His already tense body became unnaturally stiff at that moment, even his breathing felt constricted. His mind replayed scenes of the Regent Prince biting into his skin, leaving countless bruises tinged with the scent of blood. His cold eyes flickered with a trace of indifference—bite all you want, for the pain of the body could never compare to the desolation of a heart turned to ashes, never to be warmed again.
However, after waiting for a while, he felt no pain. Instead, her teeth grazed gently against his ear, her tongue brushing over the sensitive curve of his earlobe, sending a shudder through his heart. His head tilted back slightly, and her fingers trailed down his chest, teasing that bewitching spot, nearly making him lose control. This tenderness was far more unbearable than any physical torment.
Lan Jingshu completely ignored the ambiguous atmosphere beside him, his gaze fixed, dazed, on the inscription on the Chrysanthemum in Autumn painting. He was utterly stunned. The calligraphy, as fluid as a dragon soaring through the heavens, was effortless and masterful. Even as someone deeply passionate about painting and calligraphy, he knew it would take him another ten or twenty years of practice to achieve such artistic depth.
The strokes of the brush carried a vast and boundless energy, exuding an unrestrained dominance within the words:
“Fragrant chrysanthemums bloom in the woods, shining bright;
Green pines stand proudly upon the cliffs.
Cherishing this noble and graceful form,
Unyielding, a true hero beneath the frost.”
This inscription left him even more astonished. He could see within these verses a sense of freedom and deep reflection, as well as the hidden ambition of an extraordinary mind. It was precisely the sentiment he had when painting this piece.
People say that a true kindred spirit is hard to find. He suddenly lifted his gaze, only to be met with an alluring sight that stirred his heartstrings. Startled, Lan Jingshu quickly lowered his head, a fleeting trace of displeasure flashing through his mind. What was he thinking?
She was the Regent Prince, a figure despised by all, whom people wished to tear to pieces. With her ruthless and unpredictable nature, she would certainly scorn someone like him, a mere scholar engrossed in poetry and painting. Suppressing the thoughts in his heart, he chose to remain silent.
Feng Aotian naturally observed Lan Jingshu’s every expression from beginning to end. Turning slightly, she noticed Mu Hanjin struggling to suppress his emotions. Suddenly, she thought of Mu Hanyao—he, too, had once endured her teasing. However, unlike Mu Hanyao, who had the courage to evade her affections, Mu Hanjin’s thoughts were far more elusive, buried deep beyond comprehension. She had always prided herself on reading people well.
Tilting her head, Feng Aotian glanced at Mu Hanjin’s inscription. Even after her deliberate provocation, he remained composed, each stroke of his brush steady and measured. His calligraphy, though appearing delicate and free-flowing like a gentle stream, concealed an underlying sharpness. A devilish smirk played at her lips as she leaned in close to his ear, whispering softly,
“Around my cottage, autumn blooms abound, like Tao Yuanming’s retreat.
Encircling my fence, they flourish as the sun sets late.
It is not that I favor chrysanthemums over all,
But when they have withered, no other flowers remain.”
Mu Hanjin took a deep breath, suppressing the emotions surging within him. Tilting his head slightly, his slender neck arched like a proud swan, allowing Feng Aotian to kindle a subtle fire upon his skin. A gentle breeze carried her voice to his ear, reciting the very poem he had inscribed. His calm gaze flickered momentarily before he responded with composed indifference,
“Your Highness, this humble minister’s literary skills are lacking. Forgive me for making a fool of myself before you.”
Feng Aotian chuckled, her laughter ringing freely. “Then tell me, Hanjin—compared to mine, where do you think yours falls short?”
Mu Hanjin’s gaze darkened slightly as he finally remembered that she had also written an inscription. He turned his head slightly, and when his eyes fell upon the poem and its elegant calligraphy, he was momentarily stunned. In disbelief, he met Lan Jingshu’s gaze, both unable to fathom that the Regent had written such words.
Feng Aotian’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Hmm?”
Suppressing his inner shock, Mu Hanjin composed himself and responded calmly, “This humble minister leaves the judgment to Your Highness.”
