Chapter Seven: The Pain of Picking Up the Brush

“How did you know?” Night Qianchen finished speaking and turned his probing, conflicted gaze toward Night Qianling. “What exactly do you know? If you have grievances, speak up. Father, your brothers and sisters will help you solve them. You will never be wronged. If you don’t say anything, Mother’s matter—Eldest Brother won’t be able to forgive you.”

Night Qianchen’s heart was heavy with sorrow. He called his two younger brothers in to check on Mother and comfort the grieving father, then remained alone, watching his sister whose whole body was flushed, her gaze vacant and unfocused, sighing deeply. “If you really did this, then from today onward, don’t call me Brother anymore.”

Night Qianling heard these words, lifted her head in alarm, unable to immediately grasp what Night Qianchen meant. What did he mean by not calling him Brother? Only after a long pause did she emerge from her muddled thoughts. “Brother,” she finally broke free from her dazed state, clutching Night Qianchen’s arm with trembling urgency, her voice choked and pleading: “You can’t do that, Brother. Please don’t treat me like this. I really don’t know what to do. I beg you—please, don’t disown me.”

Her body slowly slid downward, finally collapsing helplessly to her knees, clutching her convulsing, aching chest as tears welled at the corners of her eyes. She held back her sobs, wearing an expression more painful than crying. “Brother, I’ll accept anything you do to me, just don’t disown me. I was wrong. However you punish me, I’ll accept it—even if you take my life, I won’t regret it. All I ask is that you don’t turn your back on me.” She gently wrapped her arms around Night Qianchen’s leg, her feverish body so hot that even through his trousers he could feel the unhealthy heat.

“Then tell me—how did you come to ask about what happened? Because you were worried about Father and Mother, your sister-in-law never told anyone about this. How did you know? You were clearly asking about Hong’er just now.” Night Qianchen grabbed her by the nape, effortlessly pulling her up, his voice resolute. “With your temperament, you’d never kill Night Qianhao. What weakness of yours was seized upon? Why are you taking the blame for the assassin?”

“Who would dare treat you like this? If you’re suffering, tell me. I will protect you no matter what.” Night Qianchen pressed forward as Night Qianling’s demeanor clearly showed she had something to say.

She couldn’t speak. She wouldn’t say anything unless she was certain Hong’er was safe. Besides, Mother’s death had nothing to do with Wan Feng. Mother had committed suicide to save her, and this life shouldn’t be tied to Wan Feng. How could she speak out, knowing Mother’s own son lost his life because of her? The pain was nearly unbearable, so conflicted it bordered on despair. After a long silence, she finally lifted her head, her face calm and indifferent. “Let me see Mother.”

Night Qianchen had been about to stop her; entering now would only put Night Qianling in greater danger. But behind him, a deep, authoritative middle-aged voice rang out, brooking no refusal, with the bearing of a king. “Let her in.”

Hearing this, Night Qianling was visibly startled. Step by step, she pressed her aching chest and approached Mother. As she drew nearer, her tears could no longer be contained, flowing steadily. She didn’t want to appear so weak, wiping her face again and again with her sleeve, but the tears would not dry. When she reached Mother’s side, her knees gave way and she fell to the ground. “Mother.”

No answer. Only silence.

Night Qianling crawled forward, coming close to Mu Ziying’s side, trembling as she called out once more, still acting alone in her silent drama.

Her sobs grew louder. Unable to hold back, she embraced the already cold body, her chest aching as if about to burst, her breath heavy and ragged. Blood from her coughing began to seep from her lips. Suddenly realizing she might soil Mother, Night Qianling turned aside, her tears falling as she coughed, her lifeless eyes staring blankly at Mu Ziying, her body shaking even harder, pounding her aching chest in frustration.

“Still won’t speak?” Emperor Guangde’s voice was tinged with desolation, his face little better. “Your mother gave her life to save you, and you still won’t speak? Do you want her to die with regrets?”

At these words, Night Qianling shrank into herself, huddled and bent. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.” It wasn’t that she didn’t want to speak; she couldn’t. Wan Feng would never let Hong’er go and she couldn’t betray the brother who sacrificed himself for her.

“Very well,” Emperor Guangde said, his iron-willed eyes suddenly turning red as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “Take this wretch to the Imperial Clan Court. Give them two days. No matter the means, they must get the truth from her. If there’s no confession, then every last person in the Imperial Clan Court will be dismissed.”

To be sent to the Imperial Clan Court meant losing half one’s life even if one survived. Night Qianmu had already pleaded once, and everyone knew there was no turning back now. With Mother’s sudden death, everyone was plunged into endless grief. And now, after committing such a heinous act, Mu Ziying sacrificed herself to save Night Qianling’s life. No matter what, the girl’s life was preserved; even if things could never return to how they once were, at least her sister’s life was spared. That was the best that could be done now.

