On the way back, Xie Sui’an’s steps were unsteady—she could barely stand. She drifted out like a lost soul, her entire world beginning to dissolve and collapse.

Why did such a good young man have to die?

Did he suffer when he died? Did he leave any last words? Does anyone know where he’s buried? Did anyone chant sutras for his salvation for seven days? Does his soul know the way home?

She hadn’t seen him for three years. For the sake of earning merit and recognition, their wedding had been postponed again and again, until the chaotic times made the decision for them. She kept his portrait, imagining in her heart how he had matured. His features must have become sharper, his martial arts more skilled, right?

But no matter how formidable he became, when sparring with her, he would still let her win.

She had been waiting for him to tell her about his travels and adventures.

She would rather not have known of his death.

The moment she learned of it, he truly died. She grieved for him, mourned for him, but in this world, no one would ever wait for his return again.

In her extreme sorrow, she surrendered control of her body, letting her limbs move numbly by instinct alone as she wandered through the night-shrouded corridors. She didn’t know where she was going.

Turning a corner, she unexpectedly ran into Xie Queshan.

Xie Sui’an stared at him blankly, tears streaming freely down her face.

“Why?”

Xie Queshan looked at Xie Sui’an, his expression gradually becoming serious. In this world, there was probably only one thing that could make Xie Sui’an cry like this.

“Why did you have to kill him?” She grabbed Xie Queshan’s sleeve. She didn’t have the strength left to hate him now—she pleaded with him for an answer from the chaos.

“Who told you?” Xie Queshan suddenly questioned Xie Sui’an sternly.

Like being struck by lightning, Xie Sui’an instantly regained clarity—she had only gone to the back mountain once, yet learned of Pang Yu’s death. Who was by Prince Ling’an’s side was classified information. Even Father couldn’t possibly know, so how could he tell her about Pang Yu’s death?

“Who told you?” Xie Queshan asked harshly again.

Xie Sui’an shuddered. She had never seen Xie Queshan interrogate her so fiercely. Her mind was in chaos—her carelessness and loss of control had sent things plummeting into the abyss.

How should she cover this up?

No, perhaps she didn’t need to lie at all.

He had killed Pang Yu—she wanted to die together with him.

Xie Sui’an suddenly drew the soft sword from her waist, striking directly at Xie Queshan’s head. She used full strength in every move, brutal in approach, but her technique was chaotic, leaving her wide open.

Xie Queshan only dodged. He carried no weapon, but his strikes no longer held back. They fought from under the corridor to the eaves, then from the eaves to the courtyard. After several moves, he finally found an opening, grasped Xie Sui’an’s wrist, disarmed her, and twisted her arm behind her back.

He had gained complete advantage, but his face ultimately showed a trace of softness. But the moment he loosened his grip slightly, the dagger at Xie Sui’an’s wrist sprang out—she intended to continue this desperate fight to the death.

“Xiaoliu!” Nanyi’s urgent voice came from behind, interrupting the tension between the siblings.

Nanyi rushed forward to pull away Xie Sui’an’s hand, supporting her shoulder with an apologetic expression: “I’m sorry, Xiaoliu. I didn’t tell you earlier—I was there when Pang Yu died… I was afraid you’d be heartbroken. Please don’t be angry with me, alright?”

This sentence smoothly explained who had told Xie Sui’an about Pang Yu’s death and why they had appeared one after the other.

Xie Sui’an had her back to Xie Queshan, her true expression fully exposed to Nanyi. The murderous intent slowly faded, leaving confusion and grief.

Xie Queshan’s dark gaze lingered on Nanyi, so oppressive it was hard to breathe.

Nanyi felt uncertain, not knowing how much Xie Queshan believed of this explanation, but it was the only excuse she could find in her desperation.

She had just finished her work in the kitchen when she encountered the conversation between Xie Sui’an and Xie Queshan. Connecting several things together, she could roughly guess which important figure was hidden in the back mountain Buddhist hall.

If Xie Queshan discovered even the slightest clue, it would truly be catastrophic. Nanyi understood the stakes, so she steeled herself to help cover for Xie Xiaoliu.

Xie Xiaoliu was mad with grief, but those who weren’t mad knew that Xie Queshan couldn’t be killed.

Xie Sui’an suddenly jerked her hand away and pushed Nanyi aside: “You’re also Xie Queshan’s accomplice!”

Half-true, half-false, she could only continue along with Nanyi’s story.

Her heart was in complete chaos. So many people had known of Pang Yu’s death yet all kept it from her. She felt as if she had split in two—one calm self trying to see the situation clearly, one grieving self who couldn’t care about anything and could only weep.

Thousands of words surged to her throat, finally condensing into one question: “Before he died… what did he say?”

At this question, the corridor fell silent except for the wind.

