Chapter 7
Chapter 7
The thought had barely left Shengsheng Zhou’s mind when something tore past her ear with a shriek of displaced air.
She looked up on instinct and watched a strand of hair at her temple split cleanly in two.
*What the hell? What is wrong with this tyrant? Why is he cutting at me?*
“Please calm your anger, Your Majesty!”
Years in the imperial palace had taught Shengsheng one rule above all others: whenever anything unexpected happened, beg for mercy first.
Siran Ming gave the two-faced woman a cold smile.
The thing he hated most in life was being called a tyrant. The last person who had done so had been flayed and stripped of his tendons.
The second thing he hated most was a woman who could act.
“Rong Li.”
“Your Majesty.”
A woman emerged from the darkness without a sound. She wore the dress of the Yong Kingdom and carried herself with crisp efficiency.
“Slap her.”
Siran spared the kneeling Shengsheng no further glance. He turned and gestured for Zhiyu Jiang to follow him.
Zhiyu looked down at Shengsheng, finding her vaguely familiar.
“She didn’t do anything wrong. Why punish her?”
“Another word, and you can join her.”
The tall man’s voice was so cold it seemed devoid of all feeling.
Zhiyu shuddered. She gave Shengsheng one last apologetic look and promised herself she would send someone back to help.
They were both subjects of the Zhu Kingdom. How could she stand by while someone from the Yong Kingdom bullied one of her own?
As they walked away, the sharp cracks of palm against flesh followed them, broken by muffled gasps of pain. Zhiyu clapped both hands over her ears.
The imperial palace was terrifying.
Siran had not specified how many times Rong was to strike her. Looking at the girl before her, Rong could not even tell what offense the poor thing had committed. Guilt crept into her heart.
Even after serving His Majesty for so many years, she had never learned to predict his mercurial temper.
When Shengsheng’s cheeks were swollen beyond recognition, Rong finally stopped. She thrust a small medicine bottle into the girl’s hand.
“Use this when you get back.”
Then she turned away.
They were on the grounds of the Zhu Kingdom, after all. She could not let matters go too far.
As Rong left, a faint, blurred whisper reached her from behind.
“Thank you.”
She paused for only an instant before continuing on.
After Rong Li disappeared, Shengsheng remained kneeling on the cold flagstones for a long time.
A-Pang’s stifled sobs finally broke into wails. Only then did Shengsheng react.
She gathered the little red panda into her arms and silently stroked their head, comforting them.
The burning pain in both cheeks kept the humiliation fresh.
Even the welts on her back, aggravated by the lake water, began clamoring for attention.
Long after A-Pang’s tears subsided, Shengsheng swayed to her feet. The medicine bottle rolled from her lap and clattered across the stones.
Neither of them went back for it.
By the time she left, a gust of wind had extinguished the weak flame in the palace lantern, scattering its last embers.
Shengsheng did not return to the Spring Banquet.
Nor did she go back to the Palace Labor Bureau.
She dragged her aching, exhausted body to a secluded corner of the palace.
This place was, in a way, her private refuge.
She had transmigrated shortly after the body first entered the palace. Back then, she had been young, and the older maids serving Fusheng Duan had bullied and excluded her relentlessly.
Most people in the imperial palace were not good.
Television dramas had made them look kinder than they were.
Only after she outlasted every maid who had tormented her and finally rose in rank did her life improve.
Fusheng was demanding and difficult to serve, but compared with the other consorts, he was a decent master in most respects.
He killed without blinking, yet he never beat or berated servants without cause.
Compared with the maids serving Virtuous Consort next door, whose bodies were never free of bruises, Shengsheng had always considered herself lucky.
Aside from the occasional beating ordered by that mangy emperor when he found her displeasing, this was the first time anyone had slapped Shengsheng Zhou.
It hurt less than a flogging.
The humiliation, however, was unprecedented.
“A-Pang, remember this for me. I will cry only this once. The next time I shed tears, it will be because I have finally gained enough power that no one can trample and humiliate me at will.”
A-Pang listened in silence. When tears as large as beans rolled down her cheeks, they nestled atop her head and gently patted her with one furry paw.
***
“My beloved consort, has that palace maid of yours finally died?”
Below the imperial dais, dancers sang softly and swirled in feathered robes, captivating most of the banquet guests.
Unfortunately, the ruler of the Zhu Kingdom–the man everyone addressed as Your Majesty–never glanced down.
Whenever Fusheng Duan sat beside him, every beauty in the room lost her color before “him.”
Fusheng pushed away the wine jug Shenglan had raised to refill his cup. Irritation stirred inside him.
If that little creature Shengsheng had been here, she would never have poured him more wine while the emperor was present.
She might even have complained in her inner voice that if he did not want to drink, he should have stayed home instead of forcing her to stand here all night.
The realization that he had begun thinking from Shengsheng’s perspective left Fusheng torn between laughter and exasperation.
“Your Majesty, I feel somewhat dizzy. I am going out for air.”
He addressed Xunlan Liu, who sat beside him staring in open infatuation.
Without waiting for a reply, Fusheng rose and left.
Xunlan panicked and tried to follow, but before he could stand, Weiqing Song spoke from his other side.
“Your Majesty, this Baiduo wine of yours has an unusual flavor. It differs subtly from the version brewed in my country.”
The mention of wine immediately caught Xunlan’s interest. He launched into an enthusiastic lecture.
Weiqing listened and even nodded at the appropriate moments, but a closer observer would have noticed that his attention was elsewhere.
His gaze kept drifting toward the exquisitely beautiful girl in plain dress seated across from him beside Siran Ming.
When Zhiyu saw Fusheng leave, she visibly relaxed.
Why was the heroine with Siran Ming?
Weiqing fell into thought.
***
“Do not follow me,” Fusheng ordered the attendants outside the banquet hall.
Shenglan opened her mouth, but his expression was poor and she had already made one mistake tonight. She obediently withdrew.
Once he was alone, Fusheng strolled in a particular direction.
He wore a deep wine-red robe that was neither gown nor skirt. As usual, he had no jeweled ornaments in his hair. Even in his androgynous clothes, he had captured the attention of more than half the men at the banquet.
Such was the power of an author. Nothing about Fusheng looked feminine, but as long as he claimed to be a woman and retained the title of Noble Consort, no one could recognize that he was a man.
He reached a remote place so quiet that not even insects chirped.
There, he immediately saw the girl huddled in a corner, arms locked around her knees and shoulders shaking.
He was close now, yet he heard no inner voice.
*She is truly crying,* he thought without expression.
He did not approach. He simply stood at a distance and watched her weep in broken, quiet breaths.
Call him cold, and it was true that he offered no comfort.
Yet there was a strange gentleness in the respect he gave her. If he went to her, this rare release of honest emotion would end at once.
Only when the girl’s shoulders stopped trembling did Fusheng finally turn away.
He had stood there for no one knew how long.
Then he left as silently as he had come, as though he had never been there at all.