Ch 21: When the Wild Goose Returns

Qing Yan’s ears hadn’t reacted yet, but her apricot eyes were already clouded with uneasy shock.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Duan Wucuo rolling up his sleeve, revealing a section of pale wrist. Her mind seemed to spin in circles before sluggishly clicking into place.

She finally realized what Duan Wucuo was saying.

“What do you mean…”
Her tongue moved faster than her thoughts—her soft voice trailing off like a murmur.

Suddenly, Duan Wucuo leaned closer. His sleeve brushed lightly against the back of her hand resting on her knee, then drifted away.

He turned his head slightly, bringing his ear near as he asked, “What did the princess say?”

So close—if she opened her mouth, her lips might brush his ear. If she blinked, her lashes would graze the raven-black hair at his temple.

The world seemed to fall silent. The shouts and calls from the bustling street below faded, as if separated by the River of Forgetfulness.

“Insolent—!”
Qing Yan’s voice abruptly changed from soft and gentle to drawn-out and indignant, laced with anger.

Like a proud peacock—though one plucked bare, all bravado and no force.

She reminded herself she wasn’t Qing’er now, but Princess Shi Lingwu of Tao, defending her honor against humiliation.

Duan Wucuo rubbed the edge of his ear with the back of a finger, then turned to face Qing Yan directly.

His dark eyes were like still water under soft moonlight, calm and gentle.

With a faint smile in his voice, he said,
“If the princess truly speaks the truth, then the kingdom of Yi might need to question the Emperor of Tao’s sincerity.”

Panic flared in Qing Yan’s heart.

She knew perfectly well that Duan Wucuo was only threatening her—there was no way he’d really travel all the way to confront the Emperor of Tao over this.

But she was a fake princess, so the threat still struck deep.

Her little face went pale. She bit down on her plush lips, eyes reddening as she looked at him.

She said,
“Why must Prince Zhan press me so?
I know my own shortcomings. That’s why I’ve humbled myself these past few days, trying in every way to win your favor.
All in hopes that when you one day learn the truth, you’d remember my efforts and temper your anger.

Now that I’ve learned Prince Min has lost his wife, I simply found a more suitable match for myself.
Whether I’m worthy or not, I’ll no longer be your wife.
Please, Prince Zhan, let me go.”

Her pale little face and reddened apricot eyes radiated a pitiful sense of grievance.

Her voice was naturally sweet, and when she deliberately softened it, it gained an almost syrupy quality.

Word by word, her pleading tone landed straight on Duan Wucuo’s heart.

“And what if I insist that you become this monk’s wife?”

Qing Yan’s eyes widened in shock, staring blankly at him. Her cherry lips parted, but no words came.

His words echoed in her ears, looping over and over as she tried to make sense of them.

“Hmm?”

Duan Wucuo placed both hands on the windowsill, on either side of her, and slowly leaned closer, as if trying to peer deeper into the secret panic behind her deer-like eyes.

Qing Yan caught the faint scent of sandalwood from his robes.

Her mind was blank. Her heart was flustered.

As Duan Wucuo drew closer, her body instinctively reacted—she leaned back, away from him.

But she was seated on a narrow windowsill.

His scