After the battle at Yanmen Pass, the troops halted temporarily to rest and regroup.
Wei Zhao’s injuries were severe—his back was a bloody mess, and he suffered from recurring high fevers, teetering on the brink of death several times. Murong Zhao set aside her status and personally tended to him at his bedside, feeding him water and changing his dressings, never leaving his side for a moment.
During these days, she noticed a peculiar detail.
Every time the palace servants brought meals, even when Wei Zhao was too weak to lift his hand, he would force himself to take a bite first. Only after confirming it was safe would he silently push the food toward her.
On this day, Murong Zhao watched him pick up his chopsticks and finally spoke up, “What are you doing?”
Wei Zhao paused, his voice low. “One must always guard against others. Your Highness’s life is invaluable and must not be endangered in the slightest.”
A seemingly casual remark, yet it was a gamble with his own life.
Murong Zhao’s heart warmed, but she said nothing more, burying that flicker of warmth deep within.
On the fifth day of their rest, as dusk fell.
Su Yue entered with the evening meal, arranging the bowls and chopsticks while muttering, “Your Highness, that cook today was acting so strangely. When he saw me, his eyes kept darting away, and his hand kept reaching into his robe. Who knows what he’s hiding.”
Murong Zhao’s eyes darkened. “Which cook?”
“The one who arrived half a month ago—thin and small, with a black mole at the corner of his left eye,” Su Yue recalled. “When I went to fetch the meal, he saw me and his hand trembled so badly he nearly dropped the bowl.”
Arrived half a month ago.
Black mole at the corner of his left eye.
Murong Zhao glanced at Wei Zhao, who had already risen despite his injuries and silently slipped out of the tent.
Meanwhile, in the temporary kitchen, the thin, small cook was crouching by the stove.
His surname was Zhao, and others called him Zhao Da. At that moment, he clutched a small oil-paper packet in his hand, his knuckles white and his palm slick with sweat.
Inside the packet was a white powder—the person who gave it to him said that this packet could poison ten people.
All he had to do was sprinkle it into the princess’s meal. Once the deed was done, he would receive a hundred taels of silver. A hundred taels—enough to buy a few acres of poor land back in his hometown, enough for his elderly mother’s medicine and treatment, enough to marry a wife and continue the family line.
But his hands trembled violently.
He remembered when he was fifteen, his parents were so poor they couldn’t put food on the table and sold him into palace service. As he left, his mother clutched his hand and wept, “My son, your mother has failed you. When I’ve saved enough money, I’ll redeem you.”
That wait lasted twenty years.
His mother’s hair had turned completely white, and her eyes were nearly blind. Yet every time he sent a letter home, she would always reply, “My son, your mother is waiting for you to return.”
Zhao Da gripped the oil-paper packet, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes stinging.
If he just sprinkled this packet into the meal, he could go back.
He could see his mother again.
He closed his eyes, tore open the packet, and poured all the white powder into the evening meal prepared for Murong Zhao.
His movements were practiced, but his eyes were terrifyingly empty.
I’m sorry, Your Highness.
This lowly one… had no other choice.
He tidied up, hurried away, and didn’t dare look back at the bowl of porridge.
What he didn’t know was that a pair of eyes in the darkness had witnessed everything.
Wei Zhao hid in the shadows, his fingers quietly gripping the short knife at his waist, but he did not act immediately.
He needed to keep the man alive to uncover the mastermind behind this.
Only after Zhao Da had gone far did Wei Zhao step out slowly. He picked up the bowl of poisoned porridge, found a stray dog nearby, and fed it the porridge.
In less than the time it takes for an incense stick to burn.
The wild dog that had been lively and energetic just moments ago suddenly convulsed, foamed at the mouth, let out a few pitiful whimpers, and then stiffened as it fell to the ground, instantly lifeless.
A deadly poison.
Lethal upon contact.
Wei Zhao’s eyes turned cold and somber as he picked up the bowl of fatal poisoned rice and strode toward Murong Zhao’s tent.
Murong Zhao had not yet fallen asleep and was sitting under the lamplight, polishing her dagger. Seeing Wei Zhao enter with the bowl of rice and noticing the dog carcass not far away, she showed no trace of panic. Instead, she slowly set down the dagger and watched quietly.
“Who sent them?” she asked, her voice unnervingly calm.
