had withdrawn all the bounty notices three years ago, leaving not a single one.
Clinging to a final thread of hope, Ling Ting asked, “Is there no other way?”
Physician Wang shook his head regretfully. “Even if Hua Tuo were reborn, he’d be powerless.”
Physician Wang departed, leaving Ling Ting to sit despondently in the corridor, unwilling to reenter the room for a long while.
He desperately wanted to burst in and demand answers—why squander a lifeline? What hardship drove him to it? But he was merely a servant. He could ask nothing…
Ling Qing entered from the courtyard gate and spotted Ling Ting sitting there in a daze. She glanced at the tightly shut door and his pallid face, instantly deducing the prince’s condition was poor.
She sat beside him, nestling warmly against his shoulder, and bumped him playfully to lighten the mood. “Brother, look—it’s snowing!”
Ling Ting looked up blankly and realized snow had begun to fall outside. He reached out in a daze, catching a snowflake. Memories flooded his mind, and he murmured softly, “I remember… it was snowing the day His Seventh Highness brought you to me.”
“Mm.” Ling Qing tilted her head to the sky, smiling brightly. “It was deep winter. The kiln sister I served kept picking on me, saying I hadn’t washed her clothes clean. She made me wash them in the snow until they were spotless. I rinsed them three or four times, but she always said no.”
In the quagmire of life, few hearts were true. Those forced into the brothels were mostly tragic souls. Some, pitying their shared fate, showed compassion to their fellows; others vented by tormenting someone even more wretched. Ling Qing had encountered the latter.
After the Ling Mansion fell, the men were beheaded, the women and children enslaved—and she was sent to the official brothel. Without intervention, once she reached the age to “open her face,” her virginity would be auctioned, condemning her to life as a courtesan.
Ling Ting could have been reduced to slavery, but his exceptional martial skills caught the eye of the Late Emperor. Later, the Late Emperor even presented him as a gift to the Seventh Prince.
The Seventh Prince not only pleaded with the Late Emperor to spare Ling Ting from a life in bondage but also permitted him to return to his master and resume his martial training.
After handling these matters, the prince made a personal trip to the official brothel. There, he rescued a little girl who was sprawled in a snowdrift, her rear end sticking up in the air as she scrubbed clothes, and sent her along to Ling Ting’s master as well.
“When Master came to fetch me, I thought some immortal had chosen me,” she recounted. “He crouched down in front of me and asked if I was the youngest daughter of the Ling family. I said yes, and then he scooped me into his arms. His embrace was so warm and cozy that I didn’t even bother asking who he was—I just went with him. When I woke up from a good sleep, there you were.”
Ling Qing gently hooked her pinky finger around Ling Ting’s and said, “Bro, I know you always think further ahead than I do. I also know you’re worried about Master’s health. But people have to find some joy in life. If you’re happy, it’ll make Master happy too when he sees it.”
Ling Ting let out a heavy sigh, turned to face Ling Qing, and ruffled her hair vigorously. “If you’re going to lecture me,” he said, “then learn to steady yourself first.”
Ling Qing’s hair ended up a tangled mess. She let out a shriek and swung a palm strike at Ling Ting, but he dodged nimbly aside. In just a few breaths, they were seven or eight meters apart.
Amid the sounds of their playful scuffle outside the room, Liu Yuanxun—who had been confined to his sickbed for so long—finally opened his eyes.
