Hearing the Princess Consort’s sharp call, Yingzi let out a long breath of relief, straightened her clothes, and stepped inside at once.

Betrayal of any kind had never once occurred within Prince Yao’s household. Betrayal wasn’t something Prince Yao alone couldn’t forgive—it was something none of these loyal men, who had followed him faithfully for so many years, could ever accept either.

But just as Yingzi strode in, righteous indignation radiating from her, Shiliang suddenly spoke up. “My lady, I remember now—I did leave this room. It was because… I wanted to make soup for you and His Highness, so… I stepped out briefly, but Guard Yingzi was here the entire time!”

Hearing this, Yingzi froze mid-step, narrowing her eyes at Shiliang. It was clear enough—this wretched girl, backed into a corner, was trying to frame her.

The real Wuzheng had already been swapped in long ago—there was nothing left in this room for Shiliang to have tampered with. Yingzi wanted nothing more than to tell her that she had, in fact, left the room several times herself.

But in the end, Yingzi held herself back, saying flatly, “Shiliang, what exactly do you mean by this?”

“I don’t mean anything at all. I’m simply telling my lady the truth,” Shiliang replied at once, her tone remarkably flat, having largely recovered her usual composure.

If Ziqing still couldn’t sense the threat of conspiracy behind these words, she wouldn’t have deserved to sit in the position of Princess Consort of Prince Yao.

Her slender jade hand gently stroked the fake Wuzheng. Ziqing said nothing for a long, long while, and for some reason, she’d suddenly gone remarkably, unsettlingly still.

She was often quiet by nature, capable of going an entire day without speaking a word, but this particular stillness now felt genuinely frightening.

Not only the guilty Shiliang, but even the perfectly innocent Yingzi and Guxi couldn’t help but grow anxious, as though something terrible was about to happen.

The room fell into complete silence. Shiliang and Yingzi had exchanged only those few words, offering no further argument.

At last, Ziqing’s fingers gently traced their way to the tail of the zither. She raised her head, her small face pale, and said flatly, “Yingzi, when Shiliang left the room, did you stay here the whole time? Are you certain no one else came in?”

“I stake my life on it—only Shiliang came into this room. I never went in myself,” Yingzi said seriously.

She wanted to see just how long Shiliang could keep this act up.

Ziqing nodded, then rose without another word and walked toward the cabinet. The key was still in the lock, and the cabinet itself was perfectly intact.

Had Shiliang planned all along to frame Yingzi, she might have tampered with something here. But she’d had no such intention from the start—she’d simply resigned herself to facing Ziqing’s devastated return.

The moment she’d heard the news about the Ancient Music Cavern, she’d been consumed entirely with searching for Xuanyuan Lige, unable to think of anything else at all!

Glancing once at the cabinet, Ziqing suddenly understood everything with perfect clarity.

The key—she’d entrusted it to Shiliang herself. Ever since Hongyi had left and Shiliang had come to serve her, this Wuzheng had been under Shiliang’s sole keeping the entire time.

Ziqing pressed one hand against the cabinet, slowly resting her forehead against her own arm, and closed her eyes.

Betrayal?!

So it truly was betrayal. How could someone as clever as Shiliang possibly resort to such a clumsy method of betrayal—swapping out her Wuzheng like this?

She, like Hongyi, understood perfectly well just how intimately familiar Ziqing was with this particular zither.

There was only one explanation—Shiliang had originally planned an open betrayal, but her plans had changed, and she hadn’t had time to return the real Wuzheng in time.

Before the Empress of Eastern Qin had joined forces with the Second Beast Young Master to harm Beiyue, Chu Feiyan had been so eager to watch her downfall—and then, right afterward, Wuzheng had gone missing.

If the Second Beast Young Master had succeeded at the Ancient Music Cavern, then right now, it would be Jun Beiyue trapped by the Prince of Nanzhao instead.

And she herself would be under close surveillance by the Nanzhao royal family. Without Wuzheng, even with her formidable martial skills, acting entirely alone, she wouldn’t be able to escape at all—let alone risk everything to save Jun Beiyue.

If things had truly fallen to that desperate point, only Wuzheng’s zither-based attacks could have carved out a path to survival.

At this thought, Ziqing couldn’t help but suck in a sharp breath. What a vicious, ruthless scheme—even stripping away her one chance to fight for her life with everything she had.

“Shiliang, you must be so disappointed that I made it back safely.”

Ziqing’s voice was very soft, very quiet, yet it carried an unmistakable weight of force.

Yingzi knew the Princess Consort would never show favoritism toward her own subordinate—still, that she’d reached this conclusion so quickly genuinely surprised her. She’d been bracing herself, thinking that if Shiliang suddenly hurled some vicious slander at her, she’d expose everything right then and there.

Shiliang’s face turned deathly pale. She stumbled back several steps, then suddenly burst into loud laughter.

Ziqing took a deep breath, still not turning around, her back to Shiliang the entire time. “Shiliang, do you find this funny?”

“Of course it’s funny. Han Ziqing, you really are so clever—no wonder Prince Yao dotes on you so much! Heh!” Shiliang said, unmistakably mocking her.

“Have I… wronged you somehow?” Ziqing asked flatly.

“Wronged me? Heh, I wouldn’t dare say that—how could I possibly let you owe me anything! It’s I who owe you. You saved my life, and I’ve never once repaid you for it. Han Ziqing, go on, tell me—what repayment do you want? Shall I serve you like a beast of burden for the rest of my life, or shall I simply hand this life of mine over to you?” Shiliang laughed on and on, her tone chillingly cold, dripping with contempt and resentment toward Ziqing.

Hearing this, Ziqing finally turned around, her once-flat voice suddenly turning icy. “Shiliang, I took you in as a mercenary. I never even made you a servant. Did I ever ask you to work like a beast of burden? You, Guxi, everyone in the mercenary corps—you’re all the same to me. I pay you a monthly wage. When did I ever treat you like livestock?”

“When I, Han Ziqing, save someone, I never once expect repayment in return!” Ziqing said coldly, her long-suppressed fury finally erupting.

She couldn’t understand it, couldn’t accept it—why did Shiliang harbor such bitter resentment? Where exactly had she gone wrong?

Her feelings for this girl ran even deeper than what she felt for Hongyi. Back at that inn, seeing her loneliness, her stubbornness, seeing how she carried herself without shame despite being a beggar—Ziqing had admired her so much. When she’d saved her, had she ever once harbored such petty thoughts about how this girl might repay her one day?

A flash of malice crossed Shiliang’s eyes—since it had all come out into the open now, she had no intention of letting Han Ziqing off easily. She laughed even louder. “Is that so? How noble of you. But you’re even more hypocritical. Jun Beiyue’s been using me to cultivate poison, all to save you! Clever as you are, don’t tell me you didn’t know! Heh, hypocrite!”

Hearing this, Ziqing’s heart lurched with shock. Cultivating poison? She knew absolutely nothing about this at all!

Shiliang, of course, knew perfectly well that Han Ziqing had no idea about any of this—but she wanted precisely to provoke her, to humiliate her.

“Don’t play innocent. As if you wouldn’t know. Han Ziqing, let me tell you—yes, I betrayed you. Yes, I pledged loyalty to the Empress of Eastern Qin. Today I’ve fallen, and I admit it. You can take this life of mine and keep using it to cultivate poison if you like. But let me tell you this—don’t you dare put on that disgustingly noble face in front of me. We were both beggars once. I know exactly what kind of person you really are! You’re nothing more than someone who got one lucky break I didn’t—rising up to become a phoenix on a high branch, that’s all!”