Chapter 69: Unfulfilled Wishes, Unsettled Matters

At the edge of consciousness, Chu Xiu awoke in a haze, overcome by an unbearable exhaustion. Her chest felt hollow, as if a piece of flesh had been torn away. She wanted to speak, but a faint sting in her throat reminded her—she had attempted to end her life with a hairpin, only to fail and collapse in a fit of blood.

Ah! If she could still feel pain, then surely she had not died. Chu Xiu struggled to sit up, but a rustling sound beside her interrupted: “You’re awake?” It was Danxin.

A shadow fell across her, dimming much of the light. Chu Xiu looked up to see Danxin backlit, her eyes swollen and face haggard, a look of utter desolation haunting her features.

“I…” Chu Xiu forced her voice through the pain in her throat, raw and hoarse, “How long have I slept?”

“A full day and night.” Danxin’s voice trembled, whether from grief or exhaustion, sounding nothing like her usual lively self.

Chu Xiu pressed her forehead, sitting upright, and pieced together the memories of the punishment hall. She glanced at Danxin and asked, “Has the Marquis… spared my life?”

She was no fool. The wound on her throat, where the hairpin had pierced, was carefully medicated and bandaged. The room itself matched the one she had occupied while serving Yun Ci. Moreover, Danxin was here tending to her—if not for Yun Ci’s permission, how could a suspected “murderer” of the Marquis’s wife be treated so kindly?

Chu Xiu fixed her gaze on Danxin, waiting for an answer. But Danxin suddenly turned away, choking back sobs. “Don’t ask… Young Lord Shen will take you away.”

Shen Yu is taking her away? Why so suddenly? Chu Xiu recalled that last time she had pleaded for him to take her, Shen Yu claimed the time was not right. Yet now…

Of course—it must be that Xia Yannan’s death had placed her in mortal danger, and Shen Yu could no longer bear to watch. With that thought, Chu Xiu felt a little comforted. Shen Yu, for all his philandering, at least remembered old bonds; he believed in her.

Not like someone else—hard as iron, utterly devoid of trust.

Thinking of Yun Ci, Chu Xiu felt a sharp pang in her heart. She closed her eyes for a moment before asking, “Where is the Young Lord?”

A brief silence filled the room. Danxin did not answer directly, only forced back her tears and said, “I’ll fetch him for you.” With that, she hurried out as if fleeing.

Danxin refused to shed tears in Chu Xiu’s presence. Her master’s last instructions had been clear: she was to care for Chu Xiu and see her safely leave the Yun residence with Young Lord Shen.

From the moment Danxin replied to the moment she left the room, Chu Xiu remained with eyes closed, leaning against the bed, her heart bitter and resentful, oblivious to anything amiss. She was leaving—finally, after a year in this place, she would go.

Within the Marquis’s manor, just a single year had sufficed to bury a lifetime’s worth of love and hate. From this day forward, her heart would be an empty city.

A burning ache returned to her throat. Chu Xiu frowned and lifted a hand to her neck. As her fingers brushed her skin, the door creaked open and light footsteps approached.

Danxin must have brought Shen Yu to her. Chu Xiu turned slightly, lifting the bed curtain to peer out. She glimpsed the edge of a white dress, cold and lonely beneath the candlelight.

“Qian Yun?” Chu Xiu saw the pain and fury on her face, hands clasped behind her back, and was puzzled. Had Yun Ci sent her? “Why are you… here?”

Even as Chu Xiu spoke, Qian Yun circled the half-drawn screen to stand at the bedside. Head bowed, she gazed at the frail woman before her, hatred surging in her heart. This face, so beautiful; this woman, hiding her origins—a courtesan who had brought about her master’s death! She had killed the dignified Marquis Li Xin, and with him, the man Qian Yun had loved from afar.

Such thoughts made Qian Yun clench her eyes shut. When she opened them, a tear streaked down her cheek. Staring at the haggard Chu Xiu, she gave a bitter smile. “Chu Xiu, I’m here to send you to the Marquis.”

Which Marquis? Yun Ci, or Young Lord Shen? Chu Xiu parted her lips, unable to answer before Qian Yun suddenly bent over her, hands emerging from behind her back.

“Die! You deserve death more than anyone!” In a swift, merciless motion, the dagger in Qian Yun’s hand plunged into flesh. The sickening sound of blade piercing body rang out.

Chu Xiu saw a flash of cold steel and instinctively flinched, but the blade struck her upper left shoulder, just above her heart. The searing pain, combined with Qian Yun’s anguished cries, left her dazed and on the verge of losing consciousness.

“It’s all your fault! You killed the Marquis! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” Blood gushed from Chu Xiu’s shoulder, splattering across Qian Yun’s face, but she seemed oblivious, her wails growing more frenzied. She wrenched the dagger free, crazed, intending to stab again.

What was she saying? Chu Xiu, numb with pain, almost forgot to dodge. Only those words—“You killed the Marquis!”—echoed in her mind. She looked up at Qian Yun, shrouded in shadow, and in that instant, understood the depth of her grief and rage.

As women, Chu Xiu could tell: Qian Yun was not feigning.

The dagger fell once more, and this time, Chu Xiu’s body was rigid. She stared blankly at the blade about to descend; her mind went utterly blank.

