WNST - 112

Chapter 112: Light and Shadow

“Ding Xu is dead?!” 

Wanyan Pu received the news that very night. 

She paced anxiously in her room, sensing that something murky was unfolding behind the scenes. 

Earlier during the banquet, while she had stepped out to change clothes, it was Ding Xu who had passed her crucial information about Shen Zhizhong’s conditions, allowing her to confidently propose that figure. 

But not only had the outcome deviated from her expectations, Ding Xu had ended up dead shortly afterward… 

These two events occurring back-to-back were undoubtedly connected. As Wanyan Pu meticulously replayed the actions of everyone at the banquet, it dawned on her—perhaps the intent to negotiate had been genuine, but the content of the negotiation itself was a setup. 

Among the ministers accompanying Shen Zhizhong, there was someone he highly suspected. Shen knew the crux of the negotiation lay in getting Wanyan Pu to reveal the amount of the annual tribute. But Wanyan Pu didn’t know Jinling’s financial capabilities; she needed a mole to uncover the truth. Shen Zhizhong had given everyone different numbers. When Wanyan Pu had left and then returned, the figure she proposed was essentially a test to identify the mole! 

What a cunning old fox! 

Realizing the intricacies of the scheme, Wanyan Pu understood she had been outmaneuvered. But far from being enraged, she found it intriguing. She wasn’t one to act impulsively, and losing a small gambit wasn’t cause for alarm… After all, the mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind. What she aimed to win was a much larger game. 

Every exchange with her opponent was a thrilling lesson. 

Meanwhile, Shen Zhizhong was at the Bingzhu Bureau’s headquarters, listening to the guards’ report of the scene. Hearing Ding Xu’s final words sent a chill down his spine. 

This was a secret he had guarded fiercely, one he hadn’t even shared with Song Muchuan. In all of Jinling, he was the only person who knew. He had never communicated with Xie Queshan, leaving no written evidence behind. How had Ding Xu discovered this? But then again, anything that had ever existed inevitably left traces. He couldn’t pinpoint where he had gone wrong… 

Lost in thought, Xie Zhu stormed in, his face a mixture of grief and fury. Before even crossing the threshold, he unleashed a torrent of accusations. 

“Lord Shen, how could you have kept this from me—that my own nephew is the deepest-embedded mole in the Bingzhu Bureau! I’ve wronged him all these years! How am I supposed to face him now?!”

Xie Zhu rarely lost his composure like this; his official hat was even askew from running, and he only now hurriedly adjusted it, too flustered to observe proper etiquette. 

Faced with such a question, even someone as eloquent as Shen Zhizhong was momentarily at a loss for words. 

Seeing Shen sitting there silently, Xie Zhu grew even more agitated, slapping the table with both hands: “Good heavens, Shen Zhizhong, how can you still sit there so calmly! Tell me, what are we going to do? Ding Xu knew about it, and Wanyan Pu might already know too! You must think of a way to rescue Chao’en—otherwise, as his teacher, you’re the first person who’s failed him!” 

“Lord Xie, please calm down,” Shen Zhizhong said, though inwardly he was just as anxious. Xie Zhu’s words filled him with guilt and regret. His mind was a tangled mess, but he couldn’t afford to lose his footing now. He could only try to pacify Xie Zhu: “Acting rashly to save him would only stir up greater turmoil in Lido Prefecture and risk alerting our enemies, making the situation even worse. We need to carefully deliberate on this matter.” 

These words amounted to an implicit acknowledgment of Xie Queshan’s identity. 

Shen Zhizhong furrowed his brow in deep thought, while Xie Zhu could only sit down and let out a long sigh, though he still couldn’t suppress the overwhelming emotions raging within him. Reaching for a cup of tea nearby, he nearly spat it out—it was scalding hot. His disheveled state was truly pitiful. 

Only now did Xie Zhu realize how much he had lost his composure since entering the room. After composing himself and sitting silently for a moment, he sighed deeply: “I once harshly berated him… I wonder if Chao’en will hold a grudge against me.” 

After pondering for a long while, Shen Zhizhong’s mind remained blank, unable to devise any strategy. Hearing Xie Zhu’s words, a trace of regret flickered across his face: “The person he should resent most is me. I pushed him into the fire…” 

Two men, their combined ages nearing a hundred, sat here sighing in unison. 

“Ding Xu is dead, and we’ll never know how he discovered that information. For now, our priority is to keep a close watch on Wanyan Pu and cut off her communication with Lido Prefecture. As long as Prince Ling’an safely enters Jinling, Chao’en’s mission will be complete, and he can return safely.” 

“You’ve sent others to Lido Prefecture, haven’t you? Send them a message and have them assess Chao’en’s situation. Ensure his safety at all costs.” 

Song Muchuan had temporarily severed contact with Jinling, leaving both sides isolated like islands. Ironically, this isolation maximized the security of operations in Lido Prefecture. 

Ding Xu was indeed a traitor, but he had never explicitly admitted to being Daman. It was possible he wasn’t. If the Qi people could plant one spy in Jinling, they could plant a second. Shen Zhizhong remained cautious, unwilling to lower his guard simply because Ding Xu was dead, thinking everything was resolved. 

This message, however, he couldn’t send. 

But Shen Zhizhong couldn’t explain the full situation to Xie Zhu either, so he could only agree for now. 

