Dawn had fully broken. After an entire night of effort, mirroring the many sleepless nights before it, they still had nothing to show for their labor.

“These twelve notes—I suspect none of them are actually the missing ones,” Ziqing said with a sigh, finally sitting back down.

Jun Beiyue smiled helplessly, gently pulling her into his embrace, massaging her temples softly. “Could these twelve notes form some kind of melody on their own?”

“No, I just wrote them down as I remembered them. Perhaps they truly are nothing more than a decorative carving from the Sea Valley, after all,” Ziqing said flatly.

“Get some rest. You’re exhausted. Minister Bomiluo should have news for us soon enough,” Jun Beiyue said, gently guiding Ziqing down to rest, letting her head settle into the crook of his arm.

Ziqing had grown quite accustomed to this position by now, curling up lazily against him, resting her head in the crook of his arm, burying her face against his chest to close her eyes and rest.

The ceremonial music hadn’t been performed on the qin at all, but rather as an ensemble piece played by a full range of instruments together. She couldn’t help but worry whether this ancient sacred hymn had even survived in a complete written form at all!

Just as Ziqing was lost in this worry, Minister Bomiluo arrived in a hurry.

“Do you have the score?” Jun Beiyue asked, even more anxious than Ziqing herself!

“Prince Yao, that ceremonial music is an ensemble piece, performed by musicians whose positions are hereditary, passed down generation after generation through direct instruction. Never mind a complete score—there isn’t even a written score for any single instrument’s individual part!” Minister Bomiluo reported truthfully.

Hearing this, Ziqing pressed her lips together tightly and asked no further questions. Though they hadn’t managed to find the missing note, they had at least uncovered the true nature of Lishang’s secret!

If these ten scrolls corresponded to the ceremonial music, and those thirty scrolls corresponded to the Sea Valley’s resonance, then didn’t that suggest the twenty scrolls in between might also hold some significance? And what about the remaining sixty scrolls—could their origins also be traced somehow?

Were these missing notes all the same, or different from one another? And what secret, exactly, lay hidden within them?

Ziqing felt she was drawing closer and closer to the truth. Jun Beiyue was approaching it from the angle of the poison itself, while she pursued it through Lishang—what connection could there possibly be between immunity to all poisons and this piece of music?

And the people of the Lonely Isle—what sort of people had they truly been?

Ziqing knew she wasn’t merely seeking a cure for the poison anymore. She wanted, more than anything, to find her own people, her own family—to understand why they had vanished so suddenly, why they had become such an absolute taboo within Nanzhao.

Both Ziqing and Jun Beiyue fell into their own private thoughts. Minister Bomiluo, however, seemed anxious about an entirely different matter. “Prince Yao, there’s… there’s one more thing… it’s not good news, I’m afraid. This subordinate isn’t sure whether I should even report it.”

“What is it?” Jun Beiyue asked, puzzled.

“Something’s happened within the palace. On His Majesty’s wedding night, the ceremonial dragon-and-phoenix candles…” Minister Bomiluo lowered his voice further, “…they went out, before His Majesty had even returned to the bridal chamber!”

At these words, Jun Beiyue’s brow furrowed sharply at once, a flash of sharp calculation flickering through his eyes.

“They went out? How is that bad news?” Ziqing asked.

“Your Highness, Nanzhao’s royal family holds an unspoken custom—if the dragon-and-phoenix candles extinguish on the wedding night itself, then… then…” Bomiluo lowered his voice even further before finally continuing, “…it’s considered an omen of the direst calamity. Not only would misfortune befall the bride and groom themselves, but everyone who attended the wedding ceremony would face terrible disaster as well, doomed never to die a peaceful death!”

Ziqing didn’t put much stock in superstitions like this, but seeing Minister Bomiluo’s ashen, terrified expression, she couldn’t help but feel a chill run through her. “How could something so absurd even be believed?”

To her surprise, Jun Beiyue said flatly, “This has genuinely happened several times throughout Nanzhao’s history. I recall a prince of Da Zhou once died in Nanzhao precisely because of this very omen.”

“Exactly, Your Highness. His Majesty has already ordered the news suppressed entirely. Once the envoys have all been sent off, he intends to journey to the Ancient Music Cavern at once—only the sacred music performed there can dispel an omen as dire as this!” Minister Bomiluo hastily added.

