The corridors leading back to Prince Zhao's private quarters were a winding maze of red-lacquered pillars and silk screens that seemed to vibrate with the unspoken threats of the Empress Dowager. As Li Mei walked, her mind was a whirlwind of sensory data; she was "reading with an author's perspective," analyzing the palace not as a home, but as a battlefield of competing motives. The air in the shadowed hallways felt stagnant, lacking the vibrant "seasonal fashion" of the markets, and instead carried the heavy, suffocating scent of centuries-old secrets and the lingering ozone of the beast's fury.
When she entered the Prince's chamber, she found him standing by a low table, his back to her. He had traded his torn silks for a simple robe of deep indigo, but the "looming crisis" of his condition still clung to him like a second skin. The scent of winter mint was stronger now, a sign that his human "rationality and responsibility" had regained control, yet Mei's "Golden Finger" detected a sharp spike of adrenaline—the scent of a hunter waiting for its prey.
"The Empress Dowager has a fondness for lavender," Zhao said without turning. His voice was a low vibration that created an immediate "emotional connection," pulling Mei into the gravity of his world. "But her tea usually leaves a bitter aftertaste in the mouths of those who serve her."
"It is arsenic, Your Highness," Mei replied, her voice steady as she set her apothecary case on the table. She didn't believe in "information dumps," but the time for subtlety had passed. "She is not just watching you; she is slowly eroding the very 'power system' of your blood. The wolf is not the only thing killing you".
Zhao turned then, his dark obsidian eyes locking onto hers with a "magnetic pull" that made the air feel thin. He moved toward her with the predatory grace of a man who had spent his life "growing stronger" through suffering. He stopped just inches away, and the "sexual tension" returned, a physical heat that contrasted with the cold stone of the palace.
"You are as bold as your father was," he whispered, and the mention of her family sent a jolt of "immersion" through her. "Li Wei was a man of logic who saw the world through the same lens of herbs and needles that you do. He was the one who first tried to map the 'six dimensions' of this curse".
Mei's breath caught. "You knew him? The records say he was executed for a common medical error."
"A 'dramatic opening event' created by those who fear the truth," Zhao countered, his expression shifting into something "complex and flawed". He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small, weathered scroll, its scent ancient and familiar—the scent of her father's workshop. "Your father didn't make a mistake. He found the 'Golden Finger' of the conspirators. He knew that the werewolf plague was not a curse of the gods, but a weapon of the state".
Mei took the scroll, her fingers trembling as she recognized her father's elegant script. This was the "interest insurance" that bound her to this journey far more than any royal command. The scroll was a "life diary" of a curse, detailing the "ability and life experience" of those who had transformed before Zhao. It confirmed her "book idea": the apocalypse she feared wasn't coming from outside the walls, but from the heart of the Tang itself.
"He died protecting this," Zhao said, his hand covering hers on the scroll. The touch was firm and possessive, building a "trust and interest" that was dangerous for an alchemist to feel for a prince. "He knew that one day, a healer with the 'sense of smell' to find the truth would come to Chang'an. He was waiting for you, Mei."
Mei looked up at him, her "rationality" warring with the "emotional treasure" of his revelation. She realized then that her "main story" was no longer just about survival; it was a "revenge novel" centered on the very foundations of the empire.
"Then we have much to do before the next full moon," she said, her voice dropping to a determined whisper. "If this is a weapon, then we must find the forge where it was made. And we must do it before the 'arsenic' in the palace finishes what the 'beast' started."
The Prince's lips curled into a faint, dark smile—a "memorable" expression that signaled his "character growth" from a victim to a partner in crime. As the morning drums of Chang'an echoed in the distance, Mei knew the "pacing" of their lives had just accelerated. They were no longer just a doctor and a patient; they were two souls "merging" their destinies to survive a night that might never end.