Thinking of this, Gu Wan grew anxious. When she was transferred from the inner prison to Tiekan Temple’s jail, she saw Xie Ci—covered in wounds, unconscious. He had been thrown onto a cart with several other gravely injured prisoners, his hands still bound in shackles. The iron rings were stained with blood, the gashes so deep the bone showed. Snow and wind lashed against him, freezing the blood on his body. His face was flushed red and bluish, utterly motionless, as if lifeless.
It was said that when he was carried out of the inner prison cell, he was still muttering and struggling. To prevent him from babbling once outside and causing trouble, the guards struck him with a hand chop, knocking him out cold.
The case of the Xie family had already been sealed by imperial decree.
Xie Ci was fifteen years old that year, just two months shy of sixteen.
This boy—once the most proud and reckless, gifted in both letters and arms, dazzling yet unruly—the young heir of the Duke’s household. Among the youths of Wuling, he was famed for his brilliance, his songs and red silks countless. Born into the household of Marquis Zhongyong, later ennobled as Duke Jin, his life had been as radiant as the ancestral plaque inscribed by the Emperor himself: “Generations of Loyalty.”
At three, he began his studies and could recite the Thousand Character Classic backward. At five, a tutor was hired, who was soon driven to exasperation by the boy’s antics. By twelve, the tutor resigned, declaring his own knowledge exhausted, that there was nothing more he could teach. After that, the Duke’s household never hired another literary master.
The precocious Xie Ci sat on his father’s desk, speaking earnestly: he did not want to pursue letters. “Third Brother can’t even lift a chicken—he’s useless,” he declared proudly. “I want to take up arms, to be a great general like Father and my brothers, riding into battle.”
Xie Xinzhong agreed.
For Xie Ci’s talent in martial training surpassed his aptitude for study. Though mischievous from childhood, under the strict guidance of his father and brothers, he endured bitter practice—training in the heat of summer and the chill of winter. He said he learned to read only so he could study military texts. As he grew, his waist slim and his frame tall, he would gallop through the streets on horseback, a young knight-errant, ever ready to defend the weak.
He was unruly; he was reckless—dressed in fine clothes, astride spirited horses, his brows bold and eyes bright. He played with crickets, listened to opera, and when a pipa tune stirred him, he clapped in delight and tossed out gold without hesitation. Afterward, his father or brothers would chase him down, scolding him for being ignorant of hardship, unworthy of his ancestors—a little scoundrel. He became a familiar sight in the capital’s streets, a source of laughter and gossip over tea.
He was strikingly handsome. In the original memories: long dark brows, a beauty mark at the center of his forehead, thick lashes, a noble nose, eyes black and clear, skin like white jade—like a rose touched with frost, vivid and radiant. Yet his sword-like brows, inherited from his father and brothers, lent him an added air of heroism. His fine features carried a trace of steel. But he disliked his pale complexion. Every day he wore shorts and sat in the sun, tanning himself until his skin turned wheat-colored. Proudly he said, “This is the skin a general should have.”
He even donned the silver armor forged specially for him by his father and brothers, helmet on, silver spear in hand, standing in the sunlight—truly the image of a young general.
In the original memories of those final years, what lingered most was this proud, radiant youth, dazzling like sunlight itself.
And Gu Wan had once seen him with her own eyes. After his father and brothers were imprisoned, the boy shed his reckless airs. He stayed at home, never leaving. On the day the imperial guards broke down the gates, he stood at the door in a fitted black tunic, silver spear in hand.
“My family has not colluded with the enemy!!” The boy’s cry rang out, his silver spear slicing the air like a tiger’s roar.
Gu Wan had just climbed out of the well, shivering, seizing those last precious moments to dash back toward the small courtyard—when she heard that shout. She turned her head. Through the crack between door and pillar, she saw ranks of armored soldiers, blades drawn. The youth stood there, silver spear with its red tassel flashing, blood splattering within five paces.
But alas, he never became a general. On the cusp of adulthood, he was tortured, his body covered in wounds, and in the end he died sick and broken in prison.
…
At the end of the corridor, the iron-banded prison door creaked open. A portly middle-aged officer in a blue-gray uniform entered, a register tucked under his arm. The two guards on duty hurried forward to greet him.
