Meng Xizhao and Captain Jin remained in the room for nearly the duration of a tea session. Eventually, Captain Jin left the room, pursing his lips, and departed from the Qi inn.
Not long after, Meng Xizhao emerged as well. He saw Lu Fengqiu, who had been quietly observing from the second floor, immediately rush down. Usually, just a few steps would leave him gasping, yet today he ran faster than a rabbit.
Lu Langzhong asked nervously, “Young Master Meng, what did the Left Worthy King Captain want with you?”
Meng Xizhao glanced at him. “He didn’t come to me—I went to him.”
Lu Langzhong froze for a moment, then hurriedly asked, “Then… what did you want with him?!”
Meng Xizhao sighed. “Of course, I went to beg him to save our lives. Lord Lu, haven’t you noticed? Our necks are practically tied to the waistbands now.”
Lu Langzhong: “….”
Hadn’t he noticed? He was the first to notice, and the one with the clearest head, thank you very much!
Lu Fengqiu felt weary, but this was no time to lose composure. He worried about something else instead. “Did he agree to save us?”
Meng Xizhao shook his head. “No.”
Lu Langzhong: “….”
Seeing his colleague’s face etched with despair, and sensing a stoic, almost tragic aura, Meng Xizhao patted his arm. “Lord Lu, don’t worry. We do what we can and leave the rest to fate. With the Emperor’s protection, we will surely turn misfortune into fortune.”
Lu Fengqiu stared blankly.
If Meng Xizhao had said the Buddha would protect them, Lu Fengqiu might have felt some comfort. But he invoked the Heavenly Longevity Emperor instead, and Lu Fengqiu instantly thought it might be better to find a hanging rope and end it all.
The Chanyu of the Xiongnu was dead.
This was a serious mess. Even if they survived and escaped back to Qi, how would the Heavenly Longevity Emperor react when he learned of it?
Even as a mere minister in the Ministry of Rites, Lu Fengqiu knew the emperor was selfish and arrogant. Discovering that the princess had stumbled into such a catastrophic situation—even if it was clearly not her fault—he would not be pleased.
The princess remained in the Xiongnu court, and those of them who returned to Qi would first have to face the emperor’s wrath.
Even if the Xiongnu spared them, the emperor might not. One, to vent his anger; two, to show the Xiongnu that the incident had nothing to do with him. The Crown Prince would likely be safe—after all, the emperor would not execute him as a warning—but Meng Xizhao might still be fine, thanks to his father’s position as a minister and his maternal family’s standing in Wu. He had past achievements that earned him the emperor’s leniency.
Ding Chun would be fine too; even after losing a city, he could stand here unharmed. That meant he was needed by the emperor, so he would live.
That left only Lu Fengqiu and Zang He as candidates to be executed to appease the Xiongnu.
Zang He was young, a newly titled third-ranking scholar, and still had some chance of survival.
Perfect. Everyone else had hope—except him.
Lu Fengqiu stared blankly at a wall, his expression frozen.
Meng Xizhao, noticing him, blinked and asked, “Lord Lu, how is Her Highness the Princess?”
Lu Fengqiu, seemingly soulless, replied flatly, “She’s still upstairs, crying.”
Meng Xizhao: “…How long has she been at it? I should go try to comfort her. If she damages her eyes from crying, we would bear responsibility.”
But before he could move, Lu Fengqiu stopped him.
Sighing, he said, “Young Master Meng, you stay here. I’ll go look after the princess.”
This way, he could cry alongside her.
Meng Xizhao: “….”
Watching Lu Fengqiu go upstairs stiffly like a puppet, Meng Xizhao twitched at the corner of his mouth.
When Meng Xizhao said to wait, he meant literally sitting and waiting.
None of them could leave. The one guard who sneaked out had already risked everything, so there was little more that could be done.
Time passed slowly. No one felt like eating, and sleep was impossible. Eventually, they all gathered in the front hall on the first floor, sitting quietly without speaking.
The princess’s emotions were the most volatile among them, and she had been crying continuously. Before noon, she fainted from exhaustion. Three physicians accompanied her. One had gone with her to the new palace, and the others’ status was unknown. The last was Teng Kangning, brought by Meng Xizhao, who now crowded among the attendants, anxiously awaiting news.
Hearing of her fainting, Meng Xizhao immediately summoned the imperial physician. Yet the physician’s nerves were worse than Lu Fengqiu’s. Hearing that the Chanyu had died last night, he almost collapsed from a heart episode, nearly following the old Chanyu to the afterlife. Only Teng Kangning’s two injections saved him.
