Chapter Twenty: Tearing Off the Roof

Early the next morning, Weishao Qingyu set off for the Duke’s residence. When she arrived at the gates, an unexpected hesitation took hold of her. Duke Lu was now in his sixties, a lifetime spent on the battlefield, yet he had lost his wife in youth and his daughter in middle age. Now, in his old age, Weishao Qingyu wondered: should she reopen these old wounds?

After much deliberation, Weishao Qingyu resolved to first ask the Duke about the Feng family. The residence was abuzz with festive cheer; she overheard the servants whispering that on the second day of the new year, the second young lady would return with her son to pay respects.

Ignoring the chatter, Weishao Qingyu made her way straight to the main hall to see Duke Lu. Upon entering, she paid her respects and offered New Year’s greetings once more, then went directly to the heart of the matter: “Grandfather, does Feng Jinye’s family have any other relatives?”

Duke Lu chuckled at her question, asking, “Are you worried that Jinye’s New Year is too lonely? Then why are you still at odds with him? I didn’t see him come with you yesterday, nor today.”

Weishao Qingyu followed his lead, nodding in agreement. “Yes, I’ve quarreled with him, but at least I could return to the Duke’s residence. The Feng family is so sparse—unlike my own, where I at least have an aunt.”

“Silly girl, the Feng family isn’t sparse. Jinye’s household has nothing to do with the rest of the Feng clan; they were separated from the royal family!” Duke Lu spoke with a touch of nostalgia—this was something only the old generation knew.

He seemed to recall something else, but hesitated, saying, “This concerns Jinye’s identity. I can’t tell you without his permission. If you wish to know, ask him yourself!”

Hearing the mention of royalty, Weishao Qingyu’s thoughts leapt immediately to the Empress Dowager. Judging by her voice and age, the Empress Dowager was similar to the woman who attacked her home years ago.

Why did everything seem entangled with the royal family? Yunming’s matter was tied to the Empress Dowager; now Feng Jinye’s origins were as well. Weishao Qingyu was investigating her father’s death, beginning with Luo Yanquing, and now even that was linked to the royal family. It seemed as if an unseen hand was manipulating everything in silence.

She breathed a sigh of relief; perhaps the events of that year were unrelated to Feng Jinye’s family.

Duke Lu noticed her unease and grew more curious. “Didn’t you say yesterday you were searching for the antidote? Why have you come again today? Are you still quarreling with Jinye, that he hasn’t accompanied you?”

Weishao Qingyu thought her grandfather was adept at conversation, always steering it toward what she wanted to ask. She quickly feigned petulance: “He used an assassin to test me. I drew Hidden Abyss, killed the assassin, and threw the body at his feet. He became angry!”

She frowned, feeling aggrieved, and asked, “Grandfather, do you know why Feng Jinye treasures his Hidden Abyss sword so much?”

Duke Lu delighted in her childish complaints, feeling as though his daughter was still by his side. With his granddaughter present, his heart was filled with joy. He laughed, “You’re jealous over a sword? Hidden Abyss was left by Jinye’s mother—of course he won’t let you throw it about!”

“His mother?” Weishao Qingyu’s voice trembled. Could that woman be Feng Jinye’s mother?

She couldn’t pursue the thought further, but her mind was clear: at thirteen, Feng Jinye was in Guanlin City. Who could take his sword to Luandu to kill?

The answer was obvious, but she rejected it. Her mind insisted: all this was the Empress Dowager’s doing!

The only straw she could grasp was that Feng Jinye’s mother had died when she was five. Yet habit shattered that notion with the words “blown to pieces.”

Self-deception was useless. Weishao Qingyu’s face went pale, her eyes empty. She muttered, “Grandfather, I’ll go home,” and hurried out, only to run straight into a wall of people—

If Feng Jinye was in Yuedu for the New Year, he would always visit the Duke’s residence on the first day. This year, as the son-in-law, he adopted the local custom and chose the second day. In truth, he knew last night that Weishao Qingyu would come today; he had timed his arrival precisely to escort her back to the Prince of War’s residence.

At that moment, the person Weishao Qingyu most wanted to see was Feng Jinye, but he was also the one she least wanted to meet. Her heart was torn, full of contradictions; she wanted to push him away with all her might.

But Feng Jinye steadied her, tugging at her sleeve—Weishao Qingyu knew he was checking her wound.

She tried to shake free, but couldn’t; Feng Jinye held her wrist and led her back into the main hall.

He paid his respects to Duke Lu for New Year, then turned to Weishao Qingyu with a mocking tone: “Did the Princess ask the Duke many questions just now? Still confused? Speak, and I’ll answer them one by one!”

