Chapter Seventy-One: Let Us Marry

When Xuanqing returned to Cloud Garden, the autumn rain was already falling in a gentle drizzle. His robes were dampened by the fine rain, and his wet black hair seemed even darker in the candlelight. After changing into clean clothes, he parted the gauzy curtains. The Flower Mistress brought ginger soup, and Weizhuang asked, “How is Miss Ye?” He was always gentle with the Flower Mistress, as if she were not his servant but his kin.

The Flower Mistress smiled kindly, her eyes full of affection. “Miss Ye only ate a little supper. I urged her repeatedly, but perhaps her mood is poor. Do you know the reason, Young Master?”

Weizhuang smiled, “I’ll go see her.”

The Flower Mistress called from behind, “Young Master, drink the ginger soup before you go.” He was already climbing the stairs. “Keep it for yourself, Flower Mistress.”

Weizhuang stood under the shadow of flowers in front of the small building, holding an umbrella, looking up at the flickering candlelight within. In the drifting autumn rain, it seemed so lonely and desolate, just like her mood now—her beloved was not by her side, and she must feel isolated and helpless. Standing on the pebble path, a faint pain radiated from beneath his feet. He smiled; the darkness in his eyes flashed and faded. When he looked up again, his face wore its usual expression, a slight, cool smile at his lips. He was always adept at hiding emotions.

His footsteps echoed on the wooden staircase, the creaking amplified infinitely by the lonely rainy night, each sound striking at the heart. The chrysanthemum cluster before the building had been battered by autumn rain, petals drifting into the earth. He folded his umbrella, lightly knocked on the door—so softly it was nearly inaudible—yet someone opened it. Juanbi nodded, “Mr. Wei.”

Weizhuang lowered his voice, “Where is your mistress?”

Juanbi gestured inside, “She said she would wait for you, but just now fell asleep.” Weizhuang glanced inside; Ye Qianran was sleeping on her arms at the table by the window. He waved Juanbi away; she quietly closed the door and left.

He had not yet sat down when she suddenly awoke—not groggy, not in a daze, but as if startled from some deep place. She stood up, “You’re back.”

Weizhuang was startled by her abruptness. It reminded him of childhood, when hunger made him wake suddenly in the night, as if he could trust nothing in the world.

He nodded, looking sideways at her, “Just returned.”

Ye Qianran stepped forward, gripping his sleeve, “What did they say?”

Weizhuang gazed at her, “As long as Master Ye agrees to follow Prince Six, he can ensure the safety of the Ye family.”

Ye Qianran exhaled in relief, sitting down slowly. “Thank you, Mr. Wei.”

Weizhuang smiled faintly—a half-real, half-false smile. “You are about to marry me. Your matters are naturally mine. The reason you agreed is because I can help you in this. If I cannot, then my promise to marry you is meaningless.”

Ye Qianran propped her head with her hand, “You may say whatever you wish, as long as you can rescue my father and brother, I care for nothing else.”

But as fate would have it, disaster always comes at the worst moment. What happened next, no one could have foreseen.

The following day, Zhang Jing was accused of colluding with Prince Six and charged with treason. When soldiers surrounded the Minister of Justice’s residence, Zhang Jing had already fled, and the emperor was furious.

When the scouts brought news, Yan Qing and Weizhuang were playing chess beneath the bodhi tree before the meditation hall. After a night of rain, the air was filled with the fresh scent of earth. Weizhuang, holding a black piece, paused slightly upon hearing the news.

He continued playing chess.

Yan Qing laughed quietly, dropping a white piece. “Truly, man proposes, heaven disposes.”

The autumn wind swept up fallen sycamore leaves, spinning gracefully to the ground. The chrysanthemums before the meditation hall bloomed fiercely. In the distance, a flock of egrets cried as they soared into the deep blue sky. Weizhuang said nothing.

Upon returning, Weizhuang stood beneath the flowers, looking up at the eaves gilded by the setting sun. The wind chimes before the second-floor gallery rang with clear, delightful notes. Ye Qianran stood beneath the gallery, gazing at the distant sunset, her expression forlorn. After a long while, he ascended the stairs.

Ye Qianran’s gaze was fixed on him—keen and burning. Weizhuang knew what she expected, but he could not give her that joy.

Fate is always capricious, first bestowing boundless hope, and then, when your heart is full of happiness, striking you down, making you bleed until you are forced awake.

The wind chimes’ sweet sounds echoed in his ears, more like a devil’s urging. Ye Qianran wavered unsteadily, reaching for the railing, her slender fingers clutching it. Her face was so pale it was almost translucent. “In ten days, execution at the Meridian Gate,” she repeated, the setting sun like a stone charged with infinite power, crashing down mercilessly. Cruel beyond measure.

The world is unpredictable; heaven’s will is like a knife—every cut fatal.

She collapsed into his arms.