Nanyi looked up at Xie Queshan. His pupils were dark as rain-flower stones at the bottom of a deep pool.

She knew that before Pang Yu died, he had said something to him, but she had been too far away to hear.

Finally, he spoke with difficulty: “He said he never betrayed his youthful vows.”

This was Pang Yu’s entire life—loyalty and total dedication. He hadn’t made many vows in his lifetime, but each one he had striven to fulfill with all his might in his limited years. He vowed to serve his country loyally, to honor his parents, to remain faithful to Xie Xiaoliu, to entrust life and death to his friend, and to swear… that when he met the traitor Xie Queshan again, it would be a fight to the death.

Upon hearing these words, something seemed to seize her breath. Xie Sui’an couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed by aching sorrow.

Xie Queshan quietly watched his sister. The sins he had committed had finally come back to find him. If he had the chance in his remaining years, he would atone to all these people.

Just not now.

He turned and left indifferently, his robes sweeping into the night like dense fog over the sea.

——

Nanyi accompanied Xie Sui’an back to her room, recounting that day’s events with additions and omissions, naturally fabricating her own identity as well. She only said she had gone to steal intelligence from Xie Queshan, later encountered Pang Yu, and that Pang Yu had died protecting her identity, allowing her to bring the news to Li Du Mansion.

Xie Sui’an cried until her eyes were so swollen they couldn’t be rubbed. Finally, Nanyi had no choice but to have a maidservant bring a bowl of soup mixed with sleeping medicine and coax Xiaoliu into drinking it.

As she drowsily fell asleep, she still gripped Nanyi’s sleeve tightly, murmuring something.

Nanyi leaned closer to listen, only hearing her unclear voice say: “The things Pang Yu didn’t finish… I’ll complete them for him…”

Even in her sleep-talk, it was filled with determination.

Her relationship with Xie Queshan was now beyond repair.

Though ultimately this had nothing to do with Nanyi, she still felt somewhat sad. Her attitude toward Xie Queshan was complicated. Sometimes she felt he wasn’t so bad, but everyone around her, including his own actions, constantly reminded her that he was definitely not a good person.

Stepping out of the room and looking up, the night sky beyond the eaves showed traces of milky white.

The long night had finally passed.

——

Outside the small thatched cottage in Jiangyue Lane, two Qi soldiers stood guard.

They were responsible for watching Song Muchuan until the government offices opened tomorrow, when they would escort him to take up his position at the Bureau of Ships.

The candlelight in the thatched cottage had burned most of the night, with the occasional rustling sound of turning pages. Scholars were truly pedantic—even when working for the Qi people, he showed not the slightest hint of being perfunctory.

As dawn approached, the candle finally went out. Song Muchuan tidied up, apparently preparing to sleep. The two guards glanced inside—the figure lay with his back to the window, the blanket bulging. They yawned drowsily and paid no further attention.

But at this moment, Song Muchuan had already escaped like a cicada shedding its shell, traveling through the secret passage connecting the house to the Bingzhu Bureau. The gentle scholar had transformed into the unfathomable leader of the Bingzhu Bureau.

A contact spy had long been waiting at the end of the passage, handing over a letter.

“Sir, this is the reply from the Grand Secretary.”

Song Muchuan had previously written to the Grand Secretary, reporting on his affairs after taking office and casually inquiring about… the identity of “Wild Goose.”

Only after reviewing all the Bingzhu Bureau spy files did he discover there was a mysterious agent codenamed “Wild Goose” whose actions weren’t controlled by anyone, and a special team within the bureau was dedicated solely to him.

But no one had seen who “Wild Goose” was. He had established methods for transmitting intelligence with the Bingzhu Bureau—only intelligence was seen, never the person.

It was this “Wild Goose” who, after Xie Hengzai’s death, had laid the plan to escort Prince Ling’an into the city and arranged for them to be hidden in the Xie family’s back mountain Buddhist hall.

To say he wasn’t curious would be false. In all of Li Du Mansion with its tens of thousands of people, anyone could be a spy hidden in plain sight.

But who exactly had such great capability? Song Muchuan had directly asked in his letter.

However, the Grand Secretary replied: The time is not yet right.

This wasn’t surprising either. If all these covert matters were laid out clearly, they wouldn’t be called spies anymore.

Song Muchuan knowingly burned the reply over the candle flame, then took out a paper from his sleeve and handed it to the contact. This was the list he had written by lamplight tonight.

“Have people purchase the items listed here from various places and transport them into the city.”

The spy glanced at the list and was shocked.

“Sir, this is…”

“Like ants moving house—multiple times, small quantities. Don’t alert anyone.”

“Yes.” The spy didn’t dare question further and accepted the task with cupped hands.

“The ships the Qi people want built will be their own graves.”

His voice was cold and resolute.