The pattering rain concealed many sounds that should not have been heard.
Yu Ange kept her breathing light and shallow. When she glanced back, Shang Qingyan was still tidying the chessboard. In the flickering candlelight, his face seemed veiled by a faint, yellowish haze, making it difficult to discern clearly.
Knock, knock, knock—
A sudden knock on the door made Shang Qingyan pause as he picked up a chess piece. He looked toward the door and asked, “Who is it?”
“Amitabha, benefactor. This humble monk has come to replace your candle.”
The voice of a young monk echoed from outside. Yu Ange glanced at the candle on the table and realized that, without her noticing, the candle had nearly burned out while she and Shang Qingyan were playing chess.
Zhu Ying opened the door, and a young monk entered. Upon seeing Yu Ange seated there, he showed a flicker of surprise before quickly lowering his head and approaching the two.
Neither Yu Ange nor Shang Qingyan spoke, simply watching as the young monk replaced the candle inside the lantern shade and then took out a fire starter to light it.
A sudden gust of wind slipped in from outside, extinguishing the spark on the fire starter and plunging the room into darkness.
Raindrops fell like arrows against the windowsill, and a flash of lightning tore through the sky.
The moment of truth had arrived. The young monk lunged forward, a hidden blade in his sleeve aimed directly at Shang Qingyan’s face.
But just as it was about to strike, a figure threw themselves over Shang Qingyan, shielding him from the deadly attack.
Zhu Ying drew his sword and engaged the young monk in a fierce struggle, shouting, “Catch the assassin!”
Yu Ange rose from Shang Qingyan’s side and called out loudly, “Yanbo! Yu Shu!”
Yanbo and Yu Shu, who had been waiting in the shadows, drew their swords and positioned themselves at the door, clashing with several assassins who had stealthily infiltrated from outside.
Inside the room, Zhu Ying quickly subdued the young monk. Yu Ange relit the fire starter, but before she could question him, the young monk bit into a poison capsule hidden in his teeth and died before their eyes.
Yu Ange turned to look at Shang Qingyan, who was swaying as he stood up, and asked, “Are you alright, Your Highness?”
Shang Qingyan waved his hand dismissively. From somewhere, he produced a hair ribbon and tied his hair back simply. His previously calm and composed expression finally shifted, darkening like the night rain.
Outside, assassins continued to pour into the courtyard endlessly, their brutal clashes muffled by the sound of the rain.
Yanbo strode in, sword in hand, droplets of blood falling continuously. “There are too many of them. Young… master, you must leave now!”
As soon as the words left her mouth, an arrow shot through the air, piercing the window and embedding itself firmly into a nearby pillar.
Without hesitation, Yu Ange grabbed Shang Qingyan beside her, smashed through the rear doors and windows, and fled.
During their earlier chess game, she had rehearsed this escape route and action countless times in her mind. Coincidentally, Shang Qingyan cooperated perfectly.
Zhu Ying was stunned for a moment. Wait, wasn’t it supposed to be him protecting his master and escaping?
While Zhu Ying was still in a daze, Yanbo had already followed, covering their retreat. Zhu Ying had no choice but to hurry after them.
The downpour was relentless, merging heaven and earth into a single expanse of ink-black darkness. Only the occasional flash of lightning illuminated their path for a brief moment.
Rainwater crashed against Yu Ange’s face like waves. She held tightly to Shang Qingyan’s hand, the cool touch of his skin seeping from her palm into her heart.
Qingyin Si was even more dangerous than she had imagined. Those people had even resorted to using crossbows!
Yu Ange found two horses at the back of the mountain. When she turned back, she saw Shang Qingyan in a state of utter disarray—his head bowed, hair plastered to his face, his white robes soaked through by the rain, and one of his shoes lost in the escape.
Physically frail and fastidious, yet able to keep up with her fleeing steps even after losing a shoe—Yu Ange once again confirmed that his harmless appearance was all an act.
Shang Qingyan, however, gritted his teeth in frustration. Young Master Yu was indeed a variable, but this variable was utterly unnecessary!
Originally, the Yingwei he had arranged would protect him. He would then seize an opportunity to sustain some injuries and release a mix of truths and falsehoods, using public opinion to force the Emperor to temporarily back down and lower his guard.
But what was this now?
Before he could say anything, Yu Ange pushed him onto the horse with an anxious expression. “Your Highness, come with me quickly.”
Once aboard this pirate ship, there was no turning back. Resigned to his fate, Shang Qingyan climbed onto the horse and galloped away with Yu Ange.
Two horses, two people, braving the stormy winds and rain. Just as they were about to descend the mountain, Yu Ange’s horse suddenly tripped over a rope trap.
Yu Ange leaped off in time. Almost simultaneously, she fired a sleeve arrow into the pitch-black forest. After two screams, several black-clad assassins armed with swords emerged.
Shang Qingyan reined in his horse but did not dismount, for Yu Ange was already engaged in a fierce battle with the assassins below.
Though she appeared slender and frail, her moves were lethal—swift, precise, and ruthless, like a chess player leaving no retreat for herself or her opponent.
The scent of blood lingered in the air, and the horse beneath him grew restless. Shang Qingyan’s indifferent, glass-like eyes gradually darkened with malice. He tightly gripped the Buddhist prayer beads in his hand, barely suppressing the urge to kill.
Suddenly, a few drops of warm blood splattered onto his lowered hand, quickly washed away by the rain.
Squinting his eyes, Shang Qingyan saw Yu Ange inevitably sustain an injury to her arm amid the siege. Yet, to protect him on the horse, she fought on recklessly.
The spot where the blood had splashed instantly felt scalding hot. Faint, elusive chants echoed in his mind, clouding his vision.
After dispatching another assassin, Yu Ange began to show signs of fatigue.
These assassins were among the finest. Fighting multiple opponents while ensuring none approached Shang Qingyan was no easy task for her.
Just as she drove her dagger into another assassin’s chest, she suddenly felt a chill down her spine.
Without turning around, she glimpsed a long blade lunging toward her from the corner of her eye. Yu Ange swiftly withdrew her dagger and dodged, bracing for another injury, but the blade never fell.
Shang Qingyan had seized a sword from one of the assassins and used it to slit the attacker’s throat.
Blood sprayed onto Shang Qingyan’s white robes, like plum blossoms blooming on snow.
He no longer resembled an ethereal immortal but a ghostly apparition in the forest—a merciless reaper, eerie and cold.
Without giving Yu Ange time to react, he twisted his wrist and, without looking back, plunged the sword into the heart of another assassin sneaking up behind him.
Yu Ange witnessed a completely different Shang Qingyan.
Bloodthirsty and brutal.
Perhaps this was his true nature.
Perhaps the bodhi prayer beads in his hand were not for cultivating goodness but for restraining evil.
Only after all the assassins lay dead did Shang Qingyan drop the sword, his body swaying unsteadily as if he were once again that frail, sickly man.
Yu Ange hurried over to support him, letting Shang Qingyan lean half against her.
Amid the clamor of the mountain night rain, Yu Ange heard a sigh: “How filthy.”
Yu Ange let out a light laugh, though it was somewhat inappropriate in this context and brimming with sarcasm: “Weak and frail? Coughing up blood at the slightest breeze?”
Shang Qingyan returned her laugh with one of his own: “A tiger father and a dog son? A useless good-for-nothing?”