Seven days ago.

That night when the moon hung alone high above, the travel-worn Zhang Zhicun only stood in the tent with his hands behind his back in silence. Xie Queshan already understood what he wanted to say.

As long as he died to quell the rumors, the opposing ministers would have no more excuses, and His Majesty could order troops to be sent.

If he were still that Xie Queshan confined on the ship, who loathed himself and only wished to die to atone, at this moment he would have agreed without any emotion, even proposing this solution himself before Zhang Zhicun’s arrival.

But now he was different from before. He had encountered someone like Hua Tuo reborn, who had cured the malady in his soul and made him flourish like withered wood meeting spring. He had gained some unprecedented light. He very much wanted to live, even cherishing his life more than ever before—for his family, his lover, his friends, and for himself.

Zhang Zhicun remained silent, and he remained silent too.

Finally, Zhang Zhicun gritted his teeth and spoke: “Let me be the villain then! Master Xie, he who tied the bell must untie it. Now all the turmoil centers on you, and only through you can this deadlock be broken. If you’re willing to sacrifice yourself for the greater good, I can guarantee the reinforcements will enter the city at fastest speed. If you’re unwilling, I absolutely won’t make things difficult—seeking to survive is human nature, and what you’ve done for Great Yu is already enough. Whatever decision you make, Zhang will bow and thank you on behalf of all the people of Li Du Mansion, on behalf of all court officials, on behalf of His Majesty!”

Having said this, Zhang Zhicun lifted his robes and knelt before Xie Queshan, his forehead striking the ground heavily. This scene carried a tragic and heroic air.

“Zhang Zhicun! What performance of righteousness for family and country is this! You’re clearly forcing him!” After a moment of silence, it was actually the gentle Song Muchuan who first erupted in fierce opposition.

Ying Huai was also stunned, momentarily unsure how to respond to this cruel proposal and the chaos before him.

“Get up!” Song Muchuan stepped forward to pull up Zhang Zhicun, roughly pushing him away. “What right do you have to say this! There must be other ways!”

Zhang Zhicun stood dejectedly, his official robes askew from being pulled. He seemed unaware of his disheveled state—those words had exhausted all his dignity and strength. He couldn’t answer Song Muchuan’s questioning.

Song Muchuan shouted loudly, but felt increasingly powerless. Actually, he knew Zhang Zhicun was qualified to say these words. Zhang Zhicun was also an undercover agent—his impassioned speech wasn’t building castles in air. He had personally experienced the hardships and knew this plan was the last desperate resort.

But Song Muchuan was full of selfish motives. He didn’t want Xie Queshan to consider the possibility of this proposal. He was terrified, because he understood his dear friend too well. He looked at Xie Queshan tremblingly, as if he were the one awaiting judgment.

Xie Queshan simply raised his face calmly, gazing into Zhang Zhicun’s eyes. He knew they understood each other—if facing the same situation, he too would choose death.

The tent fell into prolonged silence. Ying Huai stood helplessly, seeing Xie Queshan looking at Zhang Zhicun like this, not knowing what he was thinking—how could he agree to such an unreasonable request? Ying Huai wanted to speak to smooth things over, but heard Xie Queshan speak first.

“Fastest speed—how fast is that?”

Ying Huai was stunned. He hadn’t expected Xie Queshan to ask this question at this moment.

“Three days to report to court and obtain execution approval… after that, at most two days for reinforcements to enter the city.”

Xie Queshan didn’t answer, rising to leave the tent.

Everyone wanted to stop him, wanted to say something to him, but each person seemed frozen in place, unable to do anything.

The final decision could only be made by Xie Queshan himself. He probably needed some time.

But strangely, after leaving the tent, Xie Queshan’s mind seemed to stagnate. He knew he needed to make a decision, but he couldn’t think. His whole body was numb. He saw the weight crushing between his insignificant life and the grandeur of a city—the scales held completely unequal stakes. Did his decision even matter?

He could only have one choice.

He wandered under the absurd moonlight, at this moment only able to think of Nanyi, who had stubbornly covered his ears in front of everyone amid Lu Jinxiu’s sharp curses.

At this moment he very much wanted to see her, and so coincidentally, she happened to be waiting for him too.

He was too selfish. The moment he saw her, he unexpectedly felt very happy. People have the ability to deceive themselves. He briefly forgot what he would face after dawn, only enjoying being with her indulgently.

An absurd night belonging to a man about to die—finally he had time to think about “what Xie Queshan wanted.”

He wanted to solidly hold her hand and foolishly watch some sunrises and sunsets, to cycle through four seasons, to grip that real feeling tightly. He wanted to look into her eyes, gaze at her face.

Would she regret it?

He wouldn’t.

Even with such an ending, even leaving her with a lifetime’s wound, he didn’t regret falling in love with her.

But he hadn’t figured out how to say farewell. Several times he wanted to speak, but shamefully remained silent each time. Should he weep with her and promise to meet again in the next life? Or let her forget him and live well for the rest of her life? The people in this world who cared about him might be sad for a while without him, but ultimately would all find their own places. But he knew she depended only on him—she would have no other refuge.

