The military doctor had interacted with Fan Changyu before and knew she was looking for someone. Hearing her say such words all of a sudden, he broke into a cold sweat on her behalf. 

He thought, Marquis Wu’an is also inside the tent—if he hears Fan Changyu inciting the soldiers under his command to desert, who knows how he’ll punish her?

Just as he was about to rush in to interrupt, Gongsun Yin stopped him. With a smile of unfathomable meaning, he shook his head and made a gesture for silence, tilting his head slightly to listen to what was happening inside.

The military doctor’s heart leapt into his throat. That woman must have spoken without thinking, not knowing the military laws, he thought anxiously, but why does even the strategist look like he’s waiting for a good show?

He stood outside the tent in fear and trepidation, terrified that the next moment he would hear Xie Zheng order someone to drag her out for punishment with the military cudgel.

But instead, what came from the tent were the hoots and laughter of the wounded soldiers.

Someone said, “Brother, if I were you, and there were a girl who’d travel thousands of li just to find me, even dying here would be worth it!”

Another chimed in, “Don’t even know how many lifetimes’ blessings you’ve accumulated, kid! We just hope to return home alive and in one piece after the war. Once you’re older, even getting a matchmaker’s visit isn’t guaranteed—but look at you, a girl came all this way to find you!”

Someone else tried to comfort Fan Changyu, “Little sister, we know you feel for your man, but don’t say such things in a military camp. Being a deserter means getting your head chopped off! Don’t worry though—if he’s survived wounds like that, there’s sure to be good fortune waiting ahead.”

Fan Changyu of course knew she couldn’t let Yan Zheng become a deserter.

She had only looked at the gruesome wound on his body and thought of how he’d been conscripted to keep from implicating her own family and the other nine households. The pain and guilt in her heart surged all at once, and in her panic, those words had slipped out.

She was now cleaning the old medicine residue from Xie Zheng’s wound—poultices that hadn’t been changed for days. The stench of blood and medicine had mingled together over time into a foul odor. The wound was a mix of new flesh and rotting tissue; if it was to be re-dressed, that layer of decay would have to be scraped away first.

Before a single tear could even slide down her cheek, a large droplet fell straight from her eyes. Only then did Fan Changyu realize she was crying.

She raised her hand and hastily wiped her face, trying hard to compose herself. But when she spoke, her voice was still hoarse: “I didn’t mean for him to desert. I just…”

She looked at Xie Zheng. Another tear fell. Finally, she could only whisper, her voice broken:

“I’m sorry.”

If not for the false marriage arrangement with her, he wouldn’t have been included on the conscription register.

If not for his fear of dragging her and their neighboring households down with him, he wouldn’t have let himself be taken away by the soldiers.

Seeing him wounded like this on the battlefield, Fan Changyu’s heart ached unbearably.

Xie Zheng was still recovering from her earlier words—come back with me—when he lifted his eyes and saw the tears in hers. The corners of his pale, cracked lips tightened slightly.

“Don’t cry,” he said.

He knew why Fan Changyu apologized. He understood the guilt in her heart.

He wanted to tell her everything—but this wasn’t the time or place, and in the end, he couldn’t open his mouth.

It was his first time seeing Fan Changyu cry. Something inside his chest seemed to twist tightly, and yet, it also felt like being soaked in warm spring water—an odd, unfamiliar sensation.

He wanted to wipe her tears away, to hold her. But perhaps the string that had kept him taut these past days had finally snapped. Exhaustion and pain flooded back all at once; his limbs felt filled with lead. Even propping himself up was a struggle.

Fan Changyu noticed him trying to move. Pressing a hand to his shoulder, she pushed him back down, her eyes red as she said, “Don’t move. Wait for the doctor to come and treat your wound.”

She turned and urgently shouted again toward outside the tent: “Where’s the military doctor, is the military doctor here?”

Xie Zheng looked at her profile; his gaze fell to the hand she had placed beside the bed. His fingertips hesitated and made a feeble grasp, then he said again, “Don’t cry.”

Fan Changyu swallowed the sting in her eyes, lowered her head to glance at the hand he had feebly gripped, and clenched her five fingers hard around his; her palm pressed tightly against his large palm that bore thin calluses. Her hand was warm; his palm, because of his weakness, was a little cool—but held so tightly by her, it seemed to gain a faint warmth.

From the time they had met until now, this was their first time holding hands.

