For several days, the thought refused to leave Qingli’s mind.
Every time she opened her medicine cabinet, she saw the dwindling supplies.
Every time a servant secretly left a message asking for help, she felt the same knot tightening in her chest.
And every time she looked beyond the western courtyard walls, she remembered the forests outside the capital.
The herbs she needed were there.
Just beyond her reach.
One afternoon, Qingli sat in her room, organizing medicinal ingredients, while Lan Yue counted the remaining supplies.
The maid’s expression grew increasingly grim as she stared at the nearly empty jars.
“No.”
She shook her head firmly.
“This is terrible.”
Qingli glanced up from the shelf.
“What is?”
Lan Yue turned to her as though the answer should have been obvious and held up an almost empty container.
“We have enough angelica root for maybe two more treatments.”
She grabbed another jar.
“Foxglove is nearly gone.”
Another.
“Wild chrysanthemum is almost empty.”
Then she dramatically collapsed into a nearby chair.
“We’re doomed.”
Qingli laughed softly.
“We’re not doomed.”
“We are absolutely doomed.”
Lan Yue pointed accusingly at the shelves.
“Do you know how many people secretly rely on your medicines?”
Qingli’s smile faded into something quieter.
She did know.
More than Lan Yue realized.
A gentle knock sounded against the outer wall.
Once.
Twice.
Soft enough to avoid attention.
Distinct enough to be recognized.
Both women froze.
Lan Yue immediately straightened while Qingli set the bundle of herbs down.
A moment later, a familiar voice drifted through the wall in a cautious whisper.
“Miss Qingli?”
Lan Yue immediately hurried toward the sound.
Near the far corner of the courtyard, a single loose brick sat hidden beneath a climbing vine.
Over the past few months, it had become the servants’ secret method of communication with Qingli.
Through that narrow opening passed messages, requests for medicine, and occasional words of gratitude that never could have been spoken openly.
Lan Yue knelt and carefully removed the brick.
A folded note had been slipped through the gap.
“Someone left a message.”
She carried it back and handed it to Qingli.
The paper was worn and creased, folded several times over as though it had passed through many cautious hands before reaching its destination.
Qingli unfolded it carefully.
The moment her eyes fell upon the contents, her expression softened, and the faint crease between her brows disappeared.
A gentle warmth settled in her eyes.
Lan Yue immediately grew curious.
“What is it?”
“It’s Old Chen.”
Lan Yue immediately sat up.
“Is he alright?”
Qingli nodded.
“He says his granddaughter is expecting a child.”
The maid smiled.
“That’s wonderful.”
The note continued.
Miss Qingli, thank you for the medicines you gave us last year.
My granddaughter remains healthy because of your care.
Qingli’s smile slowly faded.
Because she remembered.
The herbs she had used for those treatments were almost gone now.
At dinner, Lan Yue watched Qingli from across the table with growing suspicion.
Qingli had barely touched her meal.
Instead, she sat quietly, absentmindedly pushing rice around her bowl while staring at nothing in particular.
The maid narrowed her eyes.
“You’re thinking.”
Qingli looked up with an expression of perfect innocence.
“No.”
“You’re definitely thinking.”
“I always think.”
“Not like this.”
Lan Yue pointed her chopsticks at her.
“This is the kind of thinking that leads to trouble.”
A laugh escaped Qingli before she could stop it.
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
Lan Yue set down her bowl and folded her arms.
“I know that look.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
She nodded with absolute certainty.
“It’s the look you get right before you convince yourself that something is a perfectly reasonable idea.”
Qingli’s lips twitched.
“The last time you looked like this, you broke a lock to save Old Chen.”
Qingli immediately looked away…which was answer enough.
Lan Yue groaned.
“Oh no.”
After dinner, the two women sat beneath the apricot tree.
The evening air carried the sweet scent of blossoms and moonlight filtered through the branches overhead.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
The silence settled comfortably between them until Qingli finally broke it.
“We need more herbs.”
Lan Yue sighed.
“There it is.”
Qingli smiled weakly.
“We do.”
“I know.”
The maid stooped to pick up a blossom that had fallen onto the stone path.
“But the gates are locked.”
Qingli’s gaze slowly drifted toward the far side of the courtyard.
Toward a very specific section of the wall.
Lan Yue followed her line of sight.
The moment she realized what Qingli was looking at, she sat bolt upright.
“No.”
Qingli said nothing.
“Absolutely not.”
Still silence.
Lan Yue stared.
“Miss.”
Qingli continued looking at the wall.
“Miss.”
The maid’s voice immediately rose in alarm.
“You’re planning something.”
Qingli said nothing.
She simply sat there, looking entirely too innocent.
Then a tiny smile appeared at the corner of her lips.
It was small.
Barely noticeable.
But Lan Yue had known Qingli for years.
She knew that smile.
It was the smile Qingli wore whenever she had already made up her mind.
The following morning, Qingli rose before dawn and carefully dressed in simple clothing suitable for traveling..
The courtyard remained dark and quiet, and most of the people in Wen Residence were still asleep.
