Chapter 6
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Chapter 6: \"Yes, it\’s the gurgling illness, so no touching is allowed.\"
Du Yinsui: ?
Du Yinsui: ??
Du Yinsui: ???
These people walked in, asked one question about the person\’s condition, got a reply, and then went silent.
Really, it was so quiet; not only did no one speak, but even their breathing grew fainter, leaving only the soft rustling of the broom on the straw. What was going on with them all?
How come with more people in the room, it was quieter than when just the two of us were here? The voices from next door were louder than this side…
Were all these people just amusing themselves by listening to the echoes from her growling stomach?
Forget it; besides, it was already night. Maybe she would succumb to the poison soon and close her eyes for good. It was a pity that her time-travel adventure ended with only tasting some bland porridge.
Still, if dinner arrived a little sooner, she figured she might manage another meal.
Du Yinsui searched through the memories of her predecessor. During the prison days, two meals were given daily: a black bread loaf in the morning and watery rice porridge at night with barely enough rice to cover the bowl\’s bottom. It was at least normal-tasting. But after leaving the Capital yesterday, the food got worse; the morning\’s black bread loaf was dry, hard, and a bit spoiled, and the evening bowl had coarse millet with unremoved husks sinking below, while tough, chewy greens floated on top in murky, smelly water…
Her predecessor suffered from poisoning the last night in prison, enduring pain for a full hour. Yesterday was spent feeling weak all day. Someone already without much appetite lost it completely after hearing the \"good news\" about the Jin Kingdom at a roadside tea shack outside the Capital.
To this, Du Yinsui thought that people needed food to thrive, and however bad the mood, one should still eat!
Even a stale bun was still a bun, and poorly cooked rice and vegetables chewed well made porridge!
What was done was done, but tonight\’s dinner had to be eaten properly.
Even if she couldn\’t chew, drinking the liquid parts would do. Broth with normal grain and plant flavors—she wasn\’t picky!
While Du Yinsui lay flat waiting for the meal, Jiang Wu sat stiffly, not daring to relax.
Chu Xiulan glanced at Jiang Wu, sitting straight-backed in the corner without turning, then at her father-in-law, sitting formally with half-closed eyes, showing no sign of speaking. She sighed, quietly gathered the scattered straw, and settled the two children on the mat.
Well, in this situation, what more could she do than ask if the person was well?
Jiang Wu perked his ears, waiting long for his teacher to ask why he imitated the paintings of bamboo and pines.
Truly… things had come to this; whether bamboo or pig, what did it matter? His teacher must resent him too much to bother with unimportant matters now.
For five days in prison, they were separated and didn\’t meet. Since starting the exile yesterday, nearly two days passed, and his teacher only spoke to him once when discovering Du Yinsui\’s hanging attempt last night. Without that life-or-death moment, his teacher likely wouldn\’t have said a word to him.
Jiang Wu kept his polite, upright pose, but his head drooped slightly in disappointment.
Unknown to Jiang Wu, his teacher wasn\’t silent from unwillingness to ask, but because too many questions swirled in his mind, leaving him unsure where to start.
Seven days had passed since the palace banquet, yet Qin Chongli still felt it was all a dream.
He had supported the rightful heir and eldest, the Crown Prince raised for eighteen years, only to find she was a girl…
From spilled soup to exposure, eighteen years of secrecy broke in an instant.
The Emperor raged, officials sighed, and the joyful banquet turned into a court of blame.
Even a trapped bird fights to live, but the Crown Prince, once the Emperor\’s favorite, knelt pale and silent, clothes stained, crown fallen, hair loose, as if accepting fate.
Cries of accusation rose, charges piled up, and Qin Chongli, lost in anxious thoughts for a moment, saw the Emperor leniently let the Second Prince speak of exile and marriage.
What crime deserved this?
Qin Chongli couldn\’t believe the Emperor, who had doted on the Crown Prince, allowed the Second Prince\’s reckless words, nor that his one plea for mercy landed him in this mess.
No, perhaps he should have realized it sooner.
He had always supported the notion of rightful succession, having backed the Emperor’s deceased elder brother years earlier. To an Emperor born of a consort—neither rightful heir nor eldest son—he might never have been a favored subject.
