Outside Bodhi Valley, Lonely Branch Like Snow had been burned to the ground, leaving only barren, colorless sand in its wake.
A young woman in pale purple robes sat despondently on the half-collapsed hilltop, hugging her knees. The slope she occupied was the very spot where Zhu Yan had once meditated cross-legged. Before her lay the valley—now a chaotic graveyard ravaged by Xue Xianzi's rampage.
No one accompanied her, nor was she under guard. The Dissolute Shop seemed unconcerned about her fleeing.
She was Zhong Chunji. Days earlier, she had sent a letter to the imperial palace, claiming that during her travels, she had stumbled upon a group of Great Zhou remnants hiding in White Cloud Gully, plotting rebellion, and urged the court to dispatch troops swiftly to suppress them.
Of course, this was not her discovery, nor something she could have uncovered on her own. Gui Mudan had instructed her to write it, and so she did—even enclosing one of her hairpins with the letter.
After sending it, she neither knew nor cared about the consequences.
Because...
"Are you brainless or just desperate enough to die for a princess's title? When were you born? How old are you? When was the princess born to Empress Wang? How old would she be? You're only eighteen—Empress Wang died before you were born. How could she have birthed you, this so-called 'princess'? Zhao Zongying, in his eagerness to find his sister, took one look at your resemblance and assumed you were her. But do you really think you're the princess?"
Zhong Chunji shut her eyes, cold sweat dripping from her temples. She covered her ears, but the voice wouldn't fade.
"By impersonating a princess, leaving the palace without permission, and leading palace guards to their deaths—dozens of them—if this gets out, not only will you lose your head, but Zhao Zongjing and Zhao Zongying, who shielded you, will face calamity too. Hahahaha..." The laughter was derisive. "Little girl, do you understand your situation now? If you want to live and keep playing princess, know your place. Be smart, be obedient, and you can remain a princess—even marry a general or a nobleman someday."
She... was not the princess.
Zhong Chunji opened her eyes, her gaze dull as it fixed on the white sand below the slope. Just as she had feared... Heaven would never grant her such fortune. Heaven only toyed with her life. She was not the princess.
She was not the princess.
She was not the princess.
She was not... the princess.
Why did some people have everything from birth, while others had nothing—no parents, no siblings, no friends, no lovers? No matter how much she hoped, how hard she tried, how many fantasies she spun, everything remained illusory.
In this world, who truly was the princess? The lavish robes, the beautiful maids, the sumptuous feasts, the countless guards at her command—who did these things belong to? It was maddening...
A flash of resentment crossed her eyes. Maddening. Who was it? Maddening! But Gui Mudan had only promised to help her kill this person, refusing to reveal the true princess's identity.
For now, she had no choice but to follow Gui Mudan's orders. His words, though blunt, had struck at the heart of the matter: she could not possibly be the princess. Yet the crime of deceiving the emperor was already committed. To secure Gui Mudan's aid, she could not flee yet.
For now, the Dissolute Shop needed her. For now, she was still the princess. There was still room for maneuver.Good Cloud Mountain recently welcomed several mysterious and distinguished guests. Tang Lici arranged for them to stay in his private courtyard, barring anyone from approaching. The only things known about them were that one was surnamed Yang and the other Jiao. These two did not resemble martial artists, nor did they seem like scholarly gentlemen. After ascending the mountain, they engaged in secret discussions daily with Tang Lici and Hong Guniang, though no one knew what they spoke of.
A few days later, even Bi Lianyi joined these clandestine meetings. Wan Yu Yuedan sent a package up to Good Cloud Mountain, the contents of which piqued the curiosity of many. Inside were fragments of cloth, jade artifacts, and gold and silver figurines—each exquisitely crafted and priceless. Though everyone marveled at them, no one understood their purpose. Yu Konghou, who examined the package alongside the others, knew full well that these were burial objects belonging to the Princess of Langya. Yang Guihua, who had narrowly escaped death at the Dali Temple, had come with Jiao Shiqiao to investigate the princess’s case. Tang Lici’s sudden involvement in the dispute over the true and false princesses suggested he had ulterior motives. While inspecting the items, Yu Konghou subtly applied force with his fingers. Though the jade and gold artifacts appeared intact at first glance, they would crumble into dust upon the slightest jostling during transport. Whatever Tang Lici’s intentions were in stirring up the princess affair, those items could never serve as evidence.
“As expected…” Jiao Shiqiao examined the so-called “evidence” and remarked, “Someone has tampered with it.” Tang Lici’s cheeks flushed slightly, his expression serene as he smiled with satisfaction. “Indeed.” Jiao Shiqiao turned to Hong Guniang, his gaze steady. “It seems you truly are the princess.” If Hong Guniang were not the princess, no one would have bothered sabotaging the evidence. Hong Guniang smiled faintly, her demeanor poised and dignified. After a moment of contemplation, Jiao Shiqiao said, “Prince Jing has mistaken his target. This is a grave matter, and I shall return to the palace at once to report to His Majesty.” He glanced at Tang Lici, his expression indifferent. “Imperial Uncle Tang has contributed to this matter, and I will report it truthfully. His Majesty will surely reward you.”
“Lord Jiao is known for his impartiality and integrity. Hong Guniang possesses the jade pendant, swaddling clothes, and gold locket as proof. The locket bears her birth hour, which matches the palace records. Moreover, her resemblance to Empress Wang is striking. There should be no doubt about her identity as the princess.” Tang Lici smiled faintly. “What concerns me is the disappearance of Miss Zhong. Prince Jing has many enemies in the palace, and I fear this matter may be exploited. We must investigate swiftly.” Jiao Shiqiao studied him for a moment. “I understand.” After another pause, he asked, “His Majesty has yet to formally confer the title of Princess of Langya or meet her in person. Would Hong Guniang be willing to accompany me back to the capital?”