Compared to her poem, his was merely an impromptu expression of fleeting emotions. Yet Feng Aotian’s words encapsulated the very essence of his and Lan Jingshu’s earlier painting and flute-playing, as well as the unspoken sentiments hidden within. He had always prided himself on his intellect and held disdain for Feng Aotian’s tyrannical nature. But now, because of this poem, he couldn’t help but develop a slight change in perspective—just a tiny bit.
“Jingshu, mount this painting for me and keep it well,” Feng Aotian said with a half-smile as she glanced at Lan Jingshu. With a slight push of her toes, she lifted herself effortlessly and whisked Mu Hanjin away with her.
Eunuch Feng, seeing this, hurriedly chased after them from the courtyard.
Lan Jingshu watched as Feng Aotian departed, his gaze flickering with a hint of shadowed emotion. Lowering his eyes, he once again studied the painting and the inscription, then let out a quiet, self-mocking laugh. How foolish of him. The Regent was merely acting on a whim—so what if she possessed great talent?
Feng Aotian brought Mu Hanjin to her sleeping quarters.
By now, the white jade belt around Mu Hanjin’s waist was gone, his outer robe half-draped over his shoulders, and his long tunic partially undone. His fair, delicate skin carried a faint flush, and his ethereal, dust-free aura exuded an inexplicable allure.
His hands were clenched into fists, hidden within his sleeves, as his slender figure stood with his back to Feng Aotian. The moment he stepped into this chamber, he felt suffocated. His pale lips pressed into a tight line as his eyes swept the room. On the high shelf beside him lay whips, candles, iron chains, ropes, and various other unspeakable instruments of torment.
A wave of deep revulsion surged within him. Any trace of admiration he had momentarily felt for Feng Aotian’s literary talent vanished instantly, replaced by an overwhelming sense of repulsion.
Two years of nightmares and humiliation were like an unerasable brand, seared into his body and soul, destined to never fade. Even if he wished to escape or resist, the weight of his burdens left him powerless to fight back.
Feng Aotian sensed the desolation in Mu Hanjin’s heart. She turned her gaze toward those instruments—objects that had all been used on him before. She understood his pain, his deep-seated loathing for her. But now, all she could do was make him accept it once more. If he remained obstinate, she would not force him. Those who could assist her, she would cherish. Those who could not—she would destroy.
“What are you standing there for?” Feng Aotian’s voice was as cold as ever, carrying an unquestionable authority and an icy severity.
A flicker of dullness passed through Mu Hanjin’s long, gentle eyes. Suppressing the nausea rising within him, he slowly lifted his fingers, shedding his outer robe, along with the rest of his garments, preparing to strip himself completely.
Feng Aotian was momentarily speechless at his actions. In this chamber, aside from herself, any man she favored was required to be completely bare upon entering. Naturally, Mu Hanjin assumed she intended to claim him tonight, so he obediently began undressing.
Taking a step forward, she flicked her sleeve, and the discarded robe on the floor suddenly wrapped back around his shoulders. Just as Mu Hanjin froze in surprise, a cool touch met his palm—colder even than his own frost-chilled fingers.
Feng Aotian held his hand and led him to the study on the right side of the bedchamber. Though the room was cleaned daily by servants, it still carried a faint musty scent, likely from being left unused for too long.
Mu Hanjin glanced at Feng Aotian in confusion. She had never held his hand before, nor had she ever allowed a clothed man to set foot in her bedchamber. Moreover, judging by the state of the study, it was clear that very few people ever entered. What was she planning to do by bringing him here? Could it be that she intended to do something to him in this very place?
His gaze swept over the towering shelves filled with books, and a chill crept up his spine.
When they reached the desk, Feng Aotian came to a halt. From a distance, the hurried footsteps and labored breathing of Eunuch Feng could already be heard as he rushed toward the bedchamber.
Her voice was cold as she commanded, “Pass on my decree: not a single person is to be absent from tomorrow’s court session.”
“Yes,” Eunuch Feng gasped, still struggling to catch his breath. But upon hearing Feng Aotian’s orders, he immediately responded and sent someone to deliver the message.
Feng Aotian then turned her gaze to Mu Hanjin, noticing how he stood frozen in place. A low chuckle escaped her lips, devoid of warmth.
“What’s wrong? Weren’t you eager to climb into my bed just moments ago? And now you’re standing there like a statue? Are you going to undress yourself, or shall I do it for you?”