Gu Wan glanced that way. Carefully, she untied the bloodstained cloth wrapped around her head. From her disheveled hair, she dug for a while, finally pulling out two glittering ruby earrings.
These rubies were worth a fortune. Ancient cutting and polishing techniques were crude; most rubies were dull and opaque. But the pair in her hand shone brilliantly, vivid and luminous—rare natural gems of exceptional value. They were part of Princess Yongjia’s dowry, left to her mother, and passed down to her when she chose to remain in the Marquis’s household.
Pressed for time, Gu Wan had seized upon these earrings at first glance, hastily tucking them into the base of her hair bun—just as the imperial guards broke through the courtyard gate.
Her head still throbbed—the wound from when the original Gu Wan had leaped into the well and struck the back of her skull. It burned hotly, though fortunately the skin was not deeply broken; only a swelling the size of a small egg had risen. Gu Wan believed that since she had managed to climb out alive, the blood clot would eventually be absorbed naturally. But she had no time to dwell on that now. She had to think quickly, to find a way—any way—to save Xie Ci. He absolutely must not die in prison. If he survived, everything that followed would be far less dire. As for the future, she would deal with the chaos one step at a time.
Gu Wan quietly observed for two days, and in the end she fixed her attention on a middle-aged officer named Cao, a squad leader.
In the great prison, the young new guards dared not accept bribes, fearing that if any family regained favor, they themselves would be punished along with their kin. The seasoned veterans, however, were notorious for pocketing money without lifting a finger. Here, prisoners were meat laid upon the chopping block—equality and respect were luxuries no one could expect.
This Leader Cao was broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, commanding the junior wardens with effortless authority. Wherever he passed, they bowed and scraped. Clearly, he was a man of influence. And every day, when he made his rounds to count the prisoners, Gu Wan caught the sour stench of rice wine clinging to him—a heavy drinker, unmistakably one of the prison’s old hands. Yet he had one redeeming trait: he never preyed upon the female prisoners.
In the Central Capital prison, noblewomen—delicate beauties with fair skin and refined features—were sometimes thrown in, women the guards could never have dreamed of touching in their lifetimes. Many seized the chance to grope or harass them.
But Gu Wan had watched carefully: this man never did.
Just yesterday, a young girl had dashed headlong into a pillar only a few steps from him. Her brains splattered across his shoes. He merely flicked his foot in disgust, frowning deeply. He glanced once at her bloodied, tear-streaked face, half-open eyes filled with terror and despair, then cursed and ordered her body dragged away.
In the women’s ward, suicides by smashing into pillars were common. Guards cursed when their clothes were stained, kicked the corpses in anger, and some even defiled them.
But Leader Cao did not.
Leader Cao, at least, had some measure of a bottom line.
Gu Wan had watched and weighed her options, and in the end she chose him. She would have liked to observe longer, but time was running out.
First, she feared Xie Ci might not hold on—he could die at any moment. Second, the imperial decree had already been issued; they would not remain long in Tiekan Temple prison. In the original memories, they had stayed only four or five days at most. Now it was already the second day.
Steeling herself, Gu Wan clutched the two ruby earrings and waited by the barred gate. When Leader Cao came by with his register, she suddenly slid forward on her knees. Pain shot through her legs, but survival mattered more than dignity. If he could help, she would be grateful to his entire family.
Leader Cao weighed the two rubies in his palm, tilting them toward the light, clearly satisfied. He cast a glance at Gu Wan, who quickly tucked her embroidered shoes and the fine cotton lining beneath her coarse gray prison garb out of sight. He did not care whether she was clever or not. After a moment’s thought, he slipped the rubies into his waistband. Amid the noise and watchful eyes, he leaned closer, speaking in a voice only the two of them could hear, his chin pointing slightly: “See the cell at the far end of your row? Yes, that one. The blue brick at the corner of the wall is loose; it hasn’t been repaired.”
“Behind that wall runs a dry canal. Crawl through it to the end—you’ll find your husband there.”
Gu Wan froze, then quickly turned her head to look. This wasn’t quite the script she had imagined. But Gu Wan was thin. She gauged the wooden fence separating one cell from another and figured she could squeeze through. She frowned, sat back down, and after a pause leaned close to whisper something into Second Sister-in-law Xie’s ear.
