The Prisoner of Beauty - Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Killing Intent

The previous day had marked a spectacular triumph at Boling, delivering a crushing defeat to Chen Xiang—another powerful warlord from Bingzhou who had dared to invade his borders. Tonight, following that victory, the grand residence celebrated the Lord’s wedding. Within the outer military encampments, sheep and pigs were slaughtered, and jars of wine were uncorked by special exception. It served both as a reward for the arduous campaign and a celebratory feast bestowed by the Marquis himself.

 

Ever since Wei Shao took absolute command of his forces at the age of seventeen, he had maintained a strict tradition during campaigns: he ate from the same iron pots and slept in the same tents as his rank-and-file soldiers. Whenever a fortress was to be breached or enemy territory seized, he was always at the absolute vanguard, charging first into the fray. Yet, his enforcement of martial law was ruthlessly severe; an order issued was absolute, and any infraction was met with swift discipline. His men looked upon him with a profound mixture of reverence and terror.

 

Under normal circumstances, the soldiers rarely enjoyed an opportunity to drink to their hearts' content. Tonight, with one blessing piled upon another, the watch-fires across the sprawling encampments blazed furiously against the dark, and resonant northern war songs echoed beneath the stars.

 

When the revelry reached its peak, a sudden wave of thunderous cheers erupted from the front lines. The soldiers swarmed forward to investigate, only to find that Wei Shao had personally ridden out of the city gates into the muddy camp. He was walking among them, raising a massive earthen cup to personally thank the warriors who had bled to reclaim Boling.

 

On his very wedding night, the Lord had not forgotten to step away from his bridal chambers to comfort and reward his men. The entire interconnected encampment instantly boiled over with fervor. The soldiers packed tightly around him, competing to raise their cups and offer raucous congratulations on his marriage. Wei Shao met them with a wide smile and a sweeping, heroic charisma, turning down not a single toast.

 

In the end, it was General Wei Liang—who had accompanied him out—who grew terrified that his master might pass out completely drunk and ruin the wedding night. Wei Liang repeatedly stepped in to deflect the endless stream of cups on his lord's behalf. Only then was Wei Shao finally able to break away and return to the city. By the time his horse trotted back through the palace gates, the night had grown incredibly deep.

 

Meanwhile, once the formal ceremonies concluded, the bride was escorted directly to the inner chambers of the Sheyang Pavilion, which served as Wei Shao’s primary personal residence. After Xiao Qiao was assisted in stripping away her heavy ceremonial robes and elaborate cosmetics, she softly requested Nurse Chun and the attendant maids to withdraw for the evening. The young maids filed out in an orderly line, leaving only Nurse Chun standing by the door, stubbornly refusing to budge.

 

Nurse Chun’s husband had originally been a household soldier of the Qiao clan. When she was twenty, she gave birth to a daughter, but before her postpartum confinement month had even ended, her husband tragically perished in battle. Her greedy in-laws refused to harbor a widow, demanding to marry her off to the highest bidder to turn a quick profit.

 

Fortunately, they caught wind that the Governor’s manor had just been blessed with a newborn lady and was desperately seeking a healthy, proper wet nurse. Realizing that if she were selected by the nobility, the compensation would far exceed whatever meager sum they could fetch by selling a daughter-in-law, they pulled every string available to present her to the manor.

 

Nurse Chun possessed a pleasant appearance and a robust, healthy build. Xiao Qiao’s mother investigated her background and found her to be exceptionally dutiful, honest, and kind-hearted. Appalled that her in-laws were treating her like livestock after her husband had died fighting under the Qiao banner, the Duchess disregarded all superstitious taboos regarding a grieving widow. She hired a spiritual medium to perform a purification ritual and officially brought her into the household as Xiao Qiao’s wet nurse. Deeply moved by this salvation, Nurse Chun poured her entire soul into raising Xiao Qiao, and the years had vanished in a flash. Now that her young mistress was marrying into the hostile north, she naturally refused to leave her side, packing her bags to accompany her across the frontier.

 

Reflecting on her situation, Xiao Qiao's mind wandered. If Wei Shao was currently suppressing his rage to the point of spitting blood, and if his mood tonight was utterly foul—a highly probable scenario—and he decided to unleash a beastly, violent outburst upon entering, her current physical frame would be in serious trouble. Though deemed marriageable by the standards of the era, in truth, she was barely scraping fifteen years old by nominal reckoning; her delicate body would simply be unable to bear any physical cruelty.

 

She truly could not comprehend how she was supposed to execute Nurse Chun’s whispered parting advice: to conquer his hardness with absolute softness beneath him during the act. In her previous life, Xiao Qiao had been married to Liu Yan, but within her own soul, while she wasn't entirely ignorant of intimacy, she hadn't exactly accumulated any meaningful "field experience" before waking up in this world as the younger Qiao daughter.