Exasperated, Meng Xizhao summoned Teng Kangning himself.
Throughout the journey, Teng Kangning had done nothing but check Meng Xizhao’s pulse and sit quietly, fiddling with herbs. The group only knew him as the socially inept, eccentric physician.
Now, everyone was anxious and unconcerned about his oddities. He followed the attendants upstairs without greeting the officials on the first floor and began treating the Princess of Chu.
Meng Xizhao casually glanced at him, then returned his attention to the inn’s main gate.
Through the paper windows, he could vaguely see the fully armed Xiongnu outside.
Lowering his gaze, he began recalculating the same strategy he had considered countless times in recent days.
The Xiongnu’s power was divided into four factions. The first consisted of the old Chanyu’s loyalists—permanent court generals like the Grand Commander—who had no thoughts of rebellion. Whoever the old Chanyu supported, they supported. Unfortunately, in his old age, the Chanyu trusted his sons less and never revealed which he intended to succeed him. Without his guidance, these men remained neutral—essentially today’s middle power.
The second faction consisted of the Xiongnu nobility, led by the Grand Yishi. She was not the old Chanyu’s original wife, but had married him only after his power had solidified, at the point when it was clear he would inherit the Chanyu seat. This Grand Yishi came from a very noble lineage and thrived among the aristocracy. The Second Prince was her son. The Chanyu had many daughters but few sons, and it was unclear which children were her doing.
One thing was certain: the Grand Yishi was strong-willed. Even in her later years, when no longer favored, she retained considerable influence within the Xiongnu.
The third faction, naturally, was the allied forces of the Great Prince and the Right Worthy King, the strongest of all factions. The Great Prince’s military prowess, combined with the Right Worthy King’s intellect, made them seemingly unstoppable. Yet there was one problem.
The Right Worthy King was unpopular.
In the Xiongnu court, his position was comparable to that of Grand Preceptor Gan in Qi. As a childhood companion of the Chanyu, he had the Chanyu’s innate favor. He was skilled with words, always keeping the Chanyu in high spirits, and over the years had secured considerable personal benefits through his cleverness.
But this was the Xiongnu. They naturally distrusted those who relied only on rhetoric.
Compared with the magnanimous Left Worthy King, who occasionally engaged in bold “angel investment” gambits, the Right Worthy King could easily be called cunning. He often manipulated the Chanyu to remove anyone who offended him. Once or twice, it might go unnoticed; but over time, people saw him for the scheming man he was.
While the old Chanyu lived, the Right Worthy King’s influence meant people dared not offend him. Now that the Chanyu was gone, everything would change. Those with ambition would seize the chance to make their mark, but having someone like the Right Worthy King close to the Great Prince would make the Xiongnu wary.
The Right Worthy King, Fokan, was also the Great Prince’s father-in-law. Their relationship was close. Would the Right Worthy King retain his position once the Great Prince ascended? Would he still dominate the Chanyu court?
Once doubts arose, decisions could not be made, and someone would need to push matters forward.
In historical records, the Great Prince did not ascend normally. After the old Chanyu’s sudden death, he first spent time consolidating the Chanyu court before taking the throne. The texts never mention the Right Worthy King Fokan, and someone with such ambition, if still at the center of Xiongnu power, would certainly interfere everywhere. The absence of mention implies that the Great Prince discarded him.
“Kill the cunning hare, cook the hound.” Future actions of the Great Prince would bear Fokan’s mark, but Fokan himself was likely already long gone.
Meng Xizhao was not exaggerating.
The Left Worthy King could survive the power transition, at worst being assigned to border defense. The Right Worthy King, however, had become useless after the Chanyu’s death. His presence even hindered the Great Prince from recruiting talent. With his high status and seniority, given time, he could have become a check on the Great Prince.
The Great Prince was not foolish. He would realize this. If he were sentimental, perhaps the Right Worthy King might survive a little longer. But the Great Prince was a man who, the moment his father died, could instantly launch a coup. Sentimentality? Not in this lifetime.
In the historical record, the old Chanyu died suddenly; now, the old Chanyu is still dead, and the Great Prince is still the same man. That was why Meng Xizhao said the prince would quickly act to seize power.
The Grand Commanders had not acted; they were still in a state of confusion. At this moment, the crucial factor was initiative.