---

As long as Wanyan Pu hadn’t yet relayed her findings back to Lido Prefecture, Xie Queshan remained confined to the ship, awaiting judgment. 

However, ever since Nan Yi arrived, the meals delivered to him daily had visibly improved in quality. 

Zhang Yuehui clearly knew that Nan Yi had come aboard the ship, but what could he do? He could only grit his teeth and endure, serving her as best he could. 

Xie Queshan said nothing about it. He had grown increasingly silent, fearing that if he started talking, he’d become uncontrollably immersed in conversation. 

Nan Yi had grown accustomed to it. Every day after waking up, she would chatter incessantly, recounting stories from her childhood to adulthood, rambling about anything and everything until her throat was dry, regardless of whether he responded. 

Every word she spoke reached his ears, but he pretended to be both deaf and mute. 

She wanted to save him, while he wanted to push her away. In their gentlest ways, they quietly resisted each other, trying to sway the other’s decision. 

The waves of the river rose and fell clearly beneath their feet. It felt as though they had drifted far, yet they were unmistakably still in the same place. 

The bow of the ship faced west, and every day they could see the sunset over the river with perfect clarity. 

After the grand, dazzling display came an all-consuming darkness. 

Xie Queshan rarely spoke to her. After sunset, even the weary birds returned to their nests, and everything became extremely quiet and desolate. 

Nan Yi began to dread the arrival of night. She hated this feeling of being swallowed by the darkness, powerless to resist. Each day, as she watched the sun sink behind the western mountains, she couldn’t shake the illusion that it wouldn’t rise again the next day. Yet she stubbornly fought against this feeling every day. 

But Xie Queshan loved the night. 

Only when wrapped in the covers could he, under the dimness of night, hold her tightly without saying a word after she insistently nestled into his arms. 

In these moments of silence, he didn’t have to think or pretend. 

“Xie Queshan, I don’t want to watch the sunset anymore. Can we watch the sunrise tomorrow instead?” she suddenly murmured softly in his arms. 

She was trying to change this life where she only saw dusk every day. 

He pretended to be asleep and didn’t respond. 

The next day, Xie Queshan was shaken awake. 

Blinking groggily, he glanced over to see Nan Yi leaning over his bed, her eyes sparkling as if she had seen something extraordinary. 

“Xie Queshan, the sun is about to rise!” 

Xie Queshan closed his eyes again, replying as if in a daze: “So what?” 

“Hurry up! Didn’t we agree to watch the sunrise?” 

Still drowsy, Xie Queshan turned over. When had they agreed to that? Vaguely, he wondered what time it was—he could barely open his eyes. There was no sundial or water clock here, so how had she managed to wake up precisely at sunrise? 

Had she stayed up all night waiting? 

At this thought, he became slightly more alert. 

A faint glow of dawn had already seeped through the window lattice, like shimmering golden dust. But the ship was facing away from the east, so the sunrise couldn’t be seen from inside the cabin. 

Xie Queshan stopped resisting and allowed Nan Yi to pull him up. 

“Come on!” 

Seeing that he was up, she joyfully ran outside first, afraid of missing even a moment of the sunrise, her footsteps squeaking on the wooden floor. 

Xie Queshan, caught up in her enthusiasm, couldn’t help but let a faint smile tug at the corners of his lips.

“Do you see it? The sun is about to rise above the river!” 

Nan Yi stood by the ship’s railing, pointing at the view behind them. 

Xie Queshan’s steps halted. He was just one step away from stepping out of the room, but the iron chain binding him had already stretched to its limit. 

One more step outward, and he would have been able to see the sunrise. But that single step—he simply couldn’t take it. 

It felt like an ominous sign. The dawn that had just broken now seemed to retreat instantly back into the darkness. The flicker of hope in his heart was extinguished once again. He knew it—everything in this world conspired to stop him from taking that step. This damned chain, this damned cage, this damned sun. 

He raised his eyes to look at Nan Yi. His gaze was dark and devoid of life. 

The smile on Nan Yi’s face froze. She had spent the entire night half-awake, waiting for the sunrise, yet she had completely overlooked this one crucial detail. 

She felt as though she had done something wrong. 

She wanted to pull him out of the darkness, but she had forgotten that he needed to cross an abyss. What if… he couldn’t make it across? 

They stared at each other through the doorway—one bathed in light, the other shrouded in shadow. It felt like an omen, a fate written in the stars. 

Suddenly, Nan Yi thought of something, and her eyes lit up again. “Wait here for a moment!” 

She dashed back into the room, grabbed the bronze mirror from the dressing table, and hurried back to the railing. 

Like a gust of wind, she whizzed past Xie Queshan and then returned just as quickly. By the time Xie Queshan came to his senses, the girl had already nimbly climbed onto the railing, leaning half her body out. She held the bronze mirror high, carefully adjusting its angle. 

A dazzling ray of morning sunlight refracted through the mirror into Xie Queshan’s eyes. Instinctively, he squinted, and then he saw half of the rising sun reflected in the mirror. 

The other half of the sun rested on her face. 

Xie Queshan felt an inexplicable sense of awe. 

The ship seemed to crack open, the river flowed backward, defying everything. And yet, there was someone in this world who was determined to bring light into his eyes, no matter what it took.