After Becoming the Cannon Fodder Live-in Spouse A (GL) - Chapter 2: Second Day

Chapter 2: Second Day

The mansion’s people carried lanterns for light and walked first into the deep shadows.

Ye Fuguang had to follow.

The bitter cold wind swept through the empty courtyard, freezing her until tears nearly fell. The heavy wedding robe she wore didn’t keep out the chill, making her miss the overheated sedan from earlier.

Even without mentioning this world’s strange genders, what kind of princess entered a mansion so miserably? Having to endure hunger and cold while walking to the bridal chamber herself?

She grumbled in her heart, stumbling like a clumsy penguin as the hem of her phoenix robe tripped her. Yet her expression showed little nervousness.

As someone who knew the story’s plot, Ye Fuguang knew Prince Qi was in a coma and couldn’t possibly wake to consummate the marriage. The only thing she needed to prepare for tonight was her mindset.

She had to get used to waking up in a five-hundred-square-meter bed in the mansion—

A college student about to go from frugality to luxury thought with bitter amusement.

Then she was stopped in front of a courtyard covered in “joy” characters. From the style of the buildings, Ye Fuguang guessed this was the main hall of Prince Qi’s mansion.

A few of the imperial guards from the wedding procession were here, dressed in black armor, looking like crows fallen into this silent winter courtyard, stark against the shabby “joy” characters on the walls.

It wasn’t the guards who stopped the mansion’s servants, but a group of people in sky-blue clothes holding wooden trays covered with red silk.

Thanks to her expertise, Ye Fuguang didn’t remember much of the novel’s plot, only the author’s bizarre settings and mixed-up background. She recognized these people as palace attendants, likely serving the emperor himself.

The leader was older, with two wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, resembling a younger Aunt Rong.

She bowed to Ye Fuguang.

“Lady Ye.”

She coldly congratulated her on her marriage to Prince Qi, her voice as icy as the icicles under the eaves. Ye Fuguang, nearly frozen stiff, wore a numb expression, guessing this woman was an NPC here to go through the motions or warn her not to disrespect the gravely ill Prince Qi.

Or perhaps to caution her against revealing what lay behind the door.

This aunt was indeed surnamed Rong. After introducing herself, she said, “Prince Qi is brave and skilled in battle, spending much time in the army, unlike other Dikun.”

Ye Fuguang nodded.

The next moment, Aunt Rong waved her hand, signaling the maids holding red silk trays to approach. When she looked at Ye Fuguang again, her wrinkles framed a strange glint in her eyes. Her lips twitched, showing a mix of pity and mockery.

“If Lady Ye wishes to enjoy the wedding night, you might need to create some fun yourself.”

She said this casually before adding, “The prince’s condition is a royal secret. Since you’ve entered Prince Qi’s mansion, you’re half a royal. Whatever happens here is family business. Don’t act like those gossiping servants with loose tongues.”

Ye Fuguang’s odd thoughts were dispelled by this blunt warning.

She sparingly thanked Aunt Rong for her advice.

Then she eagerly followed the tray-bearing maids into the warm main hall. Her frozen mind, warmed by the scent of ebony and agarwood, grew drowsy.

—

‘Creak—’

The hall doors slowly closed.

The terrifying, sharp scent of the imperial guards’ pheromones was blocked out, and the attendants disappeared. Ye Fuguang stood alone in the outer hall, looking at the vermilion walls and lifelike wooden carvings on the pillars, then turned toward the inner chamber.

She first saw the golden-red silk gauze hanging not far away.

The fine, misty fabric, woven with shimmering gold threads, sparkled like ripples on a lake under the flickering candlelight.

Prince Qi must be on the bed behind that gauze.

Staring at the hazy fabric for a while, Ye Fuguang felt hungry. She decisively turned her head, lifting the red cloths on the trays, knowing they held peanuts, melon seeds, longans, and snacks for a happy marriage.

‘Swish.’

The first red cloth was pulled off.

Inside was only a strangely shaped white jade.

“?”

Ye Fuguang looked confused and lifted the second cloth.

Rare bird feathers and a finely crafted string of bells.

She didn’t believe it and uncovered the rest of the trays, staring in shock: “…”

From left to right, then right to left, not a single edible thing.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true—

Ye Fuguang corrected herself with a blank face: nothing edible with her mouth.

She looked away, unable to bear it, belatedly understanding Aunt Rong’s earlier hint about “creating fun.”

“I’m still a student…”

She muttered with empty, despairing eyes.

Glancing at the trays again, she shook her head frantically, grabbed the red cloths from the floor, and threw them back over the items, declaring righteously to herself, “Even if you’re a beast, it’s not okay.”

Absolutely not. This wasn’t the bus to kindergarten.

…

After another small shock from crossing into this world, Ye Fuguang, trying to reject this adult life, lifted the gauze curtain and stepped into the inner chamber.

The heavy woody fragrance grew stronger. Amid the festive red, the figure lying on the bed stood out most.

The novel didn’t describe much about Prince Qi, a Dikun—

But it said plenty about the male lead, the emperor Shen Jingming, describing him as peerlessly elegant, with a pearl-like glow and a face like a beautiful woman.

As his sister from the same mother and a prince titled for military merits, Shen Jinglan’s appearance was naturally no less striking.

The entire inner chamber, made drowsy by the thick woody scent, seemed to brighten for a moment because of the person with closed eyes on the bed.

Like a burst of heavenly light.

Her pale, bloodless face, rarely touched by sunlight, was framed by ink-black hair and distant mountain-like brows, compensating for her lack of color. Her lips, with a distinct bead, were as vibrant as peach blossoms.

Even as Ye Fuguang approached, drawn in, she didn’t disturb Prince Qi. She lay motionless, like a silent blade in a museum display.

