Jingyuan had fully expected the imperial decree would carry an order to command his immediate immolation—to be burned alive until his rot melted along with his flesh into ashes. Instead, he received a mercy… a mercy that would only prolong his suffering.
He was to be consigned under the earth, a slow rot that would chew him to the bone, patiently.
Yet part of him was glad for this hollow mercy. This lingering death provided him the precious gift of time to embark on one final, desperate journey.
In the eyes of the living, he was already a walking dead, an abomination that threatened their lives with an unknown rot. He wouldn't have been surprised to find himself lashed to a mad horse and dragged across jagged land, cast away like a plague-ridden animal to die in barren wastes.
For two weeks, he had tasted only disgust and ignorance from his own people. So when a concerned voice reached him, he was taken aback.
"Is my Lord hungry?"
It was a touch of warmth on a dying heart, a reminder that even in monstrous form, the nature of spirit could still be recognized by another.
That's why… that's why he didn't want to scare him with his unsightly appearance or his irrational behavior.
Just as he prepared to retreat into the numbing darkness of sleep, the air changed, carrying the sweet scent of fresh flour and heat. For a traveler lost in parched sands, a pot of water is already god's ultimate mercy. Hence to Jingyuan, this humble steam was the cruelest temptation.
He clenched his jaw, commanding his body to stand down, but when the steady footsteps came to a halt near the coffin, his breath hitched. He found himself drawing in the warm, yeasty aroma.
He knew the people of Jinhe; they likely had refused the man outside even a moment of rest to find a meal.
He must be hungry, Jingyuan thought to himself. He closed his eyes, but then his stomach growled, a bitter chorus to the thought.
As he prepared himself for the slow crawl of time, the lid of the coffin roared. The sound of stone meeting metal echoed within the confined space. His lashes trembled, and his eyes snapped open in the dark.
Jingyuan opened his mouth to question what madness had taken the man outside, that he dared breach the vessel of rot. But the words died in his throat. He waited in the dark, wanting to see how his pallbearer would react once the lid was opened.
He heard the heavy thud of an iron seal hitting the ground. As the wood groaned and shifted, his palms began to sweat. For the first time since the rot, he felt his heart beating wildly, reminding him he was still alive.
Lord Jingyuan, a man who had killed endless armies without regret, now flinched at the thought of disappointing a stranger.
But the expected gasp of horror never came, as the groaning of wood abruptly ceased. A sliver of moonlight spilled into the narrow gap, illuminating the outstretched hand that held a piece of bread, steam still rising from it.
Jingyuan's eyes remained fixed on the palm that held the bread—scarred and filled with calluses, an unmistakable mark of a life spent gripping a hilt or reins.
Outside, Yase waited patiently, his eyes never once drifting into the coffin, as if looking through it would be a sacrilege.
"Half," the voice rasped from the dark.
Yase stilled, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird in a cage.
Who is Lord Yue? A former prime minister of the Yan State, a man of authority who ruled the court with the flick of his inked brush.
Such a great figure asking him…a lowly commoner to share a meal.
How could he refuse such mercy?
Yase obeyed with trembling fingers, snapping the bread into two. Offering the larger portion to the Lord while he reserved the crumbs for himself.
As Yase waited, the Lord remained still. He began to wonder if something was wrong, but before he could speak, a hoarse voice interrupted him once again.
"Place it on the wood."
The light in Yase's eyes dimmed at the command.
He hummed in quiet assent and placed the Lord's portion on the lid before turning his back and leaning against the edge of the coffin.
He heard the subtle movement behind him and knew the Lord was finally accepting the food. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught pale hands emerging from the casket.
Despite the rot, those fingers appeared beautiful. Their elegance had not faded beneath the angry scabs—long, steady, and once accustomed to quiet authority.
Yase turned away and stood up from the place before walking toward a broken pillar. Slumping against it, he unscrewed the cap of his liquor gourd and took a long, burning sip.
The liquid spilled, dripping from the corner of his mouth onto his coarse clothes, soaking them with the scent of fermented grain.
His gaze settled on the bread crumbs in his palm, a fragment of the bread he had offered to the Lord. When he finally took a bite, one word lingered at the tip of his tongue.
It tasted… reverent.
Finally, he closed his eyes for the night, his ears sharpening to the sound of aggressive chewing from the coffin. It was brutal and primal, but to his ears, it sounded divine; the sound of his Lord fighting to stay alive.