In the oppressive darkness of the prison, the air reeked of blood and dampness.
Suddenly, the iron door swung open, and amidst the pitch-black void, shadows began to shift and stir. The faint rustle of fabric echoed softly, and in moments, a slender figure—familiar to Mo Qiehuai—emerged from the gloom.
Lifting his head abruptly, his face ghastly pale, Mo Qiehuai's chains clinked with a metallic rasp as he moved slightly. The coppery tang of blood thickened, saturating the air.
Moonlight poured like liquid silver from the heavens, its ethereal glow cascading unevenly upon her breathtaking face, casting mottled shadows.
“You’ve come…” Mo Qiehuai smiled faintly, his voice weak. After enduring prolonged torture, he appeared frail, a shadow of himself.
For the first time, he found himself thankful for the fact that Ye Rong could not see him.
“Why did you come? Didn’t I tell you everything was fine?”
As he spoke, she had already begun navigating toward him, following the sound of his voice. When she drew closer, he saw how much she had changed. Her delicate features had grown sharper, almost fox-like, her pallor unnervingly pronounced.
Bathed in moonlight, her face bore a tranquil, water-like stillness, devoid of ripples, yet faintly cloaked in a haunting malevolence—a flame that flickered but refused to fade.
“Rouge…” Mo Qiehuai’s voice quivered with pain as he forced a smile, his dark hair shadowing half his face. With a sardonic tone, he murmured, “No matter what, it’s good to see you… truly good… Rouge… I missed you, so much.”
She didn’t respond. Instead, she slowly extended her hand, reaching toward him. Her slender, alabaster fingers glided through the dim glow of firelight, exuding an almost chilling elegance.
As her sleeve slipped back, the moonlight revealed dark bruises on her arm.
Mo Qiehuai strained against his chains, desperate to move closer, but the iron held firm. In frustration, he let out a hoarse, anguished cry:“Rouge! Rouge! What happened to you? What did he do to you?!”
Startled by his outburst, she quickly lowered her arm, clasping her wrist with the other hand, a futile attempt to hide the blue-black marks marring her fragile frame.
“I’m fine, Qiehuai. I’m fine,” Ye Rong said softly. Yet her pallor betrayed a faint, unnatural flush as her eyes shimmered like glass, veiled in tears. “I’m from the Ye clan. He wouldn’t dare harm me. But you… I implicated you… He promised he wouldn’t kill you, but he’s exiling you to the southern lands. In this lifetime… we may never meet again…”
“It’s fine. I told you, it’s fine,” Mo Qiehuai replied, his breath labored as he gazed at her, his disheveled hair clinging to his sweat-streaked face. The shadows on his visage deepened, his brows furrowing with anger as his lips trembled before he managed to whisper, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. Don’t be afraid…”
She stood motionless, mere inches away, the moonlight draping her silhouette over his chained form. For a fleeting moment, he felt as though the night itself had embraced him.
Her fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek as she leaned in, her lips nearing his as though poised for a kiss.
Their breaths mingled, close enough to touch. Then, as if seeking confirmation, her lips met his in a delicate, tentative press.
Her lips were cold—startlingly so—yet also soft, like the finest silk, smooth and yielding.
It was like kissing a melting crystal of ice.
Then, abruptly, the taste of blood flooded his mouth.
Startled, he pushed her away, only to see the myriad wounds covering her lips, the blood painting them like rouge.
Mo Qiehuai’s entire body trembled as he let out a faint, mournful groan:“What did he do to you? Let me see… let me see… please…”
Startled, she withdrew a step, her expression inscrutable under the flickering light. A shadow of coldness flitted through her brows but quickly vanished. She smiled faintly, her laughter ethereal, as if shrouded in an illusion of smoke and haze.
Seeing her like this, a wave of fear surged through Mo Qiehuai’s chest.
The thought of losing her, of never seeing her again, filled him with an overwhelming dread.
“Don’t leave me.”
The words hovered in his throat, nearly escaping.
