Chapter Nine: Burning All Over
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The West Wing was situated on the western side of the main courtyard, a place overflowing with flowers and greenery, their fragrance wafting gently through the air.
“Luckily, Father didn’t use too much force, or you’d have been in real trouble!” Ruoxi said, her tone full of concern.
“Is your father always this fierce?” Xiaoshan asked, clutching his chest weakly.
“No, not at all! He’s like this every day!” Ruoxi replied with a smile.
“Every day?!” Xiaoshan paused, his voice tinged with worry.
“It’s nothing, just kidding. My father is usually very well-behaved!” Ruoxi couldn’t help but laugh at Xiaoshan’s expression, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. “It’s only a few days each month when his mood gets irritable.”
“Now that’s more reassuring!” Xiaoshan sighed, feeling as if the world had suddenly become a little kinder.
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you!” Ruoxi promised, patting her chest.
“Protect me? Does that mean taking me back to my room after I’m hurt?” Xiaoshan looked at her incredulously.
“At least I won’t let you die,” Ruoxi laughed.
“You might as well have said nothing at all! I’d feel better that way!” Xiaoshan shot her a sideways glance.
Listening to their playful banter, Aunt Mei looked at Xiaoshan with surprise, as if she found something special about him—he could joke and quarrel with her young mistress.
Guided by Aunt Mei, they rounded a corner and arrived at the West Wing. The door was a deep red, likely chosen for its auspicious symbolism. As Aunt Mei pushed the door open, the room’s decor was laid bare: two chairs facing each other with a table between them, and a smaller set of chairs and table nearby. In Xiaoshan’s eyes, it seemed just like a proper hall.
On the surrounding walls, there were various murals of little figures; some stretched their legs absurdly long, others reached out their arms with exaggerated force. The murals flowed into one another, resembling a sequence of martial poses, though there were no characters inscribed anywhere, no indication of where they began or ended.
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After a brief look in the foyer, Aunt Mei led Xiaoshan further inside, through a side door into the bedrooms. There was a master bedroom and a side room; clearly, Xiaoshan would be staying in the master.
Upon entering, the walls of the master bedroom were also covered with depictions of martial moves. Xiaoshan wondered if these were meant as training aids for Lin Feng. He wanted to ask Aunt Mei about it, but she led him into the room and then left. Ruoxi followed her out, leaving Xiaoshan alone in the West Wing.
Lying on the soft bed, Xiaoshan finally felt the intense pain in his chest. He opened his shirt, revealing the spot where Lin Feng had struck him—a patch swollen and red, radiating heat, so much so that it felt entirely different from the rest of his skin.
His heartbeat suddenly grew wild and intense, his body flushing red as his temperature soared. One hand clutched his heart, the other tentatively touched his forehead.
He discovered his forehead was burning hot, veins bulging, and even the blood in his vessels seemed to rush faster. Sweat welled up instantly, beads dropping onto the pillow, dampening one side.
His whole body felt as if he were drenched in scalding sweat; his hands tore at his clothes, desperate to cool himself down. He wanted to get up, thinking of the small pool in the garden and longing to plunge in and lower his temperature, but found he lacked the strength to move, except for his arms and legs.
He felt incredibly weak, his organs throbbing furiously; his limbs trembled uncontrollably as his blood raced faster and faster.
His eyes grew moist, his vision blurred, and Xiaoshan felt an overwhelming urge to sleep.
“Bang bang bang!” Suddenly, his heart stopped dead. Xiaoshan closed his eyes, a smile spreading across his lips; at last, he was free from this torment, sinking into deep slumber.
Outside the door, the middle-aged man smiled, then turned and left the West Wing.
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The next morning, West Wing, Room One.
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“Peng peng!” The sound of knocking echoed through the silent West Wing.
On the eaves, small birds startled and flew up into the sky.
The woman knocking heard no response from inside, so she called out, “I’m coming in!” Still no answer, so she entered.
The main hall looked just as it had the day before, untouched and pristine. Without hesitation, she went straight to the master bedroom.
“Click click!”
The tightly shut door was slowly pushed open.
Seeing the scene inside, the woman’s face was filled with surprise.
A young man lay on the bed, his upper body bare, sweat still gleaming on his muscular chest under the sunlight. His discarded clothes were strewn messily across the floor.
His lips were curved in a smile, as if he were genuinely happy; his hair was damp and stuck to the pillow.
Outside, the girl lingered, impatient, and suddenly rushed in, entering the master bedroom.
Just as she entered, she saw the woman touch the young man’s forehead and, startled, collapse onto the floor.
The girl, frightened, dashed to the bedside.
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