Chapter Fifty-Three: His Redemption

The system had no idea what kind of arrangement Mo Nianian had reached with the authorities, but in any case, they did not intervene. However, the host also ceased producing items that defied the laws of this small world.

Jiang Hu remained in a deep sleep, his breath growing weaker by the day. Mo Nianian summoned countless imperial physicians and renowned doctors—anyone with even a sliver of reputation was brought to his bedside. All of them, in the gentlest terms possible, declared Jiang Hu beyond saving and advised that preparations be made for his passing.

Mo Nianian said nothing in response, simply instructing her people to continue searching for a doctor who might help. The Prince Regent and his wife grew increasingly worried about Mo Nianian’s state of mind, yet they knew not how to console her. Their hearts ached for her suffering, and they understood that if not for Jiang Hu, Mo Nianian would have perished long ago. Jiang Hu was the benefactor who had saved Mo Nianian’s life, and thus, he was the benefactor of their entire household.

The Prince Regent issued an announcement, inviting any gifted individual in the realm to try their hand at curing Jiang Hu. Should anyone succeed, the Prince Regent’s household would grant them any wish, no questions asked. The Prince Regent’s favor was priceless; there was no one under heaven who would not desire it. A horde of people flooded the Prince Regent’s residence, all vying for the chance.

Yet Jiang Hu’s injuries were too severe. The mere fact that he still clung to life was already a miracle in everyone’s eyes. One after another, the hopefuls departed in defeat, leaving the Prince Regent’s mansion in shame.

An elderly imperial physician from the palace, unable to bear the sight of their futile efforts, stroked his beard and spoke plainly: “Your Highness, I will not mince words. The fact that he has survived this long is a miracle. You must make your preparations.”

Mo Nianian silently saw everyone off, then locked herself away in Jiang Hu’s room.

“He’s the protagonist. He won’t die so easily, will he?” she asked the system, but it had no answer for her. It could only remain silent. The system detected that the protagonist’s fate was growing weaker and weaker—a fact both she and Mo Nianian understood all too well.

Despite what everyone believed, Mo Nianian was not as heartbroken as they imagined. Her chest simply felt heavy, filled with an unfamiliar emotion she could not name. She could not understand why the protagonist had chosen this path.

In silence, Mo Nianian kept vigil by his side, uncertain if this counted as accompanying him on his final journey.

Jiang Hu sank into endless darkness. The blackness enveloped him, impossible to escape, and he gradually surrendered himself to it. Faintly, a voice reached him from the void, urging him not to give in—reminding him of his unfinished obsessions, commanding him to wake.

Jiang Hu fought the darkness with all his might. He did not know how much time had passed when, at last, a light appeared before his eyes. Yet instead of relief, it brought him greater pain.

One by one, the sordid chapters of his past flickered before him, each disgraceful memory he had tried to bury now laid bare. He was forced to confront it all.

When he was very young, his mother had died, leaving him with barely a trace of memory of her. He only knew that his father had once loved his mother with wild abandon, loving her to the exclusion of all others and, in doing so, offending countless people. Yet that passion was as fleeting as it was intense. His father soon grew weary of his mother, retracting every exception he had made for her. She withered away in sorrow, leaving Jiang Hu behind.

At two or three years old, with no protection whatsoever, Jiang Hu became the target of everyone’s revenge. Beatings, kneeling for punishment, and humiliation became everyday occurrences. As he grew older, assassination attempts and disgrace became constant companions.

In order to survive the man-eating palace, Jiang Hu could not count the blood that stained his hands. He was never innocent. He trampled those who sought to kill or humiliate him into the mud, one by one.

But a single person’s strength is always limited. His brothers eventually united to frame and suppress him, stripping him of his title and casting him among commoners. Even then, they did not let him go; instead, they sent him to the army—a unit designed only for the expendable, where soldiers were sent to die.

He became cannon fodder, a sacrifice to war. On the battlefield, he witnessed an even more brutal and bloody world. For a time, he believed he would die amidst the mountains of corpses and seas of blood. But he survived, only to be captured by the army of Nanming.

Everyone knew what it meant to be a prisoner—no one showed mercy to the captive of an enemy nation. But Jiang Hu was already accustomed to such days. Beatings, hunger, humiliation—these were all routine. He even plotted his escape.

That day was the darkest of his life. They were herded through the streets, a group destined for the training grounds to provide entertainment for the nobles. The guards jeered at them, occasionally lashing them with whips. Jiang Hu feigned fear as instructed.

“Ha! Look at this pathetic lot!” one sneered. “Soon, they’ll be at the training grounds for our lords to hunt.”

As they bantered, a whip struck Jiang Hu again. “Move faster! Lingering, are you? Looking for another beating?”

Jiang Hu instinctively glanced up, his beast-like gaze catching the guard’s attention.

“What are you looking at? Not satisfied?” the guard growled, grabbing Jiang Hu by the collar and pulling him forward. Jiang Hu’s hair fell across his forehead, revealing a strikingly handsome face—gaunt from malnutrition, yet still extraordinarily attractive.

Jiang Hu immediately lowered his head, trembling. “No, I wouldn’t dare. I wouldn’t dare.”

“Well, well! I never noticed we had such a pretty boy among us,” the guard said, dragging Jiang Hu out of the line. He yanked back Jiang Hu’s hair, exposing his face. The guards present were all stunned, their gazes glued to him.

“Such a specimen?” They exchanged glances, and unspoken intent flickered in their eyes.

“Heh, what a waste to send this one to die,” they said, exchanging knowing laughs.

Jiang Hu’s entire body tensed; he understood all too well what was in their eyes. He fought like a madman to free himself from their grip, but bound at wrists and ankles with shackles, he was no match for the burly men.

They tore open his clothing, exposing his lean, muscular body to the air. The guards whistled their satisfaction.

Jiang Hu’s eyes burned red as blood, his body shaking with desperate fury. He struggled violently, the skin beneath his shackles rubbed raw and bleeding. His voice was filled with murderous rage and despair. “I will never forgive you!”

He glared at the guards like a vengeful specter, thrashing, trembling, howling in rage and hopelessness. They ripped away the last of his dignity, leaving him lying on the ground like a corpse.

He closed his eyes, awaiting the arrival of hell. In that moment, he was consumed by a manic urge to destroy everything.

“Stop!” A clear, ethereal voice shattered the impending tragedy.

The men on top of him were dragged away, and he was saved.

He looked up and saw his savior—a goddess, resplendent in beauty and nobility. She wore a pink robe and skirt, draped with a white ermine shawl, immaculate and pure as new-fallen snow.

He gazed upon her, the embodiment of his redemption.