Whoever first controlled the court would become the next Chanyu. No suspense remained, no chance of reversal. Unlike Qi, in the Xiongnu, except for a Right Worthy King with a mutated brain, all others were fundamentally sound, possessed the Xiongnu sense of justice, had strong bodies, high status, and understood the principles of reward and punishment.
In other words, whoever ascended, the outcome for the people would be similar. The Great Prince excelled at combat—a natural general—but now had no opportunity to demonstrate it. The Xiongnu did not know this; they only knew that whoever became Chanyu, their lives would continue in roughly the same way.
Originally, the Left Worthy King should have belonged to the first faction, the neutral sphere.
Now, however, after two months of Meng Xizhao’s relentless persuasion, combined with the impending war between Qi and the Xiongnu, the Left Worthy King was practically forced to act. Unless he were a reincarnated sage, he would step into the fourth Xiongnu faction and decide to do something.
After all, this was not only a matter of life and death for Meng Xizhao and his companions—it was a pivotal moment for the Xiongnu. They had just suffered a disaster, and the populace had not recovered. If the Great Prince acted on impulse, war would ensue. Victory might bring relief, but defeat, under conditions of scarce food, Qi forces at the border, the Jurchens stirring unrest, and the Yuezhi secretly scheming, could spell the end of the Xiongnu.
Meng Xizhao trusted that the Left Worthy King, who cared deeply for the Xiongnu, would not let the nation fall without intervening.
The question remained: to what extent could he act? And how much influence could Captain Jin have on him once he returned?
Meng Xizhao was therefore not worried about the escort party encountering problems. The Xiongnu were not truly foolish. Even the Great Prince was currently in a state of blind rage; once he cooled down, he would realize it was better not to place the blame for the Chanyu’s death on Qi—at least, not yet.
In any case, the Chanyu was dead. The deceased could not speak, and the living still needed to eat.
While sitting, Meng Xizhao suddenly rose and went back upstairs.
The others glanced at him but said nothing, quietly absorbed in their own thoughts.
Pushing open his own door, Meng Xizhao saw the Crown Prince sitting on his bed, eyes habitually closed in a quiet moment of rest.
Perhaps because of his frail health, the Crown Prince’s movements were always calm, as if every moment were devoted to cultivating longevity. Meng Xizhao sat down on a chair and, almost instinctively, formed his hands into a flower shape to support his face.
He quietly observed the Crown Prince with his eyes closed and let out a deep sigh, as if worried the prince might not hear him.
Cui Ye: “……”
The Crown Prince opened a narrow slit of his long, slanted eyes, glancing at Meng Shaoqing, who was unconsciously posing. After a pause, he asked, “Why the sigh?”
Meng Xizhao blinked a few times, ignoring the question and instead asked, “Tell me… what chance does Huriqia have of ascending to the Chanyu’s seat?”
Cui Ye considered for a moment before replying, “Fifty percent.”
Meng Xizhao raised an eyebrow. “Only fifty?”
Cui Ye gave a faint smile. “If he hadn’t, before arriving at the post station, revealed his deep-seated hatred for Qi, perhaps we could add another twenty percent. But he was far too obstinate. In a single moment, he placed personal vengeance above affairs of state, missing the chance. Irreparable.”
Meng Xizhao pondered thoughtfully, then said, “Indeed. But even fifty percent… is a risk Qi cannot bear.”
He smiled wryly. “If he ascends, then I shall be remembered as Qi’s eternal sinner.”
Cui Ye turned his gaze toward Meng Xizhao, studying him silently for a moment. Then he got off the bed, seated himself on a nearby stool, closing the distance between them. Even at his low voice, his words reached Meng Xizhao’s heart.
“The Xiongnu and Qi will clash sooner or later. Your father’s mortal enemy was Nanzhao; Qi’s mortal enemy has always been the Xiongnu. Erlang has never been a sinner. You are merely an official striving to prevent war for the sake of Qi.”
Slowly, Meng Xizhao lowered his arms and straightened in his seat. “Your Highness knows why I do this?”
Cui Ye smiled, offering no answer.
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Did he understand—or not? In truth, it hardly mattered. What mattered was that Cui Ye trusted him. That was enough.
They spoke quietly for a while longer, until a commotion arose outside.
Meng Xizhao and Cui Ye exchanged a glance and rose simultaneously, moving swiftly toward the source of the noise.
From the second-floor railing, Meng Xizhao looked down to see Ding Chun and the others clustered tensely near the door. A stranger, clad in Xiongnu armor, stood at the entrance, scanning the group with no regard, until his gaze landed on Meng Xizhao above.
