Chapter 2
1470 Words
Bang!
The heavy vermilion gate of the courtyard was violently slammed open. Chaotic footsteps shattered the silence of the blue stone pavement.
“A decree from His Majesty—the Emperor has specially dispatched his servant to offer condolences to Prince Lanling!”
The shrill eunuch’s voice pierced through the layers of white mourning drapes, brutally tearing apart the weeping that filled the courtyard.
Behind the shadowed curtains, the calloused palm pressed against Zheng Wantang’s lips tightened abruptly.
The rough edges scraped against her cheek, sending a sharp sting through her skin.
The man behind her was trembling.
This was not reverence for imperial power.
This was the terrifying fury of a cornered animal, boiling through his veins.
Under the guise of “condolences,” Gao Wei had sent a blade meant to force a dead man into the open.
The God of War of Great Qi—even having abandoned everything, even having drunk poison and feigned his death—the emperor on his high throne still refused to leave even his ashes in peace.
Zheng Wantang reached back, locking her fingers around the man’s knuckles, taut with rage.
These hands had wielded a lance through thousands of enemy soldiers. They would not be destroyed today in the filth of court intrigue.
Taking advantage of his weakened state from his wounds, she forcibly pushed his arm down, pointing toward the corner piled high with layers of pale funeral paper offerings.
“Hide there.”
Her voice was flat, without inflection.
The words left her lips, and she was already turning, stepping without hesitation into the heart of the hall, where the candles flickered.
Her wide sleeves billowed in the air.
Her hands grasped the cold edge of the coffin. She climbed in.
The dense, cloying scent of embalming spices mixed with the aura of death enveloped her instantly.
Zheng Wantang lay flat on the coffin’s floor, folding her hands neatly over her abdomen.
“Madwoman.”
A low, hoarse voice came from the shadows, words twisting with shock and a killing edge.
“Close the lid.”
Zheng Wantang closed her eyes. Her tone held a terrifying calm.
The dead never betray secrets.
*Creak—*
The heavy nanmu coffin lid was shoved shut by a tremendous force from the outside.
The last trace of light was swallowed.
Absolute darkness.
*Bang!*
The main door of the mourning hall was kicked open. A chill wind swept cascades of funeral paper money inside.
“Captain Han has grown quite powerful, daring to block even the Emperor’s decree of mercy at the very steps?”
A slimy, cold voice slithered through the doorway.
Lying in the silent coffin, Zheng Wantang sneered inwardly.
Mu Tipo.
The biological son of the Empress Dowager Lu Lingxuan.
The consort clan could no longer wait to claim the credit of confirming Prince Lanling’s death.
“Forgive this humble servant, Lord. The Prince passed suddenly; his appearance is too grievous. I feared startling the Emperor’s envoy.”
The clinking of armor sounded outside; Han Changluan’s massive frame blocked the stone steps before the coffin.
“Out of my way!”
A dull thud of a kick. A bronze brazier filled with paper ash was knocked over.
“I am here by imperial order to present funeral incense from the Western Regions! With all this obstruction, Han Changluan, do you wish for the entire household to be buried with Prince Lanling?”
Killing with words.
Silence. Only the grinding of Han Changluan’s teeth, bloody with suppressed fury.
He held back his urge to draw his sword.
Inside the coffin, Zheng Wantang shut out all distractions.
She forced her heartbeat to slow.
The rise and fall of her chest was barely perceptible.
*Thud!*
The coffin lid was shoved half-open from above.
Harsh, blinding torchlight fell directly upon her deathly pale face.
“What… what is this?!”
Mu Tipo’s voice cracked with shock.
Inside the cold, wide coffin, there was no corpse of a war god with blood from his seven orifices.
Only a woman in deep mourning, her face bloodless, lying stiffly.
“The Princess?!”
Han Changluan’s cry was choked with horror. He had been guarding the outside; he had no idea when she had entered this death-casket.
“Overcome with grief? Suicide for love? Today, I shall witness this depth of devotion!”
A cruel glint flashed in Mu Tipo’s eyes.
His hand, adorned with a jade thumb ring, reached into the coffin, pressing toward Zheng Wantang’s breath.
