Chapter Thirty-Nine: Baiting with One’s Own Life

After midnight last night, Weishao Qianyu had still not returned. Feng Jinye knew well that these days she had gone out each day to lull his suspicion... Perhaps from the day she came back from the Drunken Qiong Pavilion, she had already made up her mind—to leave! That was why, out of the blue, she had gravely made him promise: if ever faced with an assassin, he must not let the killer come within ten paces. She went out every day, returning around midnight, all in preparation for today's escape, so that by the time he discovered her absence, she would already be nearly a day ahead.

Feng Jinye regretted not seeking her out for a frank talk when Yun Ming mentioned the matter of the letter. But back then, Weishao Qianyu had just learned that her father had been killed by Luo Yanqing, and Feng Jinye hadn't the heart to trouble her further. In the following days, he wanted to speak with her, but recalling how, on the second day of the month at the Duke’s mansion, a single cold word from him had led to a furious quarrel, he refrained, unwilling to provoke her anger once more.

In the two months since their marriage, Feng Jinye had come to one conclusion about living with Weishao Qianyu: indulgence. She was the greatest enigma of his life, and he was utterly helpless before her.

Lost in thought in the Hall of Words, Feng Jinye was startled as Chujiu tiptoed in from outside. “My lord, please have your meal,” she urged gently. Seeing no response, she pressed on, “These are Her Highness’s favorite dishes. You should taste what she likes.” At that, Feng Jinye glanced at the dishes on the table, among them the simple “Cabbage Fortune Pouches”—cabbage and minced meat, with the addition of cilantro he detested. He had never understood why Weishao Qianyu liked such a plain dish, until Qingxia had explained, on the day they cooked noodles together, that it was simply because the dish was pleasing to the eye.

Chujiu, seeing he had not touched his food, continued persuading, “Before leaving the city, Yejiu left word that Her Highness was escorting Lu Yanran back to Luandu, and might return in two or three days.” Feng Jinye was not truly without appetite; he had simply forgotten to eat. He glared at Chujiu, picked up his chopsticks, and tasted the “Fortune Pouch,” but as he chewed, his brows furrowed—the flavor was unlike those in the palace. On closer inspection, he saw that the kitchen had removed all the “cilantro strings,” knowing he detested them.

Meanwhile, on the official road to Luandu, in the carriage, Lu Yanran eyed Weishao Qianyu warily. The Lantern Festival had passed, and after more than half a month in the Duke’s mansion, it was time for Lu Yanran to return to Luandu. That very morning, as she was bidding farewell to her family in the main hall, Weishao Qianyu had appeared, insisting on traveling with her to visit her own aunt in Luandu.

Within the carriage, Weishao Qianyu ignored Lu Yanran’s scrutiny, cradling Lin Rui as she instructed Dongnuan, “Find a post station where we can rest for the night. Rui is still young, he can’t bear the jostling.” Lu Yanran was vexed—her own son, Lin Rui, seemed closer to Weishao Qianyu than to herself.

They settled for the night at a post station. On the sixteenth night—the moon said to be rounder than on the fifteenth—a bright orb hung outside the window. Once again, Weishao Qianyu leaned by the window, lost in thought. Had Feng Jinye noticed she was gone? She drew out a letter from her bosom, the character “Luo” boldly inscribed on the envelope, unmistakably in Feng Jinye’s hand.

It was his habit to mark such letters, signifying their importance. Feng Jinye must have entrusted his confidant to deliver it to the Marquis of Dingyuan’s residence, to Luo Yanqing himself. There must have been other letters, easily confused, hence the character on the envelope. Weishao Qianyu felt a pang of bitterness. Luo Yanqing had all but recounted its contents to her; she had never read the letter, but could guess that it mirrored the two forged by Luo Yanqing. With a weary sigh, she returned the letter to its place.

At dawn the next day, they set out again, reaching the Weishao ancestral home near Luandu as dusk fell. Her aunt, Weishao Zhuhua, greeted them at the door, visibly surprised to see her niece, then said, “Thank you, Miss Lu, for bringing Yanran and Rui back.” Weishao Qianyu knew her aunt was always on guard, wary she might expose her identity. She bowed and replied, “Aunt, you are too kind. It was only right for me to visit you as well.”

Her aunt led them inside, silently sighing. Weishao Qianyu’s return could only mean she had discovered new clues, or had made new plans. Dismissing the attendants, Weishao Qianyu faced her aunt alone in the courtyard. “Aunt, I remember now—the fire at the Weishao house twelve years ago.” Her aunt was startled, her hands trembling as she seized Weishao Qianyu’s arm, tears in her eyes. “Qianyu…”

She helped her aunt to sit and, brooking no refusal, declared, “Aunt, I’ve come to take you away!” Her aunt only shook her head in response. “You cannot hide it from me!” Weishao Qianyu pressed on.

“Two years ago, you fled as if terrified by assassins, yet returned to live in the old Weishao home. Why?” She was determined to confirm her suspicions. “Your apparent panic made it seem you had learned some secret, but whether you truly knew, I cannot say. What is certain is that you made yourself bait!” Ever since she recalled the fire, Weishao Qianyu had seen clearly her aunt’s inability to let go of the massacre twelve years ago.

