Read Novel Full CHAPTER 36 PART1
CHAPTER 36 PART1
Gu Feichi waved his hand silently, and Ying Qi swiftly withdrew once again.
Inside the private booth, only Gu Feichi remained, along with the unresolved game of Go before him.
He toyed with a black Go stone, letting it roll nimbly from his thumb to the space between his ring and pinky fingers, then back again—his fingers moving with agile, practiced ease.
“Miss Xiao… is she the one who gave you the medicine?”
A warm and refined male voice broke the stillness of the room, calm and gentle as flowing water.
A hidden door at the side of the booth opened, and a young man in white Daoist robes stepped out. He appeared to be in his early twenties, with long, ink-dark brows and eyes like bright stars. His nose was straight, lips gracefully shaped, and his entire presence radiated a serene elegance—like moonlight drifting through the clouds.
The loose white robes accentuated his tall, slender frame, making him seem as delicate as a bamboo stalk. His complexion and lips were both tinged with pallor, his appearance faintly frail, as though still recovering from serious injury.
Xie Wuduan sat across from Gu Feichi with a faint smile, the chessboard between them.
The red-clad and white-clad youths, their temperaments so vastly different, were like two paintings of contrasting styles displayed side by side.
“Cousin,” Gu Feichi looked up and addressed him softly. At the same time, he placed the black stone between his index and middle fingers and dropped it precisely onto a spot on the pearwood board.
Xie Wuduan picked up a white stone from the bowl.
A gentle spring-like smile lingered at his lips, his movements composed and elegant, yet a faint, lingering air of melancholy seemed to trail around him like mist.
Cough, cough…
The moment he placed the stone, Xie Wuduan lowered his head in a fit of coughing, his slender shoulders trembling slightly.
Only after several coughs did he finally catch his breath. He tucked away the plain white handkerchief, his cheeks pale as snow.
Gu Feichi personally poured a cup of warm tea and handed it to him, his gaze heavy as he watched Xie Wuduan’s pale, slender fingers accept the cup.
The last time they had met was the year before last. Back then, he still remembered Xie Wuduan as spirited and radiant, full of vigor—a man who seemed to carry thunder and lightning in every step.
Back in the capital, all the young noble sons treated him with fear and reverence, avoiding him as if he were a plague. And yet, every one of them admired Xie Wuduan. They praised his unmatched brilliance, calling him a once-in-a-generation genius.
At that time, Xie Wuduan had been like the blazing sun in the sky—dazzling, radiant, impossible to look away from.
But now, that sun had been struck down from the heavens.
Steam curled softly from the tea, forming a hazy veil that drifted upward in wisps. Though Xie Wuduan sat just across the table, he seemed impossibly far away.
He took a light sip of the hot tea, steadying his breath before asking slowly, “A’Chi… what are your thoughts on the imperial marriage decree?”
His voice was hoarse, roughened by illness, adding to the sense of frailty that clung to him.
Gu Feichi poured himself a cup as well. The hand holding the white porcelain teapot tightened unconsciously—so much so that his knuckles turned white. His eyes stung faintly at the corners.
Just last month, when he’d rescued Xie Wuduan from the prison cart, the man had already changed beyond recognition—his body was covered in wounds, his strength all but gone, reduced to skin and bone.
It was plain to see the inhuman torment he had suffered at the hands of the imperial guards on the long journey from the northern border back to the capital.
Even after nearly a month of recovery, though his wounds had mostly healed, Xie Wuduan remained alarmingly thin. A physician had quietly told Gu Feichi in private: Xie Wuduan was essentially a cripple now. He would never again ride into battle with blade in hand. His constitution had weakened drastically. Even a minor cold this time had left him bedridden for over two weeks—and he still hadn’t fully recovered.
To think that this was the same Xie Wuduan who, in the past, could go three days and nights without food or sleep in pursuit of the enemy, who wore nothing but a thin robe through the harshest winters, and hadn’t caught so much as a cold since the age of seven or eight.
Gu Feichi set down the teapot. His expression turned cold. He curled his knuckles and tapped the table twice, the sound crisp and steady. Slowly, he said, “As long as my marriage remains unsettled, His Majesty will not rest.”
As early as last year, the emperor had already made several attempts to arrange a marriage for him. It was only when his father suddenly fell seriously ill—and the emperor likely thought the Duke of Wei’s household was about to go into mourning—that the pressure briefly subsided.
As long as he and his father remained alive, they would always be thorns in the Emperor’s side—nails he could not extract, flesh he could not ignore. The Emperor wanted to use the Duke of Wei’s power, but the very existence of the family made him restless.