Sweat and blood dripped from Mo Qiehuai’s brow as he suddenly spoke with grave determination:“Rouge, let’s leave. Let’s go far away. Forget power and ambition. Just the two of us. Please, say yes…”
Ye Rong stepped back abruptly. His plea, gentle as silk yet sharp as a needle, burrowed deep into her heart, irretrievable and agonizing.
Years ago, in the luminous springtime beneath blossoming hibiscus trees, a boy in golden robes, radiant as a dragon, held her hand and whispered the same promise.
Now, that boy had forgotten, and the courtyard where the hibiscus once grew had long been razed. The girl of yesteryear was gone.
This man truly loved her, Ye Rong mused bitterly. And then, as if something within her shattered, she smiled coldly. The light in her beautiful eyes dimmed, reflecting only a void of empty clarity, like a mirror devoid of warmth.
“Mo Qiehuai, how can you be so foolish?”
Yet he persisted, his voice as soft as melting moonlight:“Please… won’t you?”
His tone carried no doubt, not a trace of hesitation, serene and steady as a still lake.
A man like this, she thought, was far happier than most.
Ye Rong felt her breath catch, her chest tightening as if about to burst. Her hair, streaked with black and white, shimmered like silk under the moonlight, while her flushed lips trembled ever so slightly, unable to form a single word.
He stood there, candid as a child.
Yet it was precisely this childlike sincerity that suffocated her, pressing against her heart with a pain so sharp it felt as though it might shatter.
"Please, Rouge," he asked for the third time, his voice soft, barely more than a whisper that floated weakly in the blood-tainted air, yet pierced her ears like a needle. "I’ve never known my father, and my mother was gone when I was still so young. Looking back now, what could I possibly still be clinging to? From the moment I first saw you in Guazhou, there was only one thing I’ve ever truly wanted in this life. Back then, I didn’t understand, and I let it slip away… But you know, Rouge, if it weren’t for these chains, I would kneel right now. Let’s run away together, far from here, please…”
The earnestness in his voice, so raw and unguarded, was impossible to miss. It tangled her thoughts like countless threads, twisting and knotting until her heart felt like a chaotic mess.
She bit down hard on her scarred lips, the sharp pain anchoring her, calming her storm of emotions after a long while.
There was no turning back now.
She had long since passed the point of regret.
Her mind churned with countless thoughts, yet her face remained impassive, revealing no hint of joy or anger. But her eyes betrayed her, unable to conceal the chill that seeped out—a haunting mix of eerie green, rotting decadence, and savage allure that drew one's gaze irresistibly.
He saw it all, and his heart sank.
“Well said, Qiehuai, my ever-loyal brother who swore he would never betray me!”
Suddenly, the flames at the cell door flared brighter, and a man in a resplendent golden dragon robe stepped inside. Handsome yet severe, his face was dark with fury, his brow etched with ominous lines that made his features appear even more menacing under the dim prison torchlight.
“The sharpest blade in my hand, a man once as fierce as a tiger, now tamed into a docile little kitten. Excellent. Truly excellent. A man who loves a woman more than a kingdom—what a romantic fool. Shall I unchain you myself so you can kneel before her properly?”
Roga’s words cut into Ye Rong’s bones like steel needles, carrying a numbness laced with an indescribable ache.
She reached out, clutching at the sleeve of Roga’s robe, her voice laced with sorrow, every word a lament that pierced to the core.“You promised me… you swore not to harm him!”
His narrow eyes narrowed further, a venomous aura radiating from his chest as her delicate fingers creased the fabric of his sleeve in a futile grip. With an abrupt tug, he freed himself from her grasp.
Roga strode up to Mo Qiehuai, the firelight casting jagged shadows across his face. Their eyes met, sparks flying like clashing blades, the air thick with a murderous tension sharp enough to cut skin.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you going to kneel? Kneel before her—the woman of the Ye clan?”
Roga’s lips curled in a mocking sneer, his voice as frigid as ice. His dark eyes gleamed with a malice so intense it seemed almost otherworldly.
Mo Qiehuai’s composed expression twisted suddenly, grotesquely, as a roar erupted from his lungs, a sound so feral it seemed to shake the very air around them.“So what if I kneel? She loves me, doesn’t she? She loves me now!”