It felt as if a silent accord had been reached in that handhold. Fan Changyu looked at him with clear, resolute eyes and said, “I’m not crying, don’t be afraid. We brought lots of wound medicine up the mountain; the military doctor will definitely be able to treat you.”

When Fan Changyu called again, the military doctor hurriedly looked toward Gongsun Yin. Gongsun Yin seemed not to have heard what he wanted to hear; his expression was rather disappointed, and only then did he lead the military doctor into the tent.

The military doctor felt rather put out and thought to himself that the strategist truly was a fair-faced, ill-hearted man—when the marquis had not punished that woman, he was still disappointed!

Gongsun Yin always wore white robes and held a fan in his hand, making him very easy to recognize. Once he entered the tent, the wounded soldiers noticeably became more restrained.

Gongsun Yin’s smile was kindly as he said, “Officers and soldiers, rest. I only came this time to see how everyone’s wounds are, and whether there is enough medicine.”

Yet his gaze subtly slanted toward Fan Changyu.

Hearing the movement, Fan Changyu glanced to the doorway. She was also seeing Gongsun Yin for the first time and could tell he must be an official, but Xie Zheng was injured and she had no time to pay him much mind; she looked straight at the military doctor instead and called out, “Military doctor, quickly see to him!”

When she looked up, Gongsun Yin just happened to see her face clearly. His fox-like eyes, smiling, lifted—he was evidently surprised.

This woman’s looks were not bad, but at first glance she seemed plain and honest, like those unfavored noble girls in great gentry families whose biological mothers had died and whose fathers did not favor them, bullied by other sisters since childhood.

Not the fragile, “pitiful at first sight” type, but more like a well-behaved little dog picked up by the roadside—just looking at her could inexplicably soften one’s heart. No one would believe she could be the kind to lift a cleaver and kill a pig.

Gongsun Yin thought of the things he had heard about her before and felt strange. His eyes dropped to Fan Changyu’s arm and his brows knitted further—this thin arm and thin leg, could she lift an adult man and fling him several zhang away?

Could that personal soldier have been talking nonsense?

Gongsun Yin’s gaze swept to the personal soldier who had moved into the corner. The soldier met his eyes and clearly did not understand his question, looking very bewildered.

Gongsun Yin simply withdrew his gaze, no longer expecting to get any answers out of that fool’s expression.

The military doctor had already slung his medicine box and gone over to Fan Changyu. From the moment he entered, he had been cautiously glancing at the main seat; not seeing Xie Zheng, he exhaled with relief, thinking no wonder he had not heard the marquis scold.

Now he set down the medicine box, rolled up his sleeves and was about to take a pulse. When he saw who was lying on the military bed, his calves went weak in an instant; his mind felt as if a jar of paste had been overturned in it, and his expression was stunned and bewildered.

“The… the Marquis—why is the Marquis here?”

Could it be that the words that woman had spoken earlier were directed at the Marquis himself?

The military doctor drew in several sharp breaths of cold air.

Fan Changyu saw the doctor frozen in place with a horrified expression and urged quickly, “Military doctor?”

The doctor snapped back to himself, glanced once at Fan Changyu, then swallowed hard. When his gaze met Xie Zheng’s on the bed, he sat down on the low wooden stool beside it to take the pulse—but his hands trembled so badly that he could hardly keep hold of it, and both his legs were shaking uncontrollably.

He’s heard far too much that he shouldn’t have, he thought in panic. Will the Marquis kill me to silence me afterward?

Fan Changyu, seeing the doctor trembling all over, worried he might misread the pulse, asked anxiously, “Military doctor, are you all right?”

In that short moment, beads of sweat rolled down the doctor’s forehead like pearls. He lifted his sleeve to wipe them away, forced out a strained smile under Xie Zheng’s gaze, and stammered, “It’s… it’s nothing, nothing…”

At last he finished taking the pulse. Fan Changyu immediately asked about Xie Zheng’s condition. The doctor, wiping the sweat from his brow, began, “The Mar—”

He caught himself instantly when the Marquis’s personal guard shot him a warning look and hastily corrected himself:

“This young man’s constitution is extraordinary. The wound missed the vital organs by just a hair’s breadth—it’s truly perilous. If not for his strong body, he couldn’t have lasted these past few days. But he still needs timely treatment and careful nourishment. He’s lost much blood, so he’ll likely feel dizzy often. It would be best… best if he could eat some meat to restore his strength.”