Would she know? Actually, in every second facing her, he desperately wanted to live. How could he use the same old trick again? Every time leaving her a mess—he, this cowardly worthless man, had failed her too many times.

Wanting to speak but stopping himself, he held her until dawn, then still sent her away. Let her hate him—he should owe something, so he could find her in the next life.

May her return be the day of great victory—this was his final gift to her.

After watching Nanyi leave, Xie Queshan immediately received an unexpected letter.

Zhang Yuehui wrote carelessly in the letter: “Hearing my son faces many obstacles in battle, why not come to Shu to seek refuge with your old man? No matter who rules the world, from now on eat well and drink well without worries.”

Xie Queshan understood Zhang Yuehui’s reverse meaning—he had done enough, done his utmost as human affairs go and listened to heaven’s will. Why keep forcing himself? Why not cast aside everything and retire to Shu? For a moment, Xie Queshan actually felt some longing for the life he described. The gloom in his heart seemed dispelled by this irreverent letter, and he smiled as he wrote a reply.

“Boss Zhang has suspicions of stealing my wife—I must respectfully decline.”

Just as he prepared to send the letter, Song Muchuan burst into his tent and pressed the letter down.

“You and Nanyi going to Shu—I think that’s quite good.” Song Muchuan’s attitude was rarely firm.

“How did you become just like Zhang Yuehui?” Xie Queshan smiled, spreading a new memorial on the table himself and offering a brush. “My confession—you write it.”

Though already prepared, hearing him say this so definitively, Song Muchuan still couldn’t accept it and knocked away Xie Queshan’s hand. His expression was probably extremely fierce: “Impossible! At worst, we won’t defend Li Du Mansion.”

“Really not defend it?” Xie Queshan asked back, leaving Song Muchuan unable to say it righteously a second time.

Tears fell from his eyes.

This was fundamentally a choice with no choice.

Xie Queshan insisted on stuffing the brush into his hand: “I’m not at ease unless you write it.”

Song Muchuan clenched his fists, stubbornly refusing to take the brush.

“If you don’t write, I’ll knock you unconscious and write it myself,” Xie Queshan smiled at Song Muchuan, as if making a harmless joke. “But don’t think you can escape guilt toward me this way.”

The more relaxed he was, the more it tore at Song Muchuan’s heart.

Xie Queshan knew too well how to make him live on. In every moment of his remaining life when he wanted to give up completely, he would have to consider—this was what Xie Chao’en had traded for. So he must personally write all the documents condemning Xie Queshan. He, the one wielding the brush, was the true criminal. He would bear guilt forever while living, guarding the victory his dear friend brought through sacrifice.

Song Muchuan gripped the brush and wailed, his torrential tears ruining several sheets of paper. He simply stopped caring about neat handwriting, though this had been his most particular concern in half a lifetime of study.

This was his final stubbornness—he wanted the memorial reaching heaven’s ears to be covered with untimely ink blots that would forever remain in his cold text, revealing the enormous hidden truth and lies behind it.

Xie Queshan sat at the tent entrance with his back to him, staring into space, waiting for that memorial to be sealed.

When Song Muchuan finished the last character, Xie Queshan looked back at him and smiled serenely: “Yushu, you must move forward.”

Before this, he had never been willing to call him by his courtesy name. Even after confirming identities and fighting side by side, they had never directly faced the pain brought by the Jingchun Incident—those six years had been deliberately ignored by them. But only at this moment did it truly pass.

Everything would happen quickly. He wouldn’t even need to wait for His Majesty’s approval before being executed. The sooner he received punishment, the sooner the anger and unease of the city’s military and civilians could be calmed. Only with unity above and below could they resist foreign enemies.

He said lightly: Only extreme punishment can let the people vent their anger. Since I’m going to die anyway, let me die meaningfully.

He also said: Don’t let them collect my body.

He didn’t want his family to see his dismembered remains.

Being torn apart by horses in the marketplace—this rarely appeared even in contemporary legal precedents.

What kind of heinously evil person would die this way?

On execution day, Xie Queshan sat in the prison cart being escorted to the execution ground. The long street was packed with watching citizens, curses endless.

He listened quietly, accepting everything.

He simply accepted it. He remained without shame before heaven and earth. Who knows my crimes and who knows my righteousness—only Spring and Autumn Annals can judge.

All grand deeds before death, cast entirely into turbid waters.

Public display, body verification, the criminal’s placard fell to the ground.

The people cheered and applauded. They used what they believed were righteous words to kill their guide through darkness. But who could say they burned bridges after crossing?

They simply didn’t know.

A drifting speck of dust fell to earth in a place where no one noticed.

But the landslide it triggered continued still.

Nanyi’s sword tip pressed against Song Muchuan’s chest, but couldn’t advance half an inch.

“I’ll kill you… I’ll kill you!”

She finally collapsed, shouting hysterically, but her trembling voice and streaming tears had already exposed her empty threat.

Soldiers who had heard the commotion rushed into the tent to guard.

“Stand down!” Song Muchuan stopped their actions.

He’d rather Nanyi kill him—be done with it, one life for another.

