Chapter Thirty-Three: Knots in the Heart (3)

In an obscure residence somewhere in the capital, four men clad in black knelt rigidly on the floor. One knelt at the forefront, their heads bowed so low that their faces were entirely hidden. Before them stood a young man with his hands clasped behind his back—it was A Sheng, servant of the Ye household, eldest son of Liu Heng, the Prince of Jingjiang, and heir to the title. He turned sharply, the movement laced with a chilling swiftness, and kicked the leader in the chest. Blood immediately spilled from the man’s lips, yet he remained motionless. A cold, emotionless voice echoed, “I deserve to die, I deserve to die.”

Rage blazed in A Sheng’s eyes, his voice suddenly harsh. “I always believed you were dependable. Now even the simplest task is botched. What is the point of my father keeping you?”

Such stern reproach rendered these assassins, trained in the most severe disciplines, even more ashamed. They were once the prince’s most prized killers, but now, such humiliation…

They bowed their heads even lower.

“Where is Cold Night?” A Sheng’s voice was as chill and clear as jade, cold enough to pierce the soul.

Cold Night, who had been waiting outside, stepped in upon hearing the summons. Before he could steady himself, a resounding slap landed on his face. He showed no reaction, simply kneeling before A Sheng.

A Sheng gripped his chin, staring intensely, his lips curling into a frosty smile after a long silence. “Cold Night, you know well my father wishes to gain the favor of the Ye family. Abducting their daughter was merely a warning. Yet your men failed even at this, injuring her in the process. If it can’t be traced to you, so be it. But if it is discovered, and the Ye family is pushed into opposing my father, what then?”

“Forgive me, heir. The fault lies in my poor guidance,” Cold Night replied, his voice as detached and icy as every member of this assassin group.

A Sheng released his chin and stood with hands behind his back, a cruel smile on his lips. “The rules of Cold Night were set by yourselves. You know how to punish your own mistakes. I need not teach you.”

Without blinking, Cold Night drew a short blade from his side. In a flash, his little finger was severed, blood streaming from the wound, filling the air with the scent of iron. He merely frowned.

A Sheng sneered, “Send these four away at once. Leave no trace. If anyone finds a clue and ruins my father’s plans, you know the consequences.”

That night, Cold Night dispatched the four men who participated in the operation to the southwestern troops. Keeping them in the capital would only invite disaster.

Though the knife had struck deep, it was to the abdomen, sparing her life. Ye Qianran lost much blood and remained unconscious for two days, waking only in the afternoon of the third day. Her face was pale as translucent glass. When Juan Bi saw her wake, she threw aside the tea and pastries in her hands and rushed out, shouting before she’d even crossed the threshold, “Master, madam, young master—miss is awake, miss is awake!”

Ye Qianran managed a weak smile. The little maid was as lively as ever. To awaken and hear such a voice felt endearing; during her coma, she had thought she might die and never see them again.

Ye An supported his mother as they entered, followed by his father. Ye Qianran tried to rise, but her mother quickly waved her back, gently sitting at the bedside and tucking her in. Before speaking, she took up her handkerchief to wipe away tears. Ye Qianran smiled weakly and soothed her, “Mother, don’t be sad. I’m all right.”

Wen Qiumei hastily dried her tears and nodded, “It’s happiness, not sorrow. You finally woke up. If you hadn’t, your mother would have died from fear.”

Ye An joked, “Little sister, you don’t know—the whole Ye household has been turned upside down these past two days. If you hadn’t woken up, the place would be chaos.”

Wen Qiumei shot Ye An a reproachful glance, then smiled, “Look at your brother—almost married, and still acts like a child. Aren’t you afraid people will laugh?”

Ye An playfully hopped to the bedside and hugged Wen Qiumei, his face full of childish delight. “Before my parents, I’ll always be a child.”

Ye Yuan Dao sat at the rosewood table, his face relieved after days of worry. Ye Qianran looked at her father, sensing he had something to ask. She tried to explain, but he waved her off. “Let it be. Rest for now; we’ll talk later.”

The sun dipped toward the west, birds returned to their nests, and the dying light stained the sky like blood. Outside, the leaves of the plane trees slowly faded to yellow. Ye Qianran lay in bed, and Juan Bi, fearing she would be bored, recounted all that had happened during her coma. With each word, Ye Qianran’s heart grew colder. Sister Meng and Qing Feng had visited, but Liu Yun, who brought her back that night, had not come again.

Juan Bi continued her dramatic narration—how Liu Yun carried her home, his body soaked in blood, his face terrifying, as if returning from the underworld, and so on…

But Ye Qianran’s mind wandered far away, Juan Bi’s voice growing distant and hazy.

Does he truly care so little?

