Chapter 21

Pei Muci rose decisively, shielding Qingwu as he drew his long sword and struck down the man at the forefront. He turned slightly, raising his wide sleeve to cover Qingwu, blocking the spray of blood. A long, crimson streak marred his white robes, and droplets of blood splattered across his cheek, looking like clusters of red plum blossoms fallen upon his brow bone.

The situation was dire, the enemies were numerous, and his right leg lacked strength, leaving him unable to execute any flashy sword techniques. After cutting down the first man, his blade swiftly plunged into the heart of the second. Every move was intended to kill. He could almost feel the heartbeat of his victims through the thin steel of the blade, vibrating into his palm.

Qingwu’s view was entirely blocked by his broad back. She could only see the black-clad assailants falling one by one at Pei Muci’s feet. After a brief struggle, they would go still, becoming silent corpses. An indescribable, metallic stench began to spread, reminiscent of a rusty blade scouring wire mesh, making one’s stomach churn. She closed her eyes, attempting to calm herself in the fleeting moments.

Hanyue had only left Pei Muci with one sword; being unarmed herself, she was nothing but a burden. The attackers seemed fearless, rushing at them in waves. Pei Muci’s blade repeatedly pierced their bodies, the tip emerging directly from their ribs. Without a moment's hesitation, he would step on the man's chest to wrench the sword free. The sound was like a tailor’s shears cutting through silk, a sharp, tearing rasp. With each stroke, the spraying crimson added a garish color to his sword dance.

The tip of the sword rested on the ground, and a thick, vivid red fluid—a mixture of blood and something else—slowly dripped from the blade into the mud. Pei Muci held the sword calmly, his expression unchanged. The remaining attackers, caught off guard by his ferocity, hesitated and began to pace, searching for his fatal weakness. The men in black who had been controlling the crowd saw the turn of events and drew their own swords to join the fray. Those on the periphery, no longer restrained, crept forward, eager to see what was happening. The crowd surged closer, the encirclement tightening.

Pei Muci knew the time had come. He pressed his palm against her back, gave a reassuring pat, and then pushed her firmly away. "Run!"

Qingwu was startled; she tried to reach back to grab his sleeve, but his hand had already let go.

"Do not look back."

Pei Muci’s voice was light and cold, his eyes fixed upon her with a chilling, hollow intensity. The black-clad men, perhaps unaware of Qingwu’s identity, ignored her entirely, their gazes and blades locked solely on Pei Muci. Qingwu stumbled, forced herself to stand through the pain, and gritted her teeth as she ran toward the city gates. She remembered there were garrison guards there; her token was enough to mobilize at least a hundred soldiers.

Hearing the sound of her stumbling footsteps fade into the distance, Pei Muci breathed a sigh of relief. He lowered his eyelids, masking the gloom in his dark eyes, and wiped the viscous fluid from his brow bone with the back of his hand. There was more blood on his face than he had imagined; droplets traced his brow and stained the corners of his eyes, blooming like a gorgeous, poisonous mandora flower against his refined features. The dark, cinnabar red elongated the corners of his eyes, making his silent smile appear eerie and terrifying.

The black-clad men crouched low, eyeing the seemingly frail and exhausted man with caution. The leader, seeing the scene grow increasingly chaotic and drawing more onlookers, lost his patience and gave a few orders to his men. During this lull, Pei Muci undid his belt, elegantly wrapped it around his palm, and gripped his sword once more.

The bamboo cage atop the porridge stall swayed, and the sharp blade glinted with a bone-chilling light under the candlelight. The attackers no longer charged in a straight line, but spread out, stalking him like a wolf pack. Pei Muci stood composed in his spot. Once the footsteps behind him had completely faded, his blade flickered, and he met them head-on.

In the distance, flashes of light flickered on the city wall. Whistling arrows cut through the air, streaking past him to strike the first attacker between the eyes, piercing his skull. An Qi was obedient; he knew to wait until the Princess had left before ordering the archers to fire.

***

Qingwu had broken into a light sweat, her legs aching, by the time she finally stood before the gate of the Thousand-Household Office.

