Man's retreating figure, brow creased: "Why is she at Sick Plum Pavilion?"
Wei Xuan's expression was equally tense. "Wang recommended her when she entered the academy. The prince should have kept his distance from anyone connected to Wang."
Otherwise, why would he have risked allowing Zhou Man's admission at all?
Shang Lu felt a flicker of possibility and looked at Wei Xuan with cautious hope: "If the prince is willing to deal with Wang's people, would he perhaps..."
Wei Xuan's expression darkened before he could finish.
Originally, the dispute between the two Song King factions had driven Wei Xuan back to the city to manage things personally. When the incident at Sick Plum Pavilion broke, he came immediately — but stopped at the door. He knew Zhou Man was inside. He could not let her learn who the young man truly was.
After watching with eyes full of things unsaid, Wei Xuan steadied himself and spoke: "I'll go inside alone. Wait here. Too many people will only disturb Mr. Yiming."
Pokeweed understood and simply said: "Yes."
Wei Xuan drew a slow breath — visibly bracing himself — then walked toward the pavilion, leaning on his stick.
Inside, the smell of blood was thick and stubborn. It hung in the air and refused to leave, overpowering even the bitter medicinal smoke.
Wang Shu had come back to himself. He lay frowning, listening, and looking.
The three-layered mattress was too soft. He pushed himself upright and moved to the edge of the bed.
Mr. Yiming had finished examining the bodies outside and sent Zhou Man away. When he returned with a bowl of medicine and pushed the door open, Wang Shu was already standing — barely, but standing.
Mr. Yiming's expression did not shift. "Your wounds aren't healed. Get back down."
Wang Shu's face was white, but his voice held a faint smile: "Master, my medical knowledge is nothing beside yours, but I understand the principles. It looked bad, I know. New wounds on top of old ones. But the outer wounds are already closed — thanks to your hands. The inner ones won't heal from lying still."
He took the medicine bowl and drank.
Mr. Yiming's eyes moved to the back of his neck. The wound there was deep enough to show bone — what remained after removing the thick gold needle. Look closer and you could see older injuries nearby: small puncture marks, nearly joining in a line from Tianchi point to Dashie point. Old, patient damage, accumulated over time.
Now Wang Shu sat calm, as though the pain had simply stopped existing.
But Mr. Yiming remembered what it had cost him during the injection. The patience. The silence. It put a quiet ache in his chest.
He asked gently: "That injection made everything worse, didn't it? Should Master seal another layer on your senses..."
"No need." Wang Shu set the bowl down and was quiet a moment. "Pain can't be removed entirely. This is just more of what's already familiar." He shook his head and, not wanting Mr. Yiming to dwell on his condition, changed course: "The woman who was just here — Zhou Man..."
"She left already," Mr. Yiming said. "Said she didn't want to disturb your rest."
Wang Shu let go of something in his chest. "Good."
Mr. Yiming, however, was not satisfied: "I asked about her. Wang recommended her to the academy — she should be someone Wang invested in carefully. You should have stayed well away from her. Why get involved?"
He glanced at the narrow bed behind Wang Shu and stroked his beard: "You've always slept on hard surfaces. Yet this bed has three mattress layers."
He left the rest unspoken.
Wang Shu lowered his eyes. "She is nothing like Wang's people."
When he had first heard from Jin Buhuan at Chunfeng Hall that Wang had recommended her, he hadn't been without suspicion. But would Wang truly interfere in Zhao Zhiyi's affairs, out of nowhere?
And then there was the sword trial at Sword Hall the next day.
Since he could remember, people had watched him with pity or contempt. Some called it a waste — such rare understanding, unable to practice. Others mocked Mr. Yiming for accepting a useless disciple. When he was young, it had frightened him. Hurt him. Now it passed through him like wind through an open window. He had learned to let it go.
Even Master Jian's scolding — it embarrassed him, nothing more.
There is no shortage of suffering in the world. People learn to bend. They lower their heads to something, eventually. Everyone does.
Almost everyone.
Because Zhou Man — even facing Master Jian of Sanjiantang — had argued the matter to its end, point by point, until she wrung a public apology out of him.
She was a pine that does not bow. A wind that does not settle. A fire that burns without asking permission.
The memory of that day returned to him clearly. He could still hear his own heartbeat in that moment. Could still taste the faint bitterness on the tip of his tongue.
After a long pause, he said quietly: "She is different from me. And different from Jin Buhuan."
Mr. Yiming watched him. "She also said the assassins may have come for her."
Wang Shu paused briefly. "No. They didn't."
Mr. Yiming didn't understand his certainty.
Wang Shu opened his palm. In it sat a jade ring, pale blue — nothing like Wang's clean, polished signet rings. This one was raw. No carving, no markings, not even a half-dot pattern. Quiet and plain.
He turned it slowly between his fingers. "Any killing intent that comes within three feet of me triggers this ring. But when the peach wood awl struck, I couldn't rouse it at all. Whoever prepared that weapon knew their target carried a protective artifact. They designed around it."
Mr. Yiming took the peach wood awl and examined it again. The longer he looked, the colder the feeling it gave. His jaw tightened. "Something this sinister, aimed at you — they may already know exactly who you are. They would kill the wrong person rather than risk letting the right one go."
