Chapter 12: No desire to erase past grievances, only a hope that your heart understands this time.
“Perhaps I should first gouge out those unruly eyes of yours and soak them in wine?”
The Empress’s voice was light and airy, yet like a poisoned hook, it instantly seized Zhao Yi’s soul.
He was done for. This woman wasn’t joking, was she?
His survival instinct overwhelmed all reckless thoughts in an instant.
With a “plop,” Zhao Yi slid off the chair and knelt on the ground once again, his movements so fluid and practiced that they were awe-inspiring.
He clasped his hands together sharply, raised them above his head, and howled toward the Empress like a cuckoo bird crying blood.
“Injustice! Your Majesty!”
“My loyalty to you, to Heaven and Earth, is sincere and unwavering!”
“How dare I show you the slightest disrespect? It wasn’t lust, but reverence! Worship! I was simply overwhelmed by your divine presence, as if a celestial being had descended!”
As he wailed, he clasped his hands and frantically kowtowed, his head striking the ground with a thumping sound.
“I was just praying for you in my heart! Begging the Buddha to bless our Great Zhou, to grant Your Majesty eternal life and immortal blessings!”
His performance was seamless, tragic, and magnificent.
Yet, in the act of this devout prostration, a small ornament hidden beneath the Empress’s robe was revealed by her forward posture.
It was a tiny Buddha statue carved from smooth white jade.
The Empress was about to continue with more venomous words to tease this scoundrel, relishing his panicked state.
But upon seeing Zhao Yi's solemn, prayerful posture and then glancing down at the jade Buddha resting against her chest, she was utterly stunned.
Who am I?
Where am I?
What was I just doing?
Was he... wasn’t that look in his eyes directed at me? No, it was at my Buddha?
He wasn’t lecherous but... praying to my Buddha?
An absurd yet strangely plausible thought instantly seized the Empress’s mind.
Indeed.
This scoundrel, though devious, was truly loyal.
He had just presented the “Edict of Mercy,” a ruthless, devastating scheme, and must have been anxious and uneasy, feeling it was against Heaven's will—thus instinctively praying to the Buddha for peace?
So...
Had I misunderstood this scoundrel?
Her expression turned peculiarly strange.
That breathtaking face first showed shock, then doubt, and finally a trace of embarrassment she hadn’t realized.
Looking down at Zhao Yi, still kneeling with a face full of “grievance” and “devotion,” she suddenly felt as if a punch had landed on cotton—utterly powerless.
Forget it, forget it.
Let it be a misunderstanding.
Further quarrels would only make me seem petty.
Clearing her throat, the Empress regained her cold imperial composure and waved a hand at Zhao Yi with a hint of impatience.
“Enough.”
“Be gone.”
To Zhao Yi, those two words were a blessing.
He immediately sprang up, his face no longer tragic but adorned with the utmost ingratiating smile.
“Understood!”
“Thank you for Your Majesty’s great mercy! I take my leave!”
With that, he turned and ran as if chased by ghosts.
...
Only after jogging out of the palace did Zhao Yi exhale a long breath of stale air.
He touched his eyeballs—they were still there.
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He then checked his groin—also intact.
Being alive felt wonderful.
He climbed into his carriage and rocked along toward the Zhao residence.
Yet halfway there, as the carriage passed a fork in the road, Zhao Yi’s heart stirred, and he suddenly halted the horses.
“Wait.”
He lifted the curtain and gazed silently at the road leading south of the city.
The Duke of Anguo’s Mansion.
The very origin of all his troubles since his transmigration.
Some matters could only be settled.
“Go to the Duke of Anguo’s Mansion.”
The carriage turned around and soon stopped before the imposing mansion gates.
After reporting his arrival, Zhao Yi was ushered inside.
It was the same solemn study.
Duke Chu Feng sat behind the desk, carefully wiping a short blade with a piece of coarse cloth.
He heard footsteps but did not lift his head.
“What do you want?”
His voice remained cold, but the murderous aura from before had greatly diminished.
Zhao Yi knew his achievements at Yanmen Pass had reached the old man’s ears.
“Duke,” Zhao Yi bowed deeply.
“I come to request a favor.”
Chu Feng stopped wiping and finally raised his eyes to glance at him.
“Speak.”
Zhao Yi took a deep breath, his eyes free of previous calculation or coldness, filled only with sincerity and openness.
“I wish... to see Miss Yanran.”
Silence fell in the study.
Chu Feng’s clouded eyes fixed on Zhao Yi as if scrutinizing the truth of his words.
After a long pause, the weathered face revealed a complex, unspeakable expression.
He sighed deeply, a sound filled with helplessness, reluctance, and a hint of resignation.
“Very well, very well.”
“Time and fate.”
He stood and sheathed the short blade.
“Wait here.”
“I will ask Yanran. If she refuses to see you, you leave immediately.”
“Thank you, Duke.”
Chu Feng turned and went to the rear hall.
Zhao Yi stood still, inexplicably nervous.
Time ticked by.
Just as Zhao Yi feared rejection, Chu Feng reappeared at the door.
“Follow me.”
Zhao Yi’s heart sank heavily.
He followed Chu Feng through a corridor to an elegant backyard.
Within the garden, rockeries and flowing water intertwined with lush greenery.
From afar, Zhao Yi spotted a small pavilion nestled on the waterside.
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Beneath the pavilion, a woman dressed in a pale blue long gown leaned against the railing, quietly watching the fish swimming in the pond.
Even her back alone was breathtakingly beautiful.
Her posture, her aura, like an immortal in a painting.
She was Chu Yanran.
Zhao Yi’s steps involuntarily halted.
He inhaled deeply, striving to steady his racing heart, then stepped forward alone toward the pavilion.
Hearing footsteps, Chu Yanran slowly turned.
Their eyes met.
Zhao Yi’s heart jolted.
She was beautiful.
Even more so than he had imagined, by threefold.
Willow-shaped brows, almond eyes, a delicate nose and cherry lips, skin whiter than snow.
Yet those beautiful eyes held an unshakable chill and distance, mixed with concealed humiliation and sorrow.
Zhao Yi’s heart ached in response.
Though the original owner was a scoundrel, the debt ultimately fell on him.
But...
The situation was what it was—she was his woman.
Suppressing all emotions, Zhao Yi approached the pavilion and stood opposite her by the stone table.
Neither spoke; the atmosphere was awkward.
His gaze fell on the writing implements laid on the table.
He walked over, picked up a brush, dipped it in ink.
Chu Yanran frowned, unsure of his intent.
Without explanation, Zhao Yi spread a blank sheet of rice paper and began to write vigorously, the brush dancing like a dragon and snake.
Soon, a poem appeared on the paper.
He put down the brush and gently pushed the sheet toward Chu Yanran.
Her eyes fixed on the still-wet characters.
“The old dreams of Luoyang have turned to ashes,
Snow blankets the stele beyond Yanmen Pass.
I seek not to dissolve past grievances,
Only wish your heart knows this time anew.”
The poem was brief, yet thunder seemed hidden between the lines.
Chu Yanran’s pupils constricted sharply.
Old dreams of Luoyang turned to ashes? Snow-covered stele beyond Yanmen Pass?
Was he... saying that the former him had died? Died amid the northern snow?
Impossible!
She stared at the last two lines.
“I seek not to dissolve past grievances, only wish your heart knows this time anew.”
He did not ask for her forgiveness, only that she recognize “this time’s” him?
Could such a poem have been penned by the worthless, bullying wastrel he once was?
Zhao Yi watched her shocked expression and spoke softly but clearly.
“The old scoundrel named Zhao Yi died on a rainy night.”