Though this place was never particularly lively, it was now unnervingly quiet. She tucked the Princess's token back into her robes and knocked on the door. The heavy wooden door emitted a dull thud, but there was no response from within. Qingwu grabbed the door ring and knocked twice more with force. The old, weathered threshold felt like an invisible trap, waiting for her to stumble into it. An unsettling silence spread along with the night, and a sense of unease washed over her.

Under normal circumstances, given her temperament, Qingwu would have been extremely cautious. But now... even though she knew she could no longer see them, she turned her head, as if she could still make out the fierce clash of steel. The indifferent voice echoed in her ears: "Do not look back." Amidst the rain of blades and swords, Pei Muci’s whisper remained hauntingly clear.

She swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat, gathered her courage, pressed against the door gap, took a long breath, and pushed. Simultaneously, she quickly lifted her silk shawl to cover her nose and mouth.

A pungent, suffocating stench mixed with dust rushed toward her. The sight before her forced Qingwu to retreat several steps, nearly collapsing to the ground.

Courtyards, corridors, walkways... Everywhere she looked, there was nothing but fresh, bright blood and translucent brain matter. Most of the men in the Thousand-Household Office lay silent in the courtyard, each with a neat red line across their necks. Over a hundred bodies were piled together, reaching the height of a grown man. Blood from the severed limbs at the top flowed down onto the faces of those beneath, blurring their features in a sticky, viscous mess.

Inadvertently, she spotted a man directly across from her; his head hung behind his neck, twisted into a grotesque, hanging-man position. Some scattered limbs were still attached by sinews, twitching and spasming from time to time. Qingwu trembled as she looked at this true "wall of bodies." Clenching her lips and holding her breath, she stepped into the courtyard.

But as she drew closer and saw their faces, the overwhelming nausea began to fade, and she gradually steadied herself. The path of using these guards to capture the culprits was blocked. Now, alone, her only option was to save Pei Muci first.

Just then, a high-pitched whinny echoed from the back courtyard, pulling Qingwu back to reality. She rushed to the stables, grabbing a longbow and quiver from the training grounds on her way, quickly strapping them to a horse before vaulting into the saddle. Without time to adjust the stirrups, Qingwu leaned down to stroke the brown horse's mane. Fortunately, the horse was well-trained from years of service in the office; it blew a soft snort and pawed the ground. She dug her heels into its flanks, and the horse reared up, let out a long cry, and charged over the stable fence toward the porridge stall.

The dust kicked up by their speed dispersed the cool night breeze, and a thick, heavy mist permeated the air. *Almost there... I can make it in time.* Qingwu gripped the reins tightly, her heart rising and falling with the rhythm of the horse.

***

The deep blue sky was devoid of stars and clouds. The hibiscus trees lining the street swayed in the wind like ghosts arrayed in the darkness, their mouths agape, waiting to reap souls.

Swords are blind. After a few curious onlookers were accidentally wounded, the swarming crowd scattered instantly, taking detours to avoid the fray. Under the pale moonlight, the houses along the long street bolted their doors, and the lamps were extinguished one by one. The black-clad men had split off a group to head to the city wall, determined to wipe out the reinforcements who had been firing arrows at them on Pei Muci’s behalf. This showed just how desperate the mastermind was to see him dead.

Without the archers' support, the tide turned, and Pei Muci was once again at a disadvantage. A moment of carelessness left a gruesome gash on his side, and his already injured right leg suffered even more. He parried a thrusting sword, but the sharp blade-force shaved off a lock of his hair. His moon-white robes were shredded, his wide sleeves stained with layers of blood—it was impossible to tell whose it was.

Pei Muci mechanically decapitated the man in front of him; the lock of hair was caught in the air currents, drifting slowly downward. The scattered wounds pinned him in place, unable to move, yet he suddenly felt as light as that fallen strand of hair.

In his mind, there was no longer any trace of that shameful, humiliating past; he no longer had to look over his shoulder while plotting his schemes. With An Qi there, his plans in the capital would proceed according to his arrangements. Whether he lived or died no longer seemed to matter. As he thought this, his movements grew increasingly sluggish.