But the dagger never reached her. Suddenly, a burning red candle was hurled across the room, striking Qian Yun’s hand and knocking the weapon away. The candle and dagger fell together onto the bed, the cold metal clipping the flame.

In a flash, the flickering orange-blue light died, plunging the room into shadows.

“Chu Xiu!” Danxin’s worried voice cried out, followed by Shen Yu’s arrival. In the darkness, Qian Yun screamed again, clearly subdued by Shen Yu, but still weeping bitterly. “I’ll kill her! I’ll avenge the Marquis! I’ll—”

But her words were muffled as Danxin clamped a hand over her mouth, reducing her to struggling grunts. Shen Yu dragged the deranged Qian Yun to the door, calling over his shoulder, “Go check on Han Chu!”

Danxin understood at once, quickly striking a match to relight the candle, and hurried over to inspect Chu Xiu’s wound. “Where are you hurt?” she asked, but gasped in horror before the words were fully out. Chu Xiu’s entire left shoulder was soaked in blood, scarlet and shocking.

Danxin’s hands fumbled as she rushed to fetch bandages, but Chu Xiu gripped her sleeve tightly. “Danxin, what happened to the Marquis?”

Danxin met Chu Xiu’s searching eyes, took a deep breath, and answered, “He was devastated by the Lady’s death, and now… he’s recuperating.”

But Chu Xiu was not convinced. Clutching her wound, she rasped, “Then why did Qian Yun say I killed him?”

Danxin’s heart skipped a beat. Her mind was a jumble, but she managed to explain, “The Lady’s death was too much for Qian Yun—she’s not herself anymore. And you know she’s never liked you…”

As she spoke, Danxin couldn’t help but weep at the state of the Yun household. The Lady dead with her unborn child, the master dying for love, the Dowager exhausted, Qian Yun driven mad—disaster upon disaster. As a mere maid, all she could do was carry out her master’s last wishes.

She remembered that day in the punishment hall—Chu Xiu slashing her throat, Yun Ci racing down the steps, heedless of his injured leg, to catch her. In that moment, Danxin finally understood where his heart lay. Both of them were coughing blood, but Yun Ci held Chu Xiu tightly, gently wiping the blood from her lips.

Danxin would never forget his command: “Danxin, do not leave her side for a moment.”

So she remained, even missing the chance to see her master one last time.

Her strength had always been her cheerful disposition, her ability to laugh off troubles. But now, faced with this ethereal beauty, she could neither smile nor speak.

Her once sharp tongue was silenced by grief—for her master’s death, and for these star-crossed lovers.

Lost in thought, Danxin nearly wept again, but stifled her tears and changed the subject. “How is your wound?”

Chu Xiu lowered her eyes, pressing the wound, and after a moment of silence replied, “It’s fine.” Her voice was still hoarse, betraying nothing, nor did she press further.

Danxin finally relaxed. “I’ll check on Qian Yun, then bring the Young Lord to tend your wounds.”

Chu Xiu simply nodded and said nothing more, enduring the pain in her shoulder until she drifted into a troubled sleep.

She woke from pain—a stinging, throbbing ache in her left shoulder, and the warmth of a gentle hand applying medicine to the wound. Forcing her eyes open, she saw Shen Yu as expected. Her nightclothes had been torn away at the shoulder, exposing pale skin.

“Young Lord…” Chu Xiu tried to shrink away, but Shen Yu held her still.

“Qian Yun isn’t herself; don’t take it to heart,” Shen Yu said as he dressed her wound. “Tomorrow I’ll take you away—we’ll leave Fangzhou.”

Leave? The faint scent of medicine on her shoulder made Chu Xiu strangely dazed. Was it not in Zhuihong Court, once, that her left shoulder had been wounded? And who had prescribed the ointment then, instructing Danxin to apply it each day?

But last time, the hairpin had pierced her left rear shoulder; now, it was the front. Front and back, as if in silent answer, through flesh and bone, telling the story of love and hatred over the past year.

The tenderness in Zhuihong Court, the warmth when she first arrived at the Yun residence—how had it all turned to cruelty and misunderstanding? The love-poison, the miscarriage, Xia Yannan’s death, her own false accusation, the blood she had coughed up…

And finally, a complete and bitter severance from Yun Ci.

Suddenly, a thought flashed through Chu Xiu’s mind. Qian Yun’s frenzied cry echoed in her ears, shattering the haze cast by heartbreak and betrayal, and her mind cleared with a jolt.

She stared at Shen Yu in terror, clutching the hand that was tending her wound. “I want to see him one last time.”

Shen Yu froze, his voice low. “He won’t see you.”

“Is that so?” Chu Xiu looked up, enduring the pain in her throat and shoulder. “Then I won’t leave.”

“Han Chu!” Shen Yu frowned at once.

Chu Xiu’s clear eyes dimmed. Her voice trembled. “Tell me—is he… dead?”

Somehow, they had always understood each other, even without the love-poison. She sensed something was wrong. Shen Yu opened his mouth, but seeing her pale, bloodless face, he steeled himself. “No.”

“He is dead!” As Shen Yu denied it, the Dowager appeared at the door, dressed in mourning white, unsupported this time. She looked at Chu Xiu over the low screen, her face expressionless, her voice cold as ice: “My son, Yun Ci, died saving you.”

Shen Yu turned in shock, finally noticing the thin slip of paper clutched in the Dowager’s folded hands.