"Well, well. Yang Youlan, you've grown quite bold, haven't you? Daring to interfere in my business?" The jailer's voice was full of scorn as he turned his whip around and lashed out viciously.
The sharp snap of leather meeting flesh echoed through the corridor, followed by Yang Youlan's agonized screams. Her only crime had been pleading for mercy. Now, her pleas were met with brutality.
No one else dared to speak up. Moments later, a chilling scream rang out—this time from Li Donghong. "Sir! She's dead!"
The jailer didn't even blink. "One less mouth to feed. What's the big deal?"
Yan Shuixin watched from inside her cell, pressing her face against the iron bars. She saw him dragging a lifeless female body from a cell thirty paces away, locking the door behind him.
"Anyone else makes noise, and you're next," he threatened with a sweep of his gaze.
The prison fell deathly silent.
Yan Shuixin knew then—her fate was no different from Yang Youlan's. She had to tread carefully. The jailer hauled the corpse like a discarded animal. But midway, he paused—then turned toward her cell.
Her heart skipped. She backed away from the bars and lowered herself onto the cold ground, pretending to rest. Lying still might be safer.
Footsteps drew near. Prince An scrambled to cover himself with the dirty straw strewn about the cell. He didn't want the jailer to see his exposed lower body. Yan Shuixin didn't feel the least bit guilty—she had to examine his leg.
Outside, the jailer gagged at the stench. His eyes swept the cell. He didn't think much of the motionless man hidden beneath the straw.
Then his gaze shifted.
"Yan Shuixin? You're still alive? Damn. I was just about to collect your corpse."
She'd read the novel, but the jailers' names hadn't all been detailed. She didn't know who he was and dared not ask.
"Still breathing, sir. No need to trouble you."
"You're a tough one," he spat. Spotting the untouched bowls of urine and rotten gruel on the floor, he sneered. "Didn't like your wedding gift?"
Her stomach churned with fury, but she smiled politely. "Thank you for the kind offering."
She glanced at Prince An, then steeled herself. "Sir, he's badly injured. Could we get a doctor to examine him?"
The jailer snorted. "Old Huang's dead. And even if he weren't, why waste medicine on a cripple?"
Yan Shuixin's blood boiled. Cripple or not, he was still a human being!
But this wasn't the time to fight fire with fire.
"Stay quiet, all of you!" the jailer barked, turning to leave.
"Wait! Sir, one more thing."
If she couldn't get medicine or water, she'd have to find another way.
"Spit it out before I beat you into the ground."
She remained composed. "Sir, this cell is foul beyond words. The stench is overwhelming. Prince An is injured—he can't even clean it himself. I thought maybe I could clean up a bit. The smell might reach you next time you pass by."
Prince An's one good eye glinted with contempt. She thought *he* stank?
But he said nothing, closing his eye again.
"I could also tidy up the corridor," she added quickly. "Make things more pleasant for your rounds."
The jailer seemed to consider this. "Damn right it reeks. I wouldn't come here if I didn't have to check on you idiots."
"If you allow it, I'll clean everything thoroughly," she said, keeping her tone as servile as possible. It was the only way to get water.
"Letting you out..." he hesitated.
She pointed to herself. "Sir, look at me. I'm too weak to run. You think I could even make it a few steps?"
"Hah. You're right. A pathetic turtle like you wouldn't dare try."
"Exactly."
He unlocked the cell. "Clean up, then get back inside."
"Of course."
"Follow me to the storeroom," he ordered, leading the way.
Prince An watched her leave, assuming she was trying to escape. Foolish girl—did she want to die?
She caught his glance and gave him a playful wave.
He scoffed and looked away.
They walked for thirty meters. The jailer barked a new order. "Carry the body."
It was Yang Youlan.
Yan Shuixin, once a medical intern, had seen her share of corpses. But her body was weak—she barely made it a few steps before collapsing.
"Sir, I... I don't have the strength."
"Useless," he muttered, dragging the body himself.
*I'll remember that,* she thought, eyes lowered. One day, she would repay this humiliation.
She trailed behind him through the dim stone corridor.
Cells lined either side, each holding three to seven inmates. Around 300 men, maybe 30 women.
Only she and Prince An were locked together—husband and wife, at least in the prison's eyes.
They rounded a corner and reached a guard post.
Another jailer, around thirty, sat cracking sunflower seeds.
"Killed another one, Li Dian?"
So this one was Li Dian.
"Dumb bitch deserved it. Now I gotta clean up the mess."
The second guard glanced at Yan Shuixin. "What's she doing out?"
"Old Zhao's sick. She's cleaning."
He didn't question it, clearly unconcerned about a frail woman making a run for it.
"This corpse is heavy," Li Dian said. "Wang Mo, help me out."
Yan Shuixin memorized that name—Wang Mo.
While they lugged the corpse through a side gate, she slipped into the post, swiped a handful of sunflower seeds, and hid them in her sleeve.
Then she quietly followed them out.
They hadn't noticed.
It wasn't much, but to someone starving like Prince An, it was better than nothing.
She herself had only missed one day of meals. She could endure it.
Stepping through the outer gate, Yan Shuixin was blinded for a moment.
Warm sunlight poured down. The sky was bright. A breeze caressed her face. It had to be early summer—maybe 8 a.m.
The outer yard stretched wide, enclosed by five-meter-high walls lined with iron spikes.
A tall tower stood in the center, manned by a lookout. From that vantage point, nothing escaped notice.
To the left was a two-story stone building—the guards' quarters.
To the right, a row of low storage rooms.
Li Dian pointed. "First door on the right. Water's in the well behind it."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't go poking around. Just take the cleaning tools. One wrong move, and you're dead."
"Understood."
Once the men walked off, she rushed to the low building.
Inside the storeroom: rags, buckets, brooms. Nothing useful for defense.
But she needed a blade. To save Prince An's leg, she had to remove the rotting flesh.
She left the door slightly ajar and searched quickly.
In the corner—rusted, small, with a broken edge—was a palm-sized iron trowel.
She grabbed it. She didn't dare wander farther. Getting caught meant certain death.