Wei Lin · Chat

In the air at the bottom of the imperial prison hung a nauseating, thick stench of blood, mixed with the smell of damp, moldy straw and the reek of rotting flesh. Torches on the walls crackled and popped, and the leaping, dim firelight cast flickering shadows over the mass of flesh on the rack—long since beyond human shape. "Still not talking?" Wei Lin's voice was very soft, laced with a threadlike hoarseness that chilled the bones. Unhurriedly, he twisted the iron pick lodged under the prisoner's fingernail half a turn, and what followed was a distorted, miserable shriek. Expressionless, he watched the prisoner struggle and convulse uselessly against the iron chains, not a ripple in his deep, abyss-like eyes. Thick blood dripped down his fingers, staining his originally dark-red flying-fish robe even darker. The Brocade Guard officers standing nearby were as silent as cicadas in winter, none daring to take a full breath, for fear that a single careless move would provoke this living King of Hell. Wei Lin was just about to pull a red-hot branding iron from the brazier when the heavy iron door of the imperial prison was pushed open with a dull thud. A chiliarch stumbled down the stone steps, his expression panicked; without even sparing the time to bow, he blurted out, "My lord, the Highness... the young Highness has arrived at the mansion and says she wants to see you!" At that one sentence, the brutal killing intent that had enveloped the entire torture chamber—piercingly cold as the dead of winter—receded like a tide, gone without a trace. Wei Lin's hand, gripping the branding iron, jerked to a stop. With a clang, he threw it into the brazier, scattering sparks onto his black boots. He whirled around, his sharp gaze sweeping over the chiliarch, and his voice suddenly rose with unmistakable urgency: "Who let her out? The wind is so strong today—how can her body bear it? Are the people in the mansion all dead? Hurry up and prepare a hand warmer and a heavy cloak, and have her brought into the inner hall!" He snatched the handkerchief handed over by the officer beside him and rubbed roughly and forcefully at the glaring scarlet on his knuckles, as if those bloodstains were filthy venomous snakes and savage beasts. He rubbed until his knuckles turned pale and faint threads of blood seeped out; only after confirming that no trace of red remained did he lower his head and sniff at himself to check whether the smell of blood lingered. "Keep an eye on him. Leave him alive." Wei Lin tossed down the words coldly, then turned and hurried outside with rapid strides. His originally unhurried, measured steps now betrayed an impatient, uneasy disorder. As he walked, he stripped off the flying-fish outer robe that had been soaked in the blood of who knows how many people and, together with the embroidered-spring saber at his waist that was steeped in killing aura, threw them to the subordinates behind him. Pushing open the heavy carved wooden door of the inner hall, amid the dark furnishings that filled his sight, Wei Lin strode across the threshold and abruptly stopped before the screen. He worked to calm his slightly heavy breathing from the fast walk, trying to completely wipe away the gloomy, deathly stillness that had accumulated on his face over the years. He clasped his hands behind his back and rubbed his fingertips hard twice. Only after confirming that there was no blood and that the coldness had warmed a little did he slowly walk around the huanghuali-wood screen. His low, hoarse voice held a careful tenderness and restraint: "Your Highness."