Wei Zhao knelt on one knee and replied solemnly, “I have investigated. This cook joined the team just half a month ago. The one who recommended him was a trusted confidant of the Empress.”
The Empress.
Murong Yan.
The answer had long been within her expectations.
Murong Zhao lowered her gaze, staring at the bowl of porridge that emitted a faint aroma of rice yet could snatch a life in an instant. She remained silent for a long time.
She did not cry, did not fear, did not slam the table in anger, nor did she shout in fury.
Ten years in the Cold Palace had accustomed her to deceit and malice, hardening her heart to stone.
Fear?
Useless.
Making a scene?
Only hastened death.
After a long while, she raised her eyes, her dark pupils clear and icy. “From today onward, we will no longer eat the food prepared for the team.”
Wei Zhao looked up. “I will go to the nearby villages and towns to procure dry rations, water, and cooking utensils.”
“With injuries like yours, how will you go?” Murong Zhao frowned.
“There is a town twenty li away. I can make the round trip overnight and return before dawn,” Wei Zhao said calmly, as if discussing a trivial matter. “Your safety cannot wait a moment longer.”
Murong Zhao stared at him for a moment before finally nodding slowly. “Be careful.”
That night, Wei Zhao forced himself to endure his injuries, leading his horse into the darkness. By dawn the next day, he had indeed returned with dry rations, water, and a simple set of cooking utensils. The wounds on his back had reopened from the overnight journey, soaking through the bandages with fresh blood.
Murong Zhao personally applied medicine and re-bandaged his wounds, saying nothing, yet her fingertips were gentler and softer than usual.
From that day forward, no one except Wei Zhao and Su Yue was allowed within three feet of her.
As night fell, Su Yue brought the meal prepared by Wei Zhao and whispered, “Princess, Brother Wei said he will keep watch tonight, so you can rest peacefully.”
Murong Zhao nodded and picked up her chopsticks, but suddenly remembered something. “Where is the cook who poisoned the food?”
Su Yue’s expression shifted slightly, and she lowered her voice. “He’s dead.”
Murong Zhao paused her chopsticks.
“He was found dead in a ravine this morning, his bones shattered as if he had fallen from a great height. The Imperial Guard claimed it was an accidental fall and buried him.”
An accidental fall.
A cold smile curled at the corner of Murong Zhao’s lips.
How convenient.
Poisoned last night, dead by morning.
Was someone in a hurry to silence him, or… was someone deliberately leaking information to lure the snake out of its hole?
She asked no further questions, merely lowered her gaze, picked up a bite of food with her chopsticks, and slowly brought it to her mouth.
Wei Zhao’s cooking skills were unexpectedly good. The rice porridge was soft and tender, the pickled vegetables finely chopped, and the taste carried a hint of home.
For ten years in the Cold Palace, she had survived on leftovers and cold meals. No one had ever prepared a meal specifically for her.
Murong Zhao lowered her head, spoonful by spoonful, finishing the entire bowl of porridge.
After eating, she picked up her dagger again, gently stroking the cold blade with her fingertips. She murmured softly, her voice faint yet carrying a bone-chilling coldness:
"Murong Yan, is my elder sister so afraid that I might actually reach the Yin Kingdom alive?"
"In such a hurry to send me to my death."
The night passed without further words.
At dawn the next day, Murong Zhao stood at the edge of the camp, gazing toward the direction of Dayin.
The wind and snow persisted, the road ahead uncertain.
Yet in her eyes, there was not a trace of fear—only a coldness tempered by fire.
Murong Yan, Empress.
Do you think this is enough to kill me?
You are wrong.
Not only will I reach Dayin alive.
I will also survive, step by step, climbing to the highest peak.
One day, I will personally return every ounce of suffering you have inflicted upon me—a thousandfold, a hundredfold—one by one!
On a distant hill, a figure in dark robes reined in his horse and stood still.
Xiao Yan looked down at the humble marriage procession below, his gaze lingering on the worn-out carriage for a long time.
"Is she the seventh princess sent by Beishuo?"
The shadow guard softly affirmed.
Xiao Yan said nothing more, turned his horse, and disappeared into the night.
Meanwhile, far away in the Beishuo palace, Murong Yan was toying with an exquisite jade pendant, a smug smile on her face. "Mother, that little wretch Murong Zhao must already be dead on the road, right?"
The Empress lifted her teacup, took a delicate sip, her eyes as cold and sinister as ice. "Only death can bring true cleanliness."