Yet his outburst failed to elicit the fury he anticipated. Instead, Roga’s anger vanished, replaced by a chilling, contained rage that sent a cold shiver crawling through the room.
A sharp crack echoed in the air as Roga’s left hand collided with Mo Qiehuai’s face.
Mo Qiehuai grunted in pain, his head snapping to the side. He clenched his teeth so tightly his lips turned pale, a single streak of crimson seeping from the corner of his mouth. For a moment, he remained rigid, holding the position where the blow had struck. Then, as he slowly turned back, his eyes were void of any emotion, hollow and impenetrable.
Their labored breaths tangled in the still air as the firelight flickered, casting long, wavering shadows that broke the darkness.
Suddenly, a sound disrupted the stalemate. Ye Rong stumbled backward, tripping over something unseen. She barely managed to keep herself from falling, her posture awkward and ungainly.
Roga turned to look at her. Her face had gone ashen, her brows knit tightly, and her luminous eyes were clouded with despair—a quiet yet devastating sorrow, like a flower forced to bloom with blood and flesh.
“Why so frightened? Why not show me that devoted, sentimental act again, Rong?”
He laughed as he spoke, his fingers reaching out to stroke her silken hair, caressing it with feigned tenderness before leaning down to rest his head on her shoulder.
He laughed, devoid of emotion, his voice dry and brittle, cracking like old parchment.
Ye Rong trembled but remained silent.
Seeing her like this, a searing pain shot through Roga’s chest, laced with bitterness that seeped into every vein.
It hurt—hurt to the marrow.
Gripping her hair tightly, he jerked her head back, eliciting a sharp jolt of pain. His voice dropped to an icy growl:“Mo Qiehuai, remember your place. Even in death, you are but a subject beneath my feet. And she—she will always be mine. And what’s more… I love her. So you—don’t you dare think otherwise!”
He said he loved her.
Even though he had cast her aside, why did such overwhelming emotions still surge through him?
And how was she supposed to feel about it?
It hurt. It hurt so deeply.
The ache radiated from her heart, spreading outward.
Indeed… at this point, the fact that she could still feel pain was laughable, truly pitiable.
Without any facade, she let her tears fall—clear and pale, stained with moonlight.
They were enemies now.
This was the outcome she had sought all along.
So why was she crying?
Watching the tears stream down her face, Roga felt an icy chill creep into his heart, freezing even his blood. A subtle transformation flickered across his countenance—perhaps just a tightening at the corners of his eyes and mouth—but it rendered his expression sharp, almost cruel, his gaze twisting into something unrecognizable.
“Roga…” Mo Qiehuai’s voice broke the silence. His eyes, fixed on Ye Rong, carried a haunting desolation, as if crushed beneath an infinite cold. For a fleeting moment, he appeared on the verge of collapse. But when his gaze shifted back to Roga, the hesitation vanished, replaced by a chill Roga had never before encountered. “Let her go… If you have a grudge, take it out on me.”
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A faint frostiness lingered between Ye Rong’s brows, a cold aura that seemed to seep into the air around her. Yet as she turned her head toward Mo Qiehuai, a faint, enigmatic smile graced her lips. The moonlight bathed her delicate features, cloaking them in a silvery sheen, like flowing water.
They gazed at one another in silence. Though she could not see, Roga knew that in this moment, her heart was fully fixed on Mo Qiehuai.
Her expression was so natural, so unconcerned with Roga's presence, that it seemed he did not exist—not as her husband, her emperor, or her sovereign.
What an extraordinary look, Roga mused, smiling. Yet the pain it stirred within him struck suddenly, sharp and unyielding.
His smile twisted, losing all its former refinement and grace.
“Tomorrow morning, you’ll be sent to the southern lands,” Roga said, his tone clipped and icy. “Use the time wisely to prepare yourself, Qiehuai.”
The atmosphere seemed to freeze, as though the very air had congealed. Bound by chains, Mo Qiehuai fixed a searing glare upon the youthful emperor standing before him, his crimson eyes brimming with untamed fury.
“Roga… Mark my words—the one who triumphs in the end will be me. Watch carefully.”
