Chapter 79: Motive

After a sleepless night, Wenren Lin showed no trace of fatigue.

Seeing Zhao Yan’s stunned expression, he softened his smile and leaned closer.

“Scared? Your nose is all red.”

Wenren Lin extended a hand, gently pulling her up from the stone steps with ease.

“No, probably just the wind.”

Zhao Yan flashed a smile, her soft fingertips brushing his palm before she looked down, brushing the dust from her cloak to mask her reaction.

At dawn, with faint stars still lingering, the horizon glowed a dim blue-white.

Wenren Lin, tall and long-legged, carried an air of icy resolve even in his leisurely stride. The slightly rough jade pendant at his waist swayed as he deliberately slowed to walk beside Zhao Yan.

By his side, Zhao Yan felt the biting palace winds blocked, his presence steady and reliable.

“What did you say to Father?” she asked.

Wenren Lin’s lips twitched.

Wei Yan, skilled at reading hearts, had planted a thorn even at the end. Wenren Lin wasn’t naive enough to think the Emperor kept him behind to hear a “bereaved orphan’s” thoughts on the trial. The Emperor wanted to know if Wenren Lin was orchestrating things behind the scenes.

So, he’d replied simply, “Your servant trusts Your Majesty will deliver justice to the realm, and I defer to Your Majesty’s judgment.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought you’d seize the moment to push Father to sentence Wei Yan to death.”

Zhao Yan mused, then added, “No wonder I couldn’t find that maid. She was in your hands all along.”

Wenren Lin gave a half-smile. “If I’d waited for Your Highness to piece it together, that maid would’ve been a pile of bones by now.”

“…True.”

Zhao Yan felt a pang of frustration. The puzzles she struggled to solve were child’s play to Wenren Lin.

She didn’t ask why he hadn’t told her about the witness or shared his full plan, nor why he’d cleared her path in secret.

Sometimes, Zhao Yan felt Wenren Lin understood her.

The truth was hers to uncover, the blood feud hers to settle. Wenren Lin taught her strength, guided her to protect herself and strike back, watching her stumble forward with deep, silent support. But he never treated her like a caged bird, never bound her under the guise of care.

Their goals sometimes aligned, sometimes diverged, and though the path was hard, Zhao Yan found it grounding.

Seeing her lost in thought, brows shifting between furrows and clarity, Wenren Lin chuckled.

“Your Highness needn’t feel inferior. The Eastern Palace teeters like morning dew, yet in one year since returning to the capital, you’ve come this far—an impressive feat.”

He raised a hand, naturally patting her head. “Even if I’m not around in the future, Your Highness will stand on your own.”

Though his tone was indulgent, Zhao Yan felt a twinge of unease.

“By the way, can I ask you something?”

“Ask.”

“Why did the Grand Tutor choose tonight to expose what my uncle did all those years ago?”

Was it merely because her counterstrike aligned with his goals, so he’d taken the chance to bring Wei Yan down?

Wenren Lin paused, his dark eyes meeting hers.

In the night, his gaze was deep as a cold pool, glinting faintly, but his voice was soft. “Because I want more than just his life. The time and place are right now, so I saw no need to wait.”

Zhao Yan instinctively asked, “What does the Grand Tutor want, then?”

Wenren Lin didn’t answer, his eyes flicking to the sedan waiting outside the palace gates. He smiled. “Your Highness should get some rest. Those dark circles are showing.”

Zhao Yan touched under her eyes.

To prepare for the winter solstice rites, she’d barely slept the night before, and last night’s vigil had pushed her to her limit. Her head throbbed faintly, like hammer strikes.

“And you?” she asked softly.

“I’ll escort Your Highness back to the Eastern Palace,” Wenren Lin replied.

Satisfied, Zhao Yan lowered her eyes with a quiet laugh. “Alright.”

Back at the Eastern Palace, Zhao Yan felt drained, as if floating. After a quick wash, she tossed her cloak aside, collapsed onto the bed, and pulled the blanket over herself haphazardly.

Wenren Lin approached, bending to remove her boots. Her sleepy voice mumbled, “My uncle hasn’t confessed. I suspect he’s got another move… maybe stalling until Father’s birthday, when a general amnesty might be declared…”

Her voice slowed, fading as her eyelids drooped, yet she still mulled over these thoughts.

Wenren Lin tucked her feet under the blanket, carefully adjusting the covers. Leaning on the bed’s edge, he said, “Rest easy. Public outrage will tear him apart, and the blade hasn’t even been drawn. A villain like me—how could I let my enemy die easily?”