Emperor Guangde fell into endless contemplation. Night Qianling was led away, unaware of anything. As emperor, admired by thousands, he had had no other choice at the time. If not for his wife’s sacrifice, he would have had to kill his own daughter. Now his daughter survived, but his wife was gone. Emperor Guangde vaguely recalled their first meeting: Mu Ziying, then, was as pure and kind as Night Qianling had been just days ago, untouched by the world, like a celestial being descended to earth. Yet Night Qianling was more approachable, while his beloved wife, from the first glance, had an aloof coldness that warned strangers away. But years later, Mu Ziying confessed she had fallen in love with him at first sight, then recounted decades of romance between them. Perhaps from this moment, everything had diverged from its course, beyond anyone’s control.

He gently touched his wife’s signature alluring lips, lowered his head and softly kissed her, tears falling to the corners of her eyes, as if she could still weep, only refusing to acknowledge him.

Night Qianchen saw this scene and his heart stifled with pain. His crown princess, Lu Xiaoxiao, entered the palace and cradled his head in her arms, patting him gently for comfort. After a long time, he came to himself, signaling his siblings with his eyes. Night Qianzhi understood his brother’s meaning, and, hiding their piercing grief, the group left the palace, leaving father and mother alone for their final moments.

How deeply Emperor Guangde regretted neglecting his wife these two years. When he was still crown prince, they had campaigned side by side. As crown princess, Mu Ziying never behaved like a spoiled noblewoman. Though she was cold at first, time revealed her bold generosity and a commanding spirit few girls possessed, yet in private she was tender and attentive to her husband. Even after years on the battlefield, she kept the prince’s residence in flawless order, letting him focus on affairs without worry, supporting his ambitions, and as eldest daughter-in-law, tended to his mother-in-law’s every need, earning his father’s trust. Truthfully, his rise to emperor without bloodshed owed most to Mu Ziying’s support. More importantly, her unwavering love—no matter his so-called “mistakes men always make”—she never ceased loving him. Yet he, relying on her feelings, squandered them, wounding her heart deeply these past two years.

The more Emperor Guangde reflected, the heavier his heart grew, sinking ever lower, until it reached the depths. He could not bear the torrent of emotion surging within, so, habitually, he reached out his trembling hand to touch Mu Ziying’s face, as if he had repeated this gesture tens of thousands of times in the past few hours. “Xiao Ying, please wake up—stop teasing me. If you get up, I’ll promise you anything. If you want seclusion and a peaceful life, I’ll pass the throne to Chen’er, and we’ll find a quiet, undisturbed place, living as ordinary husband and wife, our own lives. If you can’t bear to leave our children, we’ll let them visit our cottage whenever they’re free. Like Ling’er—she’s always been so naive. Whenever Chen’er and the others bullied her, made her do this and that, she enjoyed it. Do you remember when the children were young, playing cuju in the imperial garden? Ge’er sent her to fetch a fan for them, her little legs running toward us, afraid to go slow or fall for fear of scolding, her face blushing with a smile. We had her bring tea and water to us every day.”

As he spoke, his tears fell uncontrollably in great drops. A man does not lack tears; it is only that the time for sorrow has not come. “I know Ling’er would never do such a thing, not even if she had the courage, but we all know that once she decides not to speak, she’ll keep the secret in her heart for life.” Emperor Guangde was deeply conflicted, muttering to himself: “But if she doesn’t speak, she’ll only meet her end—no other possibility. And then you leave me, alone. Can you bear it?”

The pain of unanswered longing finally broke Emperor Guangde. He lifted one leg onto the bed, quietly lay down beside Mu Ziying, cradling her in his broad arms, kissing her cold lips again and again. Once, twice, until his lips grew numb, kissing with a wild desperation.

For two years they had tormented each other—longing for one another, yet pride drove them apart, locked in silent conflict. Hours ago, they had reconciled, yet now, forever separated. The one in his arms offered no comfort, like a broken doll, cold and unresponsive. Tears flowed endlessly; nothing could ever return to how it was. The reunion he had yearned for half a year was now only his own monologue, his own embrace—ultimately, he was alone.

Emperor Guangde seemed to shed a lifetime’s worth of tears today, all for the woman he had loved for half his life. He could swear, never again would he love another. They had spent every last ounce of feeling on each other. He kissed Mu Ziying from head to toe, as if bidding farewell to everything, yet he knew in his heart—his love, his passion, had departed with his beloved wife, leaving not a single ember behind.