Gu Feichi reached into the Go bowl and scooped up a handful of stones, then slowly released them. The pieces clinked against one another with a crisp, jade-like sound.
His deep, unreadable gaze drifted toward a window facing west, eyes fixed on the distant direction of Qinghui Garden. Scenes from earlier at the Danbi Pavilion surfaced in his mind, one after another.
After a moment of silence, he spoke again, voice low and calm: “Dragging a young girl into this mess… it’s not right.”
As he spoke, Gu Feichi finally placed another black stone on the board.
Xie Wuduan casually picked up a white stone, rubbing it lightly between his fingers. His gaze was gentle as he looked at his younger cousin.
“Why not ask the young lady herself?”
“I’ve heard that Second Miss Xiao has had a difficult time at the Marquis of Wu’an’s estate. From what I see, she’s as bright as she is clever—sharp and resourceful. Perhaps she, too, has no wish to remain trapped in the inner residence.”
His words carried layered meaning, his eyes crinkling softly at the corners with a subtle smile.
He hadn’t forgotten what happened that day in the Sutra Library at Xilin Temple. Gravely injured, he had been hiding in the rafters and witnessed everything. In that moment of life and death—when Gu Feichi had pressed a blade to her neck—the girl had shown no fear, standing tall and unyielding.
It was the first time Xie Wuduan had seen Gu Feichi—mature beyond his years, always composed—momentarily thrown off by a seemingly delicate young woman whose few sharp words had disarmed him.
Even then, a curious thought had stirred in him: that Second Miss Xiao and his cousin were cut from the same cloth. Their temperaments and ways were vastly different, yet inexplicably, they seemed… well-matched.
And beyond that—
Xie Wuduan’s lips curved faintly.
He could tell. His cold-hearted cousin… had fallen for her.
If it had been the past, Gu Feichi would have had no trouble finding a way to make the Emperor give up the idea.
But now, instead of saying “I don’t want to,” he had merely said, “It’s not appropriate.”
It wasn’t himself he was protecting anymore—it was her. He was afraid of dragging Xiao Yanfei into these turbulent waters.
Xie Wuduan lowered his gaze, concealing the flash of insight in his eyes. Then, he continued calmly, “A’Chi, whether it’s right or wrong, it’s not something you should carry alone. If the girl herself is unwilling, then this matter ought to be dealt with swiftly and decisively. The longer it drags on, the worse it’ll be for her.”
The world had always been particularly harsh toward women—especially in Xiao Yanfei’s case, caught in the crossfire within the Marquis of Wu’an’s household. For her, a single misstep could prove disastrous.
As they spoke, Xie Wuduan placed a white stone on the board, a gentle smile still on his lips. His movement was soft and graceful, but the nature of his play was entirely at odds with his demeanor—like a drawn sword, cold and sharp, brimming with killing intent.
For the sake of victory, he would not hesitate to slash through every obstacle in his path.
Gu Feichi let out a faint “mm,” his gaze lowered to the tense battlefield unfolding across the board. Behind the mask, his eyes darkened, growing more distant and complex.
Xie Wuduan’s playing style had changed.
The sudden, catastrophic downfall of the Xie family hadn’t just destroyed its name—it had also transformed Xie Wuduan, inside and out. What he had endured had left permanent marks not only on his body, but deep within his spirit.
Gu Feichi felt a dull ache in his chest, but his face betrayed nothing. He spoke again, voice steady: “Two days ago, Censor Li’s memorial accusing Liu Huan was once again suppressed by His Majesty.”
“Yesterday, while leaving the capital to visit a friend, Censor Li was pushed into a river. He nearly drowned.”
As he spoke, Gu Feichi reached out and pushed open a nearby window, glancing down at the scene below.
Next door was a traditional teahouse and opera courtyard, with pavilions and flowing water—charming and refined.
Inside a waterside pavilion sat a middle-aged man with a bulging belly, dressed in a richly embroidered sapphire-blue robe. He had one heavily made-up opera performer clinging to each arm, a lecherous smile on his face as he enjoyed their company.
Xie Wuduan’s eyes turned cold, sharp as ice, his gaze locking onto the man’s back with a deadly stillness.
“With the Emperor shielding them, the Liu family has grown bolder by the day,” he said with a faint, mocking tone.
Xie Wuduan had once called the emperor “Uncle”—he was the son of Princess Zhaoming. But after the entire Xie clan had been executed by imperial decree, any remnants of affection had long since turned to dust. Now, when he mentioned the emperor, it was only with scorn.