“Very well. I’ll be waiting, Qiehuai,” Roga replied, his laugh cold and mocking. Without so much as a backward glance, he strode out, dragging Ye Rong—helpless and barely able to walk—mercilessly behind him.
Lowering her head, Ye Rong allowed a faint smile to slip across her lips.
The war had begun. The clash of spear against shield was inevitable. Who would emerge victorious remained to be seen.
Hooves thundered like rolling storms, startling crows from their perch atop skeletal trees. The birds erupted into the sky with a cacophony of caws, vanishing into the shadowed cliffs above.
Escort Officer Fu Qing lifted his gaze to the towering peaks ahead, their jagged silhouettes cutting into the blood-red dusk.
“My lord, the path ahead leads to Feibi Valley,” reported a scout, pulling his horse to a halt at the canyon’s entrance.
A profound thoughtfulness flickered in Fu Qing’s eyes before he spoke slowly, “The pass through Feibi Valley is narrow, its cliffs steep as blades. Easily defended, impossible to attack. If there’s an ambush waiting inside, entering would mean certain death. This place is a natural fortress. Proceed with caution. Is there any alternate route we can take?”
“General, taking another route would require a detour of more than a hundred miles.”
Fu Qing pondered briefly before giving his orders. “A detour seems impractical. Send men ahead to scout the terrain.”
He signaled with a gesture, and riders spurred their horses into the valley.
The rest of the army waited at the entrance under strict orders, the wind whipping the banners into a restless frenzy. Impatient horses pawed at the ground, their snorts punctuating the tense silence.
After half an hour, two short, piercing horn blasts echoed from beyond the canyon.
Fu Qing allowed himself a faint smile. “No cause for alarm. Let’s proceed.”
With a wave of his hand, the iron-clad soldiers began their march. From the rear, the prisoner cart carrying Mo Qiehuai trundled forward, his face bloodied and his figure battered—a shadow of the once-dashing man he had been.
Fu Qing cast a glance at him, a pang of pity surfacing, though it did nothing to deter his duty. Leading tens of thousands of armored soldiers, he moved steadily into the valley.
As the sun sank lower, shadows from the cliffs stretched ominously across their path. A single gnarled tree jutted out at an angle, its twisted branches skeletal against the dimming sky.
An inexplicable unease gripped Fu Qing. As a seasoned warrior, he trusted his instincts, honed in the crucible of life and death. Now, every fiber of his being screamed of danger.
He opened his mouth to shout a warning when a deafening drumbeat erupted, followed by thunderous war cries.
In an instant, soldiers emerged from the cliffs above, their golden banners emblazoned with the character “Mo” unfurling in the wind.
“Ambush!” Fu Qing roared, unsheathing his sword. “We’ve been deceived—retreat immediately!”
Acting decisively, Fu Qing wheeled his horse around and called for his escort to surround the prisoner cart. Cutting down an attacker with practiced ease, he moved to strike Mo Qiehuai.
But the scout who had gone ahead was faster. Racing toward the cart, he swiftly unlocked Mo Qiehuai’s chains.
Nearby guards froze in shock, only to be cut down before they could react. In a chaotic rush, Mo’s soldiers surged forward, overwhelming the unprepared convoy. The clash of swords and the cries of battle filled the canyon, echoing off the walls in a deafening cacophony.
Leaping onto a powerful black horse, Mo Qiehuai drew a deep breath of the blood-scented air. The familiar thrill of battle coursed through his veins, reigniting the warrior’s fire within him.
With a cold smile, he raised his sword, tilting his head as his cat-like eyes glinted with challenge. His disheveled hair whipped in the wind, streaked with blood.
“General Fu, you didn’t expect this, did you? Sending you here was a grave mistake on his part.”
Suddenly, the sound of drums intensified, their rhythm hammering against the senses. Amid the chaos, Roga’s voice rang out, cold and commanding:“Qiehuai, don’t be so sure.”
The bright yellow banners of the imperial army had approached silently, forming an encircling force that sowed seeds of terror in the air. Upon seeing those flags, the Mo soldiers were so paralyzed with fear that they could scarcely speak.
Fu Qing nearly tumbled off his horse, dropping to his knees before Roga.
