After hearing the news of Yuan Shilan’s suicide, Nalan remained silent for a long time. Wen Yuan led the servants as they slowly withdrew, leaving a room filled with clear, quiet afternoon sunlight.

Recalling the last time she saw that sharp, ice-like woman—at that time, her head was wrapped in layers of gauze. Even though the wound could not be seen, one could still imagine the horrific face beneath through the traces of blood.

She gazed calmly at Nalan and said in a very light voice: “Even if it’s not me, it will certainly never be you.”

Nalan smiled indifferently. In truth, given her status, she should not have visited a disgraced, discarded consort in the Cold Palace. But she went anyway, so now, faced with her customary lack of courtesy, Nalan had no extreme reaction. She merely looked at her quietly and asked the question that had been hidden in her heart: “Even if it’s not you, you needn’t have done this. Don’t you know that everyone in the palace has been waiting for you to have such a day?”

“Who has time to engage in scheming with them?”

Yuan Shilan laughed coldly, revealing the scar at the corner of her mouth, looking eerily frightening.

“I simply don’t want to waste time waiting for a man who has no heart for me.”

Nalan continued to ask: “And what about your feelings toward the Emperor? Do you also have no heart for him?”

Yuan Shilan’s expression suddenly became ferocious. She turned her head away viciously, lowered her voice, and said resentfully: “If he’s not mine, I don’t want him.”

In the brilliant lights of the Southeast Palace, Nalan, dressed in brocade finery, leaned against the back of her chair and laughed softly to herself.

Did she truly not want him? Was she truly indifferent? If she truly meant what she said, how could she have mutilated her face for someone she didn’t care about? How could she have wallowed in endless loneliness, eventually resolving to die?

She was still young and impetuous, still naive and willful, to be so rash, so impulsive, without considering at all what price her parents and relatives would have to pay for her irresponsible suicide.

This harem was indeed such a terrifying place—it could drive people mad, could drive people insane, could make a young girl cut her face one stroke at a time, then take her own life without any concern.

She thought her suicide would make him feel remorse and guilt, would make him remember her forever, not knowing that in this vast palace, her life and death were merely a brief display of fireworks. Beyond becoming a small topic of conversation for the consorts over tea, it would not cause any ripples.

In this imperial palace, what was least lacking were the wrongful ghosts of those who died in vain.

With time—one month, two months, one year, two years—who would still remember that once there was a greatly favored Consort Chu?

“How foolish!”

Nalan sighed lightly. Having been granted such a title, she could have relied on lifelong glory, and with that face and temperament so similar to hers, it would not have been difficult to enjoy exclusive favor for life. Unfortunately, she simply didn’t have the mind or heart for it.

“Your Majesty?”

Wen Yuan stood at the doorway, holding a freshly prepared medicinal brew, calling softly.

Nalan casually beckoned her to enter, took the medicine, and spooned it into her mouth one spoonful at a time. Though the medicine was so bitter, she drank it as if it were soup, not even furrowing her brow. Wen Yuan watched from the side, with a small bowl of rock sugar on the tray. Several times she moved her lips but ultimately said nothing.

“Convey my imperial edict: Beauty Yuan was virtuous and magnanimous, respectful and good. Now that she has died of a terrible illness, bestow upon her the rank of sixth-grade Hui Person, bury her in the Western Consort Cemetery, reward her maternal clan with a thousand gold, and promote her elder brother in official rank. Have the Ministry of Revenue handle it accordingly.”

Wen Yuan was slightly taken aback and looked at Nalan in confusion. Yes, the Princess Imperial had the right to participate in political affairs and to appoint local officials below the fourth rank in the Huai Song region. But since falling ill, she had relinquished power for more than two years. Was it worth it now for a minor criminal consort?

However, Nalan did not explain to her but simply continued: “The Emperor has been burdened with state affairs recently. It’s better not to tell him the news of Beauty Yuan’s death. Order all palaces to mind their tongues.”

Wen Yuan quickly nodded in agreement.

The hall quieted once more. The speech just now seemed to have greatly exhausted Nalan. She lay down, massaging her temples with her fingers, her brow slightly furrowed.

Even if he had demoted her in extreme anger, there must still have been some affection. Such exclusive favor, such indulgence—there must have been at least some sincerity. And as long as there was a bit of sincerity, once he learned of her suicide, he would inevitably feel some grief. Now, with unrest at the northwestern border and constant factional strife in the court, he already had enough worldly concerns to worry about.

After taking the medicine, she felt especially drowsy. In her haze, she thought: a discarded consort in the Western Cold Palace was forbidden from seeing the Emperor’s face for life. After two or three years, he would probably forget her, and even if he remembered someday, his state of mind regarding a woman who “died of illness” would not be too unbearable.

The candles crackled, marking another cold and lonely deep night. The imperial edict from the Southeast Palace reached all palaces, and the palace mistresses quickly comprehended the Empress’s intentions. Even though some were angered by the Empress’s kind treatment of Yuan Shilan’s relatives, none dared to say anything. Consort Cheng’s visit to apologize a few days ago and her subsequent retreat into the temple had subtly made them understand: the Empress still held imperial favor and authority, and could not be underestimated.

