Chapter 36: What a Ruthless Woman

West of the Divine Capital, fifty li from Shuyun Villa, lies a desolate mountain rarely trodden by humans.

Yesterday, Jia Cong’s carriage was ambushed; the thief scared off Guo Zhi and the others chasing him, dragging the carriage straight toward remote, uninhabited mountains and cliffs.

Reaching a stream, the thief abandoned the carriage, wetted the wheel tracks with stream water, then dragged Jia Cong into the woods.

Not long after, they heard chaotic hoofbeats and disorderly shouts behind them.

The thief shoved Jia Cong down behind a boulder and peered out toward the distance.

Jia Cong saw riders circling the forest’s edge and others searching within the trees—likely officers from the Investigative Court and Zhen’an Prefecture had caught up.

But those men were some distance away; Jia Cong guessed he might be heard if he shouted loudly.

Yet he dared not make a sound, for a gleaming curved blade lay across his throat.

The thief untied his sash and bound Jia Cong’s hands behind his back, stuffed a rag into his mouth, and shoved him deeper into the woods.

Soon night fell, and Jia Cong no longer heard the neighing or shouts near the forest’s edge—those men must have found no trace and retreated.

From the cave’s mouth, one could see the entire forest below, and beside the cave ran a barely noticeable goat path leading straight down the mountain.

The world seemed reduced to just two figures stumbling through the woods, their weary, monotonous breathing, and a few hunters they encountered along the way.

The voice was crystal-clear and melodious—a woman’s—but icy, sending chills down the spine.

Had his hands not been bound, and seeing the thief’s injuries, Jia Cong might have dared to escape.

As Jia Cong entered the cave, he feigned hesitation, pretending to catch his breath, and studied his surroundings.

The thief kept her distance; night deepened, yet a full moon illuminated the woods with eerie shadows.

“Don’t even think of running. Though wounded, my sleeve darts can kill at twenty paces. If you doubt it, try.”

She tossed him like a rice dumpling into the cave and left alone.

The thief began leading him up a slope, aiming for the mountain’s midsection; Jia Cong, with hands bound, struggled painfully through the terrain.

Such a place couldn’t be found by chance—it must have been scouted long ago by this female thief.

The thief tore a strip from her robe and bound Jia Cong’s feet as well.

Jia Cong trembled inside, thinking: Surely this woman wouldn’t dare be so reckless—I’m still a child.

They staggered up halfway up the mountain and hid in a secluded cave.

Jia Cong’s heart turned cold—this desolate, ghostly place; if she slit his throat, no one would ever find his corpse.

Fortunately, his diet had improved recently, and he’d never stopped physical training, so his strength barely held out.

Suddenly, a kick landed on his back—the thief seemed to know his thoughts.

Inside the cave, the female thief kicked Jia Cong to the ground, pounced on him, and pinned him down.

When he’d gotten out of the carriage, Jia Cong had seen a red patch on her back—a knife wound, bandaged but likely bleeding heavily.

Yet the thief breathed harder than he did, her voice sounding weak.

After a long while, Jia Cong saw shadows moving at the cave mouth; the female thief returned carrying an armful of firewood, her shoulders and back soaked—she must have washed her wound outside.

Jia Cong lay bound on the ground, nearly frozen; when the fire ignited, heat rose in the cave, and his body slowly warmed.

In the firelight, the female thief wore a face veil tightly wrapped, revealing only a pair of eyes shimmering like clear streams, holding a porcelain bottle, hesitating.

Then her gaze turned to Jia Cong; suddenly, she untied his hands and feet. Jia Cong felt uneasy, wondering what trick she’d play next.

Then the female thief turned her back—and began unlacing her outer robe. Jia Cong’s eyes widened, unsure what she intended.

“My back wound—I can’t reach the ointment myself. Help me apply it.”

“If you dare look where you shouldn’t or play any tricks, I won’t kill you—I’ll gouge out your eyes, chop off your limbs, and leave you to freeze alive in the snow.”

Jia Cong heard her cold, ruthless tone and felt his bones chill—if she did that to him, death would be kinder.

Yet hours had passed since her injury; Jia Cong had seen no ointment applied. Delay further, and blood loss, infection, sepsis—each could kill her.

The female thief had no choice: the wound lay directly on her back, impossible for her to reach. She felt feverish—early signs of post-injury fever.

If she didn’t treat the wound soon, her life might end. That’s why she’d stripped bare to let Jia Cong apply the ointment—he was still a child, no great matter; she’d kill him cleanly afterward.

Jia Cong saw her peel half her back bare, revealing skin like polished jade, white as snow; beneath the firelight, it held a breathtaking beauty.

Looking upward along her spine, a small, petal-shaped crimson birthmark, the size of a fingertip, glowed like a red plum on snow—strikingly exquisite.

Jia Cong’s heart stirred—he recalled the day he’d ridden with Xiao Jindong and encountered Zhou Jun; on that road, an old woman had been knocked down, and her neck bore this same peculiar birthmark.

No two birthmarks could be identical in shape and location—this woman was the old woman in disguise that day.

Her appearance on Zhou Jun’s Jincheng route couldn’t be coincidence.

The wound slanted down from her left shoulder blade; it had been cleaned, the muscle edges curled open, pale and gruesome, but not deep—no bone exposed.

The female thief handed him a black, long-necked, round-bellied bottle, heavy in his hand, as if made of metal.

Inside, the ointment was black and viscous, its fragrance piercing and sweet, with a faint spicy edge.

“Smooth the skin edges over the wound, then seal it thickly with the ointment.” Her voice remained icy as ever; after instructing him, she tossed him a water bag.

In later times, such a deep cut would require suturing; even if Jia Cong had curved needles, he lacked the skill.

As he prepared to treat the wound, the female thief drew her curved blade, gripping it tightly in her right hand. Jia Cong understood: if he so much as twitched while applying ointment, the blade would strike without mercy.

He took a deep breath—being held at knife-point was no comfort. He washed his hands with water from the bag, then dried them thoroughly over the fire—only way to disinfect.

Fortunately, years of calligraphy practice had given him exceptional finger control; following her instructions, he carefully smoothed the curled skin edges—neatly, meticulously.

His fingers touched her back skin—soft, supple, silken; his heart fluttered. The female thief’s body twitched slightly, her breath quickening.

Jia Cong saw her grip tighten on the blade, her eyes narrow—he forced his mind to steady.

Once the wound edges were smoothed, he smeared a thick layer of black, viscous ointment over it.

As the ointment touched the wound, the female thief jerked violently, then trembled faintly.

A fine sheen of sweat glistened across her luminous white back—like morning light on dew-kissed jade—leaving Jia Cong stunned.

Clearly, the ointment burned fiercely; by the time Jia Cong finished, the female thief was drenched in sweat, her clothes half-saturated.

Jia Cong watched her dress, then turn away without looking back; her right hand, gripping the curved blade, swung toward him. Jia Cong’s heart leapt—was she about to kill him?

A heavy blow struck his neck and shoulder—he lost consciousness. As he fainted, he cursed: What a ruthless woman—just helped you apply ointment, and now this!

(End of Chapter)