Yet Roga did not even glance at him. Sitting tall and straight on his mount, his piercing gaze was fixed coldly on Mo Qiehuai, his bearing as aloof and untouchable as that of a deity.
Mo Qiehuai furrowed his delicate brows, anger igniting in his mismatched eyes like a blaze that could not be suppressed.
The heavens darkened, and smoke filled the air. Arrows rained from the cliffs like meteors, accompanied by the thunderous crash of falling boulders.
The Mo army descended into chaos, their panic deepening as they found themselves surrounded once more. Morale collapsed in an instant.
Amid the melee, Mo Qiehuai wielded his sword with fury, cutting through the onslaught as the agonized cries of dying soldiers shattered the night.
The thick stench of blood lingered on the wind, and the crescent moon above hung like a bow, tinged with a crimson hue.
“How do things stand?”
“General, our forces are exhausted from the long march, and supplies are scarce. We are no match for the emperor’s ironclad army.”
“And the Ye clan? What about Ye Tan’s forces?”
“General, they remain motionless in Qingzhou, watching from the sidelines like tigers waiting for prey.”
“What? Fine, very fine…”
The bitterness in Mo Qiehuai’s voice was so sharp it seemed to draw blood. His clenched teeth tasted of iron as the name “Ye Rong” lodged in his throat like a blade. His chest burned with an anger as fierce and volatile as molten lava. “So it was I who was blind…”
He looked around in despair. Though his face betrayed no emotion, within he was barely holding himself together.
Eighty thousand men had crumbled in mere moments, leaving him with fewer and fewer at his side. The metallic scent of blood hung thick in the humid air, swirling and clinging to his senses.
He could not forgive his own stupidity. No, forgiveness was impossible.
It had all been a simple ploy, a straightforward deception.
No wonder Fei Rong had warned him—if he wished to take the Kingdom of Li, he had to sever ties with Ye Rong…
But he had refused to listen, hastily raising his forces. Now, the distant Bei Di army was far beyond reach, unable to provide aid.
And the Ye clan? They had remained still, unmoved.
For all the multitudes of living beings in this vast, bitter sea of existence, there was no shore to stand upon, no Buddha to ferry him across.
Ye Rong… Rouge…
Just thinking of her brought such agony—a pain carved from flesh to bone, one that bore the name of sorrow.
Especially because she was the woman he had loved with all his heart.
And yet, it had all been his own delusion. She had never loved him. From beginning to end, she had only used him.
Around him lay the bloodied corpses of his loyal soldiers. Blades glinted crimson with gore; specters of death loomed, suffocating and inescapable. He could do nothing but watch, unable to find a path forward, surrounded by despairing cries and mournful wails.
Hatred—he should have hated her. But why was there no hatred? Only an unbearable sadness.
Amid falling snow, she had once said to him, “Qiehuai, in this moment, I love you.”
In the prison that day, when he had begged her to flee with him, her sorrowful expression had betrayed so much.
In truth, it was never hopeless. The strategy used against him was not even clever. He had simply been blinded by her, unable to see anything else.
And now, the most pitiful thing of all was that he still loved her.
He exhaled deeply, his breath unsteady as dizziness threatened to overtake him.
He looked toward his opponent, Roga, who clearly understood his advantage. The emperor had adopted a cautious strategy of attrition, unwilling to risk a desperate, all-out attack. His aim was to wear them down completely before delivering the final blow.
Truly, he was every bit the sovereign of Li—unyielding and formidable. Mo Qiehuai could see now that escape was impossible.
“Roga,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos. “I am the son of Prince Jinyuan. For years, I endured humiliation and servitude, all for the day I might ascend to the throne. But I… I lost my composure, fell victim to scheme within scheme. Now, at the end of my life, I finally understand.”
He lifted his gaze slightly, meeting Roga’s eyes with an unyielding calm. In the darkness, his cat-like pupils glimmered with a faint, cutting light, a mixture of cold and sorrowful resolve. His lips curved into a faint smile as he continued, his tone both chilling and resolute.
