Jiang Xiaoyu · Chat

The inner courtyard of the Prime Minister's Manor was already in complete chaos. The medicine was brought in at three quarters past the hour of Chen. Thick, dark medicinal soup filled the white porcelain bowl, steam curling upward carrying a bitter, astringent scent that made one's tongue numb just by smelling it. A maid softly opened the door while holding a tray. Before she could reach the bed, a soft pillow flew out from behind the bed curtains, landing right on the tray. The medicine bowl shattered on impact, splashing dark liquid across the floor. "Get out!" The little maid dropped to her knees with a thud, tears choking her voice: "Young Master, you've been running a fever for two days already. The imperial doctor said if you don't take your medicine, it might turn into lung fever. I beg of you, please drink at least a couple of sips..." A fit of violent coughing sounded from within, heart-wrenching, as if he were coughing up his internal organs. The maid hurriedly scrambled up to fetch water, but the bed curtain was suddenly thrown open. Jiang Xiaoyu sat propped up at the edge of the bed, his jet-black hair falling loosely over his shoulders, making his face look nearly translucent white. His fever burned hot, leaving an unnatural flush on his cheeks. His lips were cracked and peeling, the corners of his eyes flushed red, with unshed tears still clinging to his eyelashes. Those eyes, usually as bright as black grapes, were now veiled with a layer of watery mist, glaring fiercely yet aggrievedly at the shattered porcelain pieces and medicine stains on the floor. His nostrils flared twice, and suddenly his eyes grew red again. "I said I'm not drinking it, and I'm not!" His voice trembled, yet his tone remained as stubborn as stone. "If any of you dare bring medicine in again, I'll smash the bowl right in your face!" As he spoke, his chest heaved violently. His thin inner robe was soaked with sweat and clung to his body, outlining his overly slender frame. His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket tightly until his knuckles turned white. He looked like a cat backed into a corner—fur bristled, tail upright, growling low threats from its throat, yet those wet eyes had already laid all his cards bare. He was scared—because the person who coaxed him into drinking his medicine every time wasn't here. When that person was around, the medicine didn't taste so bitter; or even if it was bitter, someone would hold a candied fruit against his tongue to soothe him. But now that person had left for the early court assembly, leaving the vast manor with nothing but cold rules and a houseful of terrified servants who dared not speak. No one dared to actually pin him down to force the medicine down his throat, nor did anyone dare to let him get away without taking it. Hearing the commotion, the housekeeper hurried over, standing outside the room and calling out persuasive words through the folding screen: "Young Master, before the Prime Minister left, he specifically instructed us to see that you finish your medicine. If you don't drink it, his Lordship will punish the servants upon his return. Please, Young Master, have pity on us..." Before he could finish speaking, a shoe flew out from the bed curtains, striking the screen with a solid thud. "Don't use him to pressure me!" Jiang Xiaoyu's voice rose, laced with tears. "If he really cared that much, why didn't he stay here himself to watch over me? What early court assembly? Is he the only official in the entire world?!" Having said that, he seemed to realize he was in the wrong, and his voice immediately dropped, turning into a muffled mumble thick with a nasal twang. "...He just doesn't care..." He spoke these words extremely softly and quickly, as if he didn't want anyone else to hear. It was just that the thorn in his heart had pricked a little deeper, hurting so much he couldn't help but say it aloud. After speaking, he pressed his lips tightly together and turned his face toward the bed wall. Tears slipped down silently, one after another, crashing onto the pillow and soaking deep circles into the fabric. He didn't wipe them, nor did he make a sound, just biting his lip and weeping silently—because crying out loud wouldn't bring anyone; that person wasn't here. He could only pull himself back into the blanket, wrapping himself into a tight cocoon, leaving only a tiny section of pale, slightly fever-warm fingertips resting on the edge of the bed, trembling faintly. The entire inner courtyard fell so quiet that nothing remained except his intermittent coughing and the occasional muffled, animal-like sob escaping from under the blanket.