Second Sister-in-law turned her head at once. The two women locked eyes for a long moment before she gave a slight nod.
Gu Wan hesitated, then decided boldly—if she were going to do it, she’d do it. This life was already borrowed; if it ended in disaster, so be it.
Late at night, the guard on duty slumped drowsily at the table by the iron gate. The prison had grown quiet; sobs had faded, replaced by faint snores. After another half hour, even the rustle of bodies turning over was gone.
Gu Wan crept up. Shielded by Second Sister-in-law, she took a deep breath and slipped through the gap in the fence into the next cell. She quickly lay down, curling up like the prisoners there, feigning sleep. After about ten minutes, she began inching herself along the ground. When she reached the edge, she stood, drew another breath, and crossed over. Cell by cell, it took nearly an hour before she reached the last one.
The final cell was a storeroom, cluttered with food bowls, lamps, oil, and brooms. In the corner lay a heap of bloodstained rags and gray prison clothes.
Gu Wan scrambled to move the broom and the pile of cloth. Sure enough, at the base of the wall the plaster had crumbled, pitted, and soaked through by years of rain and snow, split open with a crack. She picked the loosest brick, dug her fingers into the gap, and pried until half of it came free. She shoved at the remaining half, and it fell away too.
Once the first was out, the rest came easier. She managed to remove ten bricks before the wall grew too stubborn. She judged the opening—narrow, but just enough to crawl through. She lay down, cautiously poked her head through, and peered out. Beyond was a quiet little courtyard piled with odds and ends. Without another thought, she shoved herself through the gap. She quickly crawled through, sprang to her feet, and brushed off her hands and knees. Then she turned back halfway, carefully pulling the broom and the pile of cloth back into place to cover the hole.
At last Gu Wan stood upright. It was a small courtyard. After days of heavy snow, the storm had finally eased. She counted the days—today was the first day of the New Year. The wind carried a faint trace of firecracker smoke, the clouds parted to spill a hazy thread of moonlight, and the air was biting cold yet startlingly fresh.
For the first time since arriving, Gu Wan could clearly see the sky and moon—even if only a patch framed above her head. She couldn’t help but feel a flicker of joy.
As long as one is alive, there is always hope.
Bolstering her courage, she began to survey the surroundings, searching for the hidden drain.
The courtyard was small. Peering through the window of the adjoining room, she saw it was a firewood storeroom, piled high for winter use. The door wasn’t even locked, though no one was around. She searched for a while and soon found the dry channel the corporal had mentioned.
On the ground were two drainage openings. The one on the left, once cleared of snow, showed obvious water marks. The one on the right, however, seemed poorly designed—water never flowed in, and beneath the snow lay only dust and dead leaves.
So that was it: the prison’s original drainage had been faulty. When they rebuilt it, the old section was sealed at both ends, abandoned into a dry channel.
Understanding this, Gu Wan went inside, picked up a dead branch, and headed straight for the right-hand opening. The cover was a slab of bluestone set with iron joints, heavy beyond measure. She strained with all her strength, and at last managed to heave it aside. Beneath lay a layer of broken twigs and rotting leaves.
It wasn’t deep—nothing like a modern sewer. At best, only a small, thin person could crawl through on hands and knees. Behind her was an iron grille, already sealed with blue bricks. Gu Wan thought for a moment, then used the wooden bowl she had brought to scoop up clean snow, rinse it carefully, fill it to the brim, and hug it close as she crawled forward.
At first, there were twigs and dead leaves under her elbows and knees, crunching with every press. She held her breath, moving as lightly as she could. Soon the debris thinned out, leaving only darkness. Something rustled against her knee—she struck out instinctively, and a rat squealed and fled. Gu Wan clutched her bowl and kept crawling. At the end, she found a cover to her left, already lifted halfway. A faint draft whispered past her ear.
Huh? She began to understand. This wasn’t just a dry channel—it was also a vent. Slowly, she poked her head out, peering for a long while. Soon she realized: it was a sick ward.
A foul stench hit her, the unmistakable odor of disease and decay, mixed with blood. Groans and muffled cries drifted through the air, broken and uneven.
But Gu Wan’s heart steadied. So it was here.
The corporal had spoken true. He had taken her money and done the job—without deceiving her.
