Chapter Seventy: Tremendous Upheaval

Wei Zhuang arranged for Ye Qianran to stay in a small building within the Cloud Garden. As evening fell, the men Wei Zhuang had dispatched returned to report, “We had just arrived at the Ye residence and had not yet had the chance to inform Master Ye and his family when the soldiers surrounded the estate. We could only watch from the outskirts. Master Ye, Madam Ye, Young Master Ye, and Second Miss have all been captured.”

Wei Zhuang glanced at Ye Qianran, waved the servants away, and asked, “Are you alright?” But as he spoke, he saw her face grow even paler. With trembling hands, Ye Qianran propped herself up and managed a wan, fragile smile. “I expected this. I knew this would happen. It’s alright. It’s alright.”

Wei Zhuang watched her frail and unsteady figure, reaching out to support her, but she evaded his touch, waving her hands weakly. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” She skirted around him, stumbling forward, aimless and lost. Wei Zhuang caught her hand from behind. “Qianran.”

Ye Qianran suddenly wrenched her hand free. “Don’t touch me,” she said coldly, her voice stripped of all emotion, and continued toward the door. Wei Zhuang quickly moved to block her path. “What are you trying to do?”

She did not even spare him a glance. “That’s none of your concern.” She attempted to brush past him, but he seized her by the arm, his tone tinged with anger. “Ye Qianran!”

It was as if a taut string had suddenly snapped. Ye Qianran, as though possessed, shook off his hand and erupted in a hysterical cry, “It’s all my fault! All of this is my doing. I brought this calamity upon them. If only I’d agreed to marry Zhang Yu, none of this would have happened to my family. If I hadn’t offended Wu Ling, they wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to entrap my father. It’s all my fault, all my fault…” Her final words were choked with sobs, wrung painfully from her throat, each syllable laced with heart-rending anguish.

Wei Zhuang bit his lip and gripped her arms. “Qianran, calm down. This isn’t your fault. Everything that happens has its own place and reason. There’s no escaping fate. None of this is because of you, so don’t blame yourself.”

“No, you don’t understand. It is my fault. I shouldn’t have come back. I should have stayed in Jiangnan for the rest of my life. Father was right to send me away when I was a child. I only bring disaster to the Ye family. I deserve this, I truly do…” As she spoke, her eyes were wide with bitter hatred, as if she wanted to destroy the world itself. “Qianran, you couldn’t have known things would turn out this way. No one could have predicted any of this.” But she seemed not to hear him. Suddenly, as if struck by an idea, she shoved Wei Zhuang aside. “Yes, it’s all my fault. I’m the one truly responsible. My family is innocent. I must turn myself in. I’ll exchange myself for their freedom.” With that, she moved to leave.

Wei Zhuang’s anxiety spiked. He grabbed her again, his voice rising, “Qianran, are you mad? This won’t solve anything!”

“Yes, I am mad! Why did you save me? I’d rather be in prison with them than sit here alone. I am the true culprit, the one to blame!” She spat out each word, stabbing her finger into her chest as if trying to gouge out her own heart. “How do you expect me to live with myself? Let me go. I must surrender myself. I have to save them. Let me go!”

But Wei Zhuang’s grip only tightened. Ye Qianran hadn’t realized how strong he was, nor how much force she herself possessed, but no amount of kicking and struggling could break his hold. She was struck with the helplessness of her situation—how powerless she was in the face of all that had transpired. The more she understood this, the more desperately she fought, like someone who, though knowing hope is lost, insists on one final bet.

The harder she struggled, the weaker she became, her breath growing thin, her strength failing. She realized that her world had been upended; the life she had spent two years adjusting to had shattered in an instant. “Let me go! Let me go! No one can stop me—not even you. Let me go!” Her voice was nearly lost to despair, a hysterical plea.

A sharp crack rang out—the slap landed across Ye Qianran’s face. The room fell abruptly silent.

Outside, dusk had deepened. The autumn wind surged through the open windows, making the candle flames flicker uncertainly. Ye Qianran looked at Wei Zhuang for a long while before speaking in a muted, almost detached voice, “Thank you.”

She was not an unreasonable woman; she knew that remorse and regret were useless now. The events had unfolded too violently, too swiftly, for her to bear. But now, in this instant, she was truly awake. Tears and death held no more power—what was done could not be undone. All that remained was to live with clear eyes and seek any opportunity that might arise.

