Chapter Seventy-Three
Leaving the interrogation hall filled with the stench of blood and excrement, Yixiao finally couldn’t hold back and rushed to a nearby grove of flowering trees to retch. Feng Suige quickly followed, patting her back with concern. "You always have to be stubborn—you could have left this to me, but you insisted on doing it yourself!"
After crouching for a while, Yixiao calmed slightly and gave a bitter smile. "Some things must never be done by the Imperial Son acting as regent. But I’m different. I’m already the 'Poisonous flowers and weeds' in their eyes—what harm is there in being a little more ruthless?"
Feng Suige sighed. "We’ve already gotten this far in the interrogation. Leave the rest to me." Yixiao lifted her head firmly. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dazzling spots of light. "No. I will personally uncover the mastermind behind this and avenge Guyu!"
"Impossible!" Consort Zhuang shrieked, her face twisted with fury. "Father told me—he had already instructed them! Once the heat dies down, they’ll find a way to release them. There’s no way they could have confessed anything!"
Feng Qishan sat nearby, his expression dark. Hearing her words, he snapped coldly, "After just one round of torture, those cowards spilled everything. What do you mean 'impossible'?"
Consort Zhuang threw herself at Feng Qishan’s feet, clutching his knees as she burst into tears. "Please, Lord of the Nation, save my father and brother!" Feng Qishan narrowed his eyes, thinking for a moment before sighing. "It’s difficult. If this goes wrong, not only will we fail to protect them, but even I will be implicated." His anger flared again. "And whose fault is this? You swore it was foolproof, and yet—look what happened!"
Consort Zhuang clung to his legs, sobbing desperately. "It was an unforeseen accident. Please, Lord of the Nation, show mercy..." Feng Qishan shoved her away impatiently and stood, pacing back and forth before stopping abruptly. "Actually, there might still be a chance."
Consort Zhuang immediately stopped crying, lifting her tear-streaked face in confusion. "What chance?" Before Feng Qishan could answer, footsteps sounded outside. A servant dressed in plain attire slipped in, bowed, and whispered two sentences into Feng Qishan’s ear.
Feng Qishan’s expression changed drastically. "Is it true?" The man hesitated before replying slowly, "Everyone present saw it, but whether it’s real remains unconfirmed." Feng Qishan’s face flickered between emotions before he finally waved the man away.
Consort Zhuang approached uncertainly. "Lord of the Nation..." Feng Qishan gritted his teeth. "Fu Yixiao might be pregnant!"
Another storm raged outside. Yixiao stood beneath the eaves, her eyes filled with an indescribable weariness and sorrow.
Is this what the imperial court is always like? Such open and covert strife, where right and wrong blur into nothingness... But Guyu is dead. He’ll never come back, no matter who is exposed as the murderer.
The entire scheme was orchestrated by Consort Zhuang’s father and brother, yet Feng Qishan had supported it—or perhaps "supported" was too strong a word. But without his silent approval, how could those men have entered the heavily guarded woods?!
Feng Suige must know this in his heart as well.
Can we still swear undying love as we once did?
Born as enemies, yet love grew between us. Who betrayed whom in the end? Could he truly forsake his nation and kin for fleeting pleasure and throw himself into my arms?
Once caught in this game, none of us have a choice."Minor Imperial Concubine," a maidservant called softly from the far end of the corridor, "the snow frog steamed as ordered by the Imperial Son is ready. Would you like it now?"
"Snow frog?" Yixiao frowned. "I don't eat such things. Keep it for the Imperial Son."
Yet the maid did not retreat. Instead, she wore a strange expression and stepped closer. "The Minor Imperial Concubine's tastes truly haven't changed..."
Yixiao glanced at her coldly. "I didn’t realize servants had so much to say."
Undeterred by her indifference, the maid continued, "Old Madam’s death anniversary approaches. How does the Minor Imperial Concubine plan to arrange the memorial rites?"
Yixiao turned sharply, studying her for a moment before suppressing the turmoil in her heart and offering a frosty smile. "That is not your concern. What I’m more curious about is how you came to know my mother’s death anniversary."
The maid ignored the question and pressed on, "This servant has already selected plain white fabric to be given to an expert weaver, to make a mourning robe for the Minor Imperial Concubine. Old Madam’s spirit would surely rejoice to see you wearing her favorite color..."
"Who are you?!" Yixiao’s heart nearly leapt from her throat. Only one person could know such things...
"This servant is but a lowly maid," the woman replied with a smile. "However, someone just asked me to remind the Minor Imperial Concubine that though you dislike greens, you mustn’t avoid them entirely..."
"Where is he?!" Yixiao nearly shouted.
——
Another dream. In it, he approached with a gentle smile, only to brush past her as she reached out to embrace him. Behind her, a figure in fiery red stood poised in the distance.
She couldn’t move. She could only watch as her husband, right before her eyes, embraced another woman.
Their figures tangled fiercely—the rustle of fabric, breathy murmurs, tender laughter, and the occasional wet, muffled sound slipping between lips, mingling with ragged gasps and low moans.
Yixiao, Yixiao, Yixiao... His whispered name crashed into her ears like a roaring tide—burning yet desolate, savage yet suffused with unbearable grief.
A terrifying floral scent filled the air. She tried to scream, but no sound came. She tried to weep, but no tears fell. Finally, thrashing wildly, she tore free from the nightmare and bolted upright, eyes snapping open.
Drenched in cold sweat.
After a long silence, Feng Xiyang sighed softly and sank back into the pillows.
With a heart of ice, he had carved an uncrossable chasm between them. The feeling was like poisoned wine—warm and mellow on the tongue, yet sharp as metal sliding down the throat, searing pain straight to the heart.
She had once thought merely seeing him daily would bring joy, that staying by his side would be enough. But in the end, she couldn’t deceive herself.
An Imperial Concubine had once said resentment made one ugly, but she didn’t know how not to resent.
She wanted to let go but couldn’t. She wanted to possess him but never would. Love was selfish—she couldn’t endure being overlooked, couldn’t bear the other woman in his heart.
Just as the Empress Dowager had said: this was fate’s cruel jest.
With nothing else to occupy her, tomorrow, she would speak with the Empress Dowager again.
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