Back at the Princess’s residence, he had wanted to end his own life to escape those daily nightmares, but he had never expected that Qingwu’s interference would allow him to taste the joy of licking blood from a blade once more.

The night was so dark, the road so difficult to traverse; he wondered where that delicate little Princess had fled and if she had been frightened. Perhaps Pei Muci himself did not realize that when he thought of Qingwu, a trace of moving tenderness bloomed upon his pale, haggard face.

The men circling him saw that he remained standing without any intention of attacking, and fearing a trap, only one or two ventured to probe him with their swords. Pei Muci was so exhausted he could barely stand; shooting pains radiated from his legs and abdomen. He thrust his sword into the ground and knelt on one knee. Blood soaked the bindings on his palms and dripped from his fingertips; he had no strength left to fight back.

The leader of the black-clad men seemed wary of him; even though Pei Muci was at his end, the man kept a distance of several meters, fearing a violent counterattack. Pei Muci leaned on his sword for support. The scene before him began to blur; in the dim light, every attacker seemed to bear the same face—a face he had dreamed of tearing apart.

Pei Muci lowered his eyelids with an air of indifference, a weary smile appearing on his face.

He wanted to be free.

Pei Muci heard himself say, calmly: *Forget it, let it end here.*

He felt as if he had been thrown into a bottomless ocean, and as he relaxed his body, he began to sink deeper and deeper.

From the distance came the sound of splashing hooves, and in his stupor, someone seemed to be calling his name. The heart-wrenching cry pulled his consciousness back, and his dark eyes were clouded with thick confusion and bewilderment.

*Who would come to save him at a time like this?*

Qingwu saw two black-clad men approaching Pei Muci with狰狞 (ferocious) expressions. Calling his name, she drew her bow and notched an arrow, drawing their attention to herself. The whistling wind rushed past her ears, stealing half of her voice. To her shock, Pei Muci did not rise to counterattack; instead, he slightly spread his hands, the sword hilt dangling loosely from his fingers, exposing all his weaknesses.

She desperately wrapped the reins around her wrists and shouted again. The three syllables, laced with sobbing, cracked in her throat, leaving a metallic taste of blood.

"Pei Muci—!"

The hoarse cry was like a beam of light, piercing the cold seawater to shine upon the man kneeling on the ground. Pei Muci turned, his dark, hollow eyes filled with blankness, yet he subconsciously sought out that light.

The girl’s hair, pinned back, had fallen into disarray, and her brocade dress fluttered wildly with the movement of the horse. She gripped the reins tightly to steady herself, leaning her slender waist flush against the horse’s body, and stretched out her other hand.

To reach him.

In a flash, relying almost entirely on instinct, Pei Muci thrust back the men lunging toward him, their melodic screams rising and falling. He mechanically grabbed Qingwu’s arm, stepped into the dangling stirrup, and swung himself up behind her.

Qingwu felt a weight press against her back, heavy as lead. Her heart skipped a beat, and she reached back to find his hand, which was wrapped in his belt, guiding it to rest upon her waist.

Pei Muci heard the girl release a long, relieved sigh. He curled the corners of his lips in a soft, weary smile. "It is you, Your Highness."

Fearing he had no strength left to sit upright, Qingwu kept his hand clasped firmly to her waist, using this physical contact to gauge his state, and called his name again.

"Pei Muci?"

The hand around her waist tightened. He responded faintly, "Mm."

Qingwu straightened her back to provide him with support, not daring to let her spirits flag. The two of them, on one horse, sped away like a shooting star.

The black-clad men, most of whom were already at their limit, were frightened by the arrows Qingwu had fired. The power behind those shots clearly required a heavy bow. They had expected Pei Muci’s reinforcements to be a powerful warrior, not a fair-skinned, delicate girl.

As the sound of hooves faded into the dust, they stood where they were, making no move to pursue. The leader sheathed his long blade and ordered his men, "Tell the General: the Second Young Master has escaped."