Suddenly, with a crack, the wooden hairpin still broke.

"You look for it." Charles Reed continued to insert the half-broken hairpin, struggling to pry with his fingers.

Ethan Green hurriedly searched for the other half, her hands groping over Charles Reed's body. Delighted, she said, "There's a wooden stick!"

"Don't pull it out," Charles Reed said irritably.

Ethan Green tugged at it lightly a couple of times, then paused, giving up reluctantly.

After searching for a while longer, she whispered, "Found it."

"We can't pry it anymore, let's scrape instead."

The two could only lift their hands, scraping away the dirt in the gap above bit by bit.

The soil fell all over them, then was shaken off onto the bottom of the vat.

Progress was slow, and the process dragged on.

They maintained a half-squatting posture, their legs entwined, upper bodies pressed tightly together, and could only reach behind each other's backs to scrape at the gap above with difficulty.

Every breath felt drawn out, their whole bodies aching as if about to break.

It was clearly the dead of winter, yet inside the vat it grew hotter and hotter. Their sweat mingled, soaking the fallen dirt below.

Gradually, the soil beneath them grew thick, compacted by their weight, and the space inside the vat became smaller and smaller.

Yet the lid still wouldn't budge.

"Shake off the dirt."

No one knew how much time had passed. Charles Reed felt the weight of the soil on his body and, gasping for breath, spoke.

But Ethan Green didn't cooperate in shaking off the dirt. She lay sprawled on top of him, seemingly fainted, occasionally twitching.

Charles Reed's head spun, his fingers powerless. In his anxiety, the half hairpin slipped from his grasp, and he couldn't find it in the darkness.

He pounded on the lid.

Soil rustled down, but it could no longer be shaken from beneath their bodies. Gradually, it buried their entwined legs, then their waists.

When the fallen dirt was about to reach their chests, Charles Reed felt as if his internal organs were being squeezed, uncomfortable, weak, his mind clouded.

A sense of suffocation surged up; he finally despaired and wanted to give up.

Suddenly, as if regaining his memory, he saw images in his mind... the carved railings and painted beams of Pingkang Lane, his neck being fiercely strangled, struggling desperately, but only able to meet a pair of terrified eyes.

Terror.

What was the murderer afraid of?

Then came a moment of unconsciousness. As he tried to recall further, there remained only the memories of Charles Reed from a later life, and an intense fear of death.

Abruptly, the will to survive drove Charles Reed to push with all his might.

"Rustle, rustle, rustle..."

The dirt fell like snow.

Something icy cold landed on Charles Reed's neck.

He shuddered involuntarily and pounded the lid hard.

"Bang."

It was as if a feeble heart suddenly thumped again.

"Bang!"

With a loud crash, a faint glimmer of light seeped in, like a grain of rice in the deep darkness, incomparably precious.

"Bang!"

The rice-grain-sized light diffused, becoming a ray of evening glow.

Charles Reed felt as if a hand clutching his internal organs was slowly loosening, so frightened he dared not move.

He thought of the memories during his suffocation, and suddenly felt lost. Was he a youth living in the Tianbao era, who had a long, long dream at the brink of death, or was he a soul from a later age occupying this body?

Zhuangzi dreaming of a butterfly—was it real or not?

No matter what, he had to strive to live.

Charles Reed panted, his nostrils flaring, sweat dripping onto Ethan Green's loose black hair.

"Huff... huff..."

Ethan Green was also gasping, opening her eyes as if waking from a drunken stupor, sobering up in this evening glow.

……

The evening glow spilled over the spotless corridor.

In front of the steps, Andrew Thompson brushed the snow from his red robe, took off his mud-stained boots, ascended the corridor, and hurried to a side room in the rear courtyard.

The side room was simply furnished, yet tastefully arranged, with a faint fragrance in the air.

A middle-aged man stood by the window, hands behind his back, admiring the snow.

He wore no headscarf, revealing half a head of white hair, his back hunched.

Even just his silhouette conveyed an endless sense of exhaustion.

"Your Highness." Andrew Thompson bowed low, calling softly.

James Thompson did not answer, murmuring to himself in a low chant: "The shrike flies east, the swallow flies west; the Weaver Girl and the Cowherd meet from time to time."

He sighed deeply, his breath dissipating into the evening glow, full of deep emotion and helplessness.

Andrew Thompson's eyes showed sorrow as he said, "She has been settled in. This old servant found a secluded place; no one will disturb her."

"Be sure to take good care of her daily needs. She must lack for nothing in clothing, food, or expenses."

"Please rest assured, Your Highness," said Andrew Thompson. "More importantly, Your Highness must take care of your own health. Do not let grief harm your body."

"How could I not grieve? Man is the fish, others the knife."

Andrew Thompson bowed even lower, earnestly comforting him: "Your Highness is not a fish on the chopping block, but a hidden dragon."

"Heh, a hidden dragon, yet even the last shred of dignity..."

As James Thompson spoke, he suddenly choked up.

Tears fell onto the window frame. A hand gripped it, fingers clutching the redwood in anger, knuckles turning pale from the force.

"He won't even grant me the tiniest bit of dignity. Forcing me twice to divorce my wife—how will the world see me?!"

"Your Highness," Andrew Thompson called out softly, "please endure... After all, it's not as humiliating as Prince Shou, nor as tragic as the three deposed crown princes."

James Thompson was silent for a moment.