Qian Manjiang awoke hungry the next morning, having not eaten a single grain of rice since the day before.
Opening his eyes, he found himself lying on a carved and jade-inlaid bed, in a room exquisitely arranged, with a faint fragrance wafting through the air, and a "Flute Playing under the Moon" picture hanging on the wall. The painting, with its free and graceful style, was unmistakably the work of the most famous contemporary painter, Pan Zi'an.
Prince Consort Pan?
Qian Manjiang's muddled thoughts suddenly became clear. Yes, when he had been chased with nowhere to turn yesterday, it was Prince Consort Pan who had saved him. After that, he knew nothing.
Glancing at himself, he was dressed in clean white inner robes. Touching his hair, it was smooth and clean, carrying a pleasant scent of soapberries. He had been in ragged clothes and drenched in sweat the day before.
Could it be that this was Prince Consort Pan's home? Had he entered Capital City?
