MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 204: Where is it?

Chapter 204: Where is it?

The road had long since vanished.

There was no path now—just earth and grass, rocks biting into the soles of her shoes and thorned bushes tugging at her already torn robes.

Hua Jing stumbled again.

Her legs ached. Her ankles were raw from walking. Her mouth was dry, and her back was slick with sweat despite the biting morning cold. Every breath burned. But she did not stop.

She could not stop.

Zhao Yan needed her.

The horizon had turned pale. A wash of grey and dull pink as dawn broke over the hills.

She hadn’t slept.

Not even for a second.

There had been no place to. And more than that—there had been no time. Not when she could feel the sun rising like a knife at her back. Not when she could feel every passing moment as a nail in the coffin of the man she loved.

Zhao Ling Xu’s voice still rang in her ears:

"If the poison reaches his heart before noon, he will not survive."

She tightened her grip on the sash at her waist, where the vial of poison still pressed against her ribs. Cold. A reminder. A curse.

She pressed forward, each step heavier than the last.

Her hair was no longer neatly tied. Strands clung to her face, wet with sweat and dew. Her sleeves were torn, stained with mud, the hem of her dress frayed from dragging across broken ground.

Still, she walked.

She reached a bend in the trail—if it could even be called that—and paused to catch her breath.

Below her, faint in the mist, was a man walking alone with a bundle of firewood strapped to his back. His gait was slow, hunched. He was old—his hair white, his back slightly bent, his face nearly hidden beneath the brim of his straw hat.

She called out, voice hoarse:

"Excuse me! Old sir—!"

The man stopped but did not turn.

She approached him with trembling steps.

"Please," she said, "is this the Third Province?"

The man gave a slow, deliberate nod.

Hua Jing’s heart leapt. "Do you... do you know a man named Gu Wei? I’ve been searching for him."

At this, the man turned his head—just slightly. His face was lined with age, with wisdom. His eyes were sharp, but unreadable.

Then—he shook his head.

"No," he said, simply. But there was a strange silence afterward.

Hua Jing felt it.

He was hiding something.

But there was no time.

She bowed quickly. "Thank you anyway," she said, voice tight.

And then she turned and walked away.

The old man didn’t move. He stood there for a long while, watching her. His eyes followed her back—up the winding hill, until she disappeared into the trees.

Only then did he start walking again.

---

The climb was cruel.

The slope steepened. Her breath grew shallow. Her legs barely moved.

There were no houses. No signs of life. Just wind and birdsong and the distant rush of water.

She passed a small shrine built into the hillside—abandoned, crumbling. She whispered a prayer beneath her breath, too tired to form the words aloud.

She kept walking.

She asked again when she saw a farmer hauling a basket of herbs. But he simply looked at her and walked away.

Another woman passed her on the trail. A young girl with a sickle slung across her back. Hua Jing called out—but the girl didn’t even look her way.

No one answered.

No one helped.

Her strength began to leave her body piece by piece.

It was nearing midmorning.

The sun had risen fully now, casting long shadows across the trees.

She sat beneath a tree at the next bend in the trail, gasping. Her lungs burned. Her throat was too dry to speak. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the edge of her sleeve and wiped the sweat from her brow.

"I can’t stop..." she whispered. "Not now..."

And so she rose.

And walked.

The final house stood at the very top of the hill.

It was quiet. Tucked into the edge of the forest, the roof moss-covered, the walls lined with herbs and drying roots. Outside, thick smoke curled into the air from an open fire. Pots sat bubbling on a large wooden stove, their contents dark, pungent, acrid.

She stumbled closer.

A man stood near the stove, carefully tending the pots with a long wooden spoon. He was old—his beard grey, his robe patched and worn, his hair tied in a loose knot. But there was something sharp in his movements. He moved like someone with perfect balance. Someone who knew things.

Hua Jing took a shaky step forward.

"Ex... excuse me..."