His refined speech carried a strong Xiongnu accent, but all understood his words:
“Qi’s Honglu Si Shaoqing, Left Worthy King requests your presence.”
Expressionless, Meng Xizhao’s thoughts boiled down to two words: —It’s happening.
The Left Worthy King requested only Meng Xizhao, but the Qi delegation refused. To face the Xiongnu alone at such a time was nearly suicidal. Even Lu Fengqiu, among the crowd, shook his head vigorously, refusing to let Meng Xizhao go alone.
Meng Xizhao waved them aside. “It’s fine. I trust Left Worthy King,” he said.
With that, he followed the Xiongnu soldier out, calm and composed, leaving the onlookers awestruck and tearful.
Meng Shaoqing, you truly are remarkable! A model of Qi! Just… make sure you return alive!
Outside the post station, the guards remained numerous, and Meng Xizhao could not immediately gauge the Left Worthy King’s intentions. He followed in silence.
After only a few dozen paces, Meng Xizhao realized they were not heading to the Left Worthy King’s residence, but to the royal palace.
He paused briefly, maintaining his composure, and kept silent the entire way.
At the palace, the Left Worthy King did not meet him in the former Chanyu’s main hall, but in a side hall guarded by two Xiongnu sentries. They scrutinized him but did not obstruct his entry.
Meng Xizhao noted one thing: Captain Jin was absent.
After a brief pause, he pushed the door open.
The side hall was lit by a fire brazier, but it did little to counter the chill. Only the main hall and the inner chambers had dragon-stove heating; the rest relied on braziers. Here, there was no stove, just the brazier.
In front of it sat the Left Worthy King, alone, staring unblinkingly at Meng Xizhao.
A strange sensation stirred within him.
Two months—no, over two months had passed. By now, he and the Left Worthy King should have been familiar, yet this was their first moment sitting face-to-face.
Meng Xizhao even felt a hint of pride. He used to look down on me, huh? Well, how’s that feel now?
With that thought, he settled calmly opposite the Left Worthy King and asked, “Greetings, Left Worthy King. Has the cause of the Chanyu’s death been confirmed?”
The Left Worthy King’s gaze remained fixed on him. Slowly, he spoke: “Twenty physicians all declare the Chanyu died suddenly in his sleep.”
Meng Xizhao nodded. “Then our princess can also be cleared of all suspicion.”
The Left Worthy King, however, stared sharply into his eyes and asked, “Meng Xizhao, do you truly believe this has nothing to do with your princess?”
Meng Xizhao met his powerful, hawk-like gaze without flinching, raising his own eyes to hold the stare.
He smiled faintly, his tone firm and resolute: “Yes. That is exactly what I believe. Our princess—the princess of Da Qi—would never do anything to harm the friendship between our two nations. She wouldn’t dare, nor could she.”
As he spoke the last twelve words, Meng Xizhao’s gaze toward the Left Worthy King carried a subtle, almost intimidating weight.
The Left Worthy King felt a momentary, unspoken pressure, yet inwardly relaxed. He had obtained the answer he sought.
It seemed Meng Xizhao himself did not know exactly what had happened the previous night. During the entire journey to deliver the bride, the Left Worthy King observed that the Qi princess and the Crown Prince were like strangers—unfamiliar not only with each other but even with the attendants. Only a few maids were able to exchange a few words with the princess.
Independent, calculating, and fond of reading, the princess might conceivably act in a way that defied convention—but she would never reveal her actions to anyone. Any Qi subject not entirely foolish would never cooperate with her schemes.
The Qi people might be innocent, but the princess…
There were no signs of poisoning or external injury on the Chanyu’s corpse. The physicians all concurred that, whatever the case, it was impossible for every one of them to have been bribed. Moreover, they were Xiongnu, not likely to follow the instructions of Qi people blindly.
All signs pointed to a natural death, yet the Left Worthy King still sensed there was more beneath the surface.
However, “sensing” something was no substitute for evidence—and even evidence could be dangerous.
After a pause, he looked at Meng Xizhao. “I hope you can maintain this confidence, and I hope that the princess’s actions are truly as clean as you claim.”
Meng Xizhao was not intimidated. He smiled lightly. “Confidence comes from doing things openly. Black cannot become white, and white cannot become black. I hope Your Highness will remember the same principle.”
Even now, he remained arrogant. The Left Worthy King could not help feeling a stronger sense of irritation toward him.