Toward evening, Ye An accompanied Qing Feng to visit her. Her face remained ghostly pale, lips drained of all color, so fragile she might dissipate like mist at any moment. She said nothing. The person she wished to see was not here—the one she wished to see did not wish to see her.

She buried her head under the covers, and tears slipped down despite herself.

Ye An patted Qing Feng’s shoulder, signaling him to comfort her, then closed the door and left. The room fell into a deep silence.

Qing Feng sat by the bed, sighing after a long pause. He asked, “Don’t you want to ask what Liu Yun is doing?” No answer came. The candlelight stretched his shadow long and lonely as he gazed at the embroidered bamboo leaves on the quilt, his voice distant. “Liu Yun is sometimes indifferent, sometimes stubborn as an ox. Once he sets his heart on someone, it’s hard for him to change. He cannot harbor two people at once. You must give him time to decide. If he still chooses his past in the end, then he is not worth your love. Let him go.”

The body beneath the covers trembled violently, yet still no response.

When Qing Feng returned to the Minister’s residence, Liu Yun was calmly discussing current affairs with their father, seemingly unaware of the distant sorrow of another heart. Qing Feng, seeing him so composed, felt a surge of anger, but could not confront him before their father, so he simply left.

Zhuge Qingtian was puzzled, wondering who had offended him now.

Liu Yun smiled, finished his conversation with their father, and went out to find him.

Zhuge Liu Yun wandered through the garden, brushing past flowers and willow branches, and found him at the waterside pavilion. His dark robes fluttered in the night wind like a butterfly. Overhead, the moon hung cold and high; the lake shimmered with chilly light. On the stone table lay a few cups, and the air was heavy with the scent of osmanthus.

He sat opposite Qing Feng, raised a cup and drank it dry, then smiled, “You rarely get angry. What’s happened today?”

Zhuge Qing Feng did not answer. After a long silence, he rose and stood with hands behind his back. “You didn’t go. She is disappointed, said not a word.”

The hand Liu Yun used to hold the cup paused, then he lifted it again, swallowing another cup of wine. The smile vanished from his lips. “I know.”

Qing Feng turned and sat on the railing, his slender fingers gripping it tightly, his gaze fixed on Liu Yun. “I’ve asked you the same question from the start, but you’ve never answered. Will you answer now?”

“What question?”

“Do you truly not like her, or is it guilt over Lian Xin that keeps you from loving her? Or perhaps you are afraid—afraid you’ll repeat Lian Xin’s tragedy?”

Liu Yun’s brows drew together slightly. He raised another cup to drink, but Qing Feng stopped him. “Do you intend to keep running forever?”

Liu Yun looked at his younger brother, whose features resembled his own, broke free from Qing Feng’s grip, and drained the cup.

“You’re right. It’s not that I don’t like her. I just don’t know if I can allow myself to. The last lesson was too painful, and I still can’t breathe from its weight. I don’t want history to repeat itself, nor do I wish to harm others or myself.” He spoke slowly, each word clear.

Under Qing Feng’s gaze, he rose, the night wind lifting his snow-white robes, spotless, his silhouette stubborn and solitary.

A sudden bitterness welled up in Qing Feng’s heart. He grabbed Liu Yun’s arm, forcing him to turn, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. “Why don’t you know? If you like her, you like her. There’s no such thing as not knowing whether you can. No one restricts your feelings—why suppress yourself?”

“And you? Why do you suppress yourself?” Liu Yun turned to look at Qing Feng, asking quietly.

Qing Feng’s hand slipped from his arm, staring at him in a daze.

“You say you dislike the official world, that your greatest wish is to travel the land. But why are you always entangled in my affairs? Because you feel guilty. You think that if you hadn’t insisted on leaving, the burden of the Zhuge family wouldn’t have fallen solely on me, and father wouldn’t have been so strict. You even believe that if you had stayed, father might have allowed me to marry Lian Xin. But I’ve told you countless times—everyone has their own fate. I was born the eldest son of the Zhuge family. Whether you stayed or left, it wouldn’t change my destiny. I want too much, and can’t let go of too much, so I’m doomed to gain nothing. It has nothing to do with you, nor with father.” His words were candid, as if speaking of someone else, his face devoid of emotion.

“So,” he paused, “no matter whom I marry, whether I’m happy or not, it’s none of your concern. That’s my own choice. Your world is the vast lands beyond, and you shouldn’t remain in the capital worrying over me, nor exhaust yourself trying to protect me. I am two years older than you, and always will be. Some things, I will always understand better than you.”

Qing Feng looked up at the cold moon, a lone crow perched on a branch, autumn winds bleak and growing stronger, the noise of summer cicadas replaced by the night’s crickets. He stood in the pavilion, dew soaking his dark robes, and did not leave until dawn broke in the east, dragging his heavy steps home.