He had just returned, triumphant from his mission, originally coming to bring Shangguan Ye good news—only to hear that he had gone to see Zhao Xiru. Naturally, he’d felt a flicker of concern, unsure of what Shangguan Ye might do to her.
Despite his harsh words that day, deep down he had never truly wished for Zhao Xiru’s death. After all, she had helped him quite a bit and owed him no small number of favors.
But what he hadn’t expected was to arrive just in time to hear Zhao Xiru screaming threats of murder—and to see through the open door that she was about to kill Shangguan Ye. In that moment, his mind had gone completely blank. His body had simply reacted on instinct.
Had that hairpin fallen even a second sooner, it wouldn’t have been her wrist he broke—it would’ve been her neck.
Shangguan Ye held his slightly cold hand with a smile on his face, clearly in a fantastic mood. “I’m fine. You’re like someone who’s been bitten by a snake—now terrified of every rope you see.”
Murong Qiufeng, seeing that he was indeed unharmed, finally let out a breath of relief. Hearing Shangguan Ye joke so lightly, he glared at him. “You still have the nerve to joke? Don’t forget—you’re still injured.”
Shangguan Ye smiled indulgently, letting him scold him while gently lifting Murong Qiufeng’s hand and placing a kiss on his knuckles. “Yes, yes, my dear Princess Consort. It’s my fault—I shouldn’t have run off and made you worry.”
Murong Qiufeng’s face flushed at the affectionate words, and his anger deflated a little. He shot Shangguan Ye a sideways glance. “Don’t say nonsense like that.”
“Oh? Nonsense?” Shangguan Ye raised a brow playfully. “Then you mean I should be running around and making you worry? If that’s the case—”
“Don’t you dare.” Murong Qiufeng cut him off sharply, half-exasperated. He knew Shangguan Ye was teasing him on purpose, but still—he couldn’t help feeling strangely warm inside.
Shangguan Ye grinned, clearly pleased with himself. He slipped an arm around Qiufeng’s waist and chuckled, “Okay, okay, I wouldn’t dare. Of course, whatever the Princess Consort says goes.” As he spoke, he leaned in for a kiss.
Murong Qiufeng was so stunned from being called “Princess Consort” again and again that he didn’t even realize what was happening until it was too late—and got kissed full on the lips.
By the time he managed to turn his face away, he was already breathless. Embarrassed and annoyed, he muttered, “Are you serious? In broad daylight? Just because you have no shame doesn’t mean I don’t!”
He glanced at Yuxiang, cheeks burning.
Yuxiang looked up toward the sky with the perfect I didn’t see anything expression, lips twitching as she struggled not to laugh.
Shangguan Ye had long since mastered the art of shamelessness. Rubbing his lips playfully against Murong Qiufeng’s cheek, he murmured, “So… what you’re saying is, nighttime is fine?”
As he spoke, he deliberately shot a glance at Zhao Xiru—still frozen, wide-eyed, completely stunned—his expression full of challenge and smug satisfaction.
That provocation snapped Zhao Xiru out of her daze. She began shaking her head violently, then suddenly clutched her head and let out a piercing scream.
Murong Qiufeng had been about to scold Shangguan Ye for his nonsense, but Zhao Xiru’s scream yanked him back to the present—he’d almost forgotten she was even still there. He quickly turned around.
Zhao Xiru was almost unrecognizable in her wretchedness—now clawing at her hair like a madwoman, completely hysterical.
Murong Qiufeng’s brows knit together. He looked at the bloodstains on her clothes, then turned toward Shangguan Ye, seeming to understand what had happened. He let out a soft, helpless sigh.
Tears welled in Zhao Xiru’s eyes. Her screaming stopped, but she stared at the two of them still locked in their intimate, affectionate gaze—as if the sight was physically crushing her.
“You… you two really are…” she stammered. “No. No, this can’t be true. It’s not true! Brother Feng, tell me it’s not like that. Tell me I misunderstood. You’re not… not with him like that, right? Or maybe you were forced… Yes! That’s it—you must have been forced!”
Murong Qiufeng looked at her expressionlessly. Though his eyes showed a flicker of pity, his tone was firm and cool. He reached back and laced his fingers with Shangguan Ye’s.
“You already know the answer,” he said flatly. “And yes—it’s exactly what you think. I’m with him. Of my own free will. Because I love him.”
The moment those words left his lips, not only Zhao Xiru froze—even Shangguan Ye and Yuxiang were stunned.
Shangguan Ye’s arm tightened slightly around his waist. He looked at Murong Qiufeng in disbelief. “Qiufeng… you…”
Though Qiufeng had already confessed to him that night, hearing him declare it so openly, so seriously—was something else entirely.
He knew how much Qiufeng cared about public opinion, about societal norms. He’d never wanted to pressure him into revealing anything too soon. But now—Qiufeng had taken that step himself.
Murong Qiufeng reached up and touched his lips, smiling gently. “Sorry. I used to worry too much. I won’t anymore.”
Shangguan Ye’s lips trembled slightly before curving into a soft smile. He pulled Qiufeng tightly into his arms and took a deep breath. Such a simple sentence—but it told him everything: his resolve, his love, and his choice. Whatever hardships lay ahead, they would face them together.
Murong Qiufeng’s meaning was clear. And Shangguan Ye understood it so well that it made his heart ache.
“I love you too, Qiufeng,” Shangguan Ye whispered. “So please—don’t ever leave me. Even if we die, we’ll die together. If I lose you, I’ll go mad.”
Murong Qiufeng looked up into his eyes, smiling softly. His voice was low and tender, “Okay.” Then he leaned forward and kissed him.
Yuxiang watched the two share their kiss with a warm smile. Her eyes shimmered slightly as she quietly stepped out of the room.
Zhao Xiru, overwhelmed by the layers of emotional devastation—and physically weakened from days without food or water—finally fainted, collapsing into unconsciousness.
Night fell. The wind howled bitterly.
A yellowing tent flapped in the cold wind like a dying banner.
Inside, the space was spare—nothing but a crude bed, a table, and a few chairs.
On the rickety wooden cot, muffled coughing echoed. A pale, sunken-eyed woman lay motionless, her skin sallow and dull. She was covered only with a worn soldier’s blanket, eyes shut tight as if life had nearly left her.
An older woman entered briskly, a steaming bowl of herbal medicine in her hands. She placed it on the table, brushing snow from her clothes as she grumbled aloud about the bitter cold.
“Hey! Stop pretending to be dead. Get up and drink this.”
She muttered for a while before even remembering her task. When she finally looked toward the bed, her face twisted with disgust and contempt. She didn’t dare come close, as if being near the woman would infect her with something vile.
But the woman didn’t move. She didn’t even open her eyes. It was as if she hadn’t heard anything. The only sign she was still alive was the occasional, dry cough.
The older woman grew irritated. “Ugh, don’t tell me you’re planning to die just to get out of this. You think anyone would care? You’re nothing but a whore who’s slept with half the camp. If you die, so what? But don’t drag the rest of us down with you.”
Her tone turned harsh. “Orders are clear—you’re not allowed to die. You’d better drink that medicine quietly, or I’ll call in a few officers to help make you cooperate.”
Still, the woman didn’t respond. She was like a breathing corpse—completely lifeless. Not even her lashes fluttered. There was nothing but a thick, suffocating aura of despair radiating from her.