“Lord Gu, you don’t love me,” the red-robed performer on Liu Huan’s left side pouted sweetly, her voice soft and coquettish. “You only care about her.”
“You little minx, getting jealous already?” Liu Huan burst into laughter and kissed her heavily powdered cheek. “This lord loves you both!”
Their frivolous laughter echoed from the pavilion—shrieks, playful whining, and the splash of fruit tossed into the pond, all blending into a lively, vulgar symphony.
Xie Wuduan didn’t look away. He stared unblinking at Liu Huan and murmured,
“To know your enemy stands right before you… and yet be powerless to act.”
“As long as the Liu family doesn’t make a move, we have no grounds to strike.” His voice was low, hoarse, and laced with frustration.
He could easily kill Liu Huan—cut him down in a heartbeat. But killing one man wouldn’t be enough to cleanse the injustice that had been done to the Xie family.
His grandfather, his father, his uncles, his cousins…
They had shed blood and laid down their lives for Great Jing. They had won countless battles, safeguarded the borders, and earned honor through bravery.
They did not deserve to die under the weight of false charges.
They did not deserve to be condemned by the world.
And they most certainly did not deserve to be reviled for all eternity.
Xie Wuduan’s eyes reddened in an instant.
They burned with a fire as fierce as a blaze—like they’d been stained with blood. A storm of hatred surged in their depths.
Gu Feichi silently placed a hand on his shoulder.
Xie Wuduan picked up a nearby bow. His expression remained calm, but the warmth in his eyes had been replaced by a piercing edge.
“If the Liu family refuses to act,” he said slowly, voice gentle but resolute, “then let’s make them move.”
He began to nock an arrow with deliberate ease, drawing the bowstring back, his aim fixed on Liu Huan outside the window.
But halfway through pulling the string, he faltered.
His smile remained, yet a bitter sorrow crept into his expression.
Once, he could easily draw a three-stone war bow. Now, he couldn’t even manage a simple one-stone bow.
Without a word, Gu Feichi took the bow and arrow from his hand.
In one fluid motion, he nocked, drew, and loosed.
No hesitation. No wasted breath.
Swish!
The arrow shot from the window like a meteor streaking across the sky, slicing through the air with a sharp, whistling sound.
It struck true—splintering the wine cup in Liu Huan’s hand.
The porcelain shattered with a loud crack. Wine splashed across his clothes, and shards of the broken cup scattered everywhere.
One shard sliced across his cheek, leaving a thin, bloody gash nearly an inch long.
The arrow quivered where it embedded itself in the wooden pillar nearby, its fletching still trembling.
“Ahhh!”
The two heavily made-up opera singers shrieked in terror, their painted faces twisted in panic.
They clutched each other and dropped to the ground, trembling uncontrollably.
“Assassin! There’s an assassin!” one of the attendants cried out in alarm.
Chaos broke out instantly.
The two performers covered their heads and huddled on the floor, too afraid to move.
“Lord Gu, are you hurt?!” another servant rushed to Liu Huan’s side, helping his shaking master into a nearby chair and glancing warily toward the direction the arrow had come from.
But Liu Huan didn’t hear him. He paid no attention to the wound on his face.
He just stared blankly at the arrow embedded in the pillar.
His lips moved in a whisper.
“An eagle-feathered arrow.”
The brown fletching glinted gold under the sunlight.
“That’s… a Xie family eagle-feathered arrow,” Lord Cheng’en said, his voice trembling slightly.
The finest eagle-feathered arrows were crafted from golden eagle plumage—used exclusively by the Xie family.
One of the attendants blanched and hurried over to pull the arrow from the pillar. But it had embedded too deeply. After a great deal of effort, he finally managed to wrench it free and presented it to Lord Cheng’en.
Lord Cheng’en snatched it and inspected the shaft urgently.
At the end of the arrow, he saw a single carved character: “Xie.”
Which meant—Xie Wuduan was in the capital.
The realization sent a violent shiver through Lord Cheng’en. Even his lips began to tremble.
He could no longer sit still. His body leaned awkwardly in the chair, knocking over a nearby fruit platter. Oranges and plums rolled across the floor in every direction.
Xie Wuduan had been ambushed while being escorted to the capital.
Though Lord Cheng’en had been uneasy at the time, he knew how severe Xie Wuduan’s injuries were. His wounds were infected, his tendons severed—there was almost no chance of survival. Even if, by some miracle, he had clung to life, he should’ve been a cripple by now.
Over the past month, the imperial guards had found no trace of him.
Xie Wuduan hadn’t made a single move.
Lord Cheng’en had gradually relaxed, convinced that he must have died.
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