“Stop talking,” a hand stretched out from behind the curtain, snatching away the porcelain bottle. “We can fool ordinary people, but if we go to the military camp, we’ll definitely be recognized. By then, it’ll be too late to pretend to be lame.”
Xiao Chun muttered, “But you are already truly lame…”
The young gentleman – known as the “Command Killer” Jing Ning Hou Fu Shen – tilted his head and swallowed a brown pill the size of a fingertip, sneering, “Zhong Shan, which do you think would keep you up at night: a general with hope of recovery, or a completely disabled commander?”
Xiao Chun said nothing.
Fu Shen threw the porcelain bottle back into his arms, closed his eyes to feel the spreading numbness in his limbs, and softly said, “Let’s go.”
Chapter 3: Entering the Mansion | Inauspicious from Birth, Long Incompatible
At dusk, at the western suburban military camp of the capital, hundreds of miles from the city, Zhong He, the commander of Rui Feng Camp, personally came out to greet them.
Xiao Chun stepped forward to pay respects. Before he could complete his bow, Zhong He had already left him and rushed towards the horse carriage, kneeling down: “This subordinate, Rui Feng Camp commander Zhong He, pays respects to General Fu!”
A bandaged hand lifted the curtain, and a heavy medicinal smell slowly spread. Fu Shen wore no armor, only a robe. His chest and arms were wrapped in bandages. His face was pale, his lips bloodless, his long hair loose, seeming to be hanging on by a thread, weak enough to collapse at a breeze. Only his eyes retained a hint of spirit, deep and black, calm like a broken blade still capable of a fatal strike.
Fu Shen nodded to him: “Commander Zhong, long time no see. Forgive me for not being able to rise and greet you due to my inconvenience.”
Zhong He had heard about his serious injury and inability to walk but never imagined it was this severe. He had not previously believed the rumors that “Fu Shen was truly disabled,” but seeing was believing. Fu Shen’s current state seemed unlikely to recover, let alone survive comfortably for a few more years.
Zhong He’s vision darkened, feeling cold from head to toe, and in his grief, his form of address changed: “Jing Yuan, your injury… you…
“