“The Ancient Music Cavern?” Ziqing admitted she knew very little about Nanzhao’s inner workings.

Jun Beiyue smiled instead. “The forbidden sanctuary of Nanzhao’s earth-king faith. No wonder His Majesty is so desperate to suppress the news.”

If word of this dire omen ever got out, propriety and tradition alike would compel the King of Nanzhao to invite all the assembled honored guests to the Ancient Music Cavern as well, to help dispel the disaster together—no small undertaking at all!

But that place was strictly forbidden ground—hardly somewhere just anyone could enter!

At the mention of “forbidden ground,” a sharp gleam flickered through Ziqing’s eyes at once—an idea already forming in her mind.

Jun Beiyue immediately caught her intent and smiled. “Bomiluo, come with me to the palace at once.”

Just as Jun Beiyue was about to step out the door, Guxi hurried after him, dropping to his knees before him urgently, offering a deeply respectful bow. “Prince Yao, this subordinate begs a moment of your time, if I may be so bold!”

Jun Beiyue raised an eyebrow, studying him with a single glance—yet that single glance seemed to see straight through him entirely. Guxi had no idea just how violently his own heart was pounding in that moment!

Even so, Guxi steeled himself and met Jun Beiyue’s gaze directly. He needed to understand the truth about Shiliang.

“Your mistress certainly raised the right person, after all,” Jun Beiyue said flatly, waving Minister Bomiluo ahead to go on without him.

Guxi let out a breath of relief. From that single remark alone, he understood immediately—Shiliang could no longer be saved.

Still, he had to try. “Prince Yao, this subordinate begs you to give Shiliang one more chance!”

Guxi was no fool—he’d seen the change in Shiliang more clearly than anyone. Hongyi’s repeated probing hadn’t escaped his notice either. But the one thing he understood better than Shiliang herself was this: nothing that happened around his mistress, not even the faintest rustle of grass or whisper of wind, ever escaped Prince Yao’s razor-sharp eyes.

“There is no chance,” Jun Beiyue said, turning to leave at once.

Guxi shuffled forward on his knees, not daring to lay a hand on this master—having followed him this long, he’d come to understand just how ruthless he could be. He could only block his path desperately. “Prince Yao, if only for the sake of my mistress, please spare her this once!”

But Jun Beiyue’s voice turned cold, each word delivered as a deliberate warning. “Remember this well—there is nothing this King finds less tolerable than betrayal. Even if… even if someday your own mistress were to betray this King, this King would show her no mercy either.”

At these words, Guxi froze completely, standing stunned for a long, long moment. Only once Jun Beiyue had walked far off did he finally snap back to himself, immediately chasing after him. Though his entire body trembled with fear, he steeled his nerve and pressed on. “If that’s truly how it is, my lord, then why not simply tell my mistress the truth? Someday she’s bound to find out regardless—wouldn’t that only hurt her more?”

He genuinely cared for Shiliang, but if forced to choose between Shiliang and his mistress, he would choose his mistress without hesitation. Surviving as a beggar required more than just begging for scraps—more often, it meant fighting others for food, and no one who survived such conditions could remain entirely free of some hardness, some resentment in their heart. Yet loyalty and gratitude were things Guxi had never abandoned either.

He’d thought of Shiliang’s welfare, yes—but he’d thought of his mistress’s welfare even more.

Hearing Guxi’s words, Jun Beiyue finally slowed to a stop, turning to look at him seriously once more.

Delighted, Guxi pressed on earnestly. “My lord, if you refuse to forgive Shiliang, then please… tell Her Highness the truth. She is Shiliang’s true mistress—only she has the right to decide Shiliang’s fate. Better that than risk some misunderstanding down the road.”

Jun Beiyue suddenly smiled, and to Guxi’s surprise, crouched down silently, meeting his gaze directly. “Do you think this King would allow any misunderstanding to exist?”

Had Guxi underestimated him—or overestimated Shiliang?

“This subordinate is…” Guxi found himself at a loss for words.

But Jun Beiyue simply let out a sigh. “I wish I could tell her. The question is, would she ever agree to poison cultivation?”

This was the true source of his hesitation, the very heart of the matter! At these words, Guxi was so startled he nearly toppled backward in shock. Poison cultivation—it truly was poison cultivation after all. He’d suspected as much, but had never quite believed it could actually be true.

How utterly, unbearably cruel that would be!