 

The more she analyzed the variables, the less confidence she felt. Finally, bracing her nerves, she moved away from the bed and sat down on a low wooden mat on the floor, staring blankly into space.

 

When she had first arrived in this ancient era, she found the contemporary seating habits deeply torturous. High-legged chairs and stools were foreign oddities, currently found only within the nomadic tribes of the northern Hu barbarians. To sit with one’s legs dangling down was universally condemned by the gentry as a coarse, wild, and profoundly ill-mannered gesture. Whenever she was in the presence of others, protocol dictated she maintain one of two rigid postures:

 Zuo (坐): The standard kneeling posture where the buttocks rested flat upon the heels. This was considered the more relaxed, everyday stance for conversation or dining.

 Jizuo (跽坐): Also known as the "long kneel," where the hips were elevated and the spine was held perfectly straight. This posture signaled intense respect, used when preparing to rise, welcoming an honored guest, or addressing a superior.

 

No matter which posture she attempted, Xiao Qiao lacked the physical endurance to maintain it for long. She certainly lacked the supernatural discipline of Nurse Chun, who could sit frozen like a stone statue for hours on end while executing flawless embroidery. Back in Yanzhou, whenever there were no outsiders present, she would frequently ignore Nurse Chun's frantic scoldings about lady-like decorum and completely stretch her legs out flat across the floor to relieve the throbbing ache. Consequently, even to this day, she had never truly mastered the art of the long kneel.

 

Xiao Qiao remained perched upright on her mat for an eternity, yet there was still no sign of Wei Shao's return. The world outside the pavilion was dead silent; not even the rustle of the wind could be heard. Giving up on her posture, she stretched her aching legs out, dragged a lacquer leaning-box over from the side of the mat, relaxed her limbs, and half-lay, half-reclined against the cushions.

 

While the outside world was locked in a bitter winter freeze, the interior of the bridal chamber was beautifully warm, the high-quality charcoal in the brazier burning white and clean. A delicate, elegant strain of expensive incense drifted lazily through the air. She had slept poorly the previous night, and today had been an exhausting gauntlet of ceremonial procedures. Gradually, a heavy drowsiness washed over her. Just as her mind was hazily slipping into a deep slumber, a sharp commotion outside snapped her back to alertness.

 

Someone had arrived. Immediately after, she heard the hurried whispers of the maids stationed in the courtyard: "The Master has returned."

 

Nanjun—Master—was the formal title utilized by servants, concubines, and dependents for the male head of the household, serving as the direct counterpart to Nüjun.

 

Xiao Qiao's sleepiness evaporated in an instant. She rubbed her eyes, scrambled up from her reclining position, and had barely managed to arrange her limbs back into a proper, formal kneeling posture when the heavy timber doors were pushed open. Looking past the edge of the carved folding screen, she saw a towering silhouette sway slightly upon entering, stumbling as if he had momentarily lost his footing.

 

Startled, Xiao Qiao quickly straightened her torso, preparing to step off her mat to offer assistance. However, the figure transiently stabilized his weight, rounded the screen, and materialized directly before her eyes.

 

It was precisely Wei Shao.

 

He had clearly consumed an immense volume of wine; his usually pale, sharply chiseled countenance was flushed with a distinct ruddy glow. Upon entering, he ignored her completely, walking straight past the mat where she knelt with her upper body held rigidly erect. He marched directly toward the dressing mirror, unfastening his heavy, jade-encrusted ducal hair crown and tossing it carelessly onto the table with a loud, metallic clatter.

 

Without casting a single glance in her direction, he turned on his heel and strode toward the grand canopy bed. Reaching out, he aggressively yanked open the heavy silk bed curtains; the hanging jade rings and obsidian ornaments collided violently, releasing a sharp, melodious chime through the quiet room.

 

Then came two heavy, blunt thuds as his riding boots were kicked off onto the floor. Within seconds, the inner bed plunged back into absolute, motionless silence.

 

Seeing that he had climbed straight into the bedding and apparently fallen fast asleep in the blink of an eye, the tight knot of anxiety coiled in Xiao Qiao’s shoulders finally dissolved.

 

She let out a long, shuddering breath, her eyes tracking the silhouette on the bed as she slowly lowered herself back into a relaxed sitting posture.

 

He truly seemed to be completely unconscious. Or, at the very least, profoundly intoxicated.

 

After waiting for a long while to ensure he wouldn't stir, Xiao Qiao carefully extended her legs out once more. Balling her delicate hands into fists, she gently thudded them against her throbbing, cramped calves, returning to her half-leaning, half-reclining position against the bolster.

 

In this strange manner—with one occupying the high bed and the other resting on the floor mat—the newlyweds coexisted in an uneasy truce.

