……
The sounds grew louder and louder, until at last they seemed to ring right beside his ear.
Zhang Zhixu struggled to grip whatever lay within his reach.
Not the torture press — but soft silken covers.
He opened his eyes again, and there were the embroidered bed-curtains, already interwoven with golden thread as he had once instructed.
“Master?” Jiuquan called out, startled with delight.
The room burst into commotion at once — people rushing to pass word, others moving to take his pulse. Gong Lan and Zhang Yuanchu also pressed to the bedside, overjoyed: “My son — you’ve finally woken.”
Zhang Zhixu stared blankly at the canopy for a moment, then gasped in a breath. With no time for anything else, he grabbed the edge of the bed and pushed himself half-upright: “The — the wheelchair.”
“What wheelchair?”
“Bring…it…here.”
“Quickly — do as the young master says!”
No one dared delay. The wheelchair was brought to the bedside in an instant. Supported by helping hands, Zhang Zhixu struggled into it, and without even pausing to put on his outer robe he gave the order: “Go the way I tell you…quickly!”
Gong Lan and Zhang Yuanchu were both startled — he had only just woken; how could he go out?
But when Zhang Yuanchu moved to stop him, Gong Lan held him back.
“Our son is not an impulsive person. If he is this urgent, there must be something important. Just send people to follow him — don’t stand in his way.”
Indeed, Fengqing had always been well-behaved and would never do anything rash.
Zhang Yuanchu was persuaded.
But one stick of incense later, the ever well-behaved Fengqing had ordered men to ram open the great gates of the northern city prison by force.
“Lord Zhang, please listen to me — everyone brought in here must go through the register. If a name isn’t on the register, there is no way you can claim they are here. That’s against all reason.”
“Besides, you have no requisition documents and no warrant from the Criminal Justice Division — how can you bring people inside? Are you not afraid of censure from the Censorate?”
“Please, you cannot go any further ahead.”
Zhang Zhixu pressed forward on memory alone, completely ignoring the jailer’s protests.
He remembered this path clearly — remembered that up ahead one turned right, then descended two steps, passed through a stone door, and then turned left —
The familiar interrogation room came suddenly into view.
Dim torchlight lit the mottled walls. Half the assortment of torture instruments that had hung there were already gone. The air was thick with the stench of blood.
Someone lay on the floor, curled into a ball.
The jailer inside was still administering punishment — the whip was raised high, and with a vicious, whistling crack it came down hard across her back. The sound of flesh splitting rang against the ear. The person on the ground convulsed with agony, her spine heaving without stop.
Zhang Zhixu’s chest seized. Without waiting for the wheelchair to stop, he lurched up and threw himself forward.
“Master!”
“Lord Zhang!”
He heard nothing but her. He fell upon her, urgently wiping the blood and filth from around her mouth and nose, sliding one hand under the back of her neck to help ease her breathing.
“Chen Baoxiang?”
“Chen Baoxiang!”
The person in his arms had a face like white ash, eyes tightly closed. The blood that had run from her forehead had dried. Her celadon-coloured suit was drenched and ruined with blood. He grasped her shoulder instinctively, and his palm came away soaked with wet warmth.
Even though he had returned to his own body, the pain still felt like his own.
Zhang Zhixu’s eyes were bloodshot. He drew two rapid, shallow breaths.
Behind him, Jiuquan cursed furiously and kicked aside the jailer who had tried to continue. A whole group of men pushed in, forcing the guards and clerks of the torture chamber into the corner of the wall. The interrogation room erupted into chaos.
He did not look back. He only trembled as he leaned close to her, wanting to give her some of his strength to hold on, wanting her to have at least one last breath remaining —
Great Immortal, you truly are incredible — practically an all-powerful, all-knowing deity!
No Bodhisattva has your power, no Buddha has your compassion — you truly are the best, best, best immortal in all the world!
How could I possibly deserve your protection? I truly am not worthy — when I get back, I’ll build you a proper altar, with gold foil lettering and heaping, abundant incense offerings, sob.
The insubstantial voice crumbled apart in the blood-soaked air, impossible to grasp. The person in his arms lay perfectly still, as though all breath had already left her.
His throat worked. Zhang Zhixu reached out, carefully avoiding her wounds, and tried to lift her into his arms.
But he himself had only just woken — his body was terribly weak — and try as he might, he could not manage it.
Jiuquan reached out, moving to take her.
Zhang Zhixu gritted his teeth: “Don’t touch her. When she’s in pain, it’s very hard for her to bear it.”
Only he knew how to avoid her injuries. Only he knew how to ease her discomfort.
Drawing a deep breath, Zhang Zhixu mustered every last measure of his strength to draw her into his arms, leaning back as he did, and sank into the wheelchair — but his arms held firm, slowly settling her in his lap.
His hands were covered in filth from the ground. The snow-white of his inner robe was streaked all over with blood and grime.
Jiuquan knew how much the master prized cleanliness, and quickly offered him a warm damp cloth.
Zhang Zhixu took it — but did not wipe his own hands. Instead, he pinched a corner of it and began to dab at the dried blood on Chen Baoxiang’s face, and as he dabbed he muttered with distaste: “So many cuts. A perfectly good young woman, always covered in injuries — what kind of way is that to carry on.”
“Where is the wound-healing herb? Jiuquan — did you bring any wound-healing herb?”
Jiuquan had never seen his master like this and scrambled to check through the things they had brought with them.
Hot water, cloths, soft cushions, even incense had been prepared for the master’s use — but since the master’s injuries had already healed, not a single medicine had been packed.
Zhang Zhixu suddenly fell apart. One hand pressed against Chen Baoxiang’s bleeding wound, the other turned the wheel of the chair and drove it forward with all his might toward the exit.
“Master!” Jiuquan rushed to catch up and help push, anxiously trying to reassure him. “Sun the Medicine Sage is waiting just outside. Miss Chen will be fine — please don’t panic, don’t panic.”
How could he not panic? She was so resilient, so tough — and she still hadn’t managed to hold on until he came back.
It was his fault, too. Why had he woken so late? Why had he come so slowly?
The reek of blood struck his chest and stole his breath. His vision swam in and out of darkness.
“Fengqing — your master is here.” Sun Sihuai received him into the carriage. “I can save her. Once we’re back, I can save her.”
“Quickly! Clear the way ahead — send someone on horseback at once, have the medicines and needles readied for me!”
Many voices sounded around him. Someone supported him. Others attempted to reach over and take Chen Baoxiang.
Zhang Zhixu drew his arms tighter, stubbornly refusing to let go.
This world had never been fair. A man like him, who had so little will to live, had enormous resources and manpower poured into keeping him alive. And yet a woman like her — who fought so desperately just to survive — had a life cheaper than a blade of grass.
Having spent so much time together, he realised he had never truly managed to fulfil a single one of Chen Baoxiang’s wishes. He had not conjured silver for her. He had not helped her ascend to a higher station. He had not even managed to keep her from being hurt.
He was not worthy of being her Great Immortal.
---