After returning to the Prince of War’s residence last night, Feng Jinye had thought over her questions—they were clearly off. Then, recalling her first reaction upon waking was to go to the Duke’s residence, he realized she must have questioned the Duke thoroughly.

He was certain her curiosity concerned him. Dissatisfied with her lack of trust, a fire burned in his chest.

Weishao Qingyu heard the sarcasm in his voice. Already feeling wronged, Feng Jinye offered no comfort, only coldness. She exploded: “I do suspect you—so what?”

“Why can you suspect me, but I can’t suspect you?” She sneered, suddenly understanding why, in youth, people always hurt those they love most.

Her blunt admission stoked Feng Jinye’s fury: “I suspect you because I saw it myself—you tried to assassinate me!”

Her face turned frosty, her tone icy: “Then kill me! Take your revenge for that sword!”

“You!” Feng Jinye wished he could throttle her, but found himself unable to speak further.

Weishao Qingyu drove him to distraction and turned to leave.

Though angry, Feng Jinye couldn’t help but follow.

He couldn’t bear to see her walk away, always fearing that if he didn’t keep close, he would lose her.

He couldn’t stand to see her cry either, afraid that if he didn’t follow, he wouldn’t know where she was hiding to weep.

But he hadn’t expected that she would return to the Prince of War’s residence.

Relieved at first, Feng Jinye soon sensed something was wrong—she wasn’t heading to the Pavilion of Words, but to the Pavilion of Winds.

Her nature was such that, if someone made her suffer, she would ensure they suffered a hundredfold more, until she felt better.

And in this world, perhaps only Feng Jinye could anger her so deeply.

Storming in, Weishao Qingyu flung open the door and marched straight to Feng Jinye’s writing desk, turning it upside-down. Beneath the sketches, she found the red envelope she had given him days before.

A foreboding feeling crept over Feng Jinye. He reached out to snatch it, but a harsh tearing sound split the air—the red envelope was ripped in two, then shredded into bits.

Feng Jinye was livid, but before he could react, Weishao Qingyu swept her arm across the desk, sending everything crashing to the floor—except a few sketches and books, nearly every item was smashed to pieces.

He stared in shock. Weishao Qingyu didn’t spare him a glance, stepping out into the courtyard and standing beneath the maple tree adorned with red envelopes, as if waiting for him.

Feng Jinye followed, and the sight struck him—a woman rushing toward him from beneath the maple tree, a vision that flashed in his mind.

But Weishao Qingyu leapt up into the tree. Not wanting a repeat of her destruction, Feng Jinye vaulted after her.

He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t bear to see her ruin the tree.

Weishao Qingyu cared little for his feelings, reaching for the red envelopes. Feng Jinye was quicker, grabbing her hand from behind and pulling her into his arms.

She didn’t move, nor did she speak.

After a long silence, Feng Jinye’s hoarse voice sounded behind her ear: “I was wrong.”

Brief stillness followed. Feng Jinye thought, surely now this little lady would be appeased. He, the dignified Prince of War, had never apologized so humbly.

As he expected, Weishao Qingyu turned to him with a calm smile.

The two were very close atop the tree. Feng Jinye was momentarily stunned, feeling as though the air was too thin to breathe.

He couldn’t tell if her anger had truly faded, but soon realized she was undoing his cloak—the same pear blossom-embroidered cloak she had handed him on the day they entered the palace.

At that moment, Feng Jinye felt she was driving him mad.

“No!” he snapped.

He didn’t stop her from unfastening the cloak, but he couldn’t allow it.

He couldn’t let her take back everything.

Weishao Qingyu tossed the cloak back at him. “What’s so special about the Prince of War? In a fight, you lose to me. In an argument, you lose to me. Even in anger, you can’t outdo me, and you have nowhere to vent!”

Yunming had just emerged from the warm chamber and shook his head at Feng Jinye, thinking: whoever spoiled her, must endure her.

“Chu Jiu!” Weishao Qingyu called.

Chu Jiu suspected he’d misheard—the call was more terrifying than any from his master.

“Your servant is here,” he replied timidly.

“Move tonight’s meal from the Pavilion of Winds to the Pavilion of Words. From now until the Lantern Festival, only vegetarian dishes are to be served in the Pavilion of Winds. If you dare defy me, try it—see what happens when I beat you to death, and how your master responds!” Weishao Qingyu threatened openly, right in front of Feng Jinye.

Yunming, beneath the tree, added fuel to the fire: “Can I return to the Marquis of Xibo’s residence? There’s meat there, and I’m not afraid of poison!”

“Yunming, don’t worry! Your meals and care will be handled by Dongnuan,” Weishao Qingyu replied, her gaze fixed on Feng Jinye.

Without contrast, there is no harm. At that moment, Feng Jinye’s heart was nearly frozen through. This woman truly had turned the world upside down.