WNST - 143

Chapter 143: Washing Away the Lead Powder

In the blink of an eye, Zhang Yuehui seized Wanyan Puruo, pulling her close. In the next instant, he deftly twisted her hand holding the hairpin, pressing it against her own neck.

The situation reversed instantly—Zhang Yuehui now held Wanyan Puruo hostage.

The banquet erupted into chaos. Guards swarmed around, their bows drawn, arrows pointed directly at Zhang Yuehui.

But he remained unfazed, chuckling lightly, maintaining his lazy, unruffled demeanor. Slowly, he peeled off the mask covering his face, even finding the leisure to jest: “This thing is suffocating—nice to see you again, Princess.”

“Zhang Yuehui—” Wanyan Puruo’s voice carried genuine hatred. “You dare show your face here.”

“I figured that whenever you think of me, you must grind your teeth in rage and toss in your sleep. So no matter how far, I had to come visit Your Highness. Though…” He smirked. “Your eyes are too sharp… it ruins the fun.”

“Release me, and I might consider sparing your life.”

“Tsk—given the current situation, shouldn’t I be the one saying that?” Zhang Yuehui replied flippantly.

“Fine. Then tell me, what do you want?”

Zhang Yuehui narrowed his eyes, pausing briefly.

What did he want? He didn’t have much time—but hopefully, it would be enough.

Meanwhile, Nan Yi and Qiao Yinzhi, who had run into patrolling guards, were still trapped in the rear courtyard.

At the last possible moment, Nan Yi suddenly shoved Qiao Yinzhi hard, pretending to escort her as a prisoner.

“This subordinate has apprehended a suspicious maid and is bringing her to the princess for questioning.”

The lead guard eyed the two suspiciously. There were many female guards in the princess’s estate, and he didn’t recognize every face. He intended to interrogate further when a commotion erupted from the front.

“Something’s happened! Trouble at the banquet! Reinforcements needed!”

Hearing this, the guards abandoned their attention on Nan Yi and Qiao Yinzhi, throwing a quick command to “keep an eye on her” before rushing toward the main hall.

Once they were gone, Qiao Yinzhi led Nan Yi to an inconspicuous side door. Nan Yi was still tense, wondering what had happened at the banquet and whether it would affect her plans. But Qiao Yinzhi seemed completely unsurprised. She peeked outside first, confirming no one was around, then gestured for Nan Yi to follow.

“It’s safe once you’re out of here.”

Nan Yi stepped through the door but hesitated, turning back to ask, “How did you know I’d come? Is someone else helping me?”

Qiao Yinzhi’s gaze flickered. Without answering, she pushed Nan Yi firmly outside and quickly shut the door behind her.

The tension at the banquet showed no signs of easing.

Zhang Yuehui lazily drawled, “Your relentless pursuit of me has made me unhappy, Princess. I’m not one to endure quietly—I always repay debts in kind.”

Yet his actions betrayed no gentleness. With a slight pressure, the hairpin pierced Wanyan Puruo’s skin, drawing a bead of blood.

“If I die here today, every Han within ten miles will join me in death—you didn’t come alone, did you? Do you dare strike?” Wanyan Puruo, showing no fear, demanded harshly.

Zhang Yuehui smiled wickedly, like a demon. “What does it matter to me?”

As he prepared to exert more force, he spotted an arrow slicing through the air toward him from a distant rooftop. He knew he wouldn’t succeed—he hadn’t planned to—but in this moment of mutual destruction, he felt exhilarated.

He had come alone. His sole purpose was to assassinate Wanyan Puruo; he had no companions.

The arrow struck true, embedding itself in his shoulder blade in an instant.

Simultaneously, Wanyan Puruo violently elbowed him in the ribs. Zhang Yuehui was forced to release her, the hairpin leaving only a shallow cut on her neck before clattering to the ground.

Fully armed guards surged forward, surrounding him with blades from all directions.

“How should we deal with him, Your Highness?”

Wanyan Puruo pressed a hand to the bleeding wound on her neck, looking down disdainfully at Zhang Yuehui, who was pinned and immobile. She expected him to panic, but even now, facing certain doom, he still wore that irreverent grin.

Wanyan Puruo faltered. She had always assumed pursuing him would be a prolonged chase. Today’s confrontation had come too suddenly—she hadn’t seriously considered what to do if she caught him.