Yet some things must be said. “The former Chanyu will be buried in ten days, and the new Chanyu’s enthronement ceremony will occur on the same day. After the new Chanyu ascends, we will send letters to all the rulers of the world. Then your emperor will know what has transpired here.”
Meng Xizhao asked cautiously, “May I ask… the new Chanyu is—?”
The Left Worthy King gave a slight, knowing smirk. “It is the current Second Prince of the Xiongnu.”
Meng Xizhao’s face registered genuine shock.
The Left Worthy King understood the reason for his surprise. He had told Captain Jin that he would support the Third Prince’s ascension.
The Third Prince was born simple-minded, easier to control. Meng Xizhao had said he could act as regent, effectively holding the real power of the Xiongnu. Anyone else might have thought this sensible—but not the Left Worthy King.
A simple-minded prince, ignorant of everything, could not realistically be enthroned without sparking rebellion. Even if initially subdued by force, the Xiongnu would quickly resist.
The eldest prince had strength; the second prince had a powerful backing. Unless the Left Worthy King eliminated both, future turmoil was inevitable.
Meng Xizhao appeared to offer guidance in the prince’s favor, but in truth he planned to observe the struggle, to see a weak ruler ascend and then plunge the Xiongnu into endless unrest.
Hmph. Did the Qi truly think he could not see through this scheme? Overconfident!
Yet the Left Worthy King admitted a certain practicality: with the old Chanyu gone, he no longer owed loyalty to anyone but himself. The Third Prince was too foolish; the First Prince too wild; only the Second Prince remained a viable choice.
The more he considered it, the more suitable the Second Prince seemed. Protected by the Great Lady and backed by the nobility, he had wealth—but his weakness was insufficient military strength compared to the First Prince’s forces.
By announcing support for him, the Left Worthy King patched that weakness. The Second Prince rejoiced, and the Great Lady pledged her own guarantee. The Left Worthy King did not seek the regency; he simply wanted to remain Left Worthy King, oversee his court, and ensure the new Chanyu acted wisely, unlike the previous ruler.
Ultimately, he cared more for the development of the Xiongnu than for his own power.
Confident he had unraveled Meng Xizhao’s plan, the Left Worthy King looked at him with mild contempt. Meng Xizhao’s face, however, seemed to scream, How could this be?
Frowning, Meng Xizhao said sharply, “Left Worthy King, you are naive. The Second Prince, Annuwei, has a powerful maternal family. Even if he obeys you now, one day he will turn on you!”
The Left Worthy King’s expression darkened instantly. “Meng Xizhao, a Qi subject, and yet you dare meddle in Xiongnu affairs?”
Meng Xizhao opened his mouth, but seeing the Left Worthy King’s cold expression, he pressed his lips together and stayed silent.
Sighing in frustration, he muttered, “Very well… this is indeed your matter, and I should not interfere. How is your First Prince? He isn’t still plotting to kill us all, is he?”
The Left Worthy King: “The First Prince is burning with anger; he is unwell and currently resting.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
You adapt fast, he thought. Just by calling him “ill,” the First Prince is contained.
Yet it wasn’t enough. Being merely sick accomplishes little—you must ensure he cannot recover. Otherwise, when he finds a chance to escape, misfortune will still fall on you.
But Meng Xizhao would not voice that; he was waiting for the day to see it unfold.
This First Prince was formidable. Yet Meng Xizhao could not deal with him as he had with the old Chanyu—sending him off quietly. The old Chanyu might have died in his sleep, and it made sense. The First Prince dying in sleep would be too strange—and there was no one he could bribe to be with him.
He had to engineer it so that any accident involving the First Prince would come from the Xiongnu themselves. After all, even the seemingly harmless death of the old Chanyu nearly wiped out the bridal escort. If anyone saw it as the work of their own people—killing or maiming the First Prince—the old Chanyu’s rage, even posthumously, could have been just as deadly.
If his own people could not intervene, then the Xiongnu had to take action themselves.
Since the First Prince was formidable, Meng Xizhao needed another strong figure to balance him—not to overpower him, but at least to keep him in check. This unstable balance would benefit Qi by giving it time to recover and strengthen.
Of course, the balance could not remain forever. The Left Worthy King, appearing magnanimous now, would soon understand the value of holding power tightly—letting go would be like tearing flesh from one’s own body. That was why so many rulers lost their integrity late in life: they clung too desperately to the status quo, unwilling to acknowledge any downward trend.
