Leaving Yunshang Pavilion, she crossed Xian Pond and passed two scenic towers before reaching the main courtyard.
At the moon‑gate, the maid halted. “Without the Marquis’s summons, we servants may not enter. Miss, you must go in alone. The Marquis is in his study.”
Naturally, Lianxing could not accompany her. She gave Luo Xinci an encouraging glance and stayed behind.
Luo Xinci stepped inside alone, mind racing over how she should face Marquis Wuling.
According to Ming Niansheng, though she had grown up in the marquis’s household, she had rarely seen him. On the few occasions they met, those cold, disdainful eyes had driven her to cower behind her mother’s skirts, too timid to move.
The Marquis’s memory of Ming Niansheng must be the same. So long as she acted meek and fearful, Luo Xinci thought, she could pass for Ming Niansheng. That would be easy. With this basic strategy in mind, she recalled the old madam’s preferences and habits, silently reminding herself: no guilt, no hesitation—be bold, be cautious, be ruthless. Thus steeled, she arrived outside the study.
The doors stood wide open. From the threshold she saw the spacious council hall, sunlight slanting in to cast a bright square of light upon the floor. She hesitated, wondering whether to knock, when a voice drifted from the side chamber: “Play a role long enough, and you forget who you are.”
The tone was cool yet languid, unhurried—like spring sunshine that warms but still carries a chill.
The voice sounded young, scolding a servant. Perhaps it belonged to her legitimate elder brother she had never met, or to Jiang Liyang of Prince Ning’s household.
The maid had said the Marquis was inside as well. That meant at least three people were present.
Scolding servants… not the best moment to enter. Yet retreating or lingering outside would look like eavesdropping.
Luo Xinci weighed her options swiftly, then decided to knock. She rehearsed in her mind the greetings she must offer the Marquis and her elder brother, braced herself, and laid her hand on the door.
*Knock, knock—*
“I am Marquis Wuling. If I—”
Two voices rang out at once, then stopped abruptly.
Instinctively, Luo Xinci froze. Had she just heard, between those voices, a dull thud—like something heavy piercing flesh? What was that sound?
Still puzzled, she felt a sudden gust sweep up behind her, followed by a chilling bark: “Who dares trespass here!”
She flinched, whirling around to see a guard in fitted armor looming close, fierce‑eyed, his hand pressed to the hilt at his waist.
Terrified, she stumbled backward—straight into the council hall. Hastily she cried, “I am Ming Niansheng, come to pay respects to my father! He sent for me!”
The guard faltered, then turned toward the side chamber.
Heart pounding, Luo Xinci followed his gaze—and saw a thin trickle of blood seeping slowly from beneath the folding screen. Her mind went blank.
“Enter,” commanded that clear, cutting voice within.
Under the guard’s pressure, she numbly circled the screen—and at last saw where the blood had come from.
It was a corpse. The man looked to be about fifty, with a fine beard and a scholar’s dignity touched by authority. He lay sprawled on the floor, a gaping wound at his throat. From it, blood gushed in a steady stream, pooling into a scarlet stain that crept outward across the ground.
For the first time in her life, Luo Xinci confronted death. Her eyelids twitched; she jerked her gaze away—only to meet the sight of the man seated in the place of honor. He was young and striking, lounging carelessly in a grand armchair, a blood‑stained dagger dangling from his hand. The dagger matched the corpse at his feet.
A sharp pang seized Luo Xinci’s chest. She turned her eyes aside again.
“Ming Niansheng?” the man asked.
This was nothing like what she had imagined. Her mind went blank, the voice drifting to her ears like something from the clouds—close, yet impossible to take in.
Judging by his bearing, he must be the master of the marquis’s household: Ming Yuhe.
He had killed a man.
Her thoughts spun wildly. She dimly recalled the words she had overheard at the door: “I am Marquis Wuling.”
There were only two people in the room. Which meant—the body on the floor was Marquis Wuling. Father and son, at each other’s throats?
Her head buzzed. Was this yet another “Miss Sun” tragedy?
As she stood dazed, the guard returned. He bent close to Ming Yuhe and murmured something, then dropped to his knees. “This subordinate has failed in his duty. I beg the young marquis to punish me!”
