Leaving Cen Qing’s room, Moli did not return to her bedroom immediately. She chose to descend the stairs, heading alone to the lowest level of the Black Tower. The deeper she went, the darker the corridors became.

The light in the niches flickered and dimmed, gradually growing faint. Goblins lurked in the darkness; rustling sounds reached her ears, yet it was hard to make out any figures.

Moli held a golden candlestick, its flame lighting up the niches as the candles within them flickered out.

She strolled through the corridor, her footsteps echoing in the darkness. The hem of her skirt brushed against her shoes, casting a long shadow on the wall that warped in the candlelight, its edges stretching endlessly toward the vaulted ceiling.

Upon reaching the first floor of the Black Tower, she counted silently in her mind and paused before a stone tile carved with patterns.

The stone tiles varied in shape and size, their edges interlocking as they were laid out inward from the tower’s entrance. The patterns on their surfaces were seemingly random, yet when illuminated, they formed twisted thorn vines.

Moli stepped into the center of the pattern and tapped her heel lightly. As the echo reverberated, the carved stone tiles began to sink, then shifted apart in an alternating pattern, revealing a dim passageway.

The path was unusually narrow, barely wide enough for one person to pass. Steep steps plunged deep into the earth; ahead lay utter darkness, so thick one couldn’t see one’s hand in front of one’s face. Moli lifted the hem of her skirt and began to descend the stairs.

The steps beneath her feet were unstable, undulating, and writhing as if alive. In the candlelight, their true form was revealed: they were actually tangled, twisted thorn vines hanging in midair, their edges studded with sharp spikes.

At the end of the steps stood a stone door.

The door was already open; a dim, yellowish light seeped through the crack, and faint sounds could be heard. Moli blew out the candle and pushed the stone door open with one hand.

With a creaking sound, the room was suddenly flooded with light, and everything inside came into view.

In stark contrast to the dark, narrow passageway, the room was brightly lit. White candles formed a circular ring, suspended at varying heights in the air, illuminating the wooden shelves that covered the walls.

The shelves stretched up dozens of levels, each divided into similarly sized compartments. The compartments were crammed with boxes and cloth bags containing various medicinal herbs—some common and easily found, others extremely rare and valuable, almost impossible to come by.

A thorn vine maiden was busy working in front of the wooden shelves.

Standing on a ladder, she moved between the different compartments, frequently retrieving herbs. Each movement stirred up a cloud of dust, releasing a pungent odor.

“It’s been too long,” she said, brushing away the swirling dust. She opened a palm-sized box and found the herbs inside had rotted; though they appeared intact on the outside, they crumbled to dust at the slightest touch. Thud.

She snapped the lid shut, tossed the box back onto the shelf, and placed one hand on her hip, her mood thoroughly sour. This was her apothecary, built a century ago.

As the most knowledgeable of the thorn vine maids in pharmacology, even the court physicians could not match her skill. To concoct an antidote for Queen Yin, she had gone to great lengths to gather rare ingredients from across the land.

Alas, Gorod’s hand was ruthless, and the poison of the Flaming Realm was nearly incurable. She had exhausted every trick in her arsenal, managing only to alleviate the suffering of the Queen Yin, but was unable to completely purge the toxin from her body.

After the young master was born, Queen Yin exhausted her last reserves of strength. She remained bedridden thereafter, eventually passing away suddenly.

The Queen’s death drove the maidservants mad.

In their frenzy, they ran a bloodbath through the palace, yet still failed to kill the culprit. She was imprisoned in the dungeon, and to save their own lives, she even had the young master confined to the Black Tower.

Recalling the past, Juandan was filled with a mix of rage and hatred, her heart torn by conflicting emotions.

Her pupils gradually changed color, and the ladder beneath her feet transformed into thorn vines, snarling menacingly before the wooden frame, revealing the surging murderous intent within her heart.

“Juandan,” Moli called from the doorway, rousing her furious kin from her rage.

Juandan turned to face Moli as she approached, raising a hand to cover her eyes. When she removed it, her gaze had returned to normal.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“How’s the potion coming along?” Moli set the candlestick down on the table and glanced at the cauldron sitting there, its contents bubbling vigorously. “Almost done.” Juandan leaped gracefully down from the high ledge; her skirt fell slowly into place, and her long hair was tied tightly at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place.

