The sound of rain outside was continuous, and a carriage sped down the path to the Long Princess’s residence, turning twice before stopping in the back alley.

Physician Zhou entered through the back door with his medicine box, his umbrella held by a servant.

He hurried to Minggao Garden, where lanterns lit the corridor brightly, and the maids stood solemnly, seemingly on alert for something.

Becoming more cautious, Zhou announced his arrival outside the curtain, shook off the rainwater from his robes, and bowed as he entered.

The atmosphere inside was even colder than outside.

Zhou was surprised to see a casually dressed man standing in the outer chamber.

It took him several glances to recognize this was Mei Heting.

This prince, known for his impeccable appearance and demeanor in court, was surprisingly disheveled here.

Hadn’t there been rumors that the Grand Princess would dismiss her prince? Yet, here he was, in her inner quarters…

Zhou was momentarily at a loss.

“Thank you for coming at this late hour, Physician,” the Grand Princess’s voice called from behind the curtain, interrupting Zhou’s thoughts.

She had just woken from a nightmare, having coughed up blood, and had coincidentally been caught by Mei Heting.

As she heard the man who should have been in the back room pressing her for answers, Xuan Mingzhu couldn’t help but feel a mix of anger and confusion.

When had the usually proper Mei Changsheng(Heting) started to intrude like this?

By throwing the divorce decree in front of him, her intention was to sever his thoughts.

But when he got stubborn, no amount of scolding would make him leave.

He remained outside, determined to summon the physician to check on her pulse.

Seeing the others preparing to leave, Xuan Mingzhu called out.

Her body was her own; she had planned to call for a doctor anyway, and bringing Zhou in at this hour was also to dispel Mei Heting’s suspicions.

Otherwise, if he caught wind of any hint of illness, he might cling to her with a sense of moral duty.

“Earlier, I had a nightmare,” the voice from the curtain said lightly. “After waking, I coughed up some blood, likely due to the summer dryness affecting my lungs. I feel no discomfort, but the old maid is worried, hence the need for you to come.”

Physician Zhou glanced up, meeting the knowing gaze of a maid outside, realizing the words were meant for him to keep the illness hidden.

He furtively assessed Mei Heting’s attentive gaze fixed on the curtain and thought: who was really not at ease here?

Not wanting to pry into noble affairs, Zhou took the opportunity to examine the Long Princess’s pulse.

After a moment of contemplation, he fabricated a response: “This is indeed phlegm caused by lung heat. Your Highness is still in your prime; sometimes rich foods can lead to occasional blood in the cough. There’s no need for excessive worry.”

Yet the truth was quite the opposite. Anyone suffering from blood deficiency would weaken day by day until death.

Zhou began to draft a peace prescription while pondering: based on the pulse he felt earlier, her vitality seemed unusually robust, but it was chaotic, inconsistent with blood deficiency symptoms.

Could he have misdiagnosed her?

That odd thought crossed Zhou’s mind, but he quickly dismissed it.

It was absurd; the imperial physician, Yang, had prescribed her medication effective for blood deficiency.

If misused by an ordinary person, it could disrupt their circulation, leading to fatal consequences.

Yang was too skilled to confuse the two, as such a major mistake could cost him his life.

To confirm, Zhou asked, “Your Highness, have you felt any other discomfort lately?”

Mei Heting’s brow twitched as he turned his ear toward the curtain. The person inside paused before replying, “No.”

Zhou then relaxed completely, presenting the peace prescription before preparing to leave.

“Physician.” Mei Heting suddenly called out to him, breaking his silence.

“Truly no issue? Have you examined thoroughly?”

Physician Zhou was held captive by Mei Heting’s piercing gaze and remembered his other identity, forcing himself to nod.

The prince still held onto his sleeve tightly.

Zhou glanced at Mei Heting’s pale face and asked in a measured tone, “Sir, is there anywhere you feel unwell? I can check your pulse too.”

Compared to the composed Grand Princess, Mei Heting looked more like a patient in that moment.

Upon hearing this, Mei Heting finally released his grip and smoothed Zhou’s sleeve.

He sealed a pouch and instructed someone to see the physician out.

Years of habit couldn’t be changed overnight, and Zhou inadvertently let slip the tone of the household, pausing momentarily to glance back at the inner curtain.

Without the prince speaking, he took his leave.

As the thin curtain was lifted, a rush of rain mixed with the dim night air entered.

Mei Heting stepped aside, shielding himself from the wind, and turned to look at the tightly drawn curtain.

As if sensing his presence, a faint mocking voice came from within, “Are you reassured? Have you made enough noise?”

“Is there something you’re hiding from me?”

The physician’s certainty didn’t ease Mei Heting’s concerns; he spoke softly, “I want to hear you say it.”

Silence followed.

Hong’er understood and cleared her throat, saying, “Lord Mei, please be cautious. The divorce decree has been redone, and now all matters concerning the princess have nothing to do with you. Tonight, you have trespassed into the inner chamber, and once Lady Mei departs, the princess will have her reckoning. I hope you can consider the little miss and refrain from such folly.”