Luo Xinci kept her head bowed the entire time, unaware of what Ming Yuhe was doing—only that the guard had withdrawn. She longed to leave as well, to pretend she had never come here, to erase this scene from memory.
“So it is Niansheng,” Ming Yuhe drawled at last, his voice slow and unhurried. “Weren’t you here to see Father? Why won’t you raise your head?”
Raise her head—to look at what? The corpse on the floor? Her knees weakened; she remained frozen.
“Raise it.” The tone had not changed, yet it carried an invisible weight.
Luo Xinci shuddered and, gritting her teeth, forced herself to lift her gaze. She deliberately avoided the body, fixing her eyes on Ming Yuhe instead.
He had striking peach‑blossom eyes, dark and fathomless like a still pool. Their natural softness was crushed beneath his calm, unyielding stare.
Unable to meet his gaze, she lowered her eyes to his high nose. Out of the corner of her vision she caught a faint red mark—no, not a mark, but blood.
Her eyelids fluttered rapidly. At last she managed to stammer her first words: “I—I haven’t recovered from my chill. My mind is unclear; perhaps it’s hysteria. I’d like to… to return now, and come another day to pay respects to Father.” Then, cautiously, she added: “Elder Brother.”
Ming Yuhe glanced at her, indifferent. “The man is dead. What father is there left to see?”
Luo Xinci: “…”
“Come here,” he said.
She did not move.
“Don’t make me say it a third time.” The dagger in his hand gleamed coldly as he drove its tip again and again into the golden‑nanmu desk.
She had no choice but to obey. But once she went over—what then?
Ming Niansheng had told her: years ago, the old madam and the late marquis bore a son. Under Marquis Wuling’s coercion, the old madam herself slew the infant in its cradle, buying peace for her remaining years.
If the Marquis could treat his stepmother, concubines, and illegitimate daughters so cruelly, he must have committed even darker deeds. He was no good man. Yet patricide—at any time, in any place—was an unforgivable crime. And this was no ordinary father, but the renowned Marquis Wuling.
Ming Yuhe would never allow the truth to spread. He would kill her.
At last Luo Xinci grasped the true peril. Her heart pounded like a drum, each beat crashing against her ears.
At that moment, all the preparations Luo Xinci had made before entering the capital dissolved into nothing. She had no one to rely on but herself. In the span of a heartbeat, she had to decide—something that would keep her alive, yet still fit Ming Niansheng’s identity. What should she do?
“I told you…” Ming Yuhe’s voice cut through the air.
It was like waking from a dream. Luo Xinci lurched forward, her shoe tip landing squarely on Marquis Wuling’s robe. In that instant, a flash of inspiration struck her. The raw instinct to survive burned away her fear of the corpse. She lifted her foot and kicked the body hard.
The move seemed to catch Ming Yuhe off guard. His brows drew together slowly, and after a pause he spoke again, reproach in his tone: “How can you treat Father like that?”
*What right do you have to accuse me!* Luo Xinci screamed inwardly, though outwardly she forced herself into meek defiance: “The one who gave me life and raised me was my mother. He committed wrongs without reflection, only blaming others. He was a vile man, unworthy of being my father!”
Ming Yuhe’s gaze sharpened. “If you despised him so much, why come to the capital to visit?”
“It was Grandmother’s command,” Luo Xinci answered quickly. Afraid of saying too much, she dared not linger on the old matriarch. To prove her stance, she added firmly, “Even without today’s events, I would have found another chance to strike him down—to avenge the humiliation my mother suffered.”
The last words were dangerously bold. Unsure if she had gone too far, she feigned tears and dabbed at her eyes.
*Thud—thud—*
The only sound in the side hall was Ming Yuhe’s dagger tapping against the desk, each sharp strike piercing straight into Luo Xinci’s chest, filling her with dread.
At last, Ming Yuhe spoke again: “After all these years, little sister, you’ve changed so much I can hardly recognize you.”
Her heart jolted violently. Changed? But hadn’t Ming Niansheng said she had barely met him at all? How could there be talk of change?
Panic fluttered in her chest. Her lips trembled as she forced out a reply: “Yes… yes, elder brother.”