No breathing.
He persisted, his fingers sliding down her cold skin toward her vulnerable throat.
In the shadowed corner behind the paper offerings.
*Zing—*
The faintest whisper of metal, masked by the funeral music.
Gao Changgong’s fingers locked around his blade. The sharp edge slid half an inch from its scabbard.
If that eunuch’s filthy hand dared touch her, he wouldn’t mind a headless corpse joining the mourning hall.
The last air in her lungs was being drained.
Zheng Wantang’s throat burned with suffocating fire.
The cold finger was half an inch from her neck.
“My Lady—!!!”
A heart-wrenching, blood-choked scream exploded in the hall.
Lin Ruo, her eyes crimson, her forehead bruised and bleeding from kowtowing, crashed through the guards like a madwoman, throwing herself at the coffin.
A dull thud.
Her heavy body slammed into Mu Tipo’s unprotected side.
“Aiya!”
Mu Tipo staggered, collapsing backward.
He crashed into a young eunuch holding a censer.
Hot ash and glowing embers rained down, covering his face.
“You wretch! Tired of living?!”
Mu Tipo flailed on the ground, slapping at the burning ash, shrieking with rage.
“Forgive him, Lord! My Lady and the Prince’s love was truer than gold! She simply fainted from weeping! Her soul has followed the Prince!”
Lin Ruo clung to the coffin’s edge, her stout body a solid wall blocking Mu Tipo’s view.
Han Changluan’s eyes hardened. He seized the opening.
He stepped forward, the longsword at his waist ringing as it pressed forward, his massive frame blocking all approaches.
“Lord Mu! The Princess is of the direct line of the Zheng clan of Xingyang!”
“If you continue this violation, insulting a lady of noble birth, this humble servant will spill blood here today and demand justice before the Empress Dowager!”
The weight of “Empress Dowager” and “noble clan” made Mu Tipo’s face twitch.
The crime of driving a prince’s wife to death, of humiliating the Zheng family, was too great. Even his mother might not quash it.
“Damn this cursed luck!”
Mu Tipo stared at the coffin, mostly blocked from view, and spat ash from his mouth.
“Watch over her well! We return to the palace!”
Chaotic footsteps retreated, streaming out of the courtyard.
The doors slammed shut. The mourning hall fell back into silence.
Lin Ruo’s legs gave way. She collapsed, trembling uncontrollably.
In the cold coffin, Zheng Wantang’s eyes snapped open.
She gasped, greedily pulling the frigid air into her raw, burning lungs.
Pushing herself up on weak arms, she slowly sat up.
A heavy outer robe, thick with the smell of blood and bitter medicine, fell from above, settling on her shoulders.
In the dim candlelight, the bronze demon mask gleamed coldly.
Gao Changgong stood beside the coffin, looking down at her.
Behind the mask, his eyes held no relief. Only cold scrutiny and murderous intent.
“You are not her.”
The man’s voice was low, deep.
The weak woman who hid in the back courtyard crying, who trembled at mice, could never have had the courage to lie in a death-casket, to play such a deceitful game before powerful ministers.
Zheng Wantang did not avoid his piercing gaze.
She raised a hand, calmly straightening the disheveled collar of her mourning robes.
Meeting his killing glare, she smiled coldly.
“No. I am not.”
She pressed her hand to the nanmu edge and leaned forward sharply.
Her warm breath almost touched the cold bronze of his mask.
“Who are you?” Gao Changgong’s eyes burned with intent to kill.
“Who am I?”
She held his gaze.
“The Princess of Lanling. The one you brought with eight-carriage ceremony, your lawfully wedded wife.”
“Who else could I be?”
The last ashes in the brazier glowed and crumbled.
Gao Changgong was silent.
Ferocious. Courageous.
In such a hopeless situation, she had turned the game solid. This woman had just played her highest card.
In the moment of their silent standoff—
*Swoosh—*
Across the carved window paper, a hunched, twisted shadow flickered past.
No wind.
The old trees in the courtyard stood still.
Someone was crouched in the darkness, watching.
- Writer