The First Prince would not remain idle; the Second Prince, like any weaker ruler, would seek freedom from his mother and the Left Worthy King; the Left Worthy King would refuse to relinquish power. Three women could stage their drama, and the three men would rival them in intensity.
The First Prince, a warrior at full strength; the Second Prince, backed by nobles; and the Left Worthy King, still at the peak of his influence—this drama could easily continue for two years.
Those were the two years Meng Xizhao needed.
War would be a last resort. Confronting a giant like the Xiongnu directly was impossible for Qi at present. Even if it sent all its forces, it could not take such a massive prize in one bite. The only option was to divide and destabilize them internally.
If the Xiongnu could fight among themselves, great—but if they realized they could not continue, so be it. By then, Qi would no longer fear them.
Two years of Xiongnu internal strife meant two years of Qi development. Meng Xizhao was confident: in that time, Qi would surpass the Xiongnu. Even if the First Prince emerged victorious later, he would find the balance of power reversed—the once-unshakable Xiongnu would no longer dominate; Qi would.
…
This was Meng Xizhao’s first accomplishment among the Xiongnu.
The second matter could now be addressed.
With the First Prince ill, Qi’s position was relatively safe. When the Left Worthy King asked if they wished to stay for the enthronement, Meng Xizhao shook his head repeatedly. The Qi envoys were terrified; who would dare remain in Xiongnu territory, wishing for wings to escape the foreboding steppe?
The Left Worthy King did not insist—they too did not wish to see these Qi people again.
The departure was still scheduled for the day after tomorrow, but some business required discussion beforehand: horse trading, and whether Qi should offer compensation for the Chanyu’s funeral. These decisions could wait, since the Left Worthy King was still only a Left Worthy King. For major matters, he would summon the Second Prince, and Meng Xizhao needed Cui Ye present for appearances. They agreed to meet the next day for thorough discussion.
Then the Left Worthy King mentioned something that caused Meng Xizhao’s eyes to widen in disbelief.
“What?! You want our princess to remain here?!”
The Left Worthy King frowned. “She is one of the Chanyu’s wives; she is meant to stay.”
Meng Xizhao protested, “But the Chanyu has already been buried.”
“After the enthronement, all of the former Chanyu’s wives will become wives of the Second Prince.”
Meng Xizhao: “That cannot be! It defies reason!”
The Left Worthy King grew impatient. “This is Xiongnu custom! Since your princess married into the Xiongnu, she must abide by it!”
Meng Xizhao hesitated, weighing his words carefully. “Princess cried from morning until now. She even fainted from it at noon. Her current state is far worse than when she was first to be married to the Chanyu. I’m sure Your Highness knows that women from Qi are ill-suited for steppe life. Furthermore, Qi custom sees a woman married first to a father, then to a son… The princess is already distraught. If she learns of this, I fear… she may do something extreme.”
His words were deliberately ambiguous. “Extreme” could mean desperate self-harm, or compelling harm to others.
The memory of the inexplicably deceased old Chanyu last night flickered in the Left Worthy King’s mind, replaced by the image of the vigorous Second Prince in the same scenario.
He paused, momentarily stiffened—even he could not quite process it. The cause of the old Chanyu’s death remained uncertain. Whether the Qi princess was responsible or not, after such a turbulent turn of events, who could predict whether she might gain a dark inspiration and decide one death was not enough?
With a stiff expression, the Left Worthy King slowly looked across at Meng Xizhao.
…
By nightfall, Meng Xizhao had finally returned to the Qi relay station.
The moment he entered, he was surrounded.
Lu Fengqiu asked, “Well?! Do the Xiongnu believe in our innocence?”
Meng Xizhao nodded. “They have inspected the body. The Chanyu truly died of natural causes; it has nothing to do with us.”
For a moment, the relay station erupted in a collective sense of relief.
The Qi princess stood on the second floor, hands tightly clasped, lips pressed together, eyes anxiously fixed on Meng Xizhao.
At that moment, Meng Xizhao lifted his gaze to look at her on the upper floor.
Through the cheering crowd, Meng Xizhao could clearly see her anxiety. At first, his face showed no expression, but after two seconds of locking eyes with her, he slowly pursed his lips and smiled.
Boom—
It was the sound of a huge weight lifting from her heart.
In that instant, the Princess of Chu covered her mouth and wept aloud.
Her maid, worried, asked, “Your Highness, what is it?”
The princess only shook her head, unable to speak.
Finally—
She was finally going home!