For someone who rarely falls ill, the sickness comes like a torrential storm. Fang Chuning's body is scorching hot, his fever refuses to subside, his throat feels as if it's flaming, and his head feels like it's splitting apart. The pain is so intense that it sends him into a delusional state, fluctuating between cold and heat.
His personal soldiers are stationed by his bedside, tending to him as he feels unbearably uncomfortable. He drinks water frequently, thinking his whole body might burn to ashes. Strangely, in this feverish haze, he remembers Xie Jue as a child—those years before Xie turned eight, he would often catch the winter chills, falling ill almost every winter. Each bout of illness would last five or six days, leaving his eyes bloodshot and lips deathly pale, pitifully fragile.
