WNST - EXTRA (Final)

Extra – Moon Sets, Crows Cry, Frost Covers the Sky

Shu was a dream Zhang Yuehui had set out for many times but never reached. 

In truth, he had never left. He had been hiding in Lidu Prefecture all along. Though he shouldn’t have meddled, he couldn’t let go of the chaos to seek his own freedom. 

But he gave himself a reasonable excuse—he stayed behind for Nan Yi. 

Xie Queshan only knew how to charge ahead, showing no tenderness. He dragged people into fiery pits—a reckless, irresponsible man. But Zhang Yuehui was different. He was reliable, capable of cleaning up any mess, the ever-resourceful Boss Zhang. 

Hmph, that man irritated him no matter how he looked at him. He was inferior in every way. 

Yet when rumors swirled throughout the city, Zhang Yuehui still felt sorry for Xie Queshan. 

It took him many years to accept the rules of this world. What fairness was there in heavenly justice? Only petty ghosts ran rampant, the strong devouring the weak. 

So he abandoned righteousness first, becoming a lawless伥ghost. 

He pretended not to understand what those kind but foolish people were fighting for. 

Hadn’t he seen enough dynastic changes? What did propping up a collapsing dynasty have to do with him? The rivers and mountains weren’t his, nor was his homeland. He didn’t eat the ruler’s grain—why should he serve the ruler’s cause? 

But how could such people exist in this world? People condemned him with the cruelest words, yet he accepted them calmly. 

What hypocrisy. 

In his view, Xie Queshan simply couldn’t bear the slander and chose death to end it all, turning chaos into mourning tears. Even in death, he was cunning. 

Serves him right. Once Xie Queshan was dead, he’d take Nan Yi back for himself. 

Yet even as Zhang Yuehui maliciously speculated, he still pretended to rush back from Shu and sent a letter to Xie Queshan, asking if he wanted to escape. He wasn’t joking—he genuinely considered helping if Xie Queshan agreed. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he saved his life. 

But that despicable man rejected him once again, flaunting his nobility. Zhang Yuehui seethed with anger. 

So all the saintly deeds were left to him, making everyone else look pathetic in comparison. 

His hatred made him restless. 

He desperately wanted to disrupt this sanctimonious, self-righteous sacrifice—break him out of prison? Kidnap him? 

But ultimately, everything was for the sake of letting reinforcements into the city. If he acted, Lidu Prefecture would fall. The thought of watching the land shatter before his eyes was unbearable. 

Xie Queshan had dragged him into this quagmire of moral dilemmas. He couldn’t indulge his selfishness without consequences. 

However, on the eve of the execution, Song Muchuan found him. 

“Boss Zhang, please help me save him. No matter the cost, I will repay you.” 

Zhang Yuehui had always looked down on this rigid scholar. Curious, he listened to hear what plan the man had concocted. 

“The body inspection can’t be bypassed. We can only replace him after the inspection but before the execution. I can tamper with the horses, causing them to panic before the execution. During the commotion of switching horses, we’ll create chaos to distract the crowd. Meanwhile, we’ll substitute a corpse for Xie Queshan and smuggle him away. By then, the inspection will be over, and the execution will be brief—no one will notice the switch. However, the people I can mobilize are limited to Bingzhu Division and Yucheng Army. Too many participants would risk exposure and disaster.” 

Zhang Yuehui had assumed the scholar incapable of such treasonous acts. Yet here he was, presenting a meticulously planned scheme—full of deception and actions punishable by death.

Zhang Yuehui was silent for a long moment before raising his eyes to glance at Song Muchuan. “This is a crime of high treason.” 

“I’ll take the blame.” 

Song Muchuan had spent his entire life adhering to propriety, upholding righteousness and integrity. Even lying was a struggle for him. Yet all the rules he had followed, the doctrines that kept him from overstepping boundaries, the teachings that warned against standing near perilous walls—even the potential ruin of his reputation—none of it outweighed the importance of saving his dear friend’s life. 

Unexpectedly, Zhang Yuehui felt a strange tightness in his chest. This scholar had earned a rare flicker of respect from him. Turning away deliberately, Zhang spoke with feigned indifference: “I have conditions.” 

“I agree to all of them,” Song Muchuan responded without hesitation, eager to show his resolve. 

“After this is done, Xie Queshan belongs to me. You must treat him as though he’s dead. No one speaks of it—not even Nan Yi.” 

Song Muchuan was momentarily stunned. 

He wanted to ask why, but having already promised so readily, he feared any hint of regret would cause Zhang Yuehui to refuse him. His throat tightened, choking back the words. 

“You can ask for my help, but I’m no generous merchant. I don’t do things unless there’s something in it for me, let alone grant favors for free. Xie Queshan awake is too troublesome. I’ll keep him unconscious for a year or two, then feed him a pill to erase his memories. He’ll never see Nan Yi again.” 

Song Muchuan’s eyes welled up with tears. 

Zhang Yuehui tapped the table lightly, snapping Song Muchuan out of his daze, and adopted a carefree demeanor once more. “If you think this won’t work, that’s fine. I’ll step aside.” 

“I agree!” 

At this point, Zhang Yuehui was the only person Song Muchuan could turn to—the only one capable enough to collaborate with him and spirit Xie Queshan away from the execution grounds without detection. 

Without consulting Xie Queshan himself, Song Muchuan made the decision on his behalf. At this critical juncture, discussing romantic ideals felt superfluous. Survival was paramount; as long as Xie Queshan lived, any degree of dishonor was acceptable. 

“Master Song, you must keep your word. If not, I can always renege and kill him, then report you for high treason.” With these harsh words, Zhang Yuehui turned to leave. 

“Boss Zhang—” Song Muchuan called after him. 