The harem remained as peaceful as ever, like a deep lake with gentle winds and waves, without a trace of turbulence. Music and dance lingered melodiously night after night, instrumental music surrounded their ears day after day. Beneath the harmonious exterior, all the scheming and maneuvering were quietly covered by winter snow. The palace was so vast, worldly affairs so numerous, that the woman with an icy heart and cold gaze had, like a withered flower, simply fallen away lightly, without a sound.

“Living always requires more courage than dying.”

Nalan’s smile was always extremely faint. Gazing at the increasingly beautiful light outside the window, she seemed to see that dark blue shadow again. He stood in the shadows, silently watching her, the long sword at his waist ancient and heavy, its bloodthirsty edge concealed within that small iron sheath.

He stood just like that, above his head a pitch-black canopy, like the butterfly of death, spreading its wings fiercely.

That day was the day of her father’s burial. He stood behind the grieving, weeping princess and said such a sentence.

“But…”

Suddenly, the wind rose outside the window. A layer of light snow had fallen last night and had not yet stopped. With the wind, snowflakes from the sky and ground danced together, hovering and weaving like white fish in the deep sea.

“Why did you suddenly lose courage?”

Yu Shu remembered that it was pouring rain the day Xuan Mo died. The rain was so heavy, like a cascading flood. The doctors rushing from the Imperial Medical Academy were all soaked, with rainwater all over their foreheads and cheeks, looking like ducks that had just emerged from a river.

In the early morning, it had still been a beautiful day with clear skies. She had brought servants to take out his books to air in the courtyard, the sunshine warm on her body, like lake water in June.

But in the evening, soldiers from the Southeastern Naval Office suddenly escorted a carriage into the capital, rushing straight through the gates of Prince Xuan’s mansion.

His face pale, he was supported from the carriage, then entered his study. A moment later, having changed into a court robe, he tried to forcibly go to the palace. However, before he could leave the main gate, he collapsed, blood surging from his body, everywhere, like winding streams. She stood helplessly by his side, crying out of fear, while the servants around rushed forward in a flurry, carrying him into the house, then racing out to find doctors.

The rain began at that moment.

It continued for seven days without stopping.

The common people said it was heaven weeping for Prince Xuan, respectfully sending off a loyal and upright minister.

The imperial physicians came in waves and left in waves, looking dejected. They kept saying things in her ear. Something about his injuries being too severe, losing too much blood, continuous military campaigns, weakened body, unhealed serious wounds, forcing himself to travel, the wound being too deep, heart and lungs damaged. But she couldn’t hear any of it. She watched these white-bearded, white-haired old men pass before her eyes like a revolving lantern, each with a solemn expression, their mouths opening and closing like fish silently blowing bubbles in the deep sea.

She wondered, what were they saying? Why didn’t they go in to treat him? His body was so strong—he could wield an eighty-jin broadsword and could dance with a hundred-jin iron spear. He just suffered some injuries, and lost some blood, what was the big deal? Why was he still lying there, not getting up? The Princess Imperial’s betrothal ceremony had already passed, and tomorrow the Yan Emperor would depart. He was an important minister of Huai Song—how could he not go to see him off?

She automatically ignored all the sounds outside and stubbornly ran to his side, gently pushing his arm, just as she had done many times over the years, seriously whispering in his ear: My lord, get up, my lord, please get up…

But he still didn’t move, just tightly closed his eyes, his brow furrowed, as if he had something troubling him even in his dreams.

His arm was ice-cold, like the ice blocks used to cool down in midsummer. She finally grew increasingly afraid, yet still didn’t dare to use force, continuing to gently push his arm, calling out again and again: My lord, please get up, my lord, please get up…

Gradually, there were sounds of crying around her. Some attending maids took out handkerchiefs to secretly wipe their tears. But she suddenly became angry and turned around to drive them all away.

Outside, the rain was so heavy. When the door opened, the wind carried cold raindrops in, hitting her thin clothes, and soaking them instantly.

An imperial physician stepped forward and said softly: “Princess Consort, the Prince is gone. Please accept my condolences.”

Throughout her life, she had always been a virtuous and obedient woman, filial to her parents at home, obedient to her brothers and sisters, after marriage making her husband her heaven, never daring to be willful or mischievous in the slightest. But at that moment, she suddenly became so angry. She slapped the third-rank imperial physician across the face, shouting: “You’re lying!”

However, the elderly physician said nothing, just silently looking at her, his gaze so calm yet full of sympathy and pity.

And she, in such a gaze, completely collapsed. Her legs gave way, and she fell into a deep darkness.

When she awoke, Xuan Mo had also awakened. His disciples and former subordinates all stood in the courtyard, going into the room in groups to hear him speak. Seeing her come carrying the child, these people automatically made way for her. She stood under the peach tree in front of the house, quietly looking at the window flickering with candlelight, just as during their first meeting many years ago.

