Chapter 81: Destruction

The crowd fell silent, their expressions complex as they watched the delicate woman bowing in apology on the palace path.

In the biting wind, the elderly couple sighed.

“Forget it. All we seek is truth and justice. What’s the use of troubling a woman?”

With that, they supported each other, rubbing their swollen knees, and knelt again outside the gate.

Others followed, gradually returning to their places.

Zhao Yan stepped forward, saluting the crowd, then helped Rong Fuyue to her feet.

Rong Fuyue could barely stand, her lips drained of color, like snow about to melt. Zhao Yan said softly, “Aunt… Madam Rong, why have you come?”

“I’ve lived in a daze for eight years. There are things I need to ask him face-to-face.”

Rong Fuyue tucked her hair behind her ear, pleading softly, “I beg Your Highness to allow it.”

Deceived for eight years, Rong Fuyue had been confined to the marquisate since Wei Yan’s arrest, denied even a chance to confront him.

Zhao Yan’s heart softened. After a long pause, she said, “I can grant you fifteen minutes, but everything you bring must be thoroughly inspected.”

Rong Fuyue nodded. “Thank you, Your Highness. That’s only proper.”

The food box contained a jug of wine, two cups, and a plate of pastries. The jailer tested each with a silver needle, confirming the wine and food were safe and held no hidden weapons, then led Rong Fuyue inside.

Zhao Yan didn’t leave immediately, instructing the jailer to monitor the situation, and waited by the steps.

In the cell, Wei Yan recognized the familiar footsteps.

Seeing Rong Fuyue, his calm demeanor faltered. He instinctively stood, smoothing his robe, trying to maintain his scholarly grace before her. But the clinking chains and the damp, dark cell betrayed his disarray.

The jailer opened the cell door, let Rong Fuyue in, locked it again, and stood guard at the corridor’s end.

“I’ve written the divorce papers. After my sentencing, you won’t be implicated…”

Before he finished, Wei Yan noticed the red mark on her forehead, the ink stains on her skirt, and the rotten vegetable leaves caught in her cloak’s hood.

Realizing what had happened, pain flashed in his eyes. He reached out. “How did you get hurt? Did they bully you?”

“It’s nothing, just a bump,” Rong Fuyue said, turning to avoid his touch.

Her slight dodge froze his hand in midair.

His throat tightened, and he lowered his hand, voice hoarse. “You shouldn’t have come, Ah Yue.”

“I came to get answers from you myself, or I’ll never rest in peace.”

“Don’t say such things, Ah Yue. You won’t die.”

Rong Fuyue steadied herself against the desk, about to sit on the straw mat, but Wei Yan stopped her. “Don’t sit. The floor’s damp and cold—you won’t bear it.”

He took the cell’s only clean outer robe, folded it, and placed it under her knees, his care and tenderness unmistakable.

Yet this same man, for his own gain, had caused the deaths of nearly 100,000 soldiers and repeatedly plotted against his own nephew, the Crown Prince.

Suppressing the turmoil in her heart, Rong Fuyue arranged the pastries and wine on the desk, steadied herself, and asked, “Did you send someone to assassinate Wenren Cang?”

“Ah Yue, don’t ask…” Wei Yan nearly pleaded.

“Yes or no?” Rong Fuyue pressed, her voice firm.

She rarely spoke harshly, and her raised voice trembled.

Wei Yan paused, then lowered his eyes. “Yes.”

Rong Fuyue’s face paled, and she clutched her chest, closing her eyes and biting her lip.

“Ah Yue…”

“Why did you kill him?”

“If he didn’t die, you wouldn’t be mine, and the Wei family would have no future.”

“And the deaths of those 100,000 soldiers—are you responsible?”

“…In a way.”

“And the assassination attempt on your nephew—was that your doing?”

“Yes.”

“Have you lied to me in any of this?”

Wei Yan gave a bleak smile. “At this point, I have no reason to lie. Ah Yue, stop torturing yourself. I’ve confessed.”

He clenched his fingers, wanting to urge her to remarry and live well after their divorce, but the words stuck in his throat.