She truly had nothing left. No amount of pleading or willfulness would change that; there was no one left to help her. The ones who loved her most had been thrown into prison. Once, they had always protected her—now, it was her turn to protect them.

Wei Zhuang looked down at the hand with which he had struck her, clenching and unclenching his fist, scarcely able to believe he had truly hit her. That face, delicate as a blossom, was one he had struck.

Closing the door behind him, Wei Zhuang gave Juan Bi a few instructions, then, alone, took his horse and rode to Shuanglin Temple. There were matters he had to make clear.

To win, one must know both oneself and one’s enemy.

Tonight, the sky was devoid of moon and stars. The vault above was a deep, oppressive blue, the clouds hanging so low it seemed rain might fall at any moment.

Wei Zhuang tethered his horse to an ancient tree before the temple and ascended the steps. Within, the sound of chanting drifted through the air, at once intimate and remote, otherworldly yet stirring to the soul—a celestial music that seemed to transcend the mundane.

In the main hall, the monks were performing their evening prayers. In a chamber behind the hall, beneath the glow of a solitary lamp, Yan Qing sat reading an old volume, resembling nothing so much as a scholar, lodging for the night in the capital on his way to the imperial examinations, for want of travel funds.

Yet who would guess that this seemingly youthful, scholarly man, with all his pride and talent, would one day turn an age of peace and prosperity into chaos, and then, by his own hand, reshape it into another world altogether?

Some are born for troubled times. They do not distinguish good from evil, nor are they bound by the so-called will of heaven. Their stage is wherever their ambition and talents may be realized. They do not seek fame or merit—only to live a life true to themselves.

Wei Zhuang revered such men, though he did not envy them. He knew he himself could never be one—he cared for too much, and had too many ties he could not sever.

Wei Zhuang pushed open the door and entered. Yan Qing turned a page without so much as glancing up. “I knew you would come,” he said, setting the book aside. “Though I must admit, you’re earlier than I expected.”

Wei Zhuang allowed himself a faint smile and sat down. “I’m not as patient as you.”

Yan Qing poured two cups of cool tea. “I have only tea—do not despise it.”

Wei Zhuang accepted a cup. “You always choose to stay in places like this. When have I ever complained?”

Yan Qing smiled. “That’s true.”

Wei Zhuang set down his cup. “What do you plan to do now? This matter seems to have veered from your intended course.”

Yan Qing stood and listened to the murmuring stream behind the mountain. The air was fragrant with wild grass and fallen leaves. “As long as Ye Yuandao agrees to join the Sixth Prince, I can have Zhang Jing release him from prison immediately.”

“But in that case, Zhang Jing’s identity will be exposed,” Wei Zhuang said, a trace of uncertainty in his voice. He rarely questioned Yan Qing’s plans, but this time, as it involved Ye Yuandao, he knew a little—though not much.

“To save someone, there must always be sacrifice. If Ye Yuandao agrees to support the Sixth Prince, there is no need for Zhang Jing to remain in the capital. His presence or absence makes little difference here.” Yan Qing turned to look at Wei Zhuang. “You promised not to interfere in this matter. You’re not going back on your word, are you?”

Wei Zhuang rose and gazed at the Buddha image on the southern wall, arms folded, eyes narrowed. “Since you have a way to save Ye Yuandao’s family, there’s no need for me to meddle further. You know I’ve never been enthusiastic about these affairs.”

Yan Qing chuckled. “That’s true.”

Wei Zhuang lingered over the painting for a while before turning, as if recalling something. “You told me before that Zhuge Liuyun was dead. Was that true?”

Yan Qing fixed him with a long, steady look before speaking slowly. “Why would I lie to you? Zhuge Liuyun was indeed wounded in the Battle of Changxi—the injuries were said to be serious. Whether he survived, I do not know. But if I were you, I’d hope he was dead.”

Wei Zhuang snatched the teacup from the table and, with a sharp flick, tossed it at Yan Qing. Caught off-guard, Yan Qing barely managed to catch it, heaving a sigh of relief. “Are you trying to murder me?”

Wei Zhuang let out a soft snort. “I never said I wished Zhuge Liuyun dead.” With those final words, he strode out into the autumn wind.

Yan Qing sighed, placing the cup back on the table. “Affection truly is his weakness—none may touch it.”

Outside, the night sky pressed low and dark, the wind stinging with the last chill of autumn. Wei Zhuang glanced upward. “Another autumn rain,” he murmured, then descended the steps and disappeared into the night.