With a mention of Lady Mei and the little miss, it was clear that the Grand Princess had no lingering feelings for Mei Heting.

At this point, even someone thick-skinned would feel disheartened.

Moreover, from head to toe, Mei Heting had nothing to do with the word “frivolous.”

His eyes, tinged with a deep blue hue, shifted slightly before he turned and left the sleeping quarters.

He didn’t go far, only to the outer corridor, where the orange rain lantern swayed slightly beneath the eaves, casting a silhouette against the window, dancing with the wind and rain.

“This Lord Mei’s temperament is truly…” Hong’er said, half amused and half exasperated, as she lifted the gauze curtain, only to freeze in place the next moment.

Inside the chamber, Xuan Mingzhu still lay quietly against the pillow, but there was a crimson stain of blood at the corner of her lips, having trickled down to her chin, now half-dried.

“Your Highness!”

Xuan Mingzhu shushed her, calming her own surprise.

Her phoenix eyes, slightly lifted like peach petals, appeared composed as she rinsed her mouth, washed her face, changed clothes, and lay back down.

Having had such a nightmare and being stirred for much of the night, she truly felt fatigued.

The man outside was willing to stand in the rain; she didn’t care for whom he braved the elements.

According to Jin customs, during a princess’s mourning period, the prince was to wear the mourning clothes for a year.

She had hurried to end her marriage with Mei Heting before her illness manifested to avoid this obligation.

A year of mourning is neither too long nor too short, but for the young emperor, who was struggling for power with the cabinet, having a capable aide right in front of him—delaying even a month could mean losing countless opportunities.

So it was best if Mei Heting remained oblivious.

After her nightmare, Xuan Mingzhu lay down but found herself unable to sleep.

Sometimes she felt that the nightmares were hereditary.

As a child, when she had a bad dream, she would run barefoot to her mother’s chamber and snuggle into her warm embrace.

Curled up, her long black hair spread across the flower-patterned pillow, she wrapped her arms around herself, closed her eyes, and let her thoughts wander.

She recalled that Mei Heting had been only seventeen when he married her; had it been Yan Huai, he would have been just a child.

Yet, she had revered him as if he were the heavens, which was truly foolish and laughable.

Then she thought of the customs of the Jin dynasty, where boys could marry at seventeen and girls at fifteen, but the young emperor was born in winter and had to wait another six months for his wedding and to establish his empress.

The choice of empress had already been determined during the previous emperor’s reign—Mo Taifu’s granddaughter, known for her grace and virtue, fit to be the mother of the nation.

However, the old ministers, steeped in tradition, stubbornly believed that the emperor could only be considered an adult after marrying and producing an heir, unwilling to loosen their grip on power even for half a year.

The emperor had several times attempted to reform land taxes and policies, only to be rebuffed by the Ministry of Rites, citing that the time wasn’t ripe.

Old habits die hard, and many dynasties throughout history fall into this pattern. How could there be an unchanging ancestral system while the country flourishes for generations?

Only the fervent blood of the brave could break through these stale customs.

In this regard, she had absolute faith in Mei Heting.

At present, he was her only hope.

Lost in such thoughts, she gradually felt her eyelids grow heavy and slipped into a daze.

---

The bells of Long’an Temple rang out, echoing in the eastern part of Chongwenmen.

This ancient temple, once neglected during the previous emperor’s reign, had not seen smoke for years, nor light in its niches, its Buddha statue untouched by gold.

The first rain of the Grain in Ear season turned the moonlight of the three halls into a shadowed downpour.

The one ringing the bell was the temple’s abbot, named Wuxiang, the only monk left since the temple had become a forbidden place—Xuan Tao often wondered what was wrong with this man for ringing the bell on such a rainy night.

The Xuan family was outstanding; the former rebel Prince Rong had an almost sinisterly handsome face.

Even though he was confined here, stripped of all possessions, his only belongings were a bamboo hairpin and a green cloak.

In the midst of the rain, he looked like an ethereal scholar, detached from the mundane world.

Reaching the lower floor of the Fuhu Pavilion, Xuan Tao found the blank stone tablet.

“Do you think the princess hasn’t thought of her fourth brother even once in all these years?” he asked.

A smile devoid of sorrow or pity played on the man’s lips, obscured by the heavy rain.

The gray cloth umbrella above him rustled softly, while the woman holding it stood drenched in the rain, her lips sealed in silence.

“Sending off the sorrows,” Xuan Tao murmured to himself. “I miss her.”

In the latter half of the night, the heavy rain turned to a light drizzle, only stopping at dawn, the drops drizzling down from the bright yellow glazed tiles, washing clean the banana plants in the courtyard.

The pooled rainwater spun in the courtyard, occasionally accompanied by a few fallen late peach blossoms, flowing along the wall’s hidden gutter to the outer drain.

Mei Heting stood under the eaves all night, staring at the plants and stones in the courtyard to pass the time until daybreak.

His wet clothes clung to him, sticky and uncomfortable, then dried in the wind.

He didn’t bother to think about how much dirt was on his skin; he just wanted to wait for Xuan Mingzhu to wake and see for himself that she was well.