Kill him? That would be too easy. It wouldn’t satisfy her thirst for vengeance.

Just as Wanyan Puruo remained silent, someone rushed in to report: “Your Highness, there’s been a thief in the advisory chambers. Lord Xie’s room shows signs of being broken into.”

Xie Zhu followed behind the servant, his face ashen.

Wanyan Puruo sensed trouble. “Master Xie, what’s missing?”

Xie Zhu stepped forward hesitantly and whispered, “The memorial written by Shen Zhizhong regarding Xie Queshan’s identity.”

“Didn’t I tell you to destroy it long ago?!” Wanyan Puruo snapped.

Xie Zhu had no answer. He had harbored a sliver of selfishness. Human hearts, after all, were made of flesh. Though he and Xie Queshan had divergent paths and could not see eye to eye, they were still uncle and nephew, once mentor and protégé. In truth, Xie Zhu admired Xie Queshan but also feared him, making the decision to betray him agonizing. This memorial was the sole remaining proof of their bond, so he couldn’t bring himself to destroy it—after all, the man was already dead. Never did he imagine that even fleeing to Bianjing wouldn’t keep him safe. Now, regret gnawed at him, but it was too late.

Wanyan Puruo grew frantic. This was no small matter—Xie Queshan’s true identity must never be revealed! The defeat at Lidu Prefecture had already made her and Han Xianwang’s positions in the royal court precarious. If the truth about Xie Queshan being a spy were to come out, their failure to recognize his deception would cement their blame for the catastrophic loss. She would face severe punishment, and other nobles, who had long coveted the power she held, would pounce like starving tigers to divide her authority.

The memorial must not reach Dayu hands.

Wanyan Puruo ordered curtly: “Seal the city gates immediately and set up checkpoints. No one leaves or enters without official authorization.”

Only now did she realize Zhang Yuehui’s earlier antics had been a diversion to draw attention away from the real objective—buying time for whoever stole the memorial. No wonder he wasn’t panicking; they already had what they wanted.

A surge of rage coursed through her. His repeated betrayals infuriated her to the core. She wanted to grind his bones to dust to quench her anger.

“Boss Zhang, your game is over. From here on, I call the shots. Neither you nor your accomplices will escape.”

Her gaze turned icy, devoid of mercy. She commanded coldly: “Send him to the Eighth Prince’s residence to apologize.”

The Eighth Prince, tied up and stuffed somewhere by Zhang Yuehui, was accustomed to a life of luxury and had never endured such treatment. Known for his violent temper and vengeful nature, he would surely torture Zhang Yuehui mercilessly once he got his hands on him.

After issuing these orders, Wanyan Puruo was escorted inside to tend to her wound.

The banquet hall lay in disarray, guests hastily departing. No one paid further attention to Xie Zhu, who stood there somewhat dazed, overwhelmed by a sudden sense of exile and dependence. Then, almost by chance, his eyes fell upon a painting displayed on an easel.

It was likely a birthday gift from some high-ranking official to the princess—a supposed original work by Master Wang. Clearly, much thought had gone into it.

Drawn inexplicably, Xie Zhu approached the painting. Without any clear reason, it felt strangely familiar.

Suddenly, his gaze landed on a butterfly hidden within the landscape. His entire body jolted.

—No, it couldn’t be! This was Qiujie’s painting!

How could Qiujie’s painting appear in Bianjing? Could the thief who stole the memorial be her?

Confused thoughts swirled in his mind. Instinctively, he reached out to touch the butterfly. He had already sensed something amiss—the entire painting deliberately concealed Qiujie’s style, meticulously imitating Master Wang’s. Why, then, did she suddenly reveal herself in this butterfly? Did she know he would see it?

But he underestimated Qiujie’s resolve. The moment his finger touched the butterfly, Xie Zhu felt a sharp sting. Tiny wooden splinters embedded in the painting had pierced his skin, drawing a bead of blood.

This seemingly insignificant yet precise trap sent Xie Zhu stumbling backward in shock. Qiujie hadn’t appeared, but through this piercing pain, he felt the weight of his daughter’s hatred.

One step, two steps, three steps, four steps, five steps.

After taking just five steps, Xie Zhu collapsed violently, foaming at the mouth and convulsing uncontrollably.