Why was she the only one to escape? She would rather not have, rather face fate’s relentless cruelty with her family than endure it alone.

When she woke, it was deep night. In the dim candlelight, Weizhuang sat at her bedside, quietly watching her. She woke and, seeing him, said the first words, “Let us marry.”

It was not a declaration of passionate love, not a promise to devote her life to him, nor a vow carved deep by love. It was calm, as placid as an unruffled lake, gentle as water.

Let us marry.

Weizhuang gazed at her, a glimmer passing through his eyes, gone in a heartbeat. He did not speak.

She looked back at him, calmly, without avoidance or discomfort, as if she were intimately familiar with sorrow. She said, “After I become your wife, I will devote myself to you, bear your children, wash your clothes, cook for you, think only of you, look only at you. Will you marry me?” Her words were soft and calm, yet a single tear slid clearly from the corner of her eye. She turned her face away; she would not look at him anymore.

Weizhuang frowned, leaned over, and wrapped her in his arms. Ye Qianran bit her lip, clutching his waist tightly, silent tears falling. She had nothing left but him—he was all she could hold on to.

He gently patted her back. “If this is what you want, then let us marry. I won’t demand that your eyes and heart hold only me; that would weary you and weary me. As long as you are willing to stay by my side.”

Ye Qianran held his waist, her eyes wide open. Outside, the moonlight shone, eternal and bright.

The wedding was simple—not because there was no time to prepare, but because both wished for simplicity. There were no decorations, only two blazing dragon and phoenix candles and their wedding robes to mark the occasion.

Under the red bridal veil, Ye Qianran tightly clasped her hands. At last, she was to marry him. Fate is fickle; yesterday she had struggled desperately to escape him, today she held his hand, unwilling to let go.

Often, fate is not so kind. You cannot refuse when you don’t want it, nor turn back when you regret. Many who choose to turn back find the other has already gone.

Ye Qianran was fortunate; this man had always been there. The two of them were entwined, separating and reuniting again and again. Many times, he seemed to leave, yet always quietly returned. She had never truly lost him.

She was fortunate—and unfortunate. Fortunate that whenever she needed to, she could grasp his hand. Unfortunate, because never having lost him, it was easy to overlook his importance.

Weizhuang looked at her quietly. The ornate dark patterns embroidered on his scarlet wedding robe, his handsome face glowing in the candlelight. He asked, “Qianran, now is still not too late to regret.”

Ye Qianran quietly held his right hand.

There was no need for words; that gesture was enough to show her resolve. Weizhuang breathed out imperceptibly. He spoke so confidently, but in truth, he feared her regret.

At this moment, Ye Qianran knew clearly that now, his hands were all she could hold.

On a brisk autumn evening, the Flower Mistress watched the couple with loving eyes. “First, bow to heaven and earth; second, bow to the elders; third, bow to each other—now to the bridal chamber.” The ancient, lingering tune sang the most beautiful wedding rites of the mortal world. Weizhuang held her hand. The sunset slanted across the gallery; the red veil shimmered with golden flecks. The brilliant wedding robe made the sunset pale. Ye Qianran’s hand remained in his palm; she felt safe, as if only he could soothe the day’s relentless anxiety.

Weizhuang helped her to the bed, reached out to lift the red veil. Whether from the flickering candles or the intense color of her wedding dress, Ye Qianran’s snow-white face was tinged with a faint blush. She lowered her head; from this angle, the curve of her face was exceedingly gentle, like a lotus swaying alone in the river. He had crossed the waters just to witness this moment’s beauty.

She was his wife—Weizhuang’s wife.

His fingers traced down her face, but when she looked up, he suddenly checked himself. Her gaze was gentle and tender, but too deliberate. She married him only because he could offer the greatest help, because he was the only one she could rely on, because she hoped to seize the last chance to save her loved ones—not because she loved him. She did not love him.

He knew she feared losing him—more precisely, losing the last hope to save the Ye family, so she compromised.

He had long known.

She did not love him; he could endure that. But he could not endure her forced smiles, her acting. He did not want such feelings, nor did he want her to give him false affection.

He never liked to force others, but for her, even if forced, he wanted to have her—not only her body, but her heart.

Weizhuang smoothed her hair at her temples. “You’re tired. Rest early.”

Ye Qianran instinctively grabbed his sleeve. “Where are you going?”

Weizhuang looked down at her, a profound meaning flickering in his face. “I know you truly wish to marry me, but I also know you’re not yet ready to be my wife. As for saving your father, I will do all I can. Rest assured.”

He spoke directly to the heart of her concerns.

Outside, the cottonwoods slowly turned deep red in the autumn wind, still bleak. Weizhuang descended from the small building. Compared to red, he was always better suited to black. Such dazzling red only made him seem more dangerous, and this danger was not what Ye Qianran liked. She preferred his calm steadiness. Danger and wildness bring risk and unpredictability, but steadiness comforts the heart, giving enough security.