Only three days remained until they reached the border of Dayin.
On the fifth night of their rest, the poisoned food incident occurred. The following night, the second wave of assassins struck without pause.
The night hung like a heavy black cloth, pressing down upon the desolate wilderness. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. After days of arduous travel and two consecutive assassination attempts, the entire caravan was on edge, seeing enemies in every shadow.
That night, Murong Zhao lay on her bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
An intense sense of foreboding gripped her heart, as if an invisible hand were choking her throat, making it hard to breathe. She abruptly opened her eyes and sat up, her fingers instinctively reaching for the dagger beside her pillow.
Outside the tent, a tall, steadfast figure stood like an unyielding rock, his back taut as a fully drawn bow, radiating an aura of fierce, murderous intent.
It was Wei Zhao.
His wounds had not yet healed; he should have been resting quietly. Yet, he remained steadfastly outside her tent, not relaxing his guard for even a moment.
Murong Zhao gently lifted a corner of the tent flap and called softly, "What's wrong?"
Wei Zhao did not turn his head. His gaze swept like a hawk's over the surrounding pitch-black dense forest, his voice low and tense. "There's movement. A considerable number."
He paused, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Your Highness, return inside immediately. Secure the tent flap. No matter what you hear, do not come out."
Murong Zhao's heart sank. She was about to speak when the situation abruptly changed!
"Whoosh—!"
Several sharp whistling sounds suddenly tore through the night sky!
From the darkness, over a dozen masked assassins clad in black emerged like phantoms. Wielding sharp blades, their killing intent was overwhelming, their target clear—they charged straight for Murong Zhao's tent!
At the camp's perimeter, two sentries fell silently—the assassins had eliminated the guards before launching their full assault.
"Kill!"
A low shout, and the cold gleam of blades flashed!
Wei Zhao's eyes turned icy. He swiftly drew his sword!
"Clang—!"
A clear, sharp ring of steel shattered the silence. Ignoring his unhealed wounds, he lunged forward, single-handedly placing himself squarely before the tent entrance, directly facing over a dozen elite assassins!
Blades and swords clashed, erupting instantly!
The crisp clang of metal, the fierce shouts of assassins, the dull thuds of blades piercing flesh—all mixed with the howling wind, exploding violently in the night.
Wei Zhao, already severely wounded, was far less agile than usual. Every swing of his sword tugged at the wounds on his back, sending waves of tearing agony through his body. Yet, he did not retreat a single step, holding his ground before the tent entrance like a blood-soaked wall.
Blood continuously gushed from his body, staining his dark combat attire crimson, dripping from his fingertips and pooling into small puddles on the ground.
A blade scar sliced across his left arm, deep enough to reveal bone.
A sword thrust pierced his shoulder blade, blood spurting forth.
A fierce kick slammed into his chest. He coughed up a mouthful of blood but still gripped his sword, cutting down the assassin who had closed in.
Inside the tent, Murong Zhao tightly clutched the short sword her mother had left her, her knuckles white.
She heard everything clearly.
She heard the sharp whistle of blades cutting through air, heard Wei Zhao's muffled groans suppressed to the extreme, heard the sound of blood splattering.
She wanted to rush out.
She wanted to take up her sword and fight alongside him.
But she could not.
If she went out, Wei Zhao would surely be distracted. Then, both of them would die here.
Endure.
Stay calm.
This was the only principle that had kept her alive in the Cold Palace.
Murong Zhao bit down hard on her lower lip until she tasted blood, forcing herself to remain where she stood, motionless. The nails of her hand gripping the sword hilt nearly dug into her palm.
Suddenly, the tent flap on one side was slashed open from the outside!
A wounded assassin staggered in, covered in blood, his eyes still fierce. Spotting Murong Zhao, he let out a sinister laugh and raised his blade to strike—
Murong Zhao’s pupils contracted sharply.
No scream.
No evasion.
The swordsmanship honed over ten years instinctively awakened at this moment.
With a twist of her wrist, her sword thrust upward in a diagonal arc—
“Ssshh—!”
The sharp blade plunged cleanly and precisely into the assassin’s chest.
The assassin’s eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at the seemingly delicate girl before him. His body swayed, then collapsed straight backward.
Warm, glaring blood splattered onto Murong Zhao’s dress.
Panting, she gazed at the blood on her blade, her fingertips trembling slightly, yet not a trace of fear showed in her eyes.
So this was what it felt like to kill.
So she truly could do it.
She suddenly recalled her mother’s words: “Zhao’er, when this swordsmanship is mastered to its peak, even in the direst of circumstances, you can carve a path through.”
Mother, your daughter has done it.
The sounds of fighting outside the tent continued.
Murong Zhao tightened her grip on the blood-stained short sword, standing guard behind the tent flap, ready to charge out at any moment.