Wang Shu said nothing.
Mr. Yiming's anger crested. He slammed the awl onto the table. "And Wang — those fools left no one alive to question! Not one!"
Wang Shu picked the awl back up. "I don't think it was only Wang."
Mr. Yiming stilled. "You mean..."
Wang Shu looked at the two strange, ancient talismans carved into the wood. "I can't confirm the other two great families. But this method doesn't belong to Wang — I know their techniques. I've read everything in Langhuan Baolou. There is no talisman like this anywhere in those records."
Which meant another force had entered the game entirely.
Mr. Yiming turned it over in his mind until his anger became something close to laughter — sharp, bitter laughter. "Fine. Fine! So it's been going on all this time. From today, I stay in this pavilion. I'm not going anywhere. Let's see how many more schemes they can stack on top of each other." He had left before to search for medicine for Wang Shu. He hadn't found it then. And now people were closing in on every side, threatening even a life he couldn't yet secure. What was left to search for?
He looked at Wang Shu still studying the awl and snatched it away, tossing it aside. "Stop thinking. The clinic outside doesn't need your attention right now. You've been overworking your mind. Rest."
He said a few more words, gave his instructions, and left.
Wang Shu sat with a quiet helplessness for a moment and exhaled.
Zhou Man was gone. His rest would end soon too. He ought to return to the school palace.
He turned back toward the beds, intending to fold away the extra ones.
Then a voice came from behind him — old, slightly unsteady: "Prince..."
Wang Shu's hands stopped mid-motion. His body stiffened.
He stood like that for a moment before turning around.
Wei Xuan was already inside the room. No sound of entry, no announcement.
When their eyes met, the old man — white-haired, white-bearded — nearly broke. His eyes reddened. He dropped into a deep bow, half-kneeling: "Wei Xuan greets the young master. The prince was attacked, and Wei Xuan came too late. You were wounded at the hands of criminals because of my failure. The fault is mine."
Wang Shu hadn't expected him. Then again — of course he had come. Kong Zui and Chi Ze would have sent word the moment anything went wrong. How could Wei Xuan have stayed away?
But that word.
Young master. Prince.
Wang Shu glanced at the window curtain. He helped Wei Xuan to his feet and said evenly: "Master is here. The wounds are not serious. But I am not your young master or your prince. You came to see me, Wei Xuan, and I'm glad of it — but please don't kneel."
Wei Xuan ignored that. Instead: "Mr. Yiming is a remarkable physician, yes. But they found Sick Plum Pavilion. It is no longer safe. The Divine Capital is dangerous, I know — but the Holy Lord and the Goddess left their legacy for you. Prince, why not return and——"
"I won't go back." Wang Shu cut him off, quiet and absolute. "I have no connection to Wang anymore. And even if I did — what use is a sick, broken body? Do you expect me to reverse everything?"
"Why not?" Wei Xuan's voice cracked with it. "The young master's illness comes from a diseased bone blocking his vital energy. Mr. Yiming himself said so — find a natural sword bone to replace it, and every ailment would dissolve. Every obstacle removed."
Wang Shu looked at him, and despite himself, a faint, sorrowful smile crossed his face. "A natural sword bone."
He had underestimated Wei Xuan's persistence.
The irony and the grief arrived together: "In all the centuries of the cultivation world, how many people have ever been born with a natural sword bone? And even if one were found — why would they give it up? Why would anyone surrender the foundation of their own cultivation, willingly, for a stranger? The methods you'd use are coercion and bribery. Nothing else."
Wei Xuan opened his mouth. Then his mind went to Zhou Man — what had already been done to her — and under Wang Shu's steady gaze, the words collapsed before they formed.
Wang Shu held his eyes and spoke plainly: "I have my own life to answer for. Too many people have already died because of me. Don't let me carry more."
"Why do you say that?" The ache in Wei Xuan's chest broke open. He had held his patience for too long and could hold it no longer. "Heaven named you. You carry the blood of the Holy Lord and the Goddess in your veins. You were born with the Heavenly Constitution — you are the true Prince of the Divine Capital. The Wang family in its entirety should be yours. The world should answer to you."
His voice had grown loud, as though volume could make it true.
Through all of it, Wang Shu looked at him without moving, without flinching — and asked only one thing:
"Should it be true?"
Wei Xuan clenched his jaw and said nothing.
Wang Shu spoke slowly: "You have deceived the world for so long. Have you started deceiving yourself?"
The word deceived struck Wei Xuan like a blow to the chest. He felt it move through him.
Wang Shu turned his gaze to the window — to the sick plum branches outside, still closed, not yet bloomed.
"It has all been one long lie. There is no divinely destined prince, no Heavenly Constitution, no extraordinary talent. There is only a talentless physician whom heaven abandoned — one who cannot cultivate, who has given up trying."
He said it plainly. No performance in it.
Wei Xuan heard it and felt something in him grieve: "You are not a waste. You are——"
The name was almost out.
Wang Shu looked at him and stopped it quietly: "No. I am not."
Wei Xuan stared at him, uncomprehending.
Wang Shu's words came one at a time, with more certainty than anything he had said all day:
"That name was never mine. That life was never one I chose. I do not want it."