At that time, she was still young, obediently following behind her father, with brothers and sisters beside her, along with children and young ladies from prestigious families. She wore an inconspicuous white satin dress, standing out like a featherless goose amidst the silk and brocade. He stood on the corridor, with handsome features, extraordinary in appearance, yet so gentle when he smiled, like the warm breeze of early spring.

A servant followed behind her, holding an umbrella for her. Yong was still little, white and plump, curled up in her arms, occasionally yawning, looking very sleepy.

Those people seemed to have spoken for a long time, and because she was Xuan Mo’s wife, no one concealed anything from her. She heard people whispering discussions around her, mostly about how they, the former officials of Huai Song, should maintain Huai Song as a country after the Princess Imperial’s marriage alliance, how to position themselves properly in the new dynasty, how to avoid conflict with Yan officials, how to gradually integrate into the Yan court and become assistants to the Princess. There was also Xuan Mo’s confidant, said to have Xuan Mo’s letter to be delivered to the Yan Emperor.

Finally, the crowd gradually dispersed, and the courtyard became quiet again. Apart from the sound of rain, there was no other noise.

The steward walked up to her, personally holding an umbrella for her, escorting her into the room.

He was leaning against the bed, wearing a clean and refreshing long robe. Seeing her, he still smiled slightly as before, extending his hand, pointing to the chair beside him, indicating: “Sit.”

She sat down blankly, her eyes looking at him, tears welling up but not daring to cry. She merely bit her lip, controlling herself, not letting herself cry out loud.

“Yu Shu, from now on, it will be hard on you.”

He looked at her, very calmly saying these words, speaking slowly but clearly. On the small table’s tray lay two ginseng roots, already half consumed. He took a slight breath, looking lovingly at Yong, saying softly: “I have not been a qualified father.”

Yu Shu was so afraid. In her entire life, she had never been so afraid. She suddenly boldly grabbed her husband’s arm, foolishly saying: “My lord, this won’t do, it can’t be like this.”

Xuan Mo smiled, his face pale, his eye sockets sunken, already thin beyond recognition.

“My lord, it can’t be like this.”

This simple woman didn’t know what else to say. She just shook her head forcefully, clutching her husband’s wrist tightly, repeating over and over: “It can’t, it can’t be like this.”

The night breeze gradually pushed open the window. The cold candlelight was nearly extinguished several times in the wind. The air outside was so cold, blowing from the north, faintly carrying the fragrance of autumn chrysanthemums.

She vaguely recalled playing and joking with her sisters when she was young. The sisters fantasized about their future husbands—someone wanted a top scholar renowned for his poetry, someone wanted a general with extraordinary martial skills, and someone wanted a son from a prestigious family. Only she, after thinking for a long, long time, finally pressured by her sisters, stuttered: “Just, just as long as he’s good to me.”

Just as long as he’s good to me.

She had always been such a humble person that even her sister despised her for lacking ambition. But what did it matter? At least she wasn’t greedy, she wasn’t melancholy, she didn’t complain about heaven or blame others. Her wish was simple, yet easy to fulfill. Her life was monotonous, yet more peaceful and happy.

But at this moment, she suddenly didn’t even want this last bit.

Grasping Xuan Mo’s hand, she trembled and said: “My lord, the old lord is gone, please divorce me. I know my lord doesn’t like me, my lord has someone else in his heart. I don’t want anything now, I just want my lord to live. As long as you live, it doesn’t matter if you divorce me.”

At that moment, all the wind and rain seemed to suddenly stop. The battle-hardened general was stunned by this simple woman’s determined gaze. A trace of bitterness rose from the bottom of his heart. Years of stubbornness and persistence turned to ashes in this moment. Time, like a surging long river, completely submerged his years of obsession. The ocean of guilt washed over him, condensing into a sigh in the final moment of his life.

Married for many years, he finally embraced his wife for the first time, sighing apologetically: “Yu Shu, I have failed you.”

Yu Shu leaned in this unfamiliar embrace, stunned for a moment.

So much endurance, so much self-control, so much self-comfort, so much self-deception. She had always thought she was virtuous enough, always thought she upheld the virtues of a wife, always thought she was not sad.

But everything, ultimately, completely collapsed in such a simple sentence, in such a simple embrace.

It turned out there was disappointment after all. It turned out there was no lack of disappointment. It turned out there were desires and fantasies.

It’s just that she had always suppressed it all so deeply.

She suddenly began to wail loudly, heartrendingly, beyond words.

This was the first time in her life, and also the last time, that Yu Shu cried in her husband’s arms.

After saying those words, Xuan Mo passed away peacefully, like an ink painting.

The next day, upon learning of Prince Xuan’s death, the Yan Emperor, who had been preparing to leave the city, temporarily changed his route and headed straight for Prince Xuan’s mansion. The young and stern emperor, dressed in black robes, stood before Xuan Mo’s coffin for a very long time. All those who came to pay their respects were too frightened to make a sound. Only he, like a stone statue, did not leave for a long time.

After that, there followed a series of conferments, a series of honors, but ultimately, they had nothing to do with her. Her heart had died. No matter how beautiful the world was, falling into her eyes, it was ultimately just a vast white land.

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