Yu Jingfeng, the moment he entered, talked non-stop, impossible for anyone to ignore.

But the two brothers in the tent were undisturbed.

Di Wu Ya held a brush, writing a letter; Di Feimu was reading a book, utterly absorbed.

This scene had often been seen before. Emperor Ji and Ye Luocha had long grown used to it.

Having passed through life and death, to see this scene again was truly a comfort.

Elder Shi supported Ye Luocha, helping her sit down in a chair to the side.

Ye Luocha’s internal and external injuries were both severe; even in that final battle, she had been wounded.

Her condition was now somewhat stabilized, but without proper treatment, her recovery was rather slow.

Ye Luocha sat down, glanced at Di Wu Ya and Di Feimu, then turned back to look at Yu Jingfeng.

“Yu Jingfeng, you don’t need to keep singing Jiu’er’s praises. The debt of gratitude she’s shown our Di family—I won’t be able to repay it in this lifetime.”

“Indeed.” Emperor Ji looked at Di Wu Ya, the worry he’d carried for so long finally able to settle.

“In this lifetime, we owe Jiu’er far too much.”

Di Wu Ya set down his brush, frowned slightly, and raised his eyes to look at the tent’s curtain.

“Is that so?” The corner of his mouth suddenly curved upward, a captivating smile spreading across his face.

“If that’s the case, shouldn’t I do something for the Di family?”

Inside the tent, apart from Di Feimu, who remained absorbed in his book, everyone looked at him, yet no one understood Di Wu Ya’s meaning.

But soon, everyone followed his gaze and looked toward the tent’s curtain.

Yu Jingfeng coughed lightly and asked, “Your Highness, how do you intend to repay Miss Jiu’er for this debt on behalf of the Di family?”

“Make her one of the Di family. How about that?” Di Wu Ya glanced at Yu Jingfeng, the smile at the corner of his mouth deepening.

Outside the tent, Qiaomu, walking behind Feng Jiu’er, shoved the person in front of her hard.

Feng Jiu’er, caught off guard, was pushed straight into the tent by Qiaomu, appearing before everyone.

“Miss Jiu’er, what perfect timing.” Yu Jingfeng stepped forward to greet her.

“Just now, His Highness was speaking of his marriage to you, and here you are.”

Feng Jiu’er paid no attention to Yu Jingfeng, nor did she have time to scold Qiaomu—she simply walked forward.

“How do you feel, now that you’re awake?” she asked softly, looking at Di Wu Ya.

“Girl, come here.” Di Wu Ya beckoned, clearing a spot for her.

Feng Jiu’er rolled her eyes at him, went over, took his hand, and placed it on the table.

Her slender fingers settled on the pulse point at Di Wu Ya’s wrist, and everyone in the tent fell silent.

After a moment, Feng Jiu’er said calmly, “The condition is good. You’ll need to keep taking the medicine.”

She pressed her lips together and turned to look at everyone. “Since you all have matters to discuss, I’ll head off first.”

“I’ll come back around noon to change both your bandages.”

“Judging by how your wounds are healing, once a day is enough now.”

Feng Jiu’er drew her gaze back from Di Feimu, looked at Emperor Ji and Ye Luocha, and nodded. “I have things to attend to, so I’ll go ahead.”

She didn’t look back at Di Wu Ya again, and walked outside.

Yu Jingfeng looked at Feng Jiu’er, then at Di Wu Ya, a hint of anxiety showing.

“Your Highness, did I say something wrong? Miss Jiu’er seems a bit upset.”

“It has nothing to do with you.” Ye Luocha shook her head. “If it were me, betrayed the day before my wedding, I’d never be able to forget it either, no matter how long I lived.”

She stood up, looking at Di Wu Ya, and continued, “Wu Ya, I’ll go explain to her that this has nothing to do with you. Don’t worry! I…”

“No need.” The moment Feng Jiu’er left, Di Wu Ya’s gaze returned to the book on the table, his expression considerably cooler.

“From now on, no one needs to interfere in matters between Jiu’er and me.”

“Fine, no interference.” Ye Luocha nodded immediately in agreement.

Emperor Ji let out a soft sigh, raising his eyes to look at Di Wu Ya.

“Zhan Lingtian falsely claimed to be the Di family’s orphan and ascended the throne. What do you plan to do next?”

Yu Jingfeng, now certain Feng Jiu’er’s anger had nothing to do with him, also let out a breath of relief. “Your Highness, Old Master, I’ll go stand guard outside. Take your time talking.”

He left those words behind, turned, and exited the tent.

When Feng Jiu’er left, Qiaomu didn’t stay behind either, hurrying to catch up with her.

Once they were far from the area of the Longwu Army, she quickened her pace to walk alongside Feng Jiu’er.

“Jiu’er, why are you so angry? The man you’re marrying is the Ninth Prince, not Emperor Ji or Ye Luocha.”

“Since you’ve chosen to forgive them, doesn’t that mean there’s still a chance for you and the Ninth Prince?”

“I’m not angry.” Feng Jiu’er turned her head to look at Qiaomu. “I just can’t forget Yanu. Can’t forget Zhan Liyue.”

These days, every time she saw the Ninth Imperial Uncle, she would think of Yanu and Zhan Liyue.

Even though Zhan Liyue had once tried to put her to death, she was still standing here, alive.

But Zhan Liyue and Yanu were truly gone.

Feng Jiu’er had once learned the full story of how Zhan Liyue and Yanu had died, from Yu Jingfeng.

Did the Ninth Imperial Uncle truly not hate her? Even she herself felt ashamed before him—how could he possibly have no feelings about it at all in his heart?

The enmity between her mother and Zhan Liyue might have been false, but her mother had truly used Yanu, even costing him his life.

What did it feel like for Zhan Liyue to die at her own son’s hands? Feng Jiu’er had never experienced such a thing and couldn’t imagine it.

The moment she thought of Yanu holding Zhan Liyue’s ashes and leaping off the cliff, her heart clenched in pain.

Yanu had suffered too much in this life; she never imagined he would die holding onto resentment in the end. Feng Jiu’er couldn’t get past this knot in her own heart.

Perhaps she would never get past it her whole life—then what right did she have to speak of the future with the Ninth Imperial Uncle?

“Jiu’er, that was all a misunderstanding.” Qiaomu composed herself, lowering her voice. “This debt… General Long has already repaid it.”

“I don’t know about that. Still, we’ve done all we can do—now we can only look forward.” Feng Jiu’er took a deep breath and continued walking.

Qiaomu watched her retreating figure, pressed her lips together, and followed.

“Jiu’er, does the Ninth Prince’s behavior seem like he’s blaming you, blaming the Long family? I don’t feel that way at all.”

“He’s not.” Feng Jiu’er shook her head.

Feng Jiu’er herself found it somewhat unbelievable—this man, once he woke up, seemed even clingier than before.

But the less he seemed to mind, the worse she felt.

One was his birth mother, one was his own younger brother—how could he possibly not mind?

“That’s right then. The Ninth Prince, he…”

“Don’t talk about him.” Feng Jiu’er cut off Qiaomu’s words. “Zhan Lingtian has falsely taken on the identity of Di Wu Ya and ascended the throne.”

“Ye Xuening has schemed for half her life, finally getting her son onto the throne. We have no time to waste.”

“If we lose this battle, not only will none of us have a future, but I also won’t be able to avenge my mother, avenge the Long family. Do you understand?”