At this, Hong Guniang glanced at Tang Lici and replied coolly, “I can, but I must return within five days.” Jiao Shiqiao hesitated. “Once His Majesty officially recognizes you as the princess, you may not act freely.” Hong Guniang cut him off. “Is the court unaware that the martial world is on the brink of turmoil? My presence at Good Cloud Mountain ensures this conflict remains under control, preventing harm to the court.” Her expression turned icy. “At this critical juncture, only my status as princess can stabilize the situation. Even Young Master Tang cannot offer you such a guarantee.” Jiao Shiqiao was momentarily taken aback. “I will consider it carefully.”That day, Hong Guniang, Bi Lianyi, and Jiao Shiqiao turned toward Bianliang. Though Yu Konghou harbored murderous intent, he could not leave the crucial stronghold of Good Cloud Mountain. He would never sacrifice his position there just to kill Hong Guniang. With her sudden departure—regardless of whether she could be recognized as a princess—he only needed to swiftly reveal his trump card to force Tang Lici to retreat, and control of Good Cloud Mountain would fall into his hands.
Tang Lici understood this well. He merely had to hold Good Cloud Mountain for five days. Once Hong Guniang returned after being formally enfeoffed, everything would be settled.
White Cloud Gully.
Green mountains, clear waters, blooming flowers—the scenery of his hometown, unseen for years, remained exactly as he remembered, as if time had never passed and he had never grown up.
Fang Pingzhai walked slowly into the village nestled between the mountains and rivers. The banners were tattered, rubble scattered everywhere. After days of exposure to wind and sun, the scent of blood in the air had faded somewhat, replaced by the thick stench of decay. The houses still stood, but the bloodstains on the walls had darkened to black, the drag marks starkly visible. It was early summer, and most of the corpses strewn across the ground had already turned to bones, swarmed by flies, overgrown with weeds. Fang Pingzhai walked among them, and before he had taken three steps, his foot already crunched on white bone.
With a crack , the bone snapped. Fang Pingzhai crouched down and gently picked up the fragment—a forearm bone, severed at one end by a blade. Raising his head, he saw the owner of the arm lying not far away, but with tattered clothes and flesh long gone, he could no longer recognize who this person had been.
Twenty paces away, a charred corpse stood upright, propped up by a scorched iron rod, its face turned to the sky. Fang Pingzhai stared unblinkingly at it. This was Yang Tiejun—a hero who had once returned from battle with a dozen enemy heads hanging from his horse, who had taught him to ride and taken him hunting as a child. Now…
Now, he was just a charred corpse.
All around lay shattered bones—some bearing blade wounds, others gnawed by beasts. Fang Pingzhai’s gaze swept over the remains. With his experience and sharp eyes, he could tell that some of the marks were from beasts feeding on those still clinging to life, the wounds and signs of struggle unmistakable.
The thought struck him like a blade to the heart, so painful it stole his breath. His calm shattered abruptly. This was the hometown where he had grown up. These people had saved his life, raised him—their voices and faces remained vivid in his mind. He couldn’t bear to imagine how they had been slaughtered by blades, how they had suffered before death, enduring the agony of being gnawed by beasts in their final moments…
What does a person think when they are dying, their flesh being devoured by beasts?
And when his own kin were dying, being eaten alive—did they hope for him to come save them? How desperately? Did they hope until despair? Did they hate him before they died?
And I… what was I doing at that time?
Fang Pingzhai clutched his chest, standing frozen. Some burdens he thought he had long let go still weighed on his shoulders—so heavily that they crushed him, breaking him beyond recognition.
“My… lord…”
Fang Pingzhai whirled around. From beside a fire-scorched brick house, a withered, skeletal hand weakly waved a few times. With a sudden sweep of his palm, the chicken coop beside the house exploded open, revealing a bloodied figure beneath. The man’s legs were both severed; once robust, he was now emaciated to the point of resembling a skeleton. Fang Pingzhai stepped toward him, one slow step at a time.
“Brother Hou…”The man weakly moved his hand, "My... lord..."
"Brother Hou!" Fang Pingzhai walked up to him and slowly knelt down, "You... you..." Despite his usual eloquence, he couldn't utter a single word now.
"The... imperial troops... slaughtered... entire families... Aunt Fang... they..." The man clenched his teeth, speaking word by word, "killed her... so cruelly... my lord... I beg you..." He suddenly coughed violently, spitting out bloody phlegm, "I beg you... avenge Aunt Fang! Avenge—"
"Brother Hou!" Fang Pingzhai tightly grasped his hand. How had he survived lying here for over ten days? How had he watched his kin being devoured by beasts before his eyes, slowly dying and turning to bones? How could anyone endure this? How could he remain so resilient? "Stop! Stop, I can't bear it! I can't..."
"My lord... you..." the man rasped, "you must not be too weak..."
"I..."
"My lord... restore... restore the kingdom..." The man suddenly gripped Fang Pingzhai's hand in return, his withered fingers leaving deep scratches on the back of his hand, drawing blood, "Restore... restore the kingdom!"
Fang Pingzhai had no words. The body before him struggled to crawl closer, "If you don't... I'll haunt you—"
The voice cut off abruptly. The fingers on his right hand tightened their grip, but the man before him moved no more.
With a soft "plop," a teardrop fell into the dust. Fang Pingzhai whispered, "Brother Hou," but the skeletal corpse before him would never respond again. Even if he had a thousand words in his heart, he neither knew how to say them nor had anyone left to hear them.
Restore the kingdom?
Kneeling amidst the bloodstained gravel, the path ahead would be one of no return—a road paved with blood.
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