Zhao Yan’s mind was foggy, too tired to grasp the depth of his words, but she sensed Wenren Lin hadn’t yet played his final card.

Instinctively, she scooted inward, leaving half the blanket for him to lie down and rest.

Wenren Lin sat on the bed’s edge. A pair of arms, like vines, wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. She nestled into a comfortable position, her breathing soon deep and even.

Wenren Lin gazed at her curled form, his eyes tracing from the tear-shaped mole at her eye to her flushed lips, warmth pooling in his gaze.

He brushed her temple with his fingers, leaned down, and kissed her earlobe, murmuring, “Sleep.”

…

It wasn’t until days later that Zhao Yan understood what Wenren Lin meant by “public outrage will tear him apart.”

News spread that Marquis Ningyang, Wei Yan, had, out of personal spite, caused Wenren Cang’s death, indirectly leading to the slaughter of nearly 100,000 soldiers at Yanluo Pass. The nation was stunned, and public fury erupted.

First, martial generals like Huo Feng, once allied with the Wenren family, demanded a thorough investigation. Then, young scholars led by Mingde Academy raised their voices, followed by countless families of fallen soldiers, who traveled to the capital from across the land.

Outside the palace, thousands knelt in silence—elders in their eighties, children with braided hair, all clad in mourning white, supporting one another, demanding justice for the 100,000 souls who died unyielding, their bodies a wall against the enemy.

The case snowballed, public sentiment like a swelling tide, ready to crash.

Memorials flooded in like snowflakes, and the Emperor, sleepless for nights, was forced by public pressure to hasten the Ministry of Justice’s interrogations.

Three hearings in four days left Wei Yan no room to maneuver.

Perhaps he knew that, at this point, the Emperor had no choice but to sacrifice his life to quell the public’s anger and deliver justice.

That morning, Zhao Yan awoke to Guxing’s report: the Ningyang Marquisate’s gates had been splattered with rotten blood and vegetables by furious citizens, the stone lions smashed, the estate in ruins.

Guxing added, “I fear this may implicate Your Highness.”

His concern was unnecessary. As a victim in Wei Yan’s case, the “Crown Prince” faced no public blame. Instead, people praised the prince for upholding justice, even against kin, calling him wise and valiant.

The only issue was that Wei Yan’s confessions never mentioned the poisoned letter sent under a false name to harm the Crown Prince.

After much thought, Zhao Yan decided to visit the Ministry of Justice’s celestial prison herself.

The north wind was bitter, the winter sun dim, and bare branches cast clawing shadows on the palace walls.

At Shunyi Gate, many families of fallen heroes still knelt. At the forefront was an elderly couple in their twilight years, trembling as they supported each other, frail as withered branches, occasionally wiping cloudy tears from their eyes. Behind them were widows clutching children, half-grown orphans. When one fainted and fell, another took their place, just as their sons, husbands, and fathers had on the battlefield—falling, rising, building a wall of flesh and blood for the nation’s peace.

But those soldiers hadn’t died by the enemy’s hand—they were betrayed by their own! If General Wenren Cang hadn’t been murdered, if they’d succeeded in luring the enemy to collapse the mine… tens of thousands might have returned home to their families.

Stepping from her carriage, Zhao Yan gazed at the people kneeling in the freezing wind, her heart heavy with sorrow.

Behind each numb, grieving face was a shattered family.

“Have they been kneeling here all along?” she asked.

“Your Highness, they’ve knelt for five days. When one group collapses, another takes their place, all seeking justice for the fallen.”

The Minister of Justice bowed respectfully. “That elderly couple had three sons, all killed in the campaign, leaving them alone and destitute. And those women in the third row, all young widows in their twenties, lost husbands who marched north soon after their weddings, their bodies never recovered… It’s heartbreaking.”

The cold wind stung, and Zhao Yan’s eyes grew wet.

She closed her eyes, saying softly, “Prepare warm clothing and ginger soup to ward off the cold. Charge the costs to the Eastern Palace. Tell them the court will punish the guilty and ensure the martyrs’ sacrifices are not in vain.”

The Minister of Justice nodded, hurrying to comply.

Steeling herself, Zhao Yan followed a lantern-bearing clerk into the Ministry of Justice’s prison.

In the celestial prison, a dank, rotting stench hit her. She found Wei Yan in the innermost cell.

He was thinner but hardly disheveled. His hair was neatly tied with a cloth band, his prison garb tidy, still exuding an air of refined elegance.