Then, without another word, she quietly began packing a small basket.
A medicinal knife.
Collection bags.
A water flask.
Her notebook.
Everything she would need for gathering herbs.
Before the first rays of sunlight crept over the walls of Wen Residence, Qingli sat alone beneath the apricot tree, quietly finalizing a plan that she knew she had no business considering.
The western courtyard had never felt smaller.
For twenty-two years, the walls surrounding it had defined Wen Qingli’s world.
They had witnessed her childhood tears, her loneliness, and the countless punishments that marked her life.
They had also sheltered the few moments of happiness she possessed—quiet afternoons beneath the apricot tree, evenings spent studying medicine, and the warmth of those who had cared for her.
For most of her life, those walls had seemed impossibly high.
Uncrossable.
Permanent.
But standing beneath the apricot tree with her basket in hand, Qingli found herself seeing them differently.
For the first time in twenty-two years, she was preparing to leave them behind.
Even if only for a few hours.
Even if she had to return before sunset.
For once, she wanted to see what lay beyond the walls of her cage.
Even if she had to climb over them.
Before dawn, the entire estate remained asleep.
The sky was still dark, painted in deep shades of blue and gray, and a cool spring breeze stirred the apricot blossoms overhead.
Qingli stood beneath the western wall carrying a small basket on her back.
The ladder creaked as Qingli carefully climbed upward.
Halfway up, she paused as her heart pounded.
Not from fear.
From anticipation.
Beyond the wall lay the world.
The real world.
The one she had only heard about through books and stories.
The one she had been denied her entire life.
A few moments later, she reached the top.
Then she froze.
For years, she had imagined what lay beyond the western wall.
As a child, she had pressed herself against the weathered stones, standing on tiptoe as though a few extra inches might allow her to glimpse the world that had always been denied to her.
She had built countless pictures in her mind from scraps of overheard conversations and from the stories wandering merchants occasionally shared with the servants.
None of them came close to the truth.
The reality stole the breath from her lungs.
Before her, the western horizon stretched endlessly beneath the awakening sky.
The darkness of night was slowly retreating, surrendering to ribbons of gold, pink, and pale lavender that painted the heavens with the first promise of dawn.
Sunlight spilled across the land in gentle waves, touching the world with a soft, ethereal glow.
And far beyond, she could see the outline of the mountains, and for a long moment, she simply stared.
A strange ache spread through her chest, deep and painful, tightening around her heart until it was difficult to breathe.
The realization struck harder than she expected as an entire world had existed beyond those walls.
Tears unexpectedly stung her eyes.
Not because the view was beautiful.
But because she suddenly understood just how much of life had been stolen from her.
With great reluctance, Qingli tore her eyes from the sunrise and turned toward the other side of the wall.
For a moment, she simply stood there, staring down at the ground beyond.
It felt strangely significant—as though she stood at the boundary between the life she had always known and the unknown world waiting beyond it.
Taking a steadying breath, she began her descent.
Using the stack of wooden crates positioned against the wall, she carefully lowered herself down, her hands gripping the rough stone for support.
One step.
Then another.
The distance was not far, yet each movement felt like crossing an invisible threshold.
When her feet finally touched the earth below, a strange thrill raced through her chest.
For the first time in her life, Qingli stood beyond the walls that had confined her.
The western courtyard wall loomed behind them.
Tall.
Cold.
Imposing.
For years, it had felt insurmountable—a barrier that separated her from the rest of the world.
Its shadow had stretched across her childhood, defining the limits of her existence and reminding her where she belonged.
Yet now, standing on the other side of it, Qingli found herself staring back in disbelief.
It looked…
smaller.
Not because the wall had changed.
But because she had.
The journey toward the forest took nearly an hour, though the distance itself should have taken far less time.
Qingli could not help but slow her pace at every turn, captivated by the countless sights unfolding before her.
To others, they were ordinary scenes that blended seamlessly into the rhythm of daily life.
To her, they were small miracles.
She watched street vendors setting up their stalls, steam rising from bamboo baskets as they prepared breakfast for the morning crowd.
The rich aroma of freshly cooked buns, porridge, and noodles drifted through the air, making the bustling streets feel warm and alive.
She lingered outside shops as merchants raised their wooden shutters and swept their doorways, greeting neighboring shopkeepers with familiar smiles and easy conversation.
Customers wandered in and out, bargaining over prices and chatting about the day’s plans.
An elderly couple passed by hand in hand, walking at an unhurried pace.
The old man adjusted the shawl around his wife’s shoulders as a cool breeze swept through the street, earning her a gentle smile that spoke of decades spent together.
Simple life.
Beautiful life.
The kind of life Qingli had only ever glimpsed through distant windows or read about in books.
For twenty-two years, the world beyond the western courtyard had been little more than a collection of stories and imagination.
Yet here it was, vibrant and real, unfolding before her eyes with every step she took, and warmth spread through her chest.
Qingli slowed to a stop in front of a small food stall, drawn by the warm clouds of steam billowing from stacked bamboo baskets.