Gu Wan watched for a while—no guards in sight. It was New Year’s Day after all, and these half-dead prisoners weren’t going anywhere. She shifted the cover aside and slipped out.
The cell was vast, the floor buried under rotting straw. Bodies lay scattered across it—some mangled, some feverish and oozing pus. One poor soul had clearly been here too long; the wound writhed with tiny white specks.
A shiver of revulsion ran through her, and she hurried past. Soon she found Xie Ci. He was locked in a solitary cell at the far end, one of only five reinforced with iron doors—no doubt because he knew martial arts, and the guards feared a last desperate struggle. But in his current state, there was no chance of that. He was drenched in blood, his prison clothes soaked through, iron shackles clinking whenever he stirred. Burning with fever, he muttered and writhed. At the sound of straw crunching underfoot, he suddenly rolled over.
Through the haze, he seemed to glimpse a figure. Once the proud, fiery youth in fine robes, now disheveled and streaked with blood and tears, he lunged toward her. Chains rattled wildly against the bars.
He reached out, clutching Gu Wan’s ankle. With his head thrown back, tears mingling with blood, he cried: “My… my family never betrayed the court—”
“Never! Never!…”
His voice was hoarse, ground raw like gravel scraping flesh, a night-cry of a cuckoo. Crawling forward, he seized her hand with the other.
“Do you believe me? Do you believe me?”
He murmured through his tears, asking the question. His mind was clouded; he didn’t even recognize Gu Wan.
The two had never been close—one had lived freely in the outer residence, bold and unruly, while the other was raised quietly in a relative’s household, sheltered and frail, bound by the rules that kept boys and girls apart from the age of seven. On their wedding day, she had come of age, but the marriage was never consummated.
Truth be told, he hadn’t wanted the marriage at all. The youth had stamped his foot and cried, “Why must I marry an orphan girl? I want a noble bride from a great family, the most beautiful of them all!”
In the end, he was forced into it. Dressed in red, the young groom tore the embroidered ball from his chest, muttering with reluctance: “From now on, you must know the rules: keep the household in order. Do you hear?”
The unspoken meaning was clear: Only then will I tolerate you.
He stripped off the jingling ornaments, spread out the quilt, claimed half the bed, and promptly fell asleep.
Not the happiest of memories—but for the original bride, they became the brightest fragments in the dim years that followed.
Gu Wan was no child; she understood. Once Xie Ci had acknowledged her as his wife, the Xie family’s upright traditions meant father and son alike honored their marriages. Without this catastrophe, the original bride might well have lived a lifetime of quiet happiness.
Xie Ci would have grown up. Perhaps one day, recalling these youthful quarrels, he would have smiled and offered his wife an apology. But there was no if.
“You believe me, don’t you? The Xie family never betrayed the throne—do you believe me?…” He whispered, lips drained of all color beneath the crusted blood, his face streaked with tears and gore. “My father was loyal all his life. My brothers too… they were loyal…”
Gu Wan’s heart ached. More than anything, she could not bear to see the faithful maligned. What use was vindication after death, when the loyal had already been destroyed?
“I believe you. I believe it all.”
The moment Gu Wan spoke, Xie Ci’s tears poured down. Suddenly his strength gave way; he collapsed to the ground, curling in on himself, sobbing uncontrollably. His cries were low and broken, like a wounded animal.
Gu Wan exhaled deeply, stood for a moment, then crouched down and seized his shoulder. “You must live. Only if you live does your family have hope!”
“You still have your sisters-in-law, your nephews and nieces, and your mother!”
“You cannot die. If you cannot endure, they will all perish—and perish miserably.”
She shook his shoulder hard. She hated to treat a gravely wounded boy this way, but there was no other choice. Lowering her voice, she spoke directly into his ear.
At the mention of his sisters-in-law, the children, and his mother, Xie Ci froze. The fevered haze seemed to split open, a sliver of clarity breaking through. He turned sharply to look at Gu Wan.
His eyes were beautiful—long dark lashes, tilted upward, exquisite and bright. Now, rimmed with red and filled with tears, they resembled a rose battered by frost, fragile yet radiant. Blood and tears streaked his face, and his gaze trembled as the tears fell.
“You’re right,” he whispered.
Boy, let us save each other, shall we?