After taking the pulse, he prepared to clean out the rotten flesh from Xie Zheng’s wound and apply new medicine. Seeing the doctor’s hands still trembling, Fan Changyu worried he might hurt Xie Zheng and offered to do it herself.

The doctor’s hands shook only from fright; he was doing his best to steady them. He dared not risk any harm to Xie Zheng, but he also hesitated to let a laywoman handle the knife.

At that moment, Xie Zheng spoke: “Let my wife do it.”

The military doctor’s heart lurched like a storm-tossed sea. So this woman is the Marquis’s wife—whom we’ve never even met before!

Fan Changyu, startled by the sudden address, froze for a moment, but said nothing.

Even as he sat on a short stool at the side to direct Fan Changyu in scraping away the decayed flesh, the doctor’s mustache was still trembling.

Gongsun Yin was clearly surprised as well. Under the pretense of “checking on the wounded soldiers,” he stayed right where he was, unabashed, despite receiving several dagger-like glares from Xie Zheng. His gaze drifted constantly between Fan Changyu and Xie Zheng.

Fan Changyu held the dagger over the fire to heat it, her attention wholly fixed on the festering wound at Xie Zheng’s chest, paying no mind to those around her.

A personal guard brought over a clean cloth for Xie Zheng to bite down on, but Xie Zheng refused it.

Fan Changyu placed one hand lightly on his chest, dagger in the other, and asked him softly, “Are you afraid?”

Xie Zheng said, “Just do it.”

Fan Changyu suddenly felt a sting at the corners of her eyes. She pressed down all the emotions in her heart and focused entirely on scraping the rotten flesh from his chest—her hand steady as stone, her lips tightly pressed together.

Xie Zheng gazed at Fan Changyu without so much as blinking, as though the wound in his chest—and even his own life—were matters of no consequence.

Sweat beaded at both their temples, yet neither spoke a word.

When Fan Changyu noticed her palms were slick with sweat, she asked someone for a cloth, wiped her hands and the hilt of the dagger hastily, then bent her head again to continue cutting away the necrotic flesh.

Every muscle on Xie Zheng’s body was taut as stone, veins standing out from his arms to his temples. Beads of sweat slid from his eyelids, yet he didn’t even blink.

No one in the tent spoke; the silence was uncanny.

Gongsun Yin stood to the side, fan in hand. The mockery in his eyes and the faint smile at his lips had both vanished.

It was a strange feeling. Only a moment ago, he had thought that though this woman and Xie Zheng matched in appearance, in terms of family background, her being with him might be a blessing or a curse.

But at this moment, he suddenly felt that in this world, aside from this woman, there was likely no one else whom Xie Zheng would so readily entrust his life to.

If he could give her even his life, how could he ever let her suffer the slightest grievance in the turbulent capital?

As for whether this woman was “worthy” of Xie Zheng—she could make him willing to yield everything to her; who else had the right to speak of worthiness?

He tapped the fan’s rib twice against his palm, and his lips curved faintly once more.

When the last bit of rotten flesh on Xie Zheng’s chest was scraped clean, Fan Changyu’s back was drenched in sweat. She turned her head toward the doctor and said, “It’s done.”

The doctor quickly sprinkled a bottle of wound powder and applied the herbal paste he had prepared earlier to Xie Zheng’s wound. He instructed that Xie Zheng should stay in bed for the next few days and not lift anything heavy until the wound had fully healed.

Fan Changyu stood silently to the side the whole time.

Gongsun Yin, having had his fill of the scene, finally rose when Xie Zheng once again cast him a cold glance. He said a few slow, comforting words to the wounded soldiers, then gave Xie Zheng a look that promised to keep his secret, and unhurriedly followed the doctor out.

When everyone was gone, the personal guards, not wanting to make Fan Changyu suspicious, slipped out as well, leaving the two of them alone.

Only then did Fan Changyu softly ask, “Does it hurt?”

Xie Zheng shook his head. “It doesn’t.”

Fan Changyu’s eyes were still faintly red. The medicine she had decocted earlier was meant to suppress inflammation; it was suitable for Xie Zheng’s injury too.

She brought over a bowl, spooned up the liquid, and fed him gently, one spoon at a time. Watching him so weak, she said with a trace of sorrow, “If only you had signed that divorce paper earlier.”

Xie Zheng choked on the medicine, coughing violently, as if his chest were being torn apart.