Rong Fuyue knew that any trace of sorrow on his face wasn’t remorse for his wrongs.

“Thank you for giving me the answers.”

She brushed away the cold tears on her face, poured two cups of wine, and slid one to Wei Yan.

“Drink this, and from now on, we part ways, never to meet in life or death.” She raised her cup.

Wei Yan’s pale face grew paler.

“…Part ways, never to meet in life or death.”

He repeated the words, lifted his cup, and gave a faint smile. “Ah Yue, we never shared a wedding toast. Now we’ve made up for it.”

When Wenren Cang’s death reached the capital, the Rong family faced a dilemma, fearing their daughter would be labeled a “jinx.” Already inclined to break the engagement, they eagerly accepted Wei Yan’s proposal, marrying her off hastily.

Wei Yan could never forget lifting her veil, seeing her tear-streaked, beautiful face under the warm glow of the wedding candles.

“For eight years, I thought I could warm your heart.”

Wei Yan smiled bitterly, draining his cup in front of her.

The bitter taste spread from his throat, heat rising to his eyes.

“But you’ve left me heartbroken.”

Rong Fuyue raised her cup to her lips, but Wei Yan gently pressed it down.

“Your health is poor. You shouldn’t drink.”

He took her cup and drank it himself.

Rong Fuyue’s fingers trembled, torn between resentment and hate.

“Is the poison quick?” Wei Yan asked softly, holding the cup.

Rong Fuyue’s back stiffened. He’d noticed—she’d laced the cup’s rim with poison.

She wanted justice for the fallen soldiers and punishment for her eight years of enabling his crimes.

“Don’t worry. I’m already a dead man. I don’t blame you.”

Wei Yan managed a comforting smile, feeling the stir in his abdomen. “It’s not that fast. Let me play you a tune.”

He raised the bamboo flute to his lips, playing *Wind Through Bamboo*, a piece they’d composed together. The rough flute’s sound was murky, like the wind’s mournful wail.

Soon, the notes faltered, as if liquid clogged the flute.

Blood trickled from Wei Yan’s lips, dripping down the flute and seeping from its holes, but he didn’t stop.

At the same time, Rong Fuyue clutched her chest, spitting out a mouthful of dark blood.

The flute let out a sharp screech, and the music stopped.

Wei Yan stared at Rong Fuyue, also bleeding, frozen in disbelief. “Ah Yue… Ah Yue!”

Rong Fuyue gave a desolate smile, looking at the blood in her palm, her face serene with fulfillment.

“I took poison before coming.”

Her breathing shook. “Wei Yan, you care for no one, treat lives like grass, and even in prison, you show no remorse… But I know how to hurt you.”

His weakness was her, and only she could wound him.

So Rong Fuyue used herself as a blade, delivering a fatal strike.

This was her revenge.

Wei Yan, do you feel pain, regret?

Look at you now—so pitiful, so pathetic.

Wei Yan lost control.

The flute fell as he caught Rong Fuyue’s collapsing body. His lips trembled, trying to call out, but only hoarse gasps escaped.

His eyes shattered, all traces of refinement gone. Crawling to the bars, he gripped them, roaring in near despair, “Someone! Save her!”

Outside, Zhao Yan heard the flute’s sharp, discordant note before it stopped.

A bird flew across the gray sky, and recalling her aunt’s pale, desolate face, Zhao Yan felt a sudden dread.

She turned, her steps quickening to a run, panting as she crossed the prison’s stone corridors, stopping at the innermost cell.

Her eyes widened, and without hesitation, she ordered the frantic jailer, “Make them vomit! Get Zhang Xu from the Imperial Academy of Medicine! Hurry!”

Zhang Xu arrived swiftly, and the cell erupted in chaos.

After a long while, Zhang Xu emerged, addressing Zhao Yan’s grave expression. “Your Highness, the prisoner is overwhelmed with grief, his heart and pulse damaged. He refuses to spit out the poisoned wine—it’s tricky.”

