 🥀 Beyond Duty, Beneath Stars
The village remained in disarray for weeks. Whispers of Hao Jian's treachery clung to every alleyway like smoke. His presence—though unseen—cast a pall over the households, chilling the air with fear. No one dared speak his name aloud, but all knew he lingered somewhere, watching, waiting.
Yet, despite the hunt, he was not gone.
Hidden among shadows, Hao Jian slipped through the neglected paths that once led to his estate. He moved like a phantom, gaunt and wild-eyed, avoiding the guards who now stood watch at every corner. But there was something he needed—something irrational, sentimental, even mad—a remnant of her.
A piece of Xian Lian's fabric.
He had kept it all these years, hidden in the drawer of his study. A delicate, embroidered handkerchief—once pressed between the pages of a book she left behind. He told himself he needed it for disguise, for warmth—but in truth, it was the scent. The memory. The last trace of the only woman he could never possess.
Moonlight guided his steps as he slipped into the back entrance of the residence. The halls were dim, the air stale with silence. He made his way straight to the study, heart pounding with a fevered rhythm. His fingers trembled as he pulled open the drawers, rifling through the cluttered contents, searching.
A sound—soft and familiar—froze him in place.
Footsteps.
Lulei.
She entered with a cloth and a pail, intending only to clean. Her eyes were tired but kind, and she hummed softly—a lullaby Cheng Yi hadn't heard since childhood.
Hao Jian shrank behind a tall shelf, breathing shallow. His hand found the dagger in his belt. His eyes, sunken and filled with madness, narrowed on her figure.
"You," he thought, venom burning in his throat. "You and your wretched madam… You ruined everything. I should've silenced you both long ago."
No one can know. No one can speak her name but me.
She bent down to dust the lower shelves, unaware. Slowly, he stepped forward—silent as the grave. His grip tightened around the hilt. A moment passed... then she turned.
Their eyes met.
Lulei gasped—
But the blade was faster.
It drove into her chest with a sickening crunch. Her scream rang out, sharp and echoing, before fading into a strangled gurgle. She collapsed onto the floor, blood seeping like ink across the tiles.
Hao Jian didn't wait to see her fall. He fled—through the shadows, over the walls—vanishing before the guards arrived.
They burst into the study moments later. The scent of blood filled the air, thick and suffocating.
Lulei lay sprawled on the floor in the flickering lamplight, her lifeless eyes wide in shock. One hand was outstretched toward the door as if she had nearly escaped—if only she had been a moment faster.
As the guards closed the study doors behind them, the corridor fell silent, save for the soft blood drip onto the wood. Unaware of the tragedy that had just unfolded, Tishui and Cheng Yi remained in the guest room, their conversation continuing in muted tones.
In the quiet of that room, the oil lamp burned low, casting long shadows that danced along the walls. The matter at hand was heavy.
"His Majesty has told me that he intends to appoint you as the Minister of Rites," Tishui said solemnly. "You'll be handling foreign affairs and other delicate responsibilities. What do you think of this?"
Cheng Yi exhaled slowly. The words landed like a stone in his chest.
It wasn't just a position. It was a replacement. A haunting echo of the man whose blood ran through his veins—and whose crimes were etched across his memories.
"I… I need time to think, Uncle," Cheng Yi replied, his voice low, eyes downcast. "Mother and Grandfather just left the village to be buried. I don't want to be reminded of him. Not now."
Tishui studied him quietly. The boy bore more than grief—he carried the shadow of legacy and the silent scream of a son terrified of turning into his father.
"Cheng Yi…"
"Yes, Uncle?"
"When your mother told us you were nothing like Hao Jian, I believed her," Tishui said softly. "Jiejie never lied about people. She hated lies, even the small, well-meaning ones. She was scared, yes… but not of you. She just wanted to make sure you wouldn't carry his sins."
Cheng Yi smiled faintly through tears.
"But… I realized that too late. And now she's gone…" His voice cracked and faded.
Tishui's eyes misted over.
"She knew, Cheng Yi. She knew in the end. You were her warmth in a world gone cold. Even in her darkest winter, you were the one lantern that refused to go out."
"Thanks… I'm—"
The hush shattered as a guard burst through the door.
"Young Lord! Minister of Works! Servant Lulei—she's been stabbed!"
Without a word, they sprang to their feet and raced through the corridors, hearts pounding, the echo of footsteps swallowed by fear.
Lulei's body lay crumpled on the floor, blood soaking into the wood. Her breath came shallow, eyes searching until they found Cheng Yi.
He dropped to his knees beside her, leaning close.
"It's… Hao. Jian."
Her eyes fluttered shut, and her final breath spent naming her killer. Her last strength used not for herself, but for truth.
Cheng Yi froze.
The blade still jutted from her side—simple, small. And at its hilt, the tassel. His tassel. The one he had once gifted with trembling hands, proud to call the monster father.
Given in love. Now steeped in blood.
Word spread quickly.
Hao Jian had returned. And taken another life.
