“If you hadn’t repeatedly embarrassed the Emperor, how would things have escalated to military confrontation? If not for protecting you, why would Jing Yuan delay for three months, reluctant to start a war, causing the Emperor’s suspicions?!” His face unusually stern, he pressed relentlessly: “My lord claims to care for Jing Yuan, but have you ever considered why the Emperor suddenly wanted his life?”
Duan Guihong was bewildered by the successive questions. He had only seen Yan Xiaohan from a distance in the capital, initially thinking him a soft, decorative figure, never expecting him to be so imposing when fully provoked. Swept by that frost-like gaze, he even felt an impulse to step back.
Yan Xiaohan continued: “You colluded privately with the Lord of Ying, using his hand to transport Qiu Ye Bai to the capital, thinking your plan was flawless and undetectable. Now exposed, you’ve implicated Jing Yuan to bear your blame. He once preferred an arranged marriage to rebellion, and now, because of your and the Lord of Ying’s schemes, his life’s work is destroyed. And you still dare to cry injustice?”
My lord, frankly, if you truly want him to live longer, control your own actions, don’t do what you shouldn’t, and don’t harbor inappropriate thoughts.”
Yan Xiaohan was mad, holding nothing back, his questioning almost directly confronting the Lord of Xiping. But Duan Guihong was too distracted to care about the offense.
“The evil you’ve sown, the one struck by lightning is him,” Yan Xiaohan said, “My lord, can you please let Jing Yuan go and stop dragging him down?”
This strike was precise and devastating, leaving Duan Guihong speechless.
“Enough,” Du Leng, busy with rescue efforts inside, finally couldn’t stand it and shouted, “Master Yan, come help!”
No one stopped him this time, and Yan Xiaohan walked straight in.
With just one glance, he felt his soul had been emptied, pain piercing his lungs mixed with post-disaster fear. Drifting like a wandering spirit, he silently approached the sickbed.
Fu Shen lay with closed eyes, pale as paper, lips bluish, half his body filled with golden needles. If not for the slight chest movement, he would be indistinguishable from a corpse.
In a moment of urgency, Yan Xiaohan rushed over and tightly embraced the struggling man, creating muffled sounds, yet not making a single groan from beginning to end.
He would not let go, not even in death.
The two remained locked in this position for an unknown duration.
Fu Shen’s struggles gradually weakened, and Yan Xiaohan suddenly felt a bit panicked. Just as he was about to ask Du Leng what was happening, he heard a weak sound from the person in his arms, followed by a spray of blood.
Yan Xiaohan’s heart instantly went cold.
Du Leng breathed a sigh of relief: “It’s done. It’s good that the blood is cleared out.”
Yan Xiaohan said nothing, not daring to relax. He would never forget this night for the rest of his life – Fu Shen vomiting blood in his arms, watching the blood change from purple-black to deep red, until the entire room was filled with a heavy bloody smell. Their clothes were covered in blood.
At that moment, he suddenly felt no pain or anxiety, but an unusually calm state. Holding the dying man, he had only one thought: if Fu Shen died, he would go to the capital, behead the emperor, and then stab himself to accompany him.
Duan Guihong entered the inner room at some unknown time. Fu Shen had stopped vomiting blood and fallen into a coma. He stood a short distance away. Seeing that Yan Xiaohan showed no reaction, he awkwardly coughed: “Well… cough, why don’t you go change your clothes, bandage your wounds, and then come back to watch over him?”
Yan Xiaohan slightly turned his head, apparently having heard him. He supported Fu Shen’s head and carefully laid him back on the pillow, then stood up.
With a straight back and a cold yet polite demeanor, he nodded to Duan Guihong: “Trouble the Prince to send someone with a basin of hot water. I’ll clean him before bathing.”
“Ah,” Duan Guihong was surprised by his politeness: “Okay.”
The person who had just spoken like a knife and was red-eyed with urgency now seemed to have changed souls, surrounded by a cold aura that kept others at a distance, becoming calm and restrained.
Yan Xiaohan cleaned Fu Shen, changed him into clean clothes, and then returned to sit by Fu Shen’s bed the entire night under a dim lamp.
In the long, quiet autumn night, he held Fu Shen’s hand that he could never warm up, and placed a light, fleeting kiss on his cracked lips.
Internal flames rising, hatred surging, yet that kiss was gentle and restrained, like a beautiful dream he dared not shatter.
Yan Xiaohan whispered in his ear: “I will kill him.”
Chapter 77: Awakening | Gold Beans Falling from the Sky Woke Me Up
The world was a cold, hard gray-white, and he felt like he was trapped in an iron-gray cage, unable to distinguish day from night or feel the passage of time, with only a weak consciousness continuously asking: Who am I? Where am I?
The gray world gradually brightened.
He reached out and touched a rough stone texture, which triggered some memories. He remembered – this was the wall of Yanzhou City.
When he was eight, his second uncle had taken him to the grasslands, to the strictly defended North Yan military base, and they had climbed the city gate tower of Yanzhou.
He was just a tiny child, not even as tall as the wall’s crenellations, stretching his little hands to grab the wall’s cracks, lifted onto Fu Ting Xin’s shoulders.
In an instant, the world became vast, the mountains and rivers distant.
Outside the city were endless mountains and grasslands, inside were neat and clean houses and streets. Outside were sentries and lazily grazing war horses; inside were people coming and going, and steamer baskets selling buns, lifting the lid to release a large cloud of white steam.
“Shall we go back?” Fu Ting Xin carried him on his shoulders, turning to descend the city wall: “The sky is darkening. It’s about to rain.”
He reached out naively, and indeed, a raindrop fell from the vast blue-gray sky.
The scene suddenly changed.
This time, he stood atop Yanzhou’s city wall, grown tall like a cold iron blade standing against the wind, with a dark mass of Zhe tribal troops outside.
He no longer needed to sit on anyone’s shoulders to overlook this land.
“General,” a young deputy in black armor approached, “The North Yan cavalry is assembled and ready to fight.”
“Good,” he reached out into the air, catching a raindrop that suddenly fell, muttering: “It’s raining.”
The scene changed.
He knelt in the pouring rain, soaked through, his bright red clothes spread out. Cold rainwater continuously hit his face. His mind was blank, vaguely feeling something was missing, asking himself: Who am I waiting for?
Countless scenes flashed before his eyes, showing familiar or blurry faces, yet never the person who should be deeply remembered.
But he had no memories of that person.
The scene froze. The rain continued outside, leaving only the sound of rain. He leaned on a fire-stoking stick, legs crossed, his gaze wandering, falling on a man by the fire.
That person seemed cold towards him, indifferent, unwilling to look at him.
He thought: Did I offend him?
Carefully recalling, he seemed to have said something that didn’t sound quite right, causing the man’s expression to change immediately.
Memories surged with the ethereal rain sounds, and the cold droplets on his face made him realize they weren’t raindrops.
“Leaving him alone in this world, I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes even in death.”
Why won’t you say something?