He once believed the Emperor, though not the rightful heir, possessed magnanimity and agreed with his stance on primogeniture. Why else would the Emperor appoint him as the Crown Prince’s mentor after ascending the throne, praising his righteousness and entrusting him to nurture the young Crown Prince’s benevolence and wisdom?
But now, looking back, was that appointment truly an act of recognition?
Over seven days, every moment of the past eighteen years spun like a lantern show through Qin Chongli’s mind, unveiling overlooked details and conjuring unsettling possibilities.
Paternal devotion, filial loyalty, harmonious bonds between ruler and subject—was it all a mirage seen through aging eyes?
Qin Chongli did not regret his plea for mercy, sensing even silence wouldn’t have spared him his current fate.
Yet guilt lingered—guilt toward his grieving daughter-in-law and his two young grandchildren.
The obscured truth no longer mattered.
He should have retreated to his homeland decades ago when the first Crown Prince perished. Then his eldest son, second son, and daughter-in-law might still live, sparing him this desolate journey north with two children.
The elderly scholar, weakened by years of sedentary life, had nearly lost his spirit after just two days of exile. Memories choked him as he sat rigidly upright—a hollow display masking labored breaths.
Meanwhile, the children regained their energy after Chu Xiulan settled them on the straw mat.
The boy, Haoyang, possessed delicate features. At six, hardship had lent him a grave maturity. Though the straw mat chafed, he remained still, watching his silent grandfather and mother.
The girl, Ruoyao, not yet four, was a tiny bundle swallowed by her prisoner’s garb—loose as a pea in its pod. Wriggling, she slipped the garment off one shoulder, revealing a dusty silk undershirt.
Their chains, slimmer than the adults’, clinked softly. When Chu Xiulan closed her eyes briefly, the little one rolled to the neighboring mat.
Jiang Wu traced the sound and found the child by his legs, reaching out.
\"No touching.\" He caught her small hand before it brushed Du Yinsui’s stomach.
The little girl blinked watery eyes, bewildered.
\"She… this sister is ill. She needs rest. Don’t touch.\" Jiang Wu lifted her, set her down, and straightened her crooked braid.
\"Ill?\" She stretched her hand again. \"Rumbling… ill?\"
Jiang Wu: \"…\"
Du Yinsui: \"…\"
*You—don’t think a baby voice excuses rudeness!*
Du Yinsui recalled: whenever her predecessor stared listlessly at untouched food, this small creature would crouch by the cell bars, hands tucked in, silently fixing huge, pitiful eyes on the meal…
Nothing ever went to waste. Anyone else might comment on the *rumbling*, but not you, little scavenger!
*Hey, you—the one blamed earlier—tell her it’s hunger, not \"rumbling ill\"!*
\"Yes, rumbling illness. So no touching.\" Jiang Wu patted her soft head.
Explaining wounds or medicine was too complex. Simpler terms would keep her from the injury.
Jiang Wu’s logic was plain; Du Yinsui inwardly scoffed.
*Unlike my tormented predecessor, I won’t leave you scraps, little mimic!*
The room filled with a duet: Du Yinsui’s stomach growled, met by a sweet \"Rumbling!\"—a peculiar, lively rhythm.
Jiang Wu’s stiff posture eased. Qin Chongli’s expression softened.
But childish energy waned before hunger. The stomach’s \"rumbling\" drew only a faint \"Rum…\" in reply.
As the little one yawned, nearly silent, sudden clamor erupted next door.
Doors banged. Retching echoed. Fists pounded walls…
All but Du Yinsui tensed.
\"Sour!\"
\"Rotten!\"
\"Not human food!\"
\"Puked!\"
\"Can’t eat!\"
…
Fury, pleas, curses—painting a clear picture of the inedible supper.
The three adults paled.
Du Yinsui, supine, wondered: *How bad could ordinary fare taste?*
Two days’ travel had familiarized them with the voices—Kong Fangqiu’s household. Greed made them intolerant of poor rations. Their large family’s uproar might even improve the meals—a small mercy.
Yet the noise died abruptly.
Voices faded into murmurs Jiang Wu couldn’t decipher.
Qin Chongli, seated near the wall, jerked backward—transformed from stately elder to eavesdropper, ear pressed to the partition.
Chu Xiulan gaped at her father-in-law’s uncharacteristic pose.
Speech proved unnecessary. The next instant, the dignified old man bristled, slapped his thigh, and exclaimed, \"The audacity! They’ve coin for meat!\"