The vendor, a cheerful middle-aged woman, lifted a lid, and a fragrant burst of heat escaped into the cool morning air.
Inside, plump white buns sat nestled together, their soft surfaces glistening with moisture.
Qingli stood there, captivated.
She had eaten buns before, of course.
The servants occasionally brought leftovers from the main kitchen, and on rare occasions, Nanny Zhao had managed to save one for her.
But she had never seen them being made.
Never watched them emerge fresh and steaming from the baskets.
Never had the freedom to simply stop and buy one because she wanted to.
For a moment, she simply stared.
The vendor noticed her interest and laughed warmly.
“Miss, would you like one?”
Qingli blinked.
The question caught her off guard and her gaze drifted back to the steaming buns.
Then she nodded.
“Yes.”
The single word felt strangely significant.
The vendor quickly wrapped a bun in paper and handed it to her.
The warmth seeped through the thin wrapping and into Qingli’s hands.
She accepted it carefully, almost reverently, as though she had been entrusted with something precious.
The bun was still hot from the steamer as she took a tentative bite.
The soft dough gave way beneath her teeth, releasing a savory filling rich with flavor and warmth.
Her eyes widened.
It was delicious and Qingli stood beneath the morning sun, holding a steaming bun in her hands and watching the city awaken around her, it felt like one of the greatest luxuries she had ever known.
By the time the first rays of sunlight spilled across the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose, she had finally reached the forest.
The moment Qingli stepped beneath the canopy of trees, something within her seemed to awaken.
Her eyes immediately lit up with excitement.
The quiet wonder she had shown throughout the journey transformed into eager enthusiasm.
Her steps quickened, and she moved ahead without realizing it, drawn deeper into the forest as though answering a silent call.
For the first time that morning, she looked completely at ease.
Sunlight filtered through layers of emerald leaves overhead, breaking into countless shafts of golden light that danced across the forest floor.
Birds sang from hidden branches.
The scent of earth, moss, and wild herbs lingered in the cool morning air.
Qingli turned slowly in a circle, taking it all in.
Everywhere she looked, there was life.
Towering trees stretched toward the sky, their trunks thick enough that several people could not have wrapped their arms around them.
Ferns carpeted the ground.
Tiny wildflowers peeked through patches of grass.
Butterflies drifted lazily between beams of sunlight.
A smile spread across her face, bright and genuine, and she looked less like a twenty-two-year-old woman and more like a child discovering the world for the first time.
Without hesitation, she hurried toward a cluster of flowering plants growing beneath a large oak tree and crouched beside them.
She immediately began identifying herbs.
“Wild chrysanthemum.”
Into the basket.
“Angelica.”
Into the basket.
“Foxglove.”
Into the basket.
The hours slipped by almost unnoticed.
One plant led to another.
One discovery led to the next.
Before Qingli realized it, the sun had climbed higher into the sky, and the basket hanging from her arm had gradually filled with medicinal herbs, wildflowers, and roots she had carefully gathered throughout the morning.
Yet what filled her heart was far more precious than anything inside the basket.
For the first time in months—perhaps for the first time in years—Qingli felt genuinely happy.
Not content.
Not merely at peace.
Happy.
The feeling was so unfamiliar that it almost frightened her.
There were no locked gates waiting to close behind her.
Qingli moved leisurely through the forest, pausing every so often to admire a plant or examine a patch of herbs.
Then, without warning, she stopped walking.
Her gaze was fixed on something in the distance, and Qingli frowned.
Qingli slowly made her way toward the clearing, her earlier excitement replaced by focused concentration.
As she reached the edge of the field, she lowered herself into a crouch beside a patch of flattened grass.
Something wasn’t right.
The blades had been crushed recently, bent and broken as though someone—or something—had passed through in a hurry.
Her eyes narrowed.
Carefully, she examined the surrounding area.
Several low branches nearby had been snapped cleanly, their splintered wood still pale and fresh.
Leaves lay scattered across the ground where they had been torn loose.
Qingli’s gaze shifted downward.
Footprints.
Dozens of them.
They marked the soft earth in an uneven trail, cutting through the clearing and disappearing deeper into the forest.
She reached out and lightly touched one of the impressions.
The edges had not yet softened.
The soil inside remained slightly damp.
Fresh.
Very fresh.
Whoever had left them could not have been far ahead.
Then Qingli noticed something else.
A dark stain marked the ground several paces ahead.
Frowning, she walked closer.
The stain spread across the flattened grass and soaked into the soil beneath it, far too large to be mud.
Qingli slowly knelt beside it.
She reached out and touched the edge of the stain.
Then she froze.
Blood.
A considerable amount of blood.
Qingli lifted her gaze toward the deeper forest.
The trail continued.
Broken branches marked the path ahead.
Dark drops of blood stained leaves, roots, and patches of earth.
A wounded person had come through here.
Recently.
Very recently.
A chill crept down her spine as she stared into the shadows between the trees, where the trail disappeared into the depths of the forest.