Once she had steadied herself, she turned her head toward the wooden rack and said to Moli, “Many of the ingredients are no longer usable, but fortunately, the few we need are well-preserved. Adding our blood to them should temporarily alleviate His Highness’s symptoms. It’s very difficult to eradicate the toxin completely—I can’t do it, at least not yet.”

Juandan turned her head, her gaze dark and shadowed, betraying her frustration.

Her concern for Cen Qing, her hatred for Gorod, and her longing for the Queen Yin—these intertwined emotions served as the pillar that kept her alive in the dungeon.

All the thorn vine maidens were the same.

Intense emotions sustained them, allowing them to endure the years in the dungeon without completely losing their minds amidst the endless, sunless torment.

“Don’t let His Highness know about the blood. He doesn’t want us to get hurt,” Moli urged earnestly.

“His Highness’s heart is too soft; that’s not a good thing,” Juandan sighed and said earnestly, “I’m not blaming him, I’m just very worried. His enemies are a bunch of vile scoundrels who act despicably and often stop at nothing. We shouldn’t show mercy to these scoundrels.”

“You needn’t worry. His Highness reserves his gentleness only for us. Spend some time with him, and you’ll see that for yourself.” She paused, then stepped closer to Juandan, placing a hand on her right shoulder and whispering, “His character is unlike our master’s—he is far more resilient and formidable. If he were in our master’s position, Gorod would never have succeeded; he would have been hanged on the gallows, repenting his sins in agony.”

Juandan froze for a moment, her gaze fixed on Moli’s face, confirming that she wasn’t exaggerating or merely trying to comfort her.

Without giving her any more time to process this, Moli suddenly changed the subject. “There’s one more thing I wanted to discuss with you.” 

“What?”

“It’s about Wraiths.” 

“Wraiths?”

“Yes.” Moli released her hand and took a half-step back. The candlelight fell upon her face, casting a luminous sheen over her clear pupils, giving her an eerie air.

“The Master’s poison comes from the Western Kingdom, and the same goes for Your Highness. Only Wraiths are immune to the poisons of the Flaming Realm.”

“I see what you mean.” Without needing further explanation from Moli, Juandan could guess what she was about to say. “Are you asking if Wraiths have a way to counteract the poison?”

“Yes.” Moli nodded.

Juandan didn’t answer immediately; instead, she clenched her fists and fell deep in thought.

She paced back and forth across the room, the suspended candle swaying with her movements, following a silent rhythm, as if dancing a silent waltz. Finally, she stopped.

“The Wraiths are too mysterious; their very existence is a riddle, and I don’t know much about them. But judging by common sense, there should be two ways.” She held up two fingers, her gaze meeting Moli’s. “Find a way to obtain the Wraiths’ blood and have the master drink it.”

Moli furrowed her brow. “And the other?”

“Engage in an intimate relationship.” Juandan crossed her arms and gave her answer. “How intimate?”

“Sleep together.”

Juandan’s reply was blunt and to the point, and Moli’s eyebrows nearly shot out of her temples. “That’s too crude!”

“I’ve been locked up in a dungeon for a hundred years, always having to shoo away the Hunchbacks trying to take advantage of me. You can’t expect me to stay elegant.” 

Juandan picked her ear with her pinky, blew gently, and gave a lazy smile. “Compared to Yuanwei and the others, I’ve actually toned it down quite a bit.”

Moli pinched the corner of her forehead in exasperation.

“I don’t care what you do in private, but you absolutely must not behave like this in front of His Highness.”

“I understand.” Juandan smiled and patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I’m just a little crazy—I haven’t lost my mind.” As the two spoke, several more maids entered the secret chamber.

Following Juandan’s instructions, they walked to the cauldron and, one by one, slit their wrists to draw blood.

Crimson liquid dripped in thin streams; a delicate fragrance wafted through the air, only to be instantly overpowered by the scent of medicine.

“That’s enough,” Juandan said. The maids pressed their hands against their wounds and lowered their sleeves one by one. “Call us if you need anything,” Yuanwei said.

“Alright.” Juandan waved them off, having no desire to converse, and began busily preparing the potion.

Before leaving the room, Moli paused briefly at the door, pondering Juandan’s words. If it could truly counteract the poison, she would recommend it to His Highness.

Recalling how Gorod had coerced Cen Qing, she couldn’t help but let out a sarcastic chuckle.

He tried to steal a chicken but ended up losing a grain of rice.

