Chapter 3

In the Great Wei Dynasty, the Crown Prince sat securely in the Eastern Palace, doted upon by both the Emperor and the Empress.

The imperial concubine, favored above all others, had been elevated to the rank of Noble Consort.

Everything was progressing smoothly.

Fu Rongfeng stared at Fu Jing, the darkness in his eyes unreadable.

If he were to die, wouldn’t that be even better?

No loose ends, no evidence.

So why keep him alive?

If not for his daughter Ziyan’s words—”I want to watch him suffer as he grows up, it’s more satisfying that way”—he wouldn’t have bothered raising the boy at all.

Madam Fu, sensing his thoughts, whispered to him that night: “Husband, since everything is going so well—the Crown Prince secure, Noble Consort Ziyan enjoying undying favor—keeping Fu Jing alive is nothing but a hidden danger. Why don’t we…”

Her narrowed eyes gleamed with malice.

Their thoughts aligned perfectly.

Soon, they hatched a plan—to eliminate Fu Jing quietly, without a trace.

The next morning, Fu Jing was informed that the Fu family would be traveling to a temple to pray for the longevity of the elderly Madam Fu, whose birthday was approaching.

He was to accompany them.

Seated inside the carriage, Fu Jing uneasily scanned his surroundings.

His was the shabbiest of the carriages—barely more than a wooden box with gaps that let in the freezing wind.

He pulled his thin robes tighter, the hard seat doing little to cushion the journey.

In contrast, the eldest young master’s carriage was luxurious—fragrant, warm, even equipped for sleeping.

The servants had bragged about it often enough.

Once, such comparisons would have stung.

After years of being treated as lesser, he had almost accepted it as his ill-fated lot in life.

But now, knowing he wasn’t even a Fu by blood—that he was nothing but a scapegoat—his hatred simmered, impossible to suppress.

This was his first time leaving the estate.

No maidservant would share his carriage—not when the eldest young master despised him.

No one dared cross the favored heir.

Fu Jing didn’t mind.

In fact, he preferred the solitude.

Pulling back the curtain, he watched the snow-blanketed landscape pass by.

Despite his youth, a doubt crept into his mind:

Why travel to a temple in such heavy snow?

A sense of foreboding gripped him.

His small fingers tightened around the fabric.

The procession arrived at the temple without incident.

They offered incense, paid respects—everything proceeded smoothly.

Just as Fu Jing began to relax…

Disaster struck on the return journey.

His carriage, trailing at the very end of the procession, gradually fell behind.

The gap widened until, by afternoon, they were completely separated.

The cold grew biting.

Fu Jing huddled in the carriage, rubbing his chapped hands together, wondering when they would arrive.

Then—the carriage jerked to a halt.

He yanked open the curtain.

No driver.

No horses.

Just an empty alley, the main convoy nowhere in sight.

His heart lurched.

This was a trap.

He scrambled out, only for several black-clad figures to emerge, blades glinting in the pale light.

Fu Jing’s face drained of color.

He turned and bolted, but the thick snow slowed him down.

Within moments, he tripped and fell.

Behind him, the assassins laughed crudely.

“The hell? This little brat, and they hired all of us? Using a butcher’s cleaver to kill a chicken!”

“Who cares? Finish the job, collect the reward, and let’s go drink!”

“Hahaha—”

They advanced, their amusement fading as Fu Jing struggled up and kept running.

Desperate, he knocked over bamboo stacks and debris, trying to slow them down.

Enraged, one of the men raised his blade—

“HELP! SOMEONE HELP!” Fu Jing screamed, his voice raw with terror.

Just as the sword began its descent—

Whoosh!

A stone shot past Fu Jing’s ear, striking the assassin square in the chest.

“Ugh—!”

A muffled groan—the black-clad man collapsed to the ground.

The others exchanged bewildered glances, unsure what had just happened.

“Boss! What’s wrong? Get up!”

One sharp-eyed assassin noticed the growing pool of crimson beneath their leader, staining the pristine snow.

Panic set in.

They frantically scanned the area—nothing but the trembling child before them.

No sign of whoever had struck.

What kind of master could take down their leader in one hit?

Today’s prey wasn’t worth dying for.

Without another word, they fled into the blizzard.

Alone again, Fu Jing whirled around, searching desperately.

“Who’s there? You helped me—why won’t you show yourself?”

Only silence answered him.

So she still refused to reveal herself.

Yet she was always nearby… watching… protecting.

With no carriage, Fu Jing trudged through the snowdrifts.

First time beyond the estate walls, and already lost.

The sprawling capital’s streets might as well have been a maze.

This was how the Fu family discarded him—not even bothering to hide their intentions anymore.

Who would care about an unwanted bastard child?

Days blurred into nights.

His thin cotton robes offered no respite from the cold.

Hunger gnawed at his insides like a rabid beast.

Then, during a particularly vicious snowstorm, his legs finally gave out.

Is this my fate? To die like a stray dog in some alley?

Face pressed into the snow, he felt warmth leaching from his body.

Even his soul seemed to crystallize with the frost.

Just as darkness threatened to swallow him whole—

Light.

Golden and impossibly warm, it cut through the blizzard’s fury.

The glow cradled him, thawing frozen limbs and a heart long turned to ice.

“Still alive?”

The voice floated down like a celestial melody—cool yet carrying undertones of compassion.

With tremendous effort, Fu Jing lifted his head.

A woman stood before him, white robes fluttering like sacred banners.

Midnight hair cascaded over shoulders untouched by snow.

Her features were carved from jade, yet held none of its coldness.

Familiar… yet not.

“Wh…who…?”

The words barely escaped his blue-tinged lips.

She knelt, gathering his skeletal frame into her arms.

Spiritual energy trickled into his veins, reviving numbed flesh.

“I’ve come for you,” she murmured, brushing clumped hair from his forehead.

“Forgive my lateness… you’ve suffered too much.”

Suffered.

No one had ever acknowledged it.

Not the beatings.

Not the hunger.

Not the loneliness.

Tears he’d sworn never to shed welled up, scalding trails down wind-chapped cheeks.

Small hands fisted in Yuanxi’s sleeves as sobs wracked his tiny body.

The last thing he registered before slipping into exhausted sleep:

Her scent—like plum blossoms after first frost.