The Mad Villain Driven to Death - Chapter 11

“Young Master Shen!”

“Oh no, it’s chili water! Quick, stop Master Rong, don’t let him get any closer!”

Shen Zhaoxue felt his face and eyes burning with an agonizing heat, as if he had been slashed by a thousand knives. The bone-deep pain and the chaotic noise around him nearly made him lose his control—he was on the verge of snapping.

In the midst of the confusion, someone grabbed his wrist and guided the blinded youth back into the house. The moment the door shut, the cacophony of voices was locked outside. Shen Zhaoxue stumbled, his legs giving way, and he slumped to the floor.

He still clutched his face, tears streaming down, while a loud ringing filled his ears. His head throbbed with a splitting pain. After a long while, he heard the person beside him speak: “Be good, let go of your hands first.”

“Don’t look at my face.” Shen Zhaoxue’s voice was muffled behind his palms, carrying a hint of a sob.

The chili water had been mixed with crushed stone, slicing his skin. It was likely swollen and hideous by now.

Wan Shenghan replied, “Let me wipe your face first. I’ve had the servants bring cool water; you’ll feel better once we wash it.”

He gripped Shen Zhaoxue’s wrist with a firm, non-negotiable strength, yet he did not force him. Shen Zhaoxue hadn’t expected him to return so quickly, nor had he wanted the man to see him in such a wretched state. From their childhood encounter to their ultimate parting in the past life, he had endured every torture in prison while covered in filth. He had worried back then about being seen by Wan Shenghan, and later felt relieved when the man refused to visit.

Shen Zhaoxue hated showing weakness in front of him; it made him feel vulnerable and unsafe. After a long hesitation, he still didn’t move. Wan Shenghan frowned, losing patience. He yanked Shen Zhaoxue’s hands down and gripped his chin.

Shen Zhaoxue gasped, his lashes fluttering, but he found it impossible to open his eyes. Wan Shenghan examined him for a moment. “Your eyes are swollen.”

A Moment of Fragility

The sound of splashing water echoed softly. Shen Zhaoxue tilted his head back, and soon felt a cool, wet sensation on his eyes, dulling the burning heat. He let out a soft moan as the faint stinging of the cuts on his face began to throb.

Shen Zhaoxue’s fingers subconsciously gripped Wan Shenghan’s sleeve as the man wiped his forehead, the bridge of his nose, and then gently over his cheeks. Suddenly, Shen Zhaoxue felt his collar being loosened.

The chili water had dripped down his chin into his robes, staining his delicate skin. Wan Shenghan’s face remained expressionless as he pulled the collar open further. Deciding it was in the way, he simply untied Shen Zhaoxue’s belt. He worked meticulously, leaning down to clean every inch of the soiled skin.

Feeling the man’s warm breath against his skin, Shen Zhaoxue gritted his teeth. Suddenly, he heard the man tease him in a low, blunt whisper: “Shen Zhaoxue, you are trembling quite fiercely.”

The words had barely left his mouth when the temporarily blinded Shen Zhaoxue landed a precise slap across Wan Shenghan’s face.

“Slap—”

Shen Zhaoxue’s long-suppressed rage finally found an outlet. He stood up abruptly, his chest heaving. His face, covered in fine, red scratches, was flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation. With his eyes red and swollen, he was hardly a “beauty” at this moment.

Wan Shenghan, however, showed no disgust. He actually seemed amused. “Our Young Master Shen is quite ‘fragrant’ now; it really increases one’s appetite.” He touched the red mark on his own cheek. “This slap was truly spicy and delicious—”

“Shut up,” Shen Zhaoxue’s voice was icy. “Get out.”

He shoved Wan Shenghan aside and tried to head behind the screen to bathe, desperate to wash the lingering scent from his body. But with his vision blurred, he failed to see a silk curtain draped on the floor. He slipped and fell hard.

Wan Shenghan lunged to catch his wrist but was too late. With a loud “Thud,” Shen Zhaoxue’s already injured forehead struck the edge of the bath barrel, and he lost consciousness instantly.

The Slender Bird Feather

Wan Shenghan quickly lifted him, brushing aside the messy black hair. A large, swollen bruise had appeared on Shen Zhaoxue’s forehead. Between that and the fine cuts on his face, he looked truly pitiful.

Wan Shenghan was silent for a long while. He sighed as he touched the youth’s temple. “Stupid.”