In the past, before her memories returned, she could not understand her aunt’s sorrow, or why, every year when her father brought her to Luandu to visit her mother’s grave, her aunt would send her away to speak privately with her father. Now she realized her aunt was even more determined than her father to uncover the truth of that tragedy. Her father had many concerns, above all protecting her from harm. But her aunt had never been able to relinquish her thirst for justice.

“You were telling the world the Weishao family still had survivors. Ever since I remembered what happened twelve years ago, I suspected as much. But I couldn’t understand—if you drew assassins to you, wouldn’t it only mean your death?” Such reckless behavior was unlike her aunt.

Rising slowly, Weishao Qianyu surveyed the courtyard and continued, “Now, I see it clearly. When I had forgotten my childhood, you, grandfather, and father were left with no leads. So you allied with others. If you were killed, someone would carry on the investigation, and protect me.” She paused. “It was Feng Jinye, wasn’t it? Only he could give you the confidence that he would avenge our family’s slaughter and my mother’s death.” She gazed at the scorched marks on the courtyard wall, remnants of the fire.

“Qianyu, you are nothing like you used to be,” Weishao Zhuhua murmured, shaking her head. The woman before her was nothing like the sheltered child her brother had tried so hard to protect. Perhaps this was fate. No matter how hard Weishao Zhantian tried to hide her, she was destined to be drawn into the storm.

Though she did not answer directly, her aunt thus acknowledged Weishao Qianyu’s deductions. Changing the subject, she asked, “What have you found? Why did the Prince of War involve you?” Weishao Qianyu found a sword mark on the wall—perhaps left by another Cangyuan blade—and replied quietly, “Aunt, Feng Jinye has lost his memory.”

Her aunt paused, then sighed, “No wonder! The rumors said the Prince of War was gravely wounded—so he lost his memory!” “So, Aunt, if you wish to protect me, you must stay by my side!” This visit was not only to search for clues, but to take her aunt away as well.

But her aunt brushed this aside and asked, “What do you remember?” Weishao Qianyu recounted all she remembered from twelve years ago, then insisted, “This time, you must come with me!”

“The assassins from twelve years ago and the black-clad men who killed Father—they are likely the same group!” She stood before the house, gazing at the small lake where she had survived that night. The memory of her mother sacrificing herself to save her was vivid as ever.

“Father died at Shuoyue Pavilion—the same fire, the same black-clad men, so like what happened twelve years ago!” The only difference, she did not mention, was the sword like Cangyuan’s. She did not know if that sword had appeared at Shuoyue Pavilion as well.

Her aunt watched her, saw the determination in her eyes, the fire that would not be quenched until the truth was known. But she hesitated, glancing toward the inner courtyard. “If I leave with you, what of Rui and Yanran? They cannot protect themselves!”

“Aunt, letting them return to the Duke’s mansion is the safest course,” Weishao Qianyu replied, her plans already made. “Is there something you have not told me?” she pressed—she knew her aunt, too, had suffered greatly from what happened twelve years ago.

“Lin Xunchu is not your true cousin,” her aunt said quietly.

Weishao Qianyu had never understood why her aunt accepted Lin Xunchu’s death so calmly, nor how such a refined woman could have raised a son so unworthy. Now, suddenly, all was clear.

“You know, in the old days, many spies from the Western Yan Kingdom infiltrated Liyue. Just as Yanran was switched as a child, so too was Xunchu.” Her aunt’s voice was heavy with sorrow. “Your real cousin died in the fire that destroyed the Weishao family twelve years ago.” Her eyes were red with grief. In all these years, she had never spoken of this to anyone but her brother.

Weishao Qianyu was stunned. There was not only the tragedy of her family’s slaughter, but also the agony of a lost child.

“Your father never gave up searching for your mother’s true cause of death. That must be why their enemies targeted him again,” her aunt said, tears falling silently. “He protected you so well. After your trauma, he forbade anyone from mentioning the Weishao family’s past in your presence.” Unable to hide her pain, her voice broke.

Weishao Qianyu stepped forward, gently patting her aunt’s back in comfort, steadying her so she did not collapse entirely. She heard her aunt murmur, “Perhaps it would have been better if you had forgotten. Your father always said, as your mother wished, that you should live your life peacefully, free from sorrow.”

“That’s why neither your father nor I ever knew the true cause of the fire,” her aunt confessed. Many times she had almost forced Weishao Qianyu to tell her what she remembered, but could never bring herself to do so.

“Mother told me not to speak, to wait for Father to come for me. I saw with my own eyes how she died to save me. From that day on, I could not utter a word,” Weishao Qianyu explained—not out of self-pity, but to justify the actions of her younger self.

Perhaps no one could truly comprehend the pain little Weishao Qianyu had endured—refusing to communicate, skipping meals, training herself ceaselessly in martial arts, shutting herself off from the world. It was a wound that left its mark deep within her soul.