An Jiu’s body was soft and reddish, her skin wrinkled like a newborn mouse. Even at her age, she looked unsightly, but as Chu Dingjiang carried the unconscious An Jiu back to the room, he handled her as carefully and preciously as his child.
After the ordeal, Chu Dingjiang held the sleeping An Jiu and fell into a deep slumber himself.
Mo Siguir, who had also endured the long wait, had bloodshot eyes but still couldn’t sleep. He smoked one bag of cigarettes after another, the hazy smoke drifting throughout the courtyard where no living being seemed awake, yet he still couldn’t find a wink of sleep even with his eyes closed.
The scent of medicine was spreading across the city.
The sky on the horizon was turning pale.
In the imperial palace of the Liao capital, the fighting was raging.
Yelu Quan’s pale face was as sickly as ever, but he seemed unperturbed by the commotion outside, calmly reviewing memorials. Dozens of men in black garments stood silently in the hall, their breathing barely audible.
Outside, the sounds of battle were deafening, yet here it was eerily calm.
Half an hour later, a general rushed to the palace gates. “Your Majesty!”
“How is the battle going?” Yelu Quan’s composed voice came from within.
The general reported, “The rebels have already breached the Chonghuan Palace and are closing in on the study. If Princess’s reinforcements don’t arrive soon, we won’t be able to hold them off. Your Majesty should consider retreating to another location.”
Yelu Quan put down his brush. “You surrender to the rebels.”
The general was shocked. “Your Majesty, I…”
Yelu Quan interrupted him. “This is an imperial edict.”
“I’d rather die than surrender,” the general declared firmly.
“I’ll say this one last time, this is an imperial edict. But you may only announce that it was your own decision to the outside.”
Yelu Quan’s tone was calm, without a hint of anger, yet it sent a chill down the general’s spine. After a moment of silence, he understood this was not a real surrender, so he bowed and left as commanded.
As soon as he departed, chaos erupted in the hall.
Assassins suddenly stormed in, engaging the black-garbed guards.
Yelu Quan sat on the throne, idly playing with a bamboo flute. As the guards fell one by one, he brought the flute to his lips and played a melancholic tune.
In the Chonghuan Palace, the battle had ceased due to the guards’ surrender.
Ye Luangwu, in full battle attire, stepped over the piles of corpses towards the imperial study.
A group of ghostly figures arrived first, lining up outside the door.
Ye Luangwu stood at the base of the steps. “Elder brother, sister has come to your rescue, but alas, we are too late!”
There was no response from within.
“Go in,” Ye Luangwu commanded softly.
The ghostly figures broke down the door.
The study was in complete disarray, the once spacious hall filled with hundreds of bodies, making it difficult to navigate. As they stepped inside, several of the figures found their feet soaked in the warm liquid.
Seated above, the handsome man in elaborate robes had been struck by multiple swords, his body drenched in blood, but his face was pale and clean. He hung his head, a flute lying at his feet, and the blood flowed down the steps like the tail of a phoenix.
Ye Luangwu looked up and saw him, her expression a strange mix of sorrow and amusement.
She stared at him for a long, long time before slowly stepping closer. It felt like an eternity, yet also just a moment, until she reached Yelu Quan’s side.
“Elder brother.” Ye Luangwu touched the tip of his nose and found he was still breathing. Her expression faltered slightly as she called out, “Bring all the survivors out.”
The ghostly figures searched among the bodies and found a few who were still clinging to life.
“Your Highness, we’ve confirmed five survivors,” one of them reported, bowing.
“Take them all out. I wish to bid farewell to my brother alone,” Ye Luangwu said, bending down to pick up the fallen flute.
“Yes, Your Highness!”
The ghostly figures removed the five survivors and closed the door, leaving Ye Luangwu and the barely alive Yelu Quan alone in the vast study littered with corpses.
“Brother.” Ye Luangwu gently caressed his cool cheek. “I didn’t want to do this, but you forced my hand. If you had been a good brother, I would have been a dutiful sister. But you are so heartless. Since you never treated me as a sister, then your living has no meaning to me.”
As she spoke, her fingers paused, and she noticed a faint mark on Yelu Quan’s temple. Her expression suddenly changed.
“Is that so,” a deep voice suddenly rumbled.
Before Ye Luangwu could react, a whistling sound reached her ears, and a moment later, a bloody hole appeared in her chest. Blood spurted out like an arrow, splattering across the imperial desk, like a vibrant scarlet plum blossom.
Ye Luangwu’s eyes bulged. So it was a fake! This Yelu Quan was indeed a fake! Pity she had discovered it too late…
She clutched her chest and turned around.
Three zhang away, Yelu Quan in white robes stood amidst the sea of blood and corpses, untouched.
“If you hadn’t lost your memory, you should remember what I’m best at,” he said.
Yelu Quan had many identities in the Great Song, true and false, real and illusory, beyond anyone’s ability to discern.
“Hmph, I was careless.” Ye Luangwu tried to use her inner energy to protect her vital meridians, but found she couldn’t summon even a hint of it!
“Do you think I like being the emperor? It’s a responsibility I must bear. If you had told me you wanted this position and could hold the Yelu territory, I wouldn’t have come back, and retreating to the mountains with Mei Ruoyan would have been fine too.” Yelu Quan looked at her impassively. “You misjudged yourself, thinking that as long as I was a good brother, you wouldn’t covet the throne.”
Ye Luangwu had spent years carefully helping him return to Liao, never once suspecting him.
He wasn’t a man of deep emotions, taciturn, and reluctant to express affection. Expecting him to dote on her tenderly was beyond his capabilities, but at least in the big picture, he wouldn’t treat her poorly.