Despite his nosebleed and his existential confusion, the realisation that he was no longer a captive finally registered.

He looked up at Ji’an, tears of sheer, overwhelming relief washing away the grime on his cheeks.

"Wuwuwu, Third Brother! You came for me," Xuan sobbed, lunging forward and wrapping his arms tightly around Ji’an’s waist, burying his face in her muddy apron. "I thought I was going to die. I thought he was going to eat my soul... Boohoo..."

Ji’an stiffened for a second, entirely unused to physical affection from her estranged siblings.

But the maternal, protective chef instincts took over.

She dropped the spatula to her side and placed a comforting, flour-calloused hand on the back of the boy’s head, awkwardly patting his messy hair.

"I told you I was taking you home, brat," Ji’an murmured softly. "Now, dry your eyes and pinch your nose. We are currently standing in the center of a subterranean fortress surrounded by hundreds of bloodthirsty mercenaries. The extraction is only half over."

Xuan nodded frantically, wiping his nose on his sleeve and forcing himself to stand up straight.

He looked at the unconscious body of Blood-Hand Tu on the bed. "Is he dead?"

"Unfortunately, no. Golden Core skulls are thick," Ji’an snorted, reaching down to grab the heavy iron Null-Stone cuffs she had discarded on the floor.

She walked over to the unconscious bandit lord and ruthlessly snapped the cuffs around Tu’s wrists, ensuring his cultivation base was completely suppressed. "But he’s going to wake up with a migraine that will last until the next century. Come on. We need to find the sociopath and drop the shields."

Ji’an cautiously pushed open the heavy, gilded doors of the master bedchamber, her spatula raised in a defensive guard.

The corridor outside was carved from dark volcanic rock, illuminated by flickering, sickly green witch-fire torches.

The air was cold, smelling of stale ale and damp earth.

Surprisingly, the hallway was entirely deserted.

It seemed Blood-Hand Tu’s paranoia ensured that no sentries were allowed near his personal quarters while he was "harvesting."

"Stay behind me, keep your footsteps light, and if you see anyone, just aim for the kneecaps," Ji’an whispered over her shoulder to Xuan, who nodded gravely, picking up a heavy brass candlestick from a nearby alcove to use as a makeshift bludgeon.

They crept down the winding stone corridor, heading back toward the eastern wing, where Vice-Chief Mad Dog had dragged Xiao Yichen.

Ji’an’s heart hammered a steady, anxious rhythm.

The plan had been entirely derailed the moment Yichen was separated from her.

The explosive talisman required to shatter the Nine-Palace Illusion Array’s core was hidden inside the linen padding of Yichen’s dress.

If Yichen hadn’t managed to access it, if Mad Dog had discovered the Prince’s true gender before Yichen could act, the Imperial heir might actually be in mortal peril.

’I shouldn’t care,’ Ji’an tried to rationalize, creeping past a set of heavy iron doors. ’He used my brother as bait. He’s a manipulative psychopath. If he gets roughed up by a bandit, then it’s his karma coming back to bite him!’

But the thought of the arrogant, flawless Prince being humiliated or injured by that scarred behemoth made Ji’an’s stomach twist in an uncomfortable, deeply unpleasant knot.

As they rounded a sharp corner leading into the eastern wing, Ji’an suddenly froze, throwing her arm out to stop Xuan.

Footsteps.

Heavy, uneven, dragging footsteps were echoing down the corridor, heading directly toward them.

The sound was accompanied by the sickening, wet drip-drip-drip of fluid hitting the stone floor.

Ji’an tightened her grip on the spatula, stepping in front of Xuan, preparing to unleash the full, devastating force of her compressed Qi on whatever bandit was coming around the bend.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

Ji’an raised her weapon, her muscles coiling like a spring.

"Hold your strike, Royal Uncle, unless you wish to explain to my Imperial Father why you bludgeoned his favored son in a damp cave."

The voice was a ragged, breathless, melodic whisper, utterly devoid of its usual mocking lilt.

Ji’an lowered the spatula, her eyes widening in absolute shock.

Standing in the dimly lit corridor, leaning heavily against the volcanic rock wall for support, was Xiao Yichen.

To call the Prince ’disheveled’ would be the understatement of the century; the exquisite, multi-layered peach-and-gold silk dress on his body was in tatters.

The bodice had been violently ripped down the center, exposing the pale, smooth skin of his chest.

The heavy rouge on his cheeks was smeared, mixing with streaks of dirt and a concerning amount of fresh, bright red blood that splattered his face and neck.

His elaborate, pinned hairstyle had completely collapsed, allowing his dark hair to hang in wild, matted curtains around his shoulders.

But the most glaring, undeniable casualty of the encounter was the padding.

During whatever brutal, frantic struggle had occurred in Mad Dog’s quarters, the carefully arranged linen shirts and plush travel pillows Ji’an had shoved down his dress had shifted catastrophically.

One pillow was completely missing.

The remaining linen bundle had migrated upward and to the left, currently resting awkwardly near his collarbone, giving the terrifying Prince the appearance of a deeply asymmetrical, heavily bruised, flat-chested maiden who had just survived a hurricane.

Ji’an stared at the askew cleavage. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted iron, desperately, violently fighting the urge to burst into hysterical, tension-relieving laughter.

"You..." Ji’an choked out, her voice trembling with suppressed mirth. "Your Highness. You look... very... radiant!"

Yichen’s dark eyes lifted. They were completely devoid of light. Right now, they were pitch-black, bottomless voids of pure, unadulterated murder.

The aura radiating from him was so heavy, so fundamentally toxic, that the green witch-fire in the torches along the wall actually flickered and dimmed.

"If you dare to laugh, Lin Ji’an," Yichen whispered, taking a slow, limping step forward, "I will ensure that your death is recorded in the imperial archives as a slow-roasting accident."