The courtyard had gone quiet; Master Rong and his wife had been taken away. Wan Shenghan had intended to deal with them after treating Shen Zhaoxue, but the youth had clumsily managed to gain a new injury. Resigned, he bathed and wiped the boy’s body first.

As he lifted Shen Zhaoxue from the barrel, he was struck by how thin the youth had become. He felt like a bird feather in his arms, as if the wind might carry him away. He kept his eyes downcast, his expression unreadable. He placed Shen Zhaoxue on the couch and began to dress him in clean clothes.

Shen Zhaoxue stirred, his eyes half-closed in a haze of pain. His head throbbed intensely. He reached out and caught Wan Shenghan’s sleeve, his fingertips sliding up to rest on the man’s wrist.

Perhaps sensing his own nakedness—a vulnerability like an animal exposing its belly—he felt a surge of unease and tried to curl his body inward. He parted his lips and mouthed soundlessly: “Clothes.”

“Let go first,” Wan Shenghan said, prying his fingers away. “Don’t move. I’m taking you to a doctor.”

Shen Zhaoxue remained stubborn. “I’ll do it myself.” He forced himself to sit up and grabbed his inner robe, but his dizzy state made it impossible to tie the belt correctly.

Wan Shenghan found it both funny and tragic. “Shen Zhaoxue, must you always force yourself to be strong? Is it so hard to ask for help?”

The Dream of Blood

Shen Zhaoxue didn’t seem to hear him, his gaze vacant. Wan Shenghan pulled his hands away, redid the belt, and then wrapped the youth’s head and face in a thick cloak. He carried him out of the residence and into a waiting carriage.

The pain on Shen Zhaoxue’s face flared up again. He leaned against the window, gasping softly. The pain brought waves of vertigo, making the world feel illusory, like being underwater. He only vaguely realized Wan Shenghan had checked his temperature when the man spoke. He didn’t have the energy to talk, so he just leaned against the carriage wall.

His breath was burning; the fever had returned. He felt miserable. Wan Shenghan silently gave him water and a preserved fruit.

In a sweet, hazy dream, body pain mingled with a deep, inexplicable sorrow. Shen Zhaoxue saw himself standing alone in a vast, snow-covered wasteland. He couldn’t see the past or the future, only a field of blood spreading from the road ahead, soaking into the snow beneath his feet.

He tried to escape the swamp of blood. He reached out and caught a warm hand. The face of the seventeen-year-old youth from his memories was blurred, replaced by various imagined versions of what he might have grown to be.

Shen Zhaoxue murmured: “Wan Shenghan… do you hate me very much?”

The figure before him remained silent. After a long while, the shadow gripped his hand, lifted it to his lips in a hidden corner, and placed a soft kiss upon it.

The Arrival of a Friend

The dream shattered like a bubble. Shen Zhaoxue frowned, his lashes fluttering as he slowly opened his eyes. The ceiling beams seemed to spin. He closed his eyes to steady himself, and his hearing gradually returned.

Strange voices drifted in from outside. It was likely a local doctor who had applied medicine to his face and given him something for the fever. The doctor was now discussing his condition with Wan Shenghan.

Shen Zhaoxue had heard similar words many times in his past life when his body was already at its limit. Back then, the Imperial Physician’s words were much more dire. Yet he had held on until the very end, eventually taking his own life.

“See, Shen Zhaoxue,” he had told himself before death, “you can still control your own life and death.”

He was snapped out of his daze by Wan Shenghan’s voice. “Is there really no cure?” the man asked.

“It seems so for now. The prescription is missing, and no one dares to test it personally—” The doctor’s voice cut off as the two moved, then continued: “The wound on his forehead will likely leave a scar.”

Shen Zhaoxue touched his throbbing temple, a cold smile touching his lips. If this face were flawed, perhaps he wouldn’t face the same “entanglements” he did in his past life. He didn’t want to be disfigured, but a single scar was no great loss.

Just then, a woman’s bright, bold voice came from outside: “I have a scar-removing salve. I’ve heard the Eldest Young Master Wan is a man of great talent, yet you’ve refused my invitations several times. If you spar a few rounds with me today, I shall gift this salve to you.”

Shen Zhaoxue froze and sat up abruptly. That voice was incredibly familiar to him.

It was the only Princess of Great Yan, Chen E. Straightforward, skilled in military strategy, and a fierce warrior.

She was his once-dearest friend.