“Tell her… tell her I love her. My feelings for her are as true as the heavens. And for the sake of whatever bond remains between us, I beg you—do not make things harder for her…”
His love, destructive and consuming, had harmed not only himself but others. Yet still, he could not let go.
She had said to him, “In this moment, I love you.”
That day in the prison, her clear eyes had met his without flinching, tears streaming down her face like molten pearls. She had seemed so fragile then, as though she might dissolve into nothingness.
But now he understood—those tears had not been for him.
Only now did he realize that the man standing before him was the one she truly loved.
Finally, he understood her mind—the relentless, reckless love that sought to drag her beloved into eternal damnation, to show her betrayer the true depths of pain and despair.
He could see her now, trapped in endless torment, unable to escape her suffering.
Caught between love and hate, she had ultimately embraced all her pain, letting it seep into the deepest recesses of her soul.
He had loved her for how deeply she understood him. But now, reflecting on everything, he realized he had never truly understood her—until this very moment.
If only he had understood her sooner, perhaps he could have saved her from her boundless agony. Perhaps she would have smiled freely, her warmth no longer buried beneath the pallor of her soul.
If only he had known earlier, perhaps everything could have been different.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love her—he had simply been too late.
And once missed, there was no going back.
At that moment, Roga saw Mo Qiehuai staring at him, his gaze steady and unyielding. A faint smile played upon his lips.
Mo Qiehuai pressed a hand against one side of his face, his vision clouded with crimson. The pain from his wounds had long turned numb, seeping into his very soul, yet his chest heaved with such intensity it felt as though his heart might burst free.
Then, with a resolute sweep of his sword, he slashed it across his neck, severing life in one final, defiant act.
In his fading consciousness, he saw her again, standing beneath the snow-laden branches. Dressed in black, trembling against the wind, she had once told him, in that moment, that she loved him.
To him, she was proud, unyielding, yet with a softness that intoxicated the soul—a gentleness as alluring and deadly as the poppy flower, irresistible and ruinous.
Her kiss had tasted crisp, laced with a faint coolness that entwined and entranced him, igniting a flame deep within. That sensation was like a black fire devouring his reason, leaving only raw, consuming desire.
Roga stood frozen, watching as the life drained from Mo Qiehuai’s body, blood pooling beneath him. With a heavy sigh, he ordered his troops to withdraw.
His death rendered everything futile…
The most vivid hues in Feibi Valley were the broken remains of fallen soldiers and the endless crimson staining the ground.
Spring rain fell like mist, shrouding the morning sky in a veil of gray, a gauzy haze stretching over the palace roofs.
Droplets pattered against the golden glazed tiles, casting a tarnished sheen that resembled decay. Long strings of water dripped from the eaves, striking the broad banana leaves below with rhythmic plinks, mingling with the faint cries of unseen birds hidden in the drizzling rain.
Seated beneath the corridor, Ye Rong cradled a pipa, her delicate fingers plucking its strings to weave a sorrowful tune. The sound, steeped in the cool, damp air, spread like ink in water, melancholic and elusive.
Through the rain came the sound of footsteps. A bright yellow parasol shielded the man who approached, his wide robes and long sashes trailing as he moved with deliberate grace. His expression was composed, yet his aura radiated arrogance and majesty.
Ye Rong appeared oblivious, her indifferent face betraying no reaction as she continued to pluck the strings, each note sharper and more poignant than the last.
Roga stopped before her, his elegant posture unwavering. His dark eyes gleamed like deep pools, reflecting a faint golden light. The thin curve of his lips twisted into a cold smile as he spoke:
“He died in Feibi Valley, taking his own life. With his last breath, he asked me to tell you: his love for you never wavered.”
Ye Rong’s body trembled, her pale lips pressed tightly together as she lowered the pipa. Without a word, she groped for support and stood, intending to leave. Hedu rushed forward to steady her.
But she stiffened, halting mid-motion. Her stunningly beautiful face flushed faintly, a delicate rose blooming across her cheeks. Her lifted gaze burned with a sharp, radiant light.
“A victor claims the spoils, a loser pays the price. He’s dead. Are you still dissatisfied?”
For a moment, silence enveloped them, the air heavy with unspoken words. The wind whistled through the rain, and the grandeur of Ningye Palace seemed all the colder under the misty downpour.