The butterfly had been painted with the venomous sap of the arrow poison tree. Once the toxin entered the bloodstream through a wound, it raced to the heart, ensuring death within five steps.

In the fleeting moments before consciousness slipped away, Xie Zhu didn’t have time to reflect on his life. Only one overwhelming thought consumed him—the flower he had nurtured with his own hands had finally transformed into a blade, piercing his heart without hesitation.

He betrayed his kin, and in turn, his kin betrayed him.

His relentless pursuit of perfection ended in ruin, leaving his life incomplete.

---

As soon as Nan Yi left the princess’s estate, she rushed back to their hideout to retrieve Qiujie and evacuate.

But Qiujie had fallen ill overnight, too weak to move. Her complexion was ghostly pale, her breath faint as she lay in bed.

“My constitution has always been frail… perhaps it’s due to the change in environment… Sister-in-law, you must leave first. The city will soon be under lockdown—you need to get the memorial out. Don’t worry about me…”

Nan Yi hesitated. Delaying any longer might mean missing their chance to escape Bianjing, but how could she abandon Qiujie in enemy territory after bringing her here?

“I didn’t show my face at the banquet, so no one will recognize me… It’s safe here. Once I recover, you can come back for me. That way, nothing will be delayed.”

Nan Yi reasoned that Qiujie’s sudden collapse was likely due to exhaustion from their journey and several sleepless nights spent painting. Qiujie’s suggestion made sense. Before setting out, Song Muchuan had warned them that the return journey would be perilous. He planned to wait for her in Yanlu City, eighty miles from Bianjing, under the guise of a prisoner exchange. All she needed to do was deliver the memorial swiftly and return for Qiujie.

She entrusted Qiujie’s care to their comrades from Bingzhu Division and mounted a horse, racing toward the city gates.

After seeing Nan Yi off, Qiujie finally closed her eyes, tears silently streaming down her face.

Her father was dead, and she quietly awaited her own death in a foreign land. 

Was this enough? Enough to atone for her sins? To the countless lives lost. 

Nan Yi spurred her horse forward, unaware of Xie Zhu’s death or that Qiujie’s sudden illness stemmed from poisoning. Though she hadn’t directly touched the toxin, the act of preparing the pigments and embedding the poison into the painting—a trap only Xie Zhu could detect—had exposed her to its effects over time. 

When Nan Yi reached the city gates, they were already sealed shut. 

A sudden downpour drenched Bianjing, but the oppressive heat remained unrelieved. Raindrops cascaded from the eaves, dripping steadily—tick, tick, like an omnipresent countdown. Something vast and ominous, hidden behind the passage of time, was silently approaching. 

--- 

The sound of rain seemed to reach Zhang Yuehui’s ears—or perhaps it was just the water dripping from his hair, creating a fleeting illusion. 

The extravagant robes he had worn, once as flamboyant as a peacock’s plumage, were now torn to shreds. His swollen and bruised face bore no resemblance to its former elegance; he was merely a pitiful mass of flesh hanging upside down from a beam. 

The Eighth Prince, having vented his rage, strode away triumphantly. 

The torture chamber fell eerily silent, and Zhang Yuehui finally managed to catch a shallow breath. The relentless torment had paused, if only briefly. 

When he first arrived, Zhang Yuehui believed he could detach himself, maintaining his usual air of nonchalance. 

For a fleeting moment, he found it absurd—how could someone as arrogant as him end up as a prisoner? But pain was an inescapable, primal sensation. Whips lashed against his skin, clubs battered his back, and searing irons branded his flesh, burning through muscle and bone. Pain did not discriminate based on wealth or power—it treated all equally. 

Like any fragile life, he screamed and convulsed. Inevitably, amidst this physical agony, memories surfaced—countless moments when he had callously crushed others’ lives from a position of superiority. 

Perhaps this was his retribution. 

Finally, someone entered. Zhang Yuehui forced his swollen eyes open. The prolonged suspension had caused blood to pool in his head, and his grotesquely swollen right eye blurred his vision. 

“Bring him down.” 

He recognized Wanyan Puruo’s voice. 

They lowered him, allowing him to lean against the wall. This position felt infinitely better, and he felt a flicker of gratitude for the brief relief. 

Soon, the attendants left, leaving only two people in the vast chamber. 