Villagers whispered behind closed doors. Monster. Killer. Curse. Their fear fed rumors like dry wood to a fire. No one felt safe.
But Hao Jian was gone again—slipped into the dark, waiting. Watching. Always for her.
Waiting for Yun Yuhua.
They buried Lulei with care. She had been more than a servant—she was a quiet guardian, a constant presence in their lives—a thread in the fabric of Cheng Yi's broken world.
But something in Cheng Yi unraveled.
Three lives were torn away because of one man's madness. And now the son had to carry it all—had to live among the wreckage, trapped beneath the weight of a legacy he never asked for.
He stood alone in the hall, eyes closed, fists clenched, wishing—begging—that it would all end with Hao Jian.
Footsteps behind him.
Qian'ai and Yun Yuhua entered silently, their presence like anchors in a storm.
"Cheng Yi," Qian'ai said gently.
He opened his eyes—and when he saw them, the tears came instantly. His heart split wide open.
"Am I… a monster like my father?" he whispered, voice hoarse and raw.
It wasn't just a question. It was a wound laid bare. A fear he had tried to drown in silence, finally breaking the surface.
The words clung to the air like smoke, heavy and bitter.
The words of agony being born from a monster.
The feeling of a parasite that he once thought he was—until he met Yun Yuhua.
Qian'ai didn't speak at first. His gaze was steady, knowing. Because he, too, had seen blood on the floor. He, too, had watched someone he loved die and felt powerless to stop it.
Yun Yuhua stepped forward. Her voice was soft but sure, grounded in maturity beyond her years—the kind that grief carves into a soul far too young.
"If you are," she said, "then so are we. Because we choose to stand beside you."
Her eyes shimmered with quiet conviction.
"We know your pain, Cheng Yi. Qian'ai lost his mother before his very eyes. I lost mine when I was two. I don't remember her face—but I've carried her absence every day. Pain doesn't go away. It lives in us. But it doesn't make us monsters. It makes us real."
Cheng Yi broke.
He sobbed like a child, like a boy who had tried to be strong for too long. The guilt, the fear, the loneliness—it all poured out.
"I hate this… I hate this place…" he choked.
Yun Yuhua reached out and wrapped her arms around him, not as a comfort but as a promise.
"You're not alone."
He collapsed into her, wailing against her shoulder.
Qian'ai turned away slightly, blinking fast. But even as he looked aside, he stepped closer—closer to his friends, to the bond forged in loss, grief, and unspoken understanding.
They were broken. But they were together.
And for now, that was enough.
Days had passed since the incident. When Cheng Yi returned to Tishui, he carried with him a decision that weighed heavily on his heart.
"I refused the position of Minister of Rites," he said quietly. "I couldn't accept the title my father once held. Just thinking of him brings more pain than any sense of filial duty ever could."
Tishui looked at him for a long moment, reading the burden in his eyes. The boy who once bore everything in silence now stood with the quiet strength his friends had helped nurture. Pain still lingered, but it no longer ruled him.
"I understand," Tishui said gently. "If this helps you live with less sorrow, then that's what matters. Your mother... she wouldn't want you to suffer any longer." A small smile tugged at his lips. "She'd probably scold me for pushing you into something you weren't ready for."
Cheng Yi let out a soft breath, a smile breaking through the lingering weight in his chest. Tishui was trying to make him laugh—he always had. And today, it worked.
"Thank you, Uncle," Cheng Yi said, voice steadier now. "I've made up my mind. My friends are planning to meet their father halfway, and I've decided to go with them… to travel for a while. To breathe."
Tishui's eyes softened. He nodded, though a flicker of worry passed through his expression.
"Then go. See the world. Heal," he said. "But promise me you'll write. Let me know if you're safe if you're well."
"I will," Cheng Yi replied, and his smile reached his eyes for the first time in a long while. He bowed his head with gratitude before turning away to pack.
When news of his refusal reached the Emperor, the man sat silently for a moment, absorbing the weight of the choice.
"So long as he brings no harm to the other children," the Emperor finally said, voice calm but firm, "I won't stop him."
The Emperor observed from a distance as the three children packed their belongings, their laughter ringing through the courtyard as they shared their final goodbyes with Ruqi. Cheng Yi was part of the group now, smiling as he laughed with them. For the first time in a long while, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders, the shadow of his father's legacy finally loosening its grip. He no longer felt like the world was closing in on him, alone in his struggle. He had found something far more valuable than duty or obligation—he had found a family, one bound not by blood but by warmth and understanding.
Yun Yuhua stood among them, a quiet comfort beside him, her presence grounding him in a way nothing else could. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if the world had softened—hope, however fragile, seemed within reach.
But the fleeting peace was an illusion. From the shadows, beyond the reach of their light, Hao Jian waited. His eyes, cold and calculating, watched them, unseen yet ever-present. The warmth in the air—so full of promise—felt suddenly hollow. The joy that lingered in the courtyard could not banish the chilling weight of the danger lurking in the dark.
The peace they found would not last long. Not with the storm that was yet to come. Not while he was still out there.