Chapter 80: Choice

Since returning from the Ningyang Marquisate on the Double Ninth Festival, Zhao Yan had meticulously pieced together the clues, each pointing to Wei Yan. The harsh reality clashed with warm memories, and the tug-of-war between emotion and reason left her briefly lost.

Even now, standing before the grieving families of fallen soldiers kneeling in mourning white outside Shunyi Gate, Zhao Yan still felt a pang of pain at the thought of her uncle as her enemy.

But that pain now seemed laughable.

All for a single sentence, the scholars preparing for the imperial exams died, Zhao Yan’s brother died, and she was forced to assume his identity, navigating the darkness.

Her eyes reddened as she said bitterly, “When you harmed the nephew you raised and framed your niece, did you ever feel a moment’s hesitation or regret?”

Wei Yan was silent for a moment, his slightly gaunt face still refined and scholarly.

“Ah Yue and I truly cared for you and your brother.”

His answer came without hesitation. “That boy was perfect—gentle, kind, but too trusting. I didn’t know who made the Crown Prince suspect the Yanluo Pass incident, but one thing was certain: if the truth came out that I was behind it, not only would my reputation be ruined and my life forfeit, but half the noble families tied to me would fall. The Crown Prince could then easily place his own people in court to push his new policies… I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice. You just chose the wrong path and refused to turn back.”

Zhao Yan cut him off, her red-rimmed eyes clear and resolute.

For a moment, Wei Yan couldn’t meet her gaze, lowering his eyes. “Yes. At this point, I don’t fear failure—I fear loss.”

Humiliated in his youth, he’d honed his ability to read hearts, always presenting a perfect smile no matter the time or place.

Yet fate hadn’t rewarded his diligence or charm. Rong Fuyue was betrothed to Wenren Cang, a young hero. The martial families held sway, while the Wei family remained a negligible player among the elite, leaving Wei Yan with nothing but resentment and obsession.

Killing Wenren Cang had been a gamble, but he’d won.

The Ningyang Marquisate gained favor, its reputation soaring, elevating a wave of scholar-officials alongside it.

Wei Yan gained wealth, status, and the woman he loved. Years of stability were shattered by Zhao Yan’s careless remark.

If his past conspiracy was exposed, everything he had—his life included—would vanish.

He couldn’t bear to harm that boy, but compared to all he possessed, the boy’s life seemed less significant.

Wei Yan sat in silence for a night, then made his choice.

The Crown Prince was leaving for the summer retreat, and Duke Yong’s heir, impulsive and ambitious for the throne, was the perfect pawn. Wei Yan had planted an advisor by Zhao Yuanyu’s side, and with a few words, Zhao Yuanyu eagerly planned the assassination en route.

But the ambush targeted only the Crown Prince’s “shadow.”

Back at the Eastern Palace, Zhao Yan would be even more cautious.

So Wei Yan took matters into his own hands.

Knowing the siblings’ deep bond, he forged a letter in Zhao Yan’s handwriting—the one way to bypass the Crown Prince’s guard. The boy always trusted family blindly.

It should’ve been a flawless plan, but after the Eastern Palace sealed itself for nearly a hundred days, the Crown Prince emerged unscathed.

The frail, wheezing youth, coughing every few steps, looked weak. Wei Yan couldn’t tell if he’d survived the poison or if something else was at play.

He observed for a long time. With the Crown Prince’s allies decimated and under Wenren Lin’s influence, he had no energy to pursue the Yanluo Pass truth. That suited Wei Yan—he wouldn’t need to act again if the Crown Prince stayed quiet.

But then Wenren Lin aligned with the Eastern Palace, the Stargazing Pavilion collapsed, and the Crown Prince uncovered Master Shenguang’s ledger.

That ledger recorded not only the heart-soothing pills Wei Yan sought for Ah Yue but also a poisonous incense. If the Crown Prince noticed and shared it with Wenren Lin, all Wei Yan’s plans would unravel.

Wei Yan sighed. “Wenren Lin is no longer the helpless sixteen-year-old orphan. Now, he’s a force even the Ningyang Marquisate fears. How could I rest easy with you so close to him?”

So after the failed assassination at the Empress’s birthday banquet, he adjusted his plan.

Unable to silence the Crown Prince, he redirected all suspicion to a scapegoat to bear his crimes.

Knowing the Crown Prince’s newfound cunning, Wei Yan left the assassin alive and spread rumors to lure the true mastermind out.

Playing along, he sent someone to kill the assassin in prison to tie up loose ends, then deliberately connected with Duke Yong’s alchemist.

On the Mid-Autumn Festival, he had a message sent to Duke Yong, claiming Zhao Yuanyu died under the Crown Prince’s private punishment, fabricating vague evidence to pin the “supreme elixir” scheme on the Eastern Palace. Forging letters was easy for someone skilled at mimicking handwriting.

Zhao Yan pieced together every detail. “So at my birthday banquet, you used the lost palace token as a distraction to signal the assassin eunuch, ensuring he implicated Duke Yong. The poison in Duke Yong’s residence was your plant, and the alchemist was your pawn, all to make me believe Duke Yong was the mastermind.”

“Exactly. It should’ve ended all grudges. But you were too clever.”

Wei Yan looked at her, as if seeing through everything. “When I tutored you and your brother, I knew you were sharper, more adaptable than him.”

The jailer stood far off, Wei Yan’s voice low, but Zhao Yan’s pupils trembled.

He knew.

“You’ve seen much in Huayang these years, and Wenren Lin has taught you well.”

Wei Yan tilted his head, smiling calmly. “Haven’t you, Princess Changfeng?”

“What are you talking about?” Zhao Yan met his gaze coldly.