 

The atmosphere in the room, originally dominated by the sweet scent of the incense, was now heavily mingled with the raw aroma of rich wine emanating from Wei Shao's body. After breathing it in for a prolonged period, her senses became accustomed to the smell, though the fumes left her head feeling somewhat heavy and dazed.

 

The night bled away into the deepest hours of the morning. Xiao Qiao remained perched on her mat, occasionally drifting into a light, fragmented doze, only to snap awake with a sudden jolt of adrenaline, opening her eyes to verify that Wei Shao was still lying high upon the mattress in precisely the same position. Once reassured, she would relax and sink back into a light slumber.

 

This exhausting cycle repeated itself several times, until the final time she dragged herself awake—not from panic, but because she was violently shivering.

 

Outside the window, the sky remained as black as ink. Judging by the remaining wax of the wedding candles melting on the bronze stands, it was already close to the fourth watch of the night. The premium charcoal in the brazier had burned down to a pale, brittle layer of white ash, radiating only a pathetic, lukewarm trace of residual heat. As the room's temperature plummeted, the biting northern chill from the courtyard began to seep ruthlessly through the seams of the doors.

 

Freezing to the bone, Xiao Qiao wrapped her arms tightly around herself, rubbing the fine layer of goosebumps that had erupted across her skin. Estimating that dawn was still hours away, she stared intently at Wei Shao on the bed. Seeing that he hadn't shifted an inch for hours, she hesitated for a brief moment before finally stepping onto the cold floor, tiptoeing with absolute stealth toward the bed.

 

According to the domestic customs of the aristocracy during this era, regardless of whether a husband and wife chose to share a single blanket, the marriage bed was always prepared with two separate, identical sets of silk quilts and bedding.

 

Wei Shao lay strictly along the outermost edge of the mattress, completely uncovered. The two sets of thick, luxurious silk quilts were neatly stacked on the innermost side of the bed against the wall.

 

Making virtually no sound at all, Xiao Qiao finally reached the foot of the bed, halting just past his feet. She stole a quiet, clinical glance at her new husband.

 

He was lying perfectly flat on his back. Because of his exceptional height and imposing limbs, his frame occupied the vast majority of the mattress. The deep, drunken flush that had colored his skin earlier in the evening had entirely receded, leaving his complexion unusually pale. Perhaps because the shadows from the corner candle stand failed to reach his face, the dim, obscured light lent his features an uncharacteristic, almost serene tranquility. His thick, ink-black sword-brows appeared sharper than ever against his closed eyes. His breathing was deep, heavy, and rhythmic.

 

Xiao Qiao held her breath, leaning her torso forward with agonizing slowness. Her upper body hovered directly over his legs as she extended an arm, reaching toward the inner mattress to carefully slide out the quilt closest to her.

 

Without a single microsecond of warning, the sleeping Wei Shao beneath her suddenly snapped his eyes wide open.

 

Immediately following that came a terrifying, metallic chang—the chilling ring of a sword clearing its scabbard. Before her eyes could even register the motion, Wei Shao had lightning-fast whipped a long sword out from beneath his pillow, his massive frame rolling off the mattress in a single, fluid explosion of martial instinct.

 

A sudden, icy frost bit at her throat. The razor-sharp tip of the steel blade was pressed firmly and immovably against the side of her jugular.

 

The entire sequence had unfolded within the span of a single spark striking flint.

 

Xiao Qiao froze instantly, her breath catching in her throat.

 

She could distinctly feel the lethal, localized cold radiating from the polished steel against her skin—a sensation fundamentally distinct from the ambient winter chill of the room. It was the absolute temperature of death.

 

She could even catch a faint, sweet, metallic scent of oxidized rust clinging to the fuller of the blade.

 

She knew instantly, with a visceral certainty, that this was the permanent odor of dried, ingrained blood.

 

Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head a fraction of an inch and met his gaze.

 

His dark eyes were mapped with fine, angry webs of red bloodshot veins, burning with a cold, unmistakable wave of unadulterated killing intent.

 

"I felt a bit cold," she said, her voice sounding remarkably steady, devoid of the panic screaming in her nerves. "I only wished to fetch a quilt. I did not mean to startle you."

 

Yet within her own mind, she was absolutely certain she had not brushed against his clothing or his skin by even a hair's breadth. His reaction was pure, subconscious muscle memory.

 

Wei Shao stared into her eyes for several agonizing, breathless seconds. Then, his gaze slowly shifted, taking in the room around them, which was heavily draped in ceremonial vermilion silks and wedding decorations. As if finally remembering where he was and who lay beneath his blade, he closed his eyes tightly, raising his free hand to heavily massage his temples. The coiled, explosive killing intent permeating his muscles finally dissolved.

 

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the sword.