Unprepared, Zhang Yuehui turned back, expecting further negotiation. Instead, he saw Song Muchuan suddenly drop to his knees, bowing deeply three times with resounding thuds. 

“Boss Zhang, your great kindness and virtue are beyond measure. Song will remember your generosity for the rest of my life!” 

Taken aback, Zhang Yuehui stumbled backward awkwardly, his composure faltering. 

“You… don’t pull this nonsense on me! We each get what we want—it’s just business.” 

Flustered, Zhang Yuehui fled almost as if escaping. 

He couldn’t stand such rigid formality from this scholar. 

Yet he trusted Song Muchuan’s character. Even if he might silently curse him as the villain who separated lovers, once he gave his word, he would keep it faithfully. 

And Zhang Yuehui found this arrangement simplest. He didn’t need to explain his deeper motives—or lack thereof—to anyone. 

In truth, there was no grand altruism behind his actions. Everything he did stemmed purely from selfish desires. 

In this crumbling dynasty, nothing ever reached fulfillment. He grew weary and craved beauty amidst despair—dreams of flowers blooming in barren lands, dead trees reviving in spring. 

Though reluctant to admit it, the undeniable truth was that Xie Queshan possessed an awe-inspiring power. He had transformed himself into a deity-like figure, turning those who beheld him into devoted followers. 

If the last idol were to collapse, ancient chaos would return. The wisdom, diligence, and courage cultivated over centuries—the spirit upheld and passed down through blood and flesh—would be overturned, rendered meaningless. 

To live wasn’t merely about survival. 

Even Zhang Yuehui found it laughable, yet he couldn’t ignore the most basic wish buried deep within him—a wish shared by countless others. 

The world needed fairness. Good people deserved long lives. Otherwise, what was the point of souls in the eighteen hells clamoring to be reborn as humans? 

But their perspectives differed. Song Muchuan had compromised enough—he only needed Xie Queshan alive. That was the extent of what he could offer. For Zhang Yuehui, however, Xie Queshan’s innocence mattered profoundly. 

He wasn’t helping Xie Queshan. He was saving the version of himself from six years ago—the slightly rebellious but harmless youth still dreaming of riding proud horses and basking in fleeting glory across the capital. Then, injustice crushed him into the dirt without recourse. 

Confusion consumed him. What had his family done wrong? If they hadn’t sinned, why had they met such an end? He couldn’t understand, couldn’t find answers. To survive, he erased that resentful boy entirely. It was as if he killed himself. 

In truth, he never hated Xie Queshan. What he despised was the suffocating injustice forced upon him—the kind swallowed silently, teeth gritted. Only now did he finally recognize and acknowledge it. 

He had uncovered the root of his incurable ailment. And perhaps, he wanted to save that boy too. 

But Zhang Yuehui understood clearly: fighting against the tide of fate was like ants trying to move mountains. It required immeasurable effort—and that was just for the most intangible prize of all: innocence. 

A mere stain on one’s robe could lead the world to demand proof as clear as the Yellow River’s waters before believing otherwise. 

Xie Queshan had to “die” to ignite cries that shook the deaf and blind. 

Zhang Yuehui also knew someone else who, despite shouting hoarse, continued to beat the drum of dissent amidst the jeers of thousands. 

Resolute, he let her go, even administering a potion to keep Xie Queshan asleep indefinitely. Once awake, Xie Queshan wouldn’t allow Nan Yi to risk everything for his legacy. Everyone would fall silent under his will, submitting quietly. 

Good people always suffered because they sacrificed themselves for others. 

Let him be the villain. 

Later, when Nan Yi stubbornly insisted on heading to Bianjing, Song Muchuan finally couldn’t resist asking Zhang Yuehui: Why couldn’t they tell her yet? 

Because it wasn’t enough. 

Even if everyone believed she was frail grass unable to bear the burden. 

But this path… she had to walk it. Otherwise, how would they continue living afterward?

To endure the injustices of the world alone, to bear shame and be powerless—wasn’t that akin to living like a rat scurrying through the shadows, hiding in some forgotten corner? 

He understood better than anyone what it felt like to live that way. There were already so many pitiable souls in this world; there was no need to add another. 

He wanted them to be saved. He wanted the black of this world to remain black, the white to remain white. He wanted Nan Yi’s remaining years to turn from bitterness to sweetness, for her wishes to come true. 

Only then could he himself find salvation. 

Once again, he gambled with fate. He would embark on an irreversible adventure with her. 

No—perhaps it wasn’t a gamble at all. It was more like a devout offering and prayer to fate. He staked everything, even his life, without regard for gain or reward. 

If they failed, then this world truly held nothing worth living for. 

But he felt deeply sorry for her. Every time he recklessly pushed all his chips into the pot, he inevitably brought her suffering. She didn’t know that her relentless pursuit for Xie Queshan’s sake also carried traces of his own stubbornness. 

Yet she was so brave. No matter how difficult the path, she still fought her way through. He had once mistakenly thought of her as a tiny moth drawn to the flame. Only later did he realize—she was the light itself. 

In the boundless sea of suffering, she illuminated him. Finally, amidst the twists and turns of this harsh world, he bowed his proud head. He laid down the double-edged weapon in his hands, ceasing to harm others and himself. He loved her deeply because she was such a good person—good enough that he could entrust all his tangled, unspoken emotions to her. 

Under the guise of loving her, he secretly came to love this world. She became his sole escape in this life. 

He didn’t need to possess her. She had already pulled him up, and he had long found his way back. 

In truth, he had gotten exactly what he wished for. 

But he still chose to become the little immortal of Wangchuan Valley. He was the miracle of that slanted sunset, playing a mischievous trick on them from this land he had never set foot upon. 

They would remember him. He was the cunning one. 

Hey, this mortal realm—it wasn’t a wasted journey after all.