The sudden metaphor startled Ye Fuguang. Standing by the bed, looking down, she felt like she was back at a museum viewing artifacts. When she crouched to see Prince Qi’s profile, she noticed a faint pink scar at the corner of her eye.

It was a newly healed wound.

Its dangerous position made one worry if it had grazed her eyeball.

Ye Fuguang remembered Prince Qi was a renowned general in this world, a blade forged through countless battles, scarred and worn.

Scarred, yet her sharp edge remained undimmed.

The faint pink scar extended her eye’s outline, turning her stunning beauty into something fiercely captivating.

Ye Fuguang inexplicably compared her to the replica Goujian sword she saw at the provincial museum—

Unlike that ancient sword, with golden patterns holding the sands of time, Prince Qi, even in sleep, exuded an unyielding spirit refusing to be buried in defeat.

Looking at Shen Jinglan’s cascading hair, Ye Fuguang thought, with hair quality and volume that a college student envied, was she really going to die?

“…What a pity.”

Like a kitten clinging to the bedside, Ye Fuguang sighed involuntarily.

The room was utterly silent. Her soft voice, like a pebble dropped into a deep pool, stirred ripples. Feeling she’d disturbed the sleeping figure, she guiltily covered her mouth.

But Prince Qi, as written in the book, showed no reaction.

Even her eyelashes were still, like frozen butterfly wings.

Ye Fuguang held her breath, watching her for a long time. Though she didn’t know how glorious this fiercely beautiful prince was when awake, commanding the four regions, she thought she’d never seen such a stunning beauty, even in films.

A hero past her prime, a beauty fated to fall.

Shen Jinglan seemed to embody both.

Real-life historical generals rarely met good ends, and this fictional world’s Prince Qi stirred Ye Fuguang’s historian’s pity. She couldn’t help saying, “Can you not die?”

She became that unreasonable reader again, taking advantage of Prince Qi’s unconsciousness to demand her desired plot. “I haven’t truly seen a great general of iron and bl00d.”

—

Shen Jinglan was trapped in an endless hell.

Before her were soldiers who followed her into battle, covered in bl00d, their armor soaked. One, half-covered in black oil, had his face consumed by flames, becoming unrecognizable. Yet she knew this was her guard, Shen Liu.

“General…”

He called to her, reaching out, his battle-worn voice nearly broken, yet he still shouted, “General, General…”

They were her guards from the late emperor’s time, by her side since she hid her scent and sneaked into the army, rising from squad leader to camp commander. Shen Liu couldn’t read a word, only learning later as her guard to handle mansion and military matters, memorizing the names, hometowns, and preferences of her soldiers.

Shen Liu was mostly silent, doing whatever she ordered. Her guards were the same—quiet but the sharpest spears breaking enemy lines and the sturdiest shields protecting her.

They charged with her, securing much of the great dynasty’s lands before the late emperor’s rise, ascending with her to the imperial court, seeing her titled prince and minister.

Yet they always called her General.

Now, “General… Datong, Datong… General…”

Datong.

She watched his hand, before reaching her, consumed by flames and turned to ash. Her eyes refused to move, as if that could keep her heart from breaking.

Shen Jinglan remembered.

Shen Liu’s hometown was in Datong, east of the river.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted her to take them home.

…But all her guards were buried in the bitter cold of Yancheng in the northwest, lost in that defeat.

Shen Jinglan closed her eyes, thinking, ‘the eighty-eighth’.

This was the eighty-eighth ghost to find her. Some spoke to her, then bled from countless wounds, killed in arrow showers, her hands unable to stop the bl00d. Others, beheaded, left only a head smiling, asking, “What merit am I?”

What merit was she?

With such honors, could she retire to her fields?

Day after day, Shen Jinglan stood on Yancheng’s battlefield, watching familiar faces recount tales as if nothing had changed, only to crumble into bones before her.

In this hellish world, voices occasionally appeared.

“Jinglan, a Dikun is just a Dikun. No history records a Dikun general. You helped your brother and father in chaotic times, I know, but when the wars end? Don’t mistake past luck for strength.”

“Jinglan, you’re my only sister. How could I harm you? I was ill before, dragging you to war, but now it’s different. Leave it to your brother. Rest in the mansion and recover. You’ll get better.”

“How about a princess consort? A gentle, obedient Qianyuan to marry in, care for you, cherish you. What kind of Qianyuan would you like, Jinglan?”

This was Shen Jingming.

Her brother, the current emperor.

“This is Prince Qi? Pfft, my brother believed in her, thinking she was an invincible war god, following her against the enemy. And the result? Sixteen cities, just for her. My parents became refugees, my little brother didn’t return. Why does the emperor favor her, not make her pay for those soldiers’ lives?”

“Prince Qi, you should die. The people of those sixteen cities, reduced to livestock, pray for your death day and night!”

This must be a new servant in the mansion.

Shen Jinglan gazed at this scorched prison, thinking expressionlessly, how many old servants remained?

Probably all gone.

…

“What a pity.”

A soft, unfamiliar voice fell that day.

Shen Jinglan, unmoved at first, heard the voice slowly say, “Can you not die?”

Her numb, hollow eyes flickered slightly.

Who was dying?

Was it her?

Was she finally going to die?

As the thought formed, the voice broke in again: “I haven’t truly seen a great general of iron and bl00d.”

Great general.

Was that about her?

What little maid was this, unaware of the curses about her defeat? What kind of great general was she?

But the speaker couldn’t hear her self-mockery.

After those words, no more sound came.

Only those three regretful, wistful sentences echoed in her hell.

—’Can you not die?’

Childish and laughable, like a wish.

Yet it was the purest emotion she’d heard in this endless hell.

No stubbornness, no pleas, no hatred…

Who was this naive little girl sneaking into her mansion?