Chapter 843: Jing Yuan

A hole about half a finger's width in diameter formed, its edges neat, almost silent—perfect execution.

Qingque pressed her right eye up to the hole.

The room was well lit; the windows were essentially wide open, sunlight poured in unimpeded, bathing the whole space in bright illumination.

Everything was clearly visible: a bed pushed into the corner, a nightstand used as a speaker stand, atop it a nameless audio device blasting drum beats at full power.

The medicine jars on the floor were kicked askew, one even rolled to the doorway, spilling a small pile of residue inside.

And the instigator of all this, with his back to the door, was dancing on the cleared floor like a monkey struck by lightning.

His white long hair flailed in wild arcs through the air, each strand twitching to the rhythm.

His shoulders bobbed up and down, the range so extreme it seemed he might dislocate his collarbones.

His waist and hips twisted without any formal pattern yet with total commitment, his feet executing a style that belongs to no dance system—sometimes a stationary hop, sometimes a sideways slide, sometimes a spring‑like leap with legs together.

From the back of his head to his heels, his whole being conveyed a single thought: "I'm going to dance myself to death here today."

Qingque's expression froze for about two seconds.

That figure turned away from her, those broad shoulders, that head of white hair shining in the sunlight, that commander's physique whose outline was evident even without armor—

Then her jade‑green almond eyes widened into two large green grapes, pupils shrinking to needle‑point size from sheer shock.

Her mouth opened, closed, opened again, as if a whole Thus Item: Thus Item: Diyuanqiongyupai had been jammed between her lower jaw and palate.

"General?!"

She didn't utter a sound.

She didn't even dare shape the word properly; the title exploded in her throat, drying her throat and shattering her worldview into pieces.

She recognized this person.

Not just the silhouette— even if turned to ash, perhaps unrecognizable, but this back, the unmoving stance at the head of ten thousand troops, the aura that makes one want to shout "General, hello," there's no other in Luofu.

Jing Yuan.

Divine Strategy General Jing Yuan.

At this moment, in a ward of the Dan Ding Department, with his back to the door, he was dancing in a manner that completely disregarded Luofu's decorum.

Qingque moved her face away from the hole, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

Inhale—exhale—inhale—exhale—when she inhaled, mugwort smoke filled her lungs; when she exhaled, she felt her soul half‑detached.

She pressed her eyes back onto it.

The scene didn't change.

The white hair still flew, the waist still twisted, his soles thumped the floor with a creaking "creak‑creak", that sound mixing with the drum beats, shaking the old dust accumulated on the doorframe loose.

Listening closely, one could still hear Jing Yuan howling, somewhere between singing and shouting, occasionally spitting out a syllable or two— the lyrics indecipherable—but the emotional impact was intense.

Qingque felt she needed to reassess the current situation.

Known fact one: the General is unconscious, and the upper echelons of Luofu all know it.

Known fact two: here and now, in an ordinary ward of the Dan Ding Department, this unconscious General is dancing in a wildly spirited, utterly un‑patient‑like manner!

Known fact three: this is most likely not a dream; her cheeks on both sides are still swollen, fingertip marks on her fair skin are bright red, and any muscle movement feels prickly.

So the question arises.

Is the illness cured?

"It's healed a bit too thoroughly, isn't it?"

Qingque moved her lips silently a couple of times.

What kind of illness ends with dancing?

Or perhaps the Dan Ding Department secretly devised a new therapy where the first thing a patient does upon opening their eyes is play music and dance?

She bit her lower lip, forcing herself to suppress this nonsensical thought.

But another thought surfaced—Fu Xuan.

What expression would Grand Diviner have if he saw this scene?

Thinking of that, Qingque's mouth twitched.

In fact, putting oneself in his shoes makes it not hard to understand.

Who is Jing Yuan?

Divine Strategy General, commander of the Cloud Cavalry, handling myriad affairs daily, his mind juggling seven or eight battle lines at once.

In public, he either stands at the center of the Shen Ce Fu main hall issuing orders, or rides the Star Chariot into the wind, always exuding a steady "I'll hold up the sky if it falls" demeanor.

That image has been worn for countless years; anyone would grow weary of it.

So him dancing in a ward to release pressure is reasonable.

Qingque mentally found a stepping stone for the General, nodded, feeling her reasoning was as sharp as ever.

Reasonable as it may be, the impact was by no means diminished.

That feeling is hard to describe, like the older brother next door you grew up watching—refined, elegant, graceful—suddenly one day you see him alone at home, dancing pole routines in front of a mirror.

He dances happily; you don't think it's wrong, yet your mind just can't process it.

Qingque was about to move her eyes away from the hole, slip back to her own room quietly, as if she'd seen nothing—she's best at that. When she caught Fu Xuan secretly eating sweets in Tai Bu Si, she handled it the same way, but before she could withdraw her face, the drum beat in the room suddenly stopped.

Abruptly halted.

The silence was oddly eerie.

Qingque froze.

Jing Yuan's silhouette also froze.

He remained in the pose of his final move, both hands raised overhead, his left foot stamping the last beat on the floor, his right foot suspended, his whole body like a statue suddenly frozen.

The air held only the after‑shock of the speaker's power loss and Jing Yuan's heavy breathing.

Then Jing Yuan slowly turned around.

Qingque's whole body's cold hair all stood up in an instant.

Those eyes, piercing the tiny hole in the door panel, like a cat staring at a mouse, Lock Qingque's gaze.

"Who!?"

A single word.

The tone was neither high nor low.

But Qingque could be certain—it's over, they've been discovered.

Qingque bolted away.

The teal skirt flared like a sparrow whose feathers had been set ablaze.

When Qingque scrambled back to the doorway of their room, they nearly slammed headfirst into the door panel from momentum; fortunately, they braced with a hand in time, and, in a very ungraceful manner, rolled and crawled into the room, pulling the door shut with the other hand.

Breathing raggedly.

Leaning against the door panel, Qingque could feel their heartbeat jumping from the chest up to the throat.

One slipper had vanished at some point, and the bare left foot stood on the icy floor, the toes curling uneasily.

The swelling on the face throbbed more from the cold wind.

Qingque pricked up an ear.

The corridor stayed silent for about five seconds, then a steady echo rang out.

Footsteps grew nearer.

Qingque held their breath, hands covering the mouth.

The footsteps reached Qingque's doorway and stopped.

The air solidified for the span of a breath.

Qingque could even feel the body heat of someone standing on the other side of the door panel, seeping through the wood bit by bit.

Then the footsteps sounded again.

They continued forward, passed Qingque's room door, reached the far end of the corridor, and vanished.

Qingque lowered the hand covering their mouth and let out a long sigh.

The tension on the shoulders deflated like a punctured balloon; Qingque slid down the door panel to sit on the floor, the teal skirt spreading on the floor like a flattened teal mushroom.

Just as Qingque thought the alarm was lifted, a lazy voice drifted in from just outside the door—