Wanyan Puruo gazed at Zhang Yuehui, his body covered in blood. Torturing him brought her no joy, but what mattered was that everything was once again under her control. She had firmly ensnared this cunning man. 

“Zhang Yuehui, you’re truly impressive. You stole something right under my nose and killed Master Xie without a trace.” 

So Xie Zhu was dead. 

This was news to Zhang Yuehui. 

“But the city is sealed. Not even a fly can escape. Your accomplice will soon join you.” 

Zhang Yuehui let her words drift in one ear and out the other. He thought, You underestimate her too much. She’ll find a way out. 

He believed it. 

Wanyan Puruo’s arrogance here only proved that they hadn’t caught anyone outside yet. 

His body relaxed. Nan Yi’s mission must have gone smoothly; she would surely succeed. The suffering he endured here would be worth it. 

Wanyan Puruo crouched beside him, her demeanor loose and smug, tinged with schadenfreude. She searched his face for a hint of remorse: “Zhang Yuehui, do you regret it?” 

To her surprise, he managed a twisted smile and countered, “If I do regret it… will you forgive me, Your Highness?” 

“I am a person of principle. Those who betray me must die.” 

“Then give me a swift end.” Zhang Yuehui closed his weary eyes. 

Wanyan Puruo reached out, gently stroking his cheek. “But you’re different… You know that, don’t you? I’ve always wanted you—body and soul. Yet you’re so untamable, it makes me reluctant to let go.” 

She spoke with brazen honesty. Matters of love and desire, to her, were simply tools for her own gratification—nothing to be coy about. 

This time, Zhang Yuehui genuinely laughed, though the movement tore at his wounds, distorting his expression. Meeting her gaze, he said flatly, “It’s disgusting.” 

Wanyan Puruo’s brow twitched. His defiance ignited her competitive streak. 

“Aren’t the things you’ve done just as vile? I’ll overlook your occasional patriotic sentiment as a temporary lapse. If you repent—if you say you despise your homeland, despise your people, that you’re nothing but a despicable coward, and swear loyalty solely to me—I’ll release you immediately.” 

She didn’t mean it. It was merely bait dangled by someone in power. Deep down, she craved his true submission; anything less wouldn’t quench her thirst for vengeance against his betrayal. 

Zhang Yuehui’s smile grew mocking. A fresh wave of blood rose in his throat, and he coughed violently, spitting it out before slowly speaking. 

“When I was in Shu… I spent most of my time in a temple… I asked the abbot… what is liberation…” His voice was barely a whisper, forcing Wanyan Puruo to lean closer to hear him. 

She listened intently, believing he might confess something heartfelt. 

A faint sense of pity stirred within her. Perhaps, deep down, she hoped for a different answer. Beneath all the layers of strategy and emotion, she had once harbored genuine feelings for him. 

“He said… after I listen to three thousand six hundred beats of the wooden fish… then I may contemplate the question… So I knelt before the prayer mat in the main hall… One beat, two beats, three beats… fifteen beats… forty beats…” 

His breath, tainted with the metallic tang of blood, brushed against her ear. She listened for a long time, incredulous that he was merely counting. He had completely disregarded her rare display of compassion. 

Fury surged through her, and she stepped back abruptly. 

“Guards!”

Servants soon filed into the room, one of them carrying a bowl of medicine, attempting to force-feed Zhang Yuehui. 

Zhang Yuehui knew exactly what it was. He clenched his jaw, refusing to drink, but they managed to force most of the concoction down his throat anyway. 

It wasn’t poison—it was a restorative tonic, meant to sustain his life so he could endure further torment. 

Summoning an unexpected burst of strength, he broke free from his restraints, grabbed the bowl, and smashed it on the ground. Picking up a shard of porcelain, he moved to slash his wrist. 

But Wanyan Puruo stomped down hard on his hand. 

“Can’t handle it anymore?” she asked, her expression cold and unyielding. 

“I won’t kill you. I’ll have you exiled to the northern desert as a laborer. Every slave there has their collarbones pierced with iron chains and is tethered to walls like dogs. During the day, you’ll be sent out into desolate wastelands to toil endlessly, breaking hard soil into fields. If you fail to meet expectations, you’ll face brutal punishments. There, no one will hear your cries for help. No one will know who you are or care about your glorious past. You’ve betrayed your homeland, and your homeland has abandoned you. Zhang Yuehui, you will live in the most wretched way possible.”