“Only now am I certain of your identity. That boy was too kind—he wouldn’t scheme or show your expression. Even knowing I was the mastermind, he wouldn’t feel anger, only pity.”

So he died.

This world had no place for the purely good.

Zhao Yan faced Wei Yan’s gaze, her expression steady, but her fingers tightened in her sleeves.

She didn’t want her identity exposed now, especially by a dying man who might use it to cause chaos, dragging her down with him.

“Want to silence me? There’s still time.”

Wei Yan seized her moment of hesitation. “But doing so would make you no different from me back then.”

There it was—the suffocating feeling of being seen through from above.

Zhao Yan knew his aim.

If she lashed out, he’d die easily and drag her into a blood-soaked abyss.

Killing to guard a secret was no different from Wei Yan’s past. But sparing him left a blade hanging over her head.

“When your secrets are about to be exposed, to cover the lie, even a gentleman will destroy himself.”

He sat again, like a refined scholar by a stream, smiling. “See? People aren’t born this bad.”

“Are you trying to prove everyone would make your choice in a crisis, or that your killings were justified, forced by circumstance?”

Zhao Yan looked at him in the cold light, saying softly, “I’ll never become another Wei Yan.”

Wei Yan was taken aback.

“You think you’re the only one who can read hearts? You’re a discarded piece now, and a discarded piece’s words are worthless.”

Zhao Yan lifted her chin, enunciating each word. “I am the Crown Prince, the moth to the lamp. Instead of wasting effort prying, you’d better focus on polishing that flute.”

Wei Yan’s smile faded, his gaze lingering on the bamboo flute.

Zhao Yan got her answer and turned to leave.

As she climbed the stone steps, chains clinked behind her, and Wei Yan’s faint voice followed. “Why did Wenren Lin wait seven or eight years to act? Do you know?”

Zhao Yan paused, hearing him sigh. “Keep going, and it’ll only be a losing game.”

She clenched her fists, not looking back.

Outside the prison, sunlight poured down, dispelling the bone-chilling cold.

The Gatekeeper was speaking with the Minister of Justice, who seemed annoyed but restrained. “The Ministry of Justice’s prison isn’t a marketplace. We can’t let just anyone in.”

Zhao Yan adjusted her fox-fur cloak, exhaling slowly to steady herself. “What’s going on?”

“Your Highness!”

The Minister of Justice bowed, hastily explaining, “I wasn’t referring to you. It’s… Madam Rong came to visit the prisoner.”

Her aunt?

Zhao Yan was surprised, her emotions complex. Wasn’t the Ningyang Marquisate sealed, with all kin and servants awaiting judgment? How did she get here?

The Minister, gauging her expression, said cautiously, “Though His Majesty allows family visits out of mercy, Wei Yan’s crimes are grave, and with so many victims’ families watching outside, I dared not…”

Before he finished, a commotion erupted outside Shunyi Gate.

Zhao Yan’s worst fear materialized. Ignoring the Minister, she strode into the wind.

Rong Fuyue stepped from a carriage, carrying a food box. The biting wind blew back her hooded cloak, revealing her pale, haggard face.

In just a few days, she’d wasted away, fragile as a reed ready to snap.

Her maid hurriedly replaced the hood, but the crowd of mourners and scholars at Shunyi Gate, many wielding brushes in support, quickly recognized her.

“It’s her! Rong Fuyue!”

A clear, angry voice rang out. “Look! This woman is that traitor Wei’s wife!”

The crowd stirred like a stone dropped in water, heads turning.

“Snakes and rats in the same nest! Wei Yan’s woman is no better!”

“Exactly! Her clothes, her carriage—aren’t they all bought with blood and marrow?”

“A sinner! How dare she parade through the streets!”

A pen flew from the crowd, splattering ink on Rong Fuyue’s plain skirt.

As if a dam broke, shoes, paper balls, vegetable scraps, and stones followed, pelting her.

Rong Fuyue staggered, turning her head from the barrage.

“Stop! Stop it! My lady… my mistress is no longer Wei Yan’s wife! They’ve divorced!”

The maid shielded her mistress with her small frame, but the crowd’s fury only grew. Sobbing, she cried, “What does this have to do with her? She was deceived too! How can you do this? Somebody, help!”

“Aunt!”

Zhao Yan pulled Rong Fuyue inside Shunyi Gate. The guards surged forward, forming a human wall with long halberds to block the enraged crowd.

As the chaos escalated, Zhao Yan stepped forward, shouting, “Everyone, calm down!”

No one listened. She raised her voice. “I am the Crown Prince of the Eastern Palace! Calm down! I deeply admire your patriotism, but will bullying a defenseless, unaware woman bring back the dead or punish the guilty?”

At the words “Crown Prince,” the crowd quieted.

“I will ensure no villain escapes justice.” Wind filled Zhao Yan’s mouth, triggering a coughing fit.

But she stood tall, shielding Rong Fuyue, and finished, “Nor will I allow anyone to bully the weak or vent anger under the guise of justice.”

Only the wind’s wail answered.

In the silence, Rong Fuyue removed her hood and walked slowly toward the mourners.

“Aunt…” Zhao Yan worried.

The crowd’s gazes were like knives, ready to flay the fragile woman, but Rong Fuyue showed no fear.

Her hair loosened in the north wind, her plain skirt stained. Facing them across the gate, she spoke softly, “Wei Yan’s actions are unforgivable. I won’t defend him, nor do I dare seek your forgiveness.”

She bowed deeply, like a fallen flower, her voice choked with sincerity. “I’m sorry… On Wei Yan’s behalf, I beg your forgiveness.”

She remained bowed, her disheveled hair falling past her ears, blurring her pale face.

A tear rolled from her nose, splashing onto the ground.

Previous

Next