Chapter Ninety-Six: When the Hibiscus Blooms Fade (Conclusion)
As dawn broke and the world began anew, a new day had started.
On April 26th, Wei Zhuang returned to Jinling on horseback; there were still four days left before the wedding.
On the evening of April 28th, he arrived at Fenghuangji.
The almanac ominously marked this day as inauspicious for all matters.
Wei Zhuang handed his horse over to the inn’s young attendant and dashed into the inn like a man possessed. The innkeeper told him that Miss Ye had gone up the mountain early that morning and had yet to return.
He ran frantically back toward the mountain, pedestrians scattering to avoid his reckless charge.
In the mountain air of April, the flowering of the trumpet creeper blazed with vibrant life, lush and unrestrained, as if it bore no sorrowful name, no prophecy of grief.
Wei Zhuang found Ye Qianran sitting dazed beneath an apricot blossom tree, her white silk robe stained with deep crimson blood.
The sight was harrowing.
She sat motionless, like a soulless corpse, clutching the blood-stained figure of Zhuge Liuyun in her arms. Her left hand gripped something tightly, her whole body trembling.
Moving further inside the house, A Chun and Grandpa lay sprawled in pools of blood.
The scene was drenched in shocking red.
Blood seeped everywhere, a gruesome tableau.
A profound sense of foreboding surged in Wei Zhuang’s heart. He thought of Yan Qing...
Anxiously, he called out to her, “Qianran,” his voice hoarse and barely recognizable as his own.
Ye Qianran did not look up; it was as if she neither saw nor heard him.
“Qianran...”
Only then did she slowly come back to herself, raising her head to glance at him, but her gaze was unfocused, vacant.
A wave of sorrow suddenly welled up in Wei Zhuang’s heart. He swallowed hard, his dry throat aching, and reached out to touch her robe. “Qianran...”
Her hand found an iron sword beside her, and with all her strength, she supported herself to stand. The blood on the blade had dried into mottled spots, like rust tinged with scarlet.
She held the sword with great difficulty and took two steps back, creating distance between them. Only then did Wei Zhuang realize what she clutched in her left hand.
A Jinyiwei token!
It was indeed Yan Qing’s doing.
It all happened in an instant.
The sword was already pointed at his chest.
Ye Qianran remembered that the messenger Wei Zhuang had sent bore such a token.
Why?
Her face was pale to the point of translucence, her trembling hand still gripping the sword. She looked at Wei Zhuang coldly, a chill as deep and enduring as a millennium’s ice.
Wei Zhuang stared at her in disbelief.
She asked, “Why?”
He fixed his gaze on her, as if he could not believe she was truly asking him.
It was not a question but an accusation.
A demand to know why he wanted to kill him.
“Why?” she repeated mechanically, numb, as if she would keep asking endlessly if no answer came.
Wei Zhuang looked at her with a strange expression, his thin lips parting to utter three words, “I didn’t.”
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