Chapter 18

The soup and rice pushed in at the doorway had long since grown cold and hardened. In the pitch-black room, before the couch, a dying old man with graying hair lay sprawled on the footstool. Once strong and upright, his body was now hunched and emaciated, reduced to nothing but skin and bones. The hair atop his head had all fallen away, leaving filthy, tangled grey strands draping messily. A large, mottled patch of brown medicine mixed with dried dark red vomit stained his lapel, shocking to behold.

Xie Ci’s heart was shaken to its core. “Uncle, Uncle!”

He rushed forward, kneeling beside the immobile old man and gently lifting him. The touch was chilling, cold as the polished blue stone in late autumn, seeping straight to the bone. The old man’s hand hung limply, head lolling to one side, utterly unresponsive. His breath was barely perceptible, his pulse so weak it was nearly gone.

“Hurry! Move him onto the bed,” Gu Wan whispered, scanning the room quickly and discreetly glancing back at Xun Rongbi lying on the floor.

The spacious room’s doors and windows had been nailed shut, letting in only the faintest slivers of light. The darkness was absolute; the air carried the stench of stagnation, mingled with spilled medicinal broth and the scent of food at the door, and the dying elder lying prone on the floor heightened the chilling horror of the scene.

Seeing Xun Rongbi, Gu Wan at last understood why Xie Ci’s reaction was so intense, and why their bond had always been so deep. The dying old man in Xie Ci’s arms bore a striking resemblance to Xie Ci’s father, Xie Xinzhong—Gu Wan then recalled that Lady Xun and the Marquis of Loyal Valor’s household had been joined twice by marriage, and two generations back, a pair of twin sisters named Hua had married into both the Xie and Xun families.

The instant Xie Ci saw the old man’s face, his heart could not help but tremble. Gu Wan tugged him gently; Xie Ci clenched his teeth and immediately lifted the man onto the bed.

Gu Wan stood behind Xie Ci, scrutinizing the man before her. She had already examined him thoroughly: Xun Rongbi’s empty sleeve was turned up, exposing his emaciated hands. Around both wrists were scars, deep and shocking. Gu Wan was an expert in such matters; these were marks left by shackles, worn into the flesh and bone by prolonged, desperate struggle, the scars at least a year old.

Xun Rongbi bore many other scars of imprisonment. On the floor, a broken medicine bowl lay scattered, and the spilt broth across the bed an