Under the dim light of the nterns in the pavilion and the faint glow of the half-moon in the sky, Song Chuyi could barely make out the figures of the bck-cd assassins, their swords gleaming coldly as they darted back and forth, blending almost seamlessly with the night.

  Ye Jingchuan dragged a lifeless body by the arm, his movements rough as he flung it onto the ground like a broken sack. Gritting his teeth, he muttered furiously, "Dead!"

  The assassin had committed suicide upon failing the attempt—these were not ordinary killers but meticulously trained death warriors, loyal to the end.

  Qingying, still trembling from the ordeal, scanned Song Chuyi anxiously from head to toe. Her voice quivered with a sob. "Miss, your face… it’s wounded."

  For a young woman, nothing was more important than her appearance. Seeing the blood oozing endlessly from Song Chuyi's cheek, Qingying felt a wave of dizziness and nearly fainted on the spot.

  Only then did Ye Jingchuan notice her injury. Under the moonlight, the sight of the stark red streaks marring her snowy complexion caused his eyes to redden with fury. Narrowing his gaze at the ongoing fight, his heart burned with the urge to sughter every st one of the bck-cd intruders.

  It was then that Song Chuyi finally registered the pain. She raised her hand to her cheek and found it smeared with blood. When she looked at her palm, it was covered in crimson. She couldn’t even tell if it was from her face or from scraping her hands when she fell.

  But this was not her concern. Ignoring the sharp pain in her face, she urgently moved toward the fallen bck-cd assassin. However, her wrist was swiftly grasped by a firm hand.

  Zhou Weizhao’s gaze briefly lingered on her injured face before sweeping over her tattered clothing. Without hesitation, he removed his cloak and swiftly wrapped it around her. Shaking his head gently, he said, "Don’t go."

  Song Chuyi didn’t resist. Her dazed eyes were fixed on the assassin, who still clung to life, being hoisted like a sack by one of his comrades. In a flurry of movements, they leaped onto the roof, darted across to a neighboring courtyard, and vanished into the night.

  She stared after them for a long time before finally turning to Zhou Weizhao.

  Her pale face, streaked with blood, was ghastly. She opened her mouth as if to say something but ultimately remained silent.

  Though her gaze was directed at him, her eyes were vacant, lifeless. She looked at him as though he were nothing more than a bde of grass or a stone—insignificant and devoid of meaning.

  Qingying assumed she was paralyzed with fear and was beside herself with guilt. She paced like a restless ant, loathing herself for allowing Song Chuyi to fall into such danger. Even her lips, which she bit in frustration, were bleeding faintly, carrying a metallic tang.

  But Song Chuyi recognized the man who had pressed the sword to her brow. Though his face was obscured by a bck cloth, those eyes were unmistakable. She had grown up with the owner of those eyes. In her previous life, she had loved him deeply. His sweet words had made her forsake everything, only for his indifference and cruelty to push her to her death.

  She had believed that in this life, she had trampled him beneath her feet, thoroughly controlling him. Just moments ago, she had even instructed Lai Chenglong to keep an eye on Duke Ying’s household. Yet, in the very next moment, this man—whom she thought she had rendered powerless—had wielded a sword to snatch her life away.

  Qingying anxiously called out to Song Chuyi several times, but she seemed deaf to the world, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on the direction where the bck-cd men had disappeared, showing no response at all.

  Ye Jingchuan finally realized something was wrong. He waved his hand in front of her eyes to test her reaction, then turned back to Zhou Weizhao with a look of helplessness. “This… what’s going on…?”

  He had seen Song Chuyi remain unshaken in the face of Tartar raiders when she was on the estate in Tongzhou. Back then, she had been even younger, just seven or eight years old, yet she faced life-and-death situations without even furrowing her brow. Why, then, was her reaction so overwhelming this time?

  Zhou Weizhao pced a hand firmly on Song Chuyi’s shoulder, gripping it tightly. His deep voice cut through the air as he called her name. “Song Chuyi!”

  Song Chuyi—not Duchess Ying, not the discarded wife, not the bereaved mother mocked by the world, reduced to a broken woman hiding in a corner to survive.

  Startled, Song Chuyi snapped back to reality. She realized she was no longer in that dipidated courtyard that had imprisoned her in her past life. The man in front of her wasn’t Shen Qingrang, the domineering Duke Ying cd in official robes.

  Meeting Zhou Weizhao’s gaze, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, she suddenly felt the urge to cry. Blinking hard, she forced back the tears and softly acknowledged him with a nod, murmuring a quiet “thank you.”

  Thank you for not dying as inexplicably as in her previous life. Thank you for standing like a mountain here and now, cutting through the heavy nightmares of her past and pulling her out of her memories, forcing her to recognize the present.

  “He doesn’t have the ability, nor the courage…” she said abruptly, her voice calm as she addressed Zhou Weizhao. “And he doesn’t have such skilled guards…”

  Zhou Weizhao handed her an exquisitely carved jade gourd, nodding as he replied, “I know.”

  Qingying, aware of the many valuable items Zhou Weizhao carried from Mount Longhu, took the jade gourd, carefully wiped the grime from Song Chuyi’s face, and gently applied the ointment to her wound.

  Ye Jingchuan, now fully aware of the gravity of the situation, furrowed his brows. Earlier, Yuan Hui had ominously warned that Song Chuyi’s camity was imminent. And now, Song Chuyi had indeed been attacked. It seemed to perfectly align with Yuan Hui’s prophecy, just like the incident at the hunting grounds. Was this sheer coincidence? Or something more sinister? Such precision seemed more fitting for a storyteller’s tale than real life.

  Recalling how Zhou Weizhao had dragged him here, Ye Jingchuan narrowed his eyes and asked, “How did you know something would happen here? And who were you talking about earlier—you already know who sent the assassins, don’t you?” His words came fast and sharp, his gaze toward Zhou Weizhao and Song Chuyi darkening slightly, tinged with frustration. No matter the situation, he always seemed a step behind in understanding.

  “They used people who used to work for Prince Duan,” Zhou Weizhao expined to Song Chuyi. “When I heard there was movement among Prince Duan’s remnants, I knew something was wrong. Yuan Hui was always one of Prince Duan’s people, so it’s no surprise he could command those loyalists. But why is Shen Qingrang involved with Yuan Hui?”

  The attackers were remnants of Prince Duan’s faction. The only people who could command them were Noble Consort Xian or Yuan Hui.

  Shen Xiaohai had already severed ties with Prince Duan’s faction after the incident at the Fang family’s house. Someone as opportunistic as him wouldn’t continue supporting Noble Consort Xian, especially now when she had lost Prince Duan, her son, and her political influence. It seemed more likely that Shen Qingrang was trying to curry favor with Yuan Hui to align himself with the Prince of Commandery.