Having committed countless evils and dared to tamper with the will of heaven, he would ultimately reap what he had sown. For a time afterward, the Royal Capital remained calm and peaceful.

Beneath the calm, however, hidden currents swirled; a single misstep could unleash a tidal wave capable of toppling the ancient Golden Rock Fortress. The noble ministers were busy day and night, frequently coming and going from the palace.

Every time the monarch and his ministers met, rare treasures were brought out of the treasury and loaded onto carriages prepared for the delegation.

The roofs of the carriages were carved with a unified emblem symbolizing the King of Gorod. The axles and rims of the wheels were specially crafted to make the vehicles more sturdy and durable. The Flame Horses pulling the carriages could withstand the bitter cold; they could run through ice and snow, making them the most suitable mounts for the journey to the Snow Domain.

The Messenger Eagle returned with more good news: Cen Qing’s portrait had arrived in Storm City, the Snow Domain had agreed to allow the vampire clan envoys to pass through their territory, and the two nations were set to begin formal peace talks. The news was deeply uplifting.

The ministers worked diligently to finalize the terms of the treaty, racing against the clock to prepare for the diplomatic mission.

Gorod deliberately acted like a benevolent father, frequently sending messages of concern to the Black Tower—both to monitor Cen Qing’s movements and to put on a show for the nobles.

This was undoubtedly a case of burying one’s head in the sand, but since no one called him out on it, everyone was happy to play along with the king’s charade.

Amid the flattery, Gorod became addicted to the charade. He ordered Zuona to travel to the Black Tower to show concern for Cen Qing in her dual roles as queen and stepmother.

“This is what you must do, Zuona.” 

“As you command, Your Majesty.”

Zuona was reluctant and gritted her teeth in private, but she could not disobey the order.

After stalling for several days, she had no choice but to leave the castle, followed by her ladies-in-waiting and the royal tailors.

As both the queen and the prince’s stepmother, and bearing the king’s expectations, she had to prepare formal attire and all necessary supplies for Cen Qing’s journey.

“To the Black Tower.”

Zuona descended the steps; servants had already cleared the snow and spread felt rugs on the stone path to prevent the remaining snow from soiling her skirt and shoes. The ladies-in-waiting followed the queen, walking in silence.

The tailor dared not even breathe a sigh.

Having served the court for years, they were all well-informed; this was the secret to their survival.

Not long ago, the Queen had severely injured a lady-in-waiting because the First Prince had ordered the removal of Queen Yin’s estate. In this matter, it was not for the tailors to judge who was right or wrong.

The two were about to meet, and should a conflict erupt, their very safety would be at stake.

The tailors exchanged glances, each one cautious and trembling with fear. The closer they got to the Black Tower, the more uneasy they became, sensing that this journey would not go smoothly.

Yet duty-bound, they could not disobey orders; they had no choice but to steel themselves and follow the Queen, one by one, through the gates of the Black Tower. Beyond the Royal Capital, thirty gusts of wind swept across the plains.

They were the Black Knights returning from exile.

Their clothing, boots, weapons at their waists, and the warhorses beneath them all came from the military camps they had passed through. Captain Mino rode at the front, with Deputy Captain Penorte and the other knights close behind.

Wherever the column passed, a black wind stirred; though only thirty in number, their presence rivaled that of a thousand-strong army. Even from a distance, one could feel the oppressive weight of their presence.

As they galloped, Penorte’s cloak billowed backward, revealing a pouch hanging from his chest. The wolf-skin pouch bulged repeatedly, and a furry head peeked out from the opening.

It was a snow leopard cub. Its mother had been wounded in a battle with a pack of wolves and, unable to catch enough food, had abandoned the rest of her litter.

Its siblings had perished from hunger and the bitter cold, and it was picked up by the Black Knights while on the brink of death—not as food, but, by a stroke of luck, as a gift.

“His Highness will surely like it.”

The Black Knights were not only battle-crazed warriors but also well-versed in the ways of the world.

For a first meeting with His Highness the Prince, a tamable snow leopard cub was barely presentable. The knights rode at breakneck speed, as swift as the wind and the moon.

As they drew closer to the Royal Capital and heard the bells ringing from the ramparts, the group grew even more excited.

Holding the reins in one hand, they threw back their heads and let out a howl. Their voices merged into a single roar, intertwining with the thunderous sound of their hooves, like a surging torrent rushing toward the majestic city.