The room suddenly became eerily quiet, with only her own heavy, rapid breathing remaining.

Shen Jintang stared at his wrist, where the warmth of his palm still lingered, making it slightly hot.

Her heart was beating faster and faster, as if it were about to burst out of her chest.

Moonlight filtered through the window screen, casting fragmented shadows on the ground, much like her chaotic state of mind.

She slowly curled her fingers, the pain of her nails digging into her palm bringing her to a slightly more awake state.

She bit her lip and murmured softly, "This is insane..."

She should have been more indifferent. She shouldn't have cared what he was thinking; what mattered was that she could get what she wanted done.

But why did a shameful thrill creep into my heart when he looked at me so tenderly?

What's even more ridiculous is that she was actually jealous of someone she had never met.

The sound of the night watchman striking the gong came from outside the window, and Shen Jintang was startled to realize that she had been staring blankly at the door for so long.

She suddenly lay down, pulled the quilt over herself and wrapped herself up tightly, as if this would suffocate all those inappropriate thoughts in her heart.

She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself down, but the chaotic thoughts surged in like waves, preventing her from finding peace.

Inside the dungeon.

It was damp and dark, filled with an atmosphere of decay and despair.

The mottled stone wall was covered with bluish-black mold, and the straw piled up in the corner had long since rotted and turned black.

Dim light filtered in through a narrow skylight high up, illuminating the dust particles floating in the air.

A crisscrossing spiderweb spread rampantly in the corner of the wall, with several shriveled insect corpses hanging in it, swaying gently with the cold wind that seeped in from somewhere.

A layer of sticky water had accumulated on the ground, and every step made an unpleasant crunching sound.

In the deepest part of the cell, a hunched figure huddled in a corner.

It was Wang Jian.

The once spirited Minister of Revenue now resembled a lifeless shell.

His messy hair was studded with conspicuous white hairs, his once full cheeks were deeply sunken, and his sallow skin was covered with stains.

Those eyes, which used to sparkle with brilliance, are now just two murky, empty sockets, staring blankly at the ground.

His prison uniform was so faded that its original color was no longer visible, and there were suspicious dark red stains on the cuffs.

The withered fingers unconsciously dug at the ground, their nails filled with black grime.

Whenever the sound of jailers' footsteps reached him in the distance, his shoulders would involuntarily twitch, like a frightened mouse.

The chill of the dungeon seemed to have seeped into his bones, causing his back to be perpetually hunched over.

In just a few days, time seemed to accelerate its passage on this man, ravaging him beyond recognition.

The cold, damp atmosphere of the dungeon, mixed with the musty smell of decay, hit me as soon as I looked over.

Gu Zhixing frowned slightly and slowly stepped into the small prison cell.

The dark brocade boots crunched over the damp, moldy straw, each step producing a subtle rustling sound that was particularly clear in the silent dungeon.

He stood in the center of the cell, looking down at the figure huddled in the corner.

The flickering torch cast a long shadow of him, almost shrouding the entire cell in darkness.

“Lord Wang,” Gu Zhixing said, his voice low and calm, yet carrying an undeniable authority, “I don’t have that much patience, so I’ll just get straight to the point.”

He leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting varying shadows on his angular profile: "Hand over the evidence of the Crown Prince's embezzlement and factionalism, and perhaps you can still have a whole corpse."

The figure in the corner stirred. Wang Jian slowly raised his head, his cloudy eyes swirling in their deep sockets before finally settling on Gu Zhixing's face.

His chapped lips trembled, his Adam's apple bobbed, and suddenly he burst into a hoarse laugh.

"Hahaha... evidence?"

His laughter was as harsh as sandpaper scraping, echoing in the cramped cell. "You're delusional!"

Wang Jian, with his back hunched, crawled forward two steps like a dying old dog.

The heavy iron chains dragged on the bluestone ground with a harsh sound, leaving bloody streaks on his withered ankles.

"You killed my son..." His voice suddenly choked, and a deep-seated hatred flashed in his cloudy eyes. "You turned me into this inhuman creature, and you still want to get evidence from me?"

He lunged forward, the chains taut and creaking.

His withered, twig-like fingers dug into the ground, blood seeping from under his nails: "Don't even think about it!"

Wang Jian looked up, the firelight illuminating his ferocious face.

Thirty years ago, he finally had a son.

The court was too treacherous, and fearing for his child's safety, he reluctantly sent the child away, only hoping that he could run his business peacefully and live as an ordinary citizen.

But in the end... in the end, they still couldn't save the child's life.

“It was me…it was me who dragged the child into this mess…” Wang Jian’s voice suddenly lowered, filled with heart-wrenching regret.

Turbid tears slid down his deeply lined face, dripping onto his filthy prison uniform. "But it's all because of you!"

He suddenly looked up, his bloodshot eyes burning with a frenzied hatred: "If you hadn't led your troops to capture Qingya Pass, how could my son have died?!"

The cell fell silent for a moment, save for the crackling of the torches and Wang Jian’s heavy breathing.

Gu Zhixing stood quietly, the hem of his black brocade robe motionless, as if even the air around him had frozen.

The air in the dungeon seemed to freeze.

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