But Nanyi’s impulse went only this far before her actions were restrained. What difference was there between her like this and the likes of Lu Jinxiu? They were all just looking for someone to blame in extreme grief and anger.

As if attributing all mistakes to one person would bring the dead back and let the living rest easy. But it wasn’t like that.

She clearly understood Song Muchuan suffered equally. They all didn’t want to see that person die.

But when people die they’re like extinguished lamps. Even if she wanted to do something now, it was all too late. Everything was futile.

“Ahhhh!” Nanyi’s pain had nowhere to vent. She could only turn her blade to chop down, cutting the table in half at the waist.

Wind gusted in, blowing documents and papers on the ground in flurries, like demons dancing wildly.

Chaos, destruction—she only wanted everything to return to disorder. Nanyi threw down her sword and stared numbly at the mess on the ground. She seemed a bit calmer, but nothing had actually improved.

“I hate you all,” she murmured. “Why?”

Nanyi woodenly retreated several steps, her whole body swaying as she struggled to support herself.

“Take me to the place where he… was executed.”

That was the busiest market intersection, crisscrossing roads. Crowds of people trampled the earth—his blood and bones, his soul were trampled and forgotten like this. Nanyi could only imagine his feelings in that final moment seeing this land, though even such imagination made her wish she were dead.

Her beloved—he carried a mountain on his back, the mountain Yugong moved away, the source of stones Jingwei carried. There are no miracles or greatness without reason in this world. In places unseen by others, he let it take everything until that mountain crushed him to pieces.

She opened her mouth wide, wanting to scream hysterically, but became a puppet who couldn’t make sound. All emotions came crashing back to flood her chest. She was defeated, kneeling on the ground like an outcast while passersby cast strange looks. Her hands tremblingly felt over the earth, as if this way she could grasp some trace of his spirit, as if they were still together.

Finally, she too collapsed thunderously.

The crime of betraying the country should have involved executing nine generations of relatives, but the court, remembering that the Xie family had severed relations with the rebellious son years ago, did not implicate other Xie clan members.

The Xie family should have protected themselves wisely, drawn clear boundaries, and remained silent.

But Madam Gantang insisted on holding funeral rites for Xie Queshan, welcoming his memorial tablet into the ancestral hall. Xie Jun finally nodded under pressure.

The court decreed that no one could collect a criminal’s corpse. After Xie Queshan’s death, his remains were thrown into the wilderness, so they could only erect a cenotaph for him.

This father who had been incompetent his whole life became particularly silent after consecutively experiencing the pain of losing sons. Only now did he understand how little he knew this son. He probably had never properly taught him—he didn’t know when he had developed such loyal devotion. This made him both heartbroken and ashamed. Examining his conscience, what his son had done—how many could achieve it? Xie Jun felt he couldn’t. His son was his pride.

White-haired sending off black-haired—he personally wrote an epitaph for the youngest son he had once liked least, recording his merits and faults, and sealed it in the cenotaph. The final line on the stele read: “The door closes on this day—in what year will it reopen?”

All opportunities were left to posterity. Perhaps one day this door would reopen and history would reveal the truth.

This was what Xie Jun thought was the best ending he could leave for Xie Chao’en.

But someone didn’t think so. A thousand or ten thousand years was too long—she couldn’t wait, nor was she willing to place his vindication on posterity’s chance favor.

“The siege of Li Du Mansion is lifted, but he cannot bear infamy and die in obscurity,” Nanyi knelt before the ancestral hall, speaking word by word with extreme determination. “I want to overturn Xie Queshan’s case.”

She still had one breath not yet released, suspended in her chest—that was the only belief supporting her to wake up and stand up.

Xie Jun found it incredible. Where did she get such audacity?

“Do you think this is just a case of injustice? That was an imperial edict. You want to overturn it—how? You’re trying to slap the faces of all Jinling’s court officials! Don’t overestimate yourself!”

“His Majesty clearly knows of his innocence too—he just needs an opportunity!”

“When Chao’en chose to do this, he had already accepted the finality of this conclusion, setting aside his own reputation. He wanted to protect Li Du Mansion and also protect His Majesty’s dignity! His Majesty has just ascended the throne with hearts wavering. To stabilize his foundation, he must walk on thin ice, unable to make mistakes anywhere. If such a major case were overturned, how would the people trust this new ruler? If all court officials saw no such oversight, how should they conduct themselves? For Chao’en alone, how could I not want him vindicated? But for the greater good, it can only be thus!”

Nanyi laughed coldly and asked sternly: “How do you know he accepted it? How can you condescendingly accept it on his behalf? Why should he bear more righteousness than others? What if he also didn’t want to die like this?”

Her voice rang with conviction, leaving Xie Jun speechless.

Only Nanyi knew his feelings weren’t the same as his former calm acceptance of death. More than anyone, he treasured his hard-won reconciliation with the past ten years. More than anyone, he treasured this love. When she recalled that final night, she regretted her hindsight. She should have noticed his strangeness, should have desperately held onto him when he walked toward that helpless ending.

Why should he swallow everything alone!

“The greater good was won by Xie Chao’en. So today, let this greater good sacrifice half a portion for him—what harm could there be!”