He knelt at a battered desk, polishing a cheap bamboo flute with a wool felt, his movements slow but deliberate, as if lounging among clouds, not trapped in a cell.

Those gentle, jade-like hands had once taught Zhao Yan to write, had lifted her onto his shoulders with a smile. Warm memories clashed with harsh reality, and now those hands seemed terrifying.

Seeing her complex expression outside the cell, Wei Yan set down the flute and spoke first. “His Majesty, in his mercy, allows me to play music to pass the time. Whatever the Crown Prince wishes to ask, ask freely.”

Zhao Yan met his calm gaze, asking steadily, “Hearing the cries of the soldiers’ families outside, don’t you feel fear or shame?”

Wei Yan replied evenly, “What’s done is done. Fear is useless.”

“So you’re confessing now.”

“Yes. Wenren Lin seeks to kill me with public outrage. At this point, I’m powerless to resist.”

A serene acceptance flickered in Wei Yan’s eyes. “Better to be honest and at least spare Ah Yue from being implicated.”

The more he spoke of devotion, the more Zhao Yan found it ironic.

She said slowly, “You don’t deserve to speak my aunt’s name. Committing atrocities in the name of love only defiles it.”

Wei Yan’s hand, dipping a brush in ink, paused. After a moment, he sighed softly.

“You all think I targeted Wenren Cang to steal Ah Yue.”

“Isn’t that the case?”

“No, of course not. I knew Ah Yue before her betrothal to Wenren Cang. At fourteen, I became head of the Ningyang Marquisate, with a title but no wealth, a poor youth shunned by the noble elite. I sent poems to prominent families, seeking connections, only to face cruel mockery. My painstaking works were scattered, trampled into the mud, while they laughed… Can you guess who humiliated me?”

Zhao Yan felt a chill, her lips tightening.

On the Double Ninth Festival, visiting the Ningyang Marquisate, she’d seen scholars submitting poems at the gate, treated generously.

Wei Yan had said then, “I faced rejection in my youth. I didn’t want them to suffer the same.”

“It was the two Wenren brothers. Back then, General Wenren was the Emperor’s trusted aide, their family a powerhouse in the capital. Rejected by them, I became a laughingstock. Only Ah Yue stood up for me. That’s when I vowed not to fail her or the talented people of the realm.”

Wei Yan gazed at the narrow, cold light from the window. “But before I could rise, Ah Yue was betrothed to Wenren Cang, the man I despised most, who took the woman I saw as my moonlight… I only wanted to take back what was mine.”

“What was yours? What do you take my aunt for!”

Zhao Yan’s voice rose, trembling with anger as a woman herself.

Wei Yan faltered, then laughed bitterly. “Yes, I’m vile. But one mistake leads to countless others to cover it. I couldn’t turn back, nor did I regret it. The only one I’ve wronged is Ah Yue.”

How could someone who’d tasted light return to a dark swamp?

He’d climbed ruthlessly, stepping over mountains of corpses, to seize that light, to revive the Ningyang Marquisate, and to crush those who’d scorned him.

“You’ve only wronged my aunt? What about the soldiers who died unjustly?”

Wei Yan’s gentlemanly facade hid a chilling obsession, let alone the aunt deceived through eight years of marriage.

“Even if your attack on the Wenren family was personal, why target me?”

Zhao Yan’s fingers clenched. “At Mother’s birthday banquet, you could mimic a hundred styles of the character ‘longevity’ and taught my siblings and me to write, knowing our handwriting intimately. At the Ningyang Marquisate, my aunt said Princess Changfeng’s calligraphy had improved, meaning you’d seen her recent work. With your skill, forging my sister Zhao Yan’s handwriting would be effortless.”

Wei Yan didn’t deny it. “You guessed the letter was mine.”

The truth laid bare, Zhao Yan stepped forward, voice hoarse. “All clues point to you, but I don’t know why you’d do this. Was it because the Crown Prince’s new policies… threatened your interests?”

To her surprise, Wei Yan shook his head, chuckling softly.

“Scholars govern for the nation’s good. Your policies, though they harmed my lifelong wealth, were admirable. I’m not that petty.”

“Then why?”

“Have you forgotten, or do you truly not know?”

Wei Yan stood, stepping toward the cell door. “Last summer, before the retreat, you visited the Ningyang Marquisate for a game of chess and said something.”

Zhao Yan remained composed. “Which words?”

Wei Yan fixed his gaze on her, saying slowly, “You said the Battle of Yanluo Pass likely had internal issues.”

Despite her preparation, Zhao Yan’s mind roared, and she nearly stumbled.

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