The words came out wrong. Her tongue barely obeyed her.

The man didn’t turn.

But he paused.

She tried again. "Please... I need..."

And then—

Her knees buckled.

All the strength left her body.

The last thing she saw was the thick, rising smoke.

And the man—finally turning to look at her—just as her body crumpled into the dirt.

The old man stared at her for a long moment.

She hadn’t stirred.

Not a twitch. Not a groan. She’d collapsed like a doll with the strings cut, her body curled slightly at the base of the firewood stack, face pale and lips trembling from exhaustion.

He clicked his tongue.

"So weak," he muttered.

He stepped forward, crouched beside her, and leaned down. Her breath was shallow but steady. No visible wounds. Her pulse, faint but present.

A sigh escaped him.

"Why would anyone climb all the way to the top of this godforsaken hill with such unstable Qi?" he mumbled. "The girl’s barely got enough spiritual energy to heat a kettle."

Still, his hands were careful as he slid his arms beneath her back and knees, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all. Her head lolled gently against his shoulder.

He carried her to the shaded corner of his small porch, setting her down on a straw mat. He adjusted her limbs to make her more comfortable, then took a small bundle of cloth from inside his robe and unwrapped it—herbal needles, crushed roots, and a half-dried lotus stem.

With practiced ease, he crushed the herbs between two stones, mixed them into water from a clay jug, and brought the bowl to her lips.

"No point waiting for you to wake up on your own," he said, glancing at her closed eyes. "You’ll be dead before the sun sets at this rate."

Carefully, he parted her lips and let the bitter mixture slide into her mouth.

As he worked, he removed the bag tied at her waist. The sword, tucked beneath the sash, clattered softly as he set it aside.

"Hm?" He paused.

He looked at her again—her soft features, now slack with sleep. She had the face of a noble girl, no doubt. A girl used to sweet pastries and silk slippers. The kind that cried at bee stings and got lost in flower gardens.

But she carried a sword.

And not just any sword—it was slim, elegantly forged, well-maintained. Not decorative.

Real.

He frowned.

"What does a girl like you need a blade for?" he muttered. "Running from someone? Hunting someone?"

He ran a finger along the hilt. Her hand had gripped this tightly, he could tell. This was no borrowed weapon.

"She’s not just wandering," he said to himself. "She came here for something."

As he set the sword aside, a soft clink drew his attention.

A small vial rolled from the folds of her sash.

He caught it—too late.

It slipped from his fingers, hit the stone, and shattered.

A pungent, metallic smell filled the air.

The old man’s eyes narrowed. He crouched low and dipped two fingers into the spilled liquid, then sniffed.

His face froze.

"...Widow’s Poison," he whispered.

His eyes shifted to Hua Jing.

And stayed there.

He stood up slowly, rubbing his fingers against his palm.

"So that’s what this is about..."

He turned, walked back to the bubbling pots, and stirred the contents slowly, his mind racing faster than the steam rising from the water.

---

It was nearly midday when Hua Jing stirred.

The room was dimly lit, the scent of herbs and smoke thick in the air. Thin paper windows allowed narrow shafts of sunlight to stream across the floor. Her head was pounding. Her limbs ached.

But she was alive.

She blinked.

"Where...?" Her voice cracked.

She sat up slowly—her back sore, her body still heavy from fatigue.

She was lying on a simple wooden cot, covered in a coarse blanket. Her robes had been dried and laid neatly beside her. A kettle simmered on a stove in the corner. Wind rustled faintly outside.

"I... I made it?" she whispered.

Then it hit her.

Zhao Yan!

She shot up.

"Oh no!" she gasped, eyes wide.

Her knees gave out for a second, and she stumbled back onto the cot, hands shaking.

"I was supposed to find Gu Wei... the antidote... the poison..."

She looked down.

Her bag—gone.

The vial.

The vial!

Her hands searched frantically at her waist. But the sash had been untied.

"Where is it?!" she cried. "Where—?"