Time passed with agonizing slowness, second by second.
After what felt like an eternity, the clamor of battle outside abruptly ceased.
Only heavy panting and the drip of blood remained.
The Imperial Guard had finally arrived upon hearing the commotion and engaged the remaining assassins.
The tent flap was gently lifted aside.
Wei Zhao stood at the entrance, drenched in blood, his clothes torn to shreds, covered in countless large and small sword and knife wounds, some deep enough to reveal bone. He swayed unsteadily, struggling to straighten his back as he looked toward the girl inside the tent.
Summoning the last of his strength, he forced out a few words:
“Princess… it’s safe now…”
As the words fell—
“Thud—”
His tall frame could no longer hold itself up, collapsing straight toward her.
Murong Zhao’s pupils contracted sharply. Instinctively, she lunged forward, reaching out to catch him.
Scalding blood instantly soaked through her dress, spreading across the fabric, warm and glaring.
Wei Zhao’s eyes were tightly shut, his face as pale as paper, his breathing so faint it was almost imperceptible. His entire body burned with fever, clearly from reopened wounds and a resurgence of high fever.
Kneeling on the cold ground, Murong Zhao held the severely wounded man in her arms. Her heart felt as if gripped by a powerful hand, the pain so intense she could barely breathe.
She did not cry.
Eighteen years of hardship had long since dried her tears.
She only clenched her teeth tightly, her hands trembling as she took out the golden wound medicine she carried with her. Layer by layer, she personally bandaged his wounds.
With each wrap of the bandage, more blood soaked through.
Lowering her head, she looked at Wei Zhao, unconscious and lifeless. Her voice was as light as the wind, yet carried a bone-deep bitterness and resolve:
“Wei Zhao, you cannot die.”
“You are the only person Mother left for me.”
“If you die, how will I repay Mother’s kindness?”
“You must live… do you hear me!”
Wei Zhao, in his unconscious state, seemed to hear her words.
The corner of his pale, bloodless lips curved upward ever so slightly.
As if in response to her, or as a silent promise.
Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in the Beishuo Imperial Palace.
Three days later, the Empress received a carrier pigeon message.
She unfolded the secret letter, her fingertips lightly rubbing it, and the paper turned to ashes.
Murong Yan leaned in, asking urgently, “Mother Empress, what happened?”
The Empress raised her eyes, her gaze as cold and sinister as ice: "The third group has also failed."
Murong Yan's smile instantly froze on her face, disbelief evident: "How is that possible? How is that wretched woman still alive?!"
The Empress did not answer, merely withdrawing another secret letter from her sleeve and handing it to the eunuch beside her: "Deliver this to Dayin, to Consort Shu."
The eunuch bowed his head: "Yes."
Murong Yan was puzzled: "Mother, do you know Consort Shu of Dayin?"
A cold smile curled at the corner of the Empress's lips: "Consort Shu wishes to become Empress, but unfortunately, she has no sons, and the Emperor of Dayin has long delayed appointing an Empress. Murong Zhao is going there to marry the Emperor of Dayin—tell me, will Consort Shu tolerate her?"
Murong Yan's eyes lit up: "Mother is brilliant! Using others to do the deed, letting the people of Dayin deal with her!"
The Empress picked up her teacup, took a gentle sip, her eyes filled with a cold, unwavering determination:
"If she cannot be killed on the road, then let her die in the imperial city of Dayin."
At that moment, in a wilderness camp a thousand miles away.
Murong Zhao kept watch beside the unconscious Wei Zhao, her fingertips lightly tracing the dried bloodstains on the sword blade.
It was the blood of an assassin.
One she had killed with her own hands.
Suddenly, she raised her eyes, gazing toward the direction of Dayin.
In her dark, deep eyes, there was no fear—only a coldness tempered by fire.
"Empress, you had better pray that I die on the road."
"Otherwise—"
"Once I reach Dayin, who will be the one left alive is anyone's guess."
The howling wind and snow could not disperse the sharpness in her gaze.
Early the next morning, the procession set off once more.
Only three days remained until the imperial city of Dayin.
Ahead awaited her the Emperor of Dayin, to whom she was to be married; an inner palace surrounded by wolves and tigers; and a Consort Shu who wished to see her dead.
Yet Murong Zhao sat upright in the carriage, her back straight, not a trace of fear in her eyes.
The swordsmanship her mother had left her, she had practiced for ten years.
Wei Zhao had protected her with his life, allowing her to survive and come this far.
From this day forward, she was no longer just the abandoned daughter of the Cold Palace, no longer just a substitute princess to be slaughtered at will.
She was Murong Zhao.
The Murong Zhao who had hidden her edge for ten years and was finally about to unsheathe her sword.
Dayin, I am coming.