The old woman grew even more agitated. “Oh, you really think—ugh…”
A sharp cracking sound suddenly rang out—and her voice was cut off completely.
The woman lying on the bed seemed to sense something unusual. Her eyes flew open. She turned her head—only to see the old woman staring wide-eyed in shock, her body crumpling to the ground, lifeless.
Standing next to her was a man dressed in black, his face hidden behind a mask.
The woman stared at him quietly, calm and still—as if she were already dead herself. Her eyes showed neither fear nor surprise, only the numbness of despair, as if everything inside her had already died.
The masked man studied her for a while, then finally spoke.
“Do you want to leave this place? Do you want revenge? Do you want to take back what was stolen from you?”
Those three questions hit her like a jolt. Her eyes widened, and for the first time in days, a spark returned to their lifeless depths. But that burst of emotion triggered a violent coughing fit.
The masked man tossed a small bottle onto her blanket. His voice remained cold and detached.
“If you want those things—and you’re willing to follow my orders—then drink this.”
The woman pressed her hand to her mouth as she coughed, then slowly turned and reached trembling fingers toward the bottle. She didn’t hesitate. She opened it and drank it down without so much as a second thought.
The man watched her coldly.
“You’re not even afraid it might be poison used to control you?”
After drinking, the woman’s coughing subsided. Hearing his words, she stiffly tugged at the corners of her mouth in an attempt at a bitter smile. Her voice was hoarse and rough.
“If it gives me what I want… I’d become a vengeful ghost and not regret it.”
“Oh?” the man said, his tone curious. “And what exactly is it you want?”
“I want… I want Shangguan Ye and Murong Qiufeng to die horrible deaths. I want Leyin to regret everything for the rest of his life.”
Even knowing she was being used, her hatred had numbed her heart. But when it came to Leyin—there was still a trace of love buried deep inside.
What she wanted most was to confront him—to ask why he had used her so cruelly, only to discard her in the end.
The masked man nodded, seemingly satisfied with her vengeful declaration. But when she mentioned Leyin’s name, a strange glint flashed through his eyes.
That night, snow flew fiercely through the dark skies.
Suddenly, fire broke out in the military camp—flames erupted from a tent and, fanned by the wind, quickly spread to neighboring tents. Chaos broke out as tents burned and soldiers screamed—casualties mounted fast.
The origin of the fire was quickly identified: the tent that had first gone up in flames was the one assigned to the military prostitute.
Witnesses confirmed—she had died in the blaze.
That woman was none other than Song Lige—the former noblewoman who had tried to frame Murong Qiufeng, failed, and been sent by Shangguan Ye to serve as a military whore.
It was fair to say: what had been released into the world was no longer just a woman.
It was a vengeful ghost—a ghost full of hate and fury.
The courtyard was blanketed in white snow, the air desolate and still.
Murong Qiufeng stepped into the courtyard, a heaviness pressing down on him.
It was as if the bleak environment had seeped into his soul.
This was the first time he had returned here since his eldest brother Murong Hao’s death.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He cared deeply.
But he hadn’t dared to come.
“Young Master Qi,”
A young maid carrying a washbasin looked up and saw him. Her eyes widened with surprise, then lit up with joy.
“You’re here to see Master and Madam? Just in time—Master hasn’t been eating these days. Maybe you can help.”
Murong Qiufeng’s brow furrowed deeply. He already knew what had been happening in this household.
That was the real reason he hadn’t dared come.
After Murong Hao died, he had immediately ordered everyone to stay silent—no one was to tell their parents the truth.
But no secret stays buried forever. Sooner or later, the truth would come out.
The case was now closed, but his brother’s body could not be brought back. He had no way to explain that to his parents. He feared it would break them. He had agonized for days, unable to come up with a solution.
Today, he had only planned to quietly check in—but after hearing what the maid said, the weight on his heart grew heavier.
Maybe… everything he’d done had been pointless.
With his father’s wisdom, how could he not have figured it out already?
And his mother…
He let out a long sigh and took the washbasin from the maid.
“I’ll take it. You go prepare something warm to eat.”
“Yes, Young Master.” The maid handed him the basin with a respectful bow and retreated.
Carrying the steaming basin, Murong Qiufeng slowly walked toward the main building.
The door to the central room stood wide open.
Two middle-aged servants were sweeping snow from the entrance.
They looked up and were surprised to see him, then quickly bowed.
To them, Murong Qiufeng was now the one running the household.
He nodded and stepped inside.
He was expecting to see someone resting in bed.
Instead, he saw his father seated behind a desk, eyes closed.
The sight hit him hard.
In less than half a month, the once-spirited Prime Minister looked aged beyond his years.
His hair was streaked with silver. His face was drawn and weary. His expression held the emptiness of someone who had lost all hope.
“Father…” Murong Qiufeng’s voice was rough with emotion.
Murong Xing slowly opened his eyes. They were murky, unfocused.
It took several long moments for them to find and recognize his son. His reaction was sluggish. His voice was raspy.
“Oh… it’s Qiufeng.”
His tone was unnervingly calm.
So calm, in fact, that it reeked of death.
Qiufeng’s heart clenched.
It was obvious now—his father did know the truth about Murong Hao’s death.
He nodded slightly and placed the basin down, taking out a hot towel and wringing it carefully.
“Father, it’s the dead of winter—you must take care of your health. You’re still recovering. Let me take care of the official matters.”
Murong Xing accepted the towel and pressed it to his face.
He didn’t reply.
Murong Qiufeng turned his head—and froze.
There were open memorials on the desk. Scattered across the table, barely started, half-finished, all with faint characters.
His chest tightened when he read what was written.
Murong Xing lowered the towel and, seeing where his son was looking, reached over and swept the memorials aside—tossing them with the others, clearly meant to be discarded.
Only then did Qiufeng realize what they were.
Letters of resignation.
He wanted to speak—wanted to say something—but the words caught in his throat. He turned and quietly went to set the towel aside.
Then his father suddenly said:
“Your brother… what happened to him? Tell me the truth.”
Qiufeng’s hands trembled. The hot water he touched suddenly felt cold as ice.
“Qiufeng,” Murong Xing continued, his tone still quiet,
“I know you meant to protect us. But I am not so fragile that I can’t face the truth. Speak.”
Qiufeng lowered his head, took a deep breath, and turned to face him.
“The case has been closed. The traitors were caught and are awaiting punishment from His Majesty. Prince Ye is handling the matter personally.”
He paused. His voice grew hoarse.
“As for Brother… his remains cannot be returned. According to the law, I’m not even allowed to bring back his memorial tablet. I—I have failed…”
Murong Xing closed his eyes again. His expression remained calm.
But in the corner of his eye, tears had begun to form.
