Dinner was unusually harmonious. Most of the conversation was between Su Jin and Shen Yu, discussing affairs on the frontier and some of the thrilling cases Su Jin had handled in the past.
When men gathered, there was always some drinking involved. Su Yihan couldn’t sit for long, so halfway through, she left. It was generally considered rude to leave before the elders finished, but her weak body was an exception.
Back in the courtyard, under the moonlight, Su Yihan reached up and took down one of the notes:
—Secret chamber assassination, second passage, substitution by Li…
Each note contained methods for executing perfect cases.
She hadn’t confiscated them because her courtyard didn’t allow outsiders—she could boldly hang them on the tree.
Threaded with red string and enclosed in frosted pouches, they swayed in the wind and rain, giving an eerie kind of beauty.
“Miss, should we take these down?” Tao Chun asked. She hadn’t looked at the contents, respecting her mistress’s privacy and taboos.
“No need,” Su Yihan replied, rehanging the note. Her eyes were cold. “He won’t come here a second time.”
She would never allow herself to show any mercy.
Feng Chao finally unleashed his inner wildness, driving the carriage at double the usual speed through the streets.
Marquis Qing’an gripped the handles inside the carriage, his face pale, incredulous:
“Has Feng Chao gone mad?”
He wanted to warn Shen Yu and climbed into his carriage after leaving the Shen residence.
Shen Yu smiled, a hint of indulgence in his expression:
“Probably pent up—let him vent a little.”
The marquis panicked:
“Shen Yu, surely you’re not… with that boy Feng Chao?”
He’d heard gossip that Shen Yu and Feng Chao spent years together—meals, baths, sleeping on the same board… gradually, his suspicions grew.
Closing his eyes, he mustered courage:
“Even though your official rank is higher than mine now, I am still your father. Let me advise you: even if Miss Su is proud and dismissive, you… you shouldn’t lower yourself to… to Feng Chao!”
He said everything in one breath, then squinted to gauge Shen Yu’s reaction.
Shen Yu covered his face and laughed silently. He knew his father was unpredictable—fond of beauties, lazy—but these thoughts were… unique.
Shen Yu raised an eyebrow:
“Who told you your son likes Miss Su?”
The marquis scolded, frustrated:
“Why lie to your father? I’m not that rigid! If you like her, Miss Su wouldn’t refuse!”
Today he had openly admitted there was a woman he desired but couldn’t have. Who could resist Shen Yu’s status, appearance, and talent?
Only Miss Su had everything Shen Yu’s other admirers did.
“I…” Shen Yu was speechless. “No, don’t overthink it.”
He admired Su Yihan, that was all. He admired capable women, so his attitude toward her was naturally warmer than to ordinary people. It was admiration, nothing to do with gender.
The marquis didn’t believe him:
“I’ve inquired today. Miss Su is clearly protective of her daughter, unwilling to marry her off lightly. Your only chance is to heal her illness.”
That aligned with Shen Yu’s own thoughts. He was too lazy to explain to his absurd father, so he said casually:
“Mm.”
Sensing his perfunctory tone, the marquis felt frustrated but dared not press further.
Indeed, Miss Su was exceptional. Compared to the gossip in the streets, seeing her in person revealed her beauty, upbringing, and talent—matching Lady Su herself.
Although the perpetrator of the Han family case had been found, the Kong family matter was just beginning.
Xiaoluo, an accomplice, was imprisoned. To the Kongs, she was a disgrace—connected to Kong Hongcai’s infidelity. Naturally, Kong wanted her quietly eliminated in jail.
Kong Wenlang, a scholar, knelt outside Kong Hongcai’s room, refusing food and drink as leverage:
“Father, Xiaoluo is innocent. I beg you, please spare her.”
Even a half-sibling deserved protection; the fault lay with Cheng Guan and their mother. What choice did the girl have?
“Kong Wenlang!” Kong Hongcai roared. “Are you trying to kill me with frustration?”
Worn and pale from long kneeling, Kong Wenlang looked hollow and weak:
“Father, if you won’t spare Xiaoluo, I don’t want to live. I cannot protect the ones I love, not even my sister. What’s the point of living if I’m useless, just wasting air…”
Kong Hongcai relented: she could remain imprisoned, but she must endure punishment there; he would not acknowledge her.
“Thank you, Father,” Kong Wenlang finally felt a bit relieved.
Meanwhile, Zhuang Manqing faced scorn at home. Proud of her appearance, she never went out, crying alone in the attic.
Why? Why, after escaping that demon and struggling so hard, did Cheng Guan still haunt and ruin her family?
Kong Hongcai would certainly reject her; she couldn’t stay in the capital.
Her eyes red and swollen, Zhuang Manqing climbed up with numb fingers, using a rope and stepping on a chair…
“The mistress has hanged herself! Someone—help!”
A maid opened the door to see her hanging, her face dark purple, eyes rolled back, legs dangling weakly, blood seeping into the rope.
Terrified, the maid fell to the floor, crying out.
Su Yihan’s painting session was planned. The weather was good today, and she set up paper, ink, brush, and inkstone in the courtyard. Despite her frailty, she could lift the brush.
Three thousand strands of black hair fell over her shoulders, unruly and brushing the paper.
Tao Chun hurried inside to fetch a ribbon, gently tying Su Yihan’s hair and letting the rest fall to her waist.
Her delicate face emerged, looking healthier in the sunlight.
“Miss, why paint all of a sudden?” Tao Chun asked while grinding ink.
“Just in a good mood,” Su Yihan replied lightly, lips curling, then fell into silence.
She raised her brush, translating her wild imagination onto paper.
Her painting wasn’t technically masterful but had a strong personal style. On a soft quilt, a man and a woman lay together.
The woman was stunning, her eyes full of defiance and pride.
Legs entwined, the man was not handsome, with a dark, frenzied expression—the most distinctive feature was his height.
Beneath the bed, several snakes flicked their tongues, lifelike, as if they had their own consciousness.
Tao Chun blushed furiously:
“Miss! You… how can you paint something like this!”