If even Zhang Xu called it tricky, Wei Yan truly had no will to live.

“And… Madam Rong?” Zhao Yan asked.

Zhang Xu replied, “What Madam Rong took wasn’t poison.”

“Not poison? Then why did she vomit blood and faint?”

“I’m not certain yet. It seems like a rush of blood from emotional distress, but her pulse is stable, and she’s not poisoned.”

Zhao Yan recalled Rong Fuyue’s deep bow at Shunyi Gate, her face devoid of life. If she hadn’t taken poison, why deceive Wei Yan?

And where did the poison she gave Wei Yan come from?

Seeing Wei Yan cradling Rong Fuyue, weeping blood, a realization hit Zhao Yan. She asked the Minister of Justice, “Who was responsible for sealing the Ningyang Marquisate and overseeing its servants and kin?”

The Minister didn’t dare conceal it. “Your Highness, it was Duke Su.”

Zhao Yan understood.

Frowning, she instructed Liu Ying to stay and settle Rong Fuyue, keeping her safety secret for now, then strode to her carriage.

Back at the Eastern Palace, the bedroom door was open.

Entering, Zhao Yan saw a man seated behind a screen, legs crossed, reading a book.

Wenren Lin flipped a page, his elegant fingers brushing the paper.

He’d clearly been waiting, unsurprised by her arrival. Without looking up, he said lowly, “You’re back.”

His face was hidden by the book, revealing only his refined knuckles resting on it.

When she didn’t speak, Wenren Lin set the book on his lap, propped an elbow on the chair’s armrest, and smiled. “If you have questions, ask. Aren’t you uncomfortable holding it in?”

Fine, you asked for it.

Zhao Yan pursed her lips, blunt. “Did you arrange for Rong Fuyue to visit Wei Yan in prison? Your people at Duke Su’s residence are sharp. Without your permission, I don’t believe she could’ve left the marquisate.”

“Correct.”

Wenren Lin was candid, his fingers tapping the book. “A husband of eight years, sharing her bed, turned out to be a heinous mastermind. No woman could bear that truth.”

“So you gave her poison.”

“What she took wasn’t poison—just a trick. She was consumed by grief, with no will to live. It was merely medicine to make her expel the pent-up blood.”

Zhao Yan stepped closer, standing before him, frowning.

“But you used her desire to die to strike at Wei Yan’s heart.”

“Yes. I said I wouldn’t let Wei Yan die easily. After ruining his name, plunging a knife into his heart feels fitting. As for Rong Fuyue…”

Wenren Lin chuckled, his voice low. “When my brother’s body was still warm, his death just reported, she married another. Now she seeks death, but I won’t let her. Living is far harder than dying.”

Zhao Yan’s frown deepened. “But she’s innocent.”

Wenren Lin tapped his fingers, tilting his head. “Of the 80,000 who died back then, who wasn’t innocent?”

Zhao Yan fell silent.

Wenren Lin’s voice softened as he took her hand, gently rubbing her cool fingertips. “I’ve told Your Highness before—I’m not a good man.”

Zhao Yan grabbed his pristine collar, leaning down to meet his dark, fathomless eyes.

Wenren Lin didn’t flinch, letting her wrinkle his collar, like a devotee willingly offering her a blade and chains.

“That day at Taiji Gate, I asked you a question you didn’t answer.”

Zhao Yan looked down at him, her fox-fur collar brushing her pale jaw. “I’ll ask again: Wenren Lin, what do you want?”

Wenren Lin, the one being questioned, was calmer than Zhao Yan, the interrogator.

“The answer is simple, but Your Highness may not like it.”

“I want to hear it.”

Meeting her resolute, clear eyes, Wenren Lin hesitated—a rare moment.

He knew what speaking the truth might bring.

But he wouldn’t lie to his little Highness, couldn’t bear to.

Still seated, legs crossed, Wenren Lin pulled her closer, his hand gently pressing the back of her head.

He leaned in, his gaze deep, tender yet mad.

“Because you and the Crown Prince want to save Da Xuan, but I… I want to destroy it.”

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