After a long pause, Roga regarded Ye Rong, a faint smile playing on his lips. Narrowing his eyes, he slowly extended his hand, as though to caress her face. His movements were deliberate, almost painfully slow.
He could feel her breath beneath his fingertips, mingled with the chill of the rain—cold enough to pierce the soul.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered. “Please, don’t touch me. Don’t lay those blood-stained hands on me.”
Roga’s gaze darkened, and his hand darted forward, tilting her chin upward as he studied her features with an almost cruel reverence. A low chuckle rumbled from his throat.
“Yes, my hands are stained with his blood. But you should remember—your hands are just as tainted. I killed him directly; you killed him indirectly. Neither of us is innocent.”
“And what of it? Your suspicion has always run deep. Can you deny that when you sent him to Qingzhou, you were already wary of him? As he gained more military power, you must have planted spies in his ranks. His swift defeat only proves how many informants you had within his army, doesn’t it, Roga?” Her clear eyes glinted with icy determination, her alabaster skin glowing with a cold, ethereal radiance. Her voice was calm, but each word struck like frost. “Yes, I intended to harm him. But you—your so-called brotherly affection was the most damning betrayal of all. As I told you before, ‘brotherly affection’ is only an illusion, a semblance. It was never real. Isn’t that right?”
The rain intensified, the wind howling through the courtyard, indifferent to human affairs.
Roga’s gaze turned frostier, the depths of his eyes reflecting the storm outside. “You’re right. He’s dead now, never to return. Are you satisfied?”
“I am,” she replied softly, her tone like a faint, otherworldly breeze. Her words carried a detached grace, laced with solitary pride. “And you? Are you satisfied, Roga? You’ve lost your greatest general. You stood by and watched as I pushed him to his death, powerless to stop me. Are you satisfied now, Roga?”
The rain blurred the outlines of the palace, a fine mist enveloping Ye Rong’s slender figure. Her black robes swayed lightly in the wind, her presence seeming almost otherworldly, as though she had already transcended mortal ties.
Roga took a slow step forward, his heart pounding with a heaviness that knotted his chest. Something unnameable tangled in his thoughts, leaving him uncertain of his desires.
“Rong,” he said softly, his voice trembling with an unfamiliar vulnerability. “If you would only say you still love me, beg for my forgiveness, I would forget all of this. I would still love you the same.”
“I’ve already told you—I no longer love you.” Ye Rong turned her head, her expression gentle yet tinged with mockery. Her voice, carried by the rain, was soft and calm. “I never will again.”
Then she turned, her posture regal and unwavering, her steps elegant as she disappeared into the rain. Her movements were so graceful they seemed to merge with the rhythm of the falling droplets, like a dance of quiet defiance.
In the misty light, her flowing robes and departing silhouette resembled a fleeting shadow, as if carried away by the wind.
The palace attendants stood silently, their heads bowed.
The wind shifted, the fine rain casting a pale gray haze over Roga’s features, dulling his sharp demeanor. His furrowed brows hinted at a shadow of exhaustion, though his eyes remained bright, piercing through the mist.
“You schemed for this—you wanted him dead. Or… was it me you wanted to see fall? Tell me, was that it?”
She paused mid-step, turning back to look at him. Her face, stunningly beautiful yet drenched with moisture—whether rain or tears, he could not tell—wore an ambiguous smile. It was both breathtaking and heartbreaking.
“Roga, how could I want you dead? How could I…”
“And all you’ve done, all the harm you’ve caused—did you never think it would come back to you?”
“You,” she said softly, her voice a fragile thread in the rain, “you are my retribution, Roga.”
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. She was already drowning in her own sea of pain. And if it hurt, what of it?
Once, within the layered halls of the palace, they had loved each other wholly, their eyes seeing nothing but one another.
But those days were gone, never to return.
Raindrops fell, and somewhere in the distance, a faint song arose, lilting and mournful. Its melody whispered of fleeting beauty, of blooms now withered, of joy lost to ruins. It seemed to ask: What is left of pleasure and splendor when even time cannot stay?