“Did you hear the night watchwomen outside when you entered Wang Yun Zhai?” Chuxia hesitated before saying, “I think I did.” Cang Qianlang scoffed, splashing the now cold tea on her face to prevent her from fainting, and continued, “The watchwomen saw someone entering Wang Yun Zhai at the third watch. Your quarters are below Wang Yun Zhai, right?” Chuxia gave a low affirmative. Cang Qianlang’s voice cooled, “So, it was you they saw?” Chuxia, now more awake from the shock of the cold water, trembled violently, nodding, “Yes.”
“Why did you stay in Wang Yun Zhai for so long? What exactly did you do?” Chuxia’s face showed confusion, “Just changing the coal.”
Seeing Chuxia’s suffering, He Butuo felt a twinge of pity and gently advised, “Little girl, just tell the truth. Why endure so much pain?” Chuxia was cold, in pain, and her crying strength was fading, yet she shook her head, refusing to confess. After a standoff that lasted the time for an incense stick to burn, Cang Qianlang grew impatient, his lips tightening, “The young master will be back in a few days, and this happens at home. You won’t talk? Fine—” He stretched out his hand, and a servant, understanding his intent, handed him a nine-sectioned whip studded with barbs. One lash from this whip would surely tear flesh. He tested its flexibility with a few flicks, “I’ll ask you one last time, will you talk?” Chuxia saw the fearsome weapon from the corner of her eye, her long eyelashes fluttering, but she still shook her head, “I didn’t kill her.” Cang Qianlang’s wrist moved, the whip about to strike Chuxia’s frail form, when suddenly a sharp sound cut through the air, and something like a hidden weapon shifted the whip aside by inches, narrowly missing the girl. Cang Qianlang paused, his gaze falling to the ground where a dry twig had deflected his whip. Outside the courtyard, guards stood with torches, all bowing in silence. At the doorway, a young man in a white fox-fur cloak, his hair bound with a jade pin, stood with an expressionless face.
