Lingering Warmth, the Last Feast in the West District Courtyard

"Serena, I'm leaving. Does that make you happy?"

Of course she was happy, but seeing Ninth Royal Uncle looking ready to explode, Serena didn’t dare say so. If Nolan changed his mind and insisted on staying, that would be a problem.

"Ninth Royal Uncle, I won’t be living in the West District courtyard much longer either. The Feng Marquisate is about to be rebuilt, so I’ll be moving soon." In other words, we’re both leaving around the same time—don’t take it personally.

Nolan’s mood improved a little at Serena’s words. Since leaving was inevitable, he might as well seek some comfort before he went. He shook his bloodied right hand: "My hand’s injured. Bandage it for me and let me rest for one night. I’ll leave first thing in the morning—is that too much to ask?"

He deliberately dragged out the last word, making it sound like a question but giving Serena no chance to refuse.

Just one night—not unreasonable. Serena certainly wouldn’t make Nolan unhappy over something so trivial. No matter what, they were partners; antagonizing him too much wouldn’t be wise.

Serena invited Nolan to the study to treat his wound. Nolan didn’t object and deliberately slowed his steps, signaling his shadow guards to clear out everyone from the West District courtyard before nightfall—by any means necessary. Even if they had to drug people to knock them out, he didn’t want to see anyone irrelevant or likely to spoil his plans after dark.

After all, by tomorrow he’d be back at Ninth Prince Manor. A little forcefulness tonight—no one would dare complain.

The shadow guard nodded expressionlessly. After Nolan left, he vented his frustration by shaking a tree violently.

Master, you know perfectly well who’s living in this courtyard. Ugh… The others are manageable, but what about the Valley Master of the Divine Healer Valley and Holden Cui? Both are big shots. And then there are the guards from Prince Samuel Manor—how are we supposed to deal with them?

The shadow guard clutched his head and rammed into the wall, yanking his hair in utter despair.

Whether it was intentional or not, Nolan’s right hand injury wasn’t serious, but cleaning it up was a nightmare. The flesh on his fingers was shredded, packed with tiny splinters. Serena used the finest tweezers, but even those couldn’t get them out—she had to pick each one out with a thin needle, one by one.

Forget about any tender, caring scene or Serena fussing over Nolan’s pain. She was a doctor—a battlefield doctor, no less. She’d seen every kind of wound. Compared to those, Nolan’s injury was minor. In desperate times, she wouldn’t even bother bandaging it—just rinse it hard with water, sprinkle some ash to stop the bleeding, and move on.

Serena didn’t care if she hurt Nolan. She did what needed to be done. After half an hour, she’d cleaned out all the splinters, applied medicine, and wrapped his hand in layer after layer of clean gauze.

"Don’t let the wound get wet for the next few days." Standard instructions, nothing to do with concern or worry.

"How long until it heals?" Nolan waggled his bandaged, bun-like hand. With his right hand out of commission, lots of things were inconvenient—especially hugging Serena.

"Three to five days, then you can take the bandage off." It was just a flesh wound—no damage to bone or tendon. Serena had wrapped it so thick out of sheer annoyance at Nolan. If he weren’t so hard to deal with, she’d have drawn pigs on the bandage just to see how dignified and lofty he could look.

From start to finish, Serena was all business. Nolan never suspected she was messing with him. He just sat there, watching her clean up the medicine tray.

Serena had just finished tidying up and was about to remind Nolan it was time to leave when Spring arrived to announce, "My lord, miss, it’s time for your meal."

"Eat with me," Nolan said, seizing the chance. Seeing Serena’s reluctance, he added, "This is my last lunch here. What, Serena—you don’t want to share my last meal in the West District courtyard?"

Nolan made a point of stressing the words "last meal"—a clear threat: if Serena didn’t eat with him, he wouldn’t leave.

Fine, Nolan—you win.

"Alright, Nolan, you go ahead. I’ll wash my hands." Serena didn’t want to argue over something so trivial. Besides, eating together wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

Nolan wasn’t just good at seizing opportunities—he knew how to create them. When Serena entered the dining room, she found it empty except for Nolan himself.

At first, Serena didn’t think much of it. She followed the rule of ‘no talking while eating or sleeping,’ picked up her bowl, and started eating. But soon she noticed something was off: there was a constant clatter of dishes, and food kept spilling.

Was Nolan’s table manners really this bad?

Serena silently put down her bowl and looked up…

There he was—Dominic Zhai’s uncle, the most esteemed Ninth Royal Uncle in all the land, now utterly disheveled, awkwardly battling his food with his left hand.

Never mind how much he managed to eat—just look at the mess on the table, the stains on his clothes and the soup on his robes. Clearly, Nolan’s left hand wasn’t very dexterous.

He was a mess, but Nolan acted as if nothing was wrong, perfectly calm as he continued to mangle his food. Serena couldn’t take it anymore and set down her chopsticks: "Nolan, let me have a maid serve you." In other words: she was offering to have someone feed him.

"No need." Nolan finally managed to pick up a piece of greens, about to eat it—only to have it slip and land on his clothes. He calmly brushed the vegetable off and kept going.

If Nolan’s right hand were truly crippled, this would be an inspiring story of overcoming disability. Serena wouldn’t comment. But his hand was only temporarily out of commission—did he really have to massacre his food like this?

"Let me get you a spoon." Nolan wasn’t suffering, but Serena was. She’d finished her whole bowl, while he’d barely managed a bite. She even spotted a grain of rice at the corner of his mouth—honestly, it was kind of funny.

"No need." This time, Nolan’s response was through gritted teeth.

Serena understood—Nolan didn’t want anyone to see him like this, didn’t want to lose face in front of outsiders. But… at this rate, not only could he not eat properly, he was ruining her appetite too.

Unable to persuade Nolan, Serena just picked up her bowl and kept eating. But Nolan’s side was a mess—suddenly, with a crash, his bowl slipped right off the table.

"Careful." Luckily Serena reacted fast, scrambling to catch the bowl. Still, food splattered everywhere. She looked up at Nolan—clearly embarrassed, but trying hard to act calm, pretending nothing had happened. Serena had to stifle a laugh.

Nolan: Which eye of yours saw me pretending? I wasn’t embarrassed at all. So what if I dropped a bowl? If you want compensation, I’ll just give myself to you…