The night of passion had passed, yet Third Young Master felt like a blizzard was howling in his heart, tears silently trailing down his cheeks.
It wasn't just the loss of dignity—it was the damage to his soul. He cursed himself for being so weak, for how his heart resisted but his body... betrayed him utterly.
His little brother had not the defiance of a martyr—wait, that was wrong. His little brother was defiant all right, standing tall and proud, unwavering in the face of death. But what Third Young Master needed was disobedience, passive resistance, something like a spiritual hunger strike.
Instead, his traitorous flesh had marched forward in triumph, spearing ahead like a golden lance, only collapsing after frothing at the mouth in ultimate surrender.
On top of him lay Qiu Ruomei, her hunger sated, her body relaxed in sleep. Her two snow-white peaks pressed against his chest, arms locked tightly around his neck, legs still wrapped around his waist. They remained joined, body to body.
The sheer difficulty of their entangled pose made it hard for Third Young Master to breathe, let alone sleep. He'd been tormented all night, and even rest evaded him. His soul felt more aggrieved than the unjustly executed Dou E.
He could have broken free. With his inner power, it wasn't impossible. But to do so would have required snapping the limbs of the girl sleeping on him.
And who was Third Young Master? Lewd and shameless, yes, but never cruel. He had a soft spot for beauty. Even if she had overpowered him, he couldn't bear to harm her.
So he simply drifted into sleep in that absurd position, the sky outside already showing faint light.
Spring rain still tapped against the eaves. The southern town was cold, but these two entangled bodies shared warmth.
After some time, it was the girl—Han Meihua—who awoke first.
She felt a strange warmth beneath her and an odd ache throughout her body. Her lower half throbbed with soreness and a bloated tightness.
She opened her eyes and was greeted by a sleeping face—handsome, serene, streaked with faint tear marks, like an innocent child.
Her cheeks flushed. Her heart fluttered. For a moment, she forgot everything. All she knew was that this boy... looked truly beautiful. Something about his face—so pure—awoke a soft, maternal instinct within her.
But as her senses returned, so did horror.
They were both naked. Her limbs clung tightly to his. And worst of all, he was still... inside her.
She recoiled as though electrocuted, fury blazing in her eyes.
She had no doubt now what had happened. The blood on his upright manhood, the crimson stains on the sheets—all of it drove invisible knives into her soul.
Tears burst forth. She didn't even wipe them. She just dressed hastily, yanked the bed sheet with one furious motion—
The force lifted Third Young Master off the mattress. Before he could even blink, her bare foot came flying at him, crashing into his chest.
He flew backward, spitting blood, slammed into the wall with a dull thud, then bounced forward and flopped onto the bed like a stunned frog.
As he tried to lift his head, a jade-white foot stomped down on his skull.
Bones cracked under the pressure. Rage surged through him.
This woman had taken him by force. He hadn't sought revenge—and now she had the gall to step on him?
If not for his deep internal strength, her kick would've killed him.
Enough was enough.
The fury ignited something long buried within him. Like a mantra remembered from childhood, the long-forgotten moves of 遮天手 ("Heaven-Shrouding Palm") surged back into his limbs.
His right hand slammed down—his inner strength surged like a tsunami into his palm, fused with seven forms of elemental power—fire, ice, lightning, wind, steel, softness, and gravity—blasting forth in one devastating strike.
Heaven-Shrouding Palm!
She'd thought she had him pinned. Had no idea he still had a counterattack in him. Her own icy palm met his blow—but her strength melted like frost against a blazing sun.
Her body was caught in the maelstrom. One moment she was freezing, the next she was burning. Then came paralysis, a spinning storm, crushing force, strangling tendrils, and leaden weight.
The agony made her scream. She flew backward like a paper doll, crashing into the corner wardrobe.
The sandalwood wardrobe exploded into fragments. Blood mist and broken splinters filled the air.
She lay sprawled amid the wreckage, gasping blood, her long hair wild, her beautiful eyes now icy daggers aimed at the boy who stood on the bed, silent and naked, his body upright, and his spirit even more so.
She had struck first. But he had struck last.
His eyes fell to her ruined clothes. The patches. The worn fabric. Clothes scrubbed until the color had faded. A harsh life. A poor girl who still wanted to repay her adoptive father—who, in the end, had sold her for four hundred taels of gold.
The woman who had conquered him had lived far more hardship than he ever had.
And something inside him shifted.
He stepped off the bed. His little brother swayed with righteous indignation.
The girl glared with hatred, but her mouth only opened to spill more blood. Her arm twisted unnaturally—it was broken.
Silently, Third Young Master picked her up.
His hands felt warmth. Her back was shredded, soaked in blood.
She was dying. Even the creator of Heaven-Shrouding Palm would have been crippled by such a strike.
From his clothes, he pulled out a tiny pill—"Life-Restoring Pellet," a gift from his brother Qin Feng.
Without hesitation, he crushed it, placed it in her mouth, and used his own saliva to help her swallow it.
Then he dressed, fetched hot water, and carefully cleaned her wounds, bandaging her arm with the care of a devoted healer.
When it was all done, her breathing had steadied, her eyes regained a faint glimmer.
She looked at him—this man who now worked so gently—and the tears poured freely.
He wiped them, again and again, never tiring.
"It was a stupid fight," he said with a tired smile. "You hit me without knowing why. I hit you without knowing my own strength. I never realized how powerful the things my father taught me really were."
"I'm no saint," he said, pausing. "But I'm not a demon either. I'm just... a tender-hearted rogue. I'll admit—I meant to pluck the cold plum blossom. But who'd have thought you'd be so... proactive? I've heard it said, 'One laughs when he defiles others' wives, but what happens when his own is taken?' Well, karma struck early. Only it wasn't my wife—it was me."
She stared at him, wide-eyed, disbelieving.
He sighed and explained everything, from beginning to end. "I was the instigator... but somehow, I became the victim."
She opened her mouth, but no words came. Just a look—hurt, confused, overwhelmed.
"You don't have to say anything. I'll stay. Until you're well. If you still want to kill me then, I won't run. You'll have your fight. If you defeat my Heaven-Shrouding Palm, I'll let you take my head."
He gently squeezed her hand.
She looked at him, tears and hate swirling in her eyes, and finally broke.
"I will kill you," she sobbed. "When I get better... I will kill you..."
But her calloused little hand gripped his back just as tightly.
He smiled. "Then I'll wait. Just make sure you're ready."
That was when someone knocked on the door.
"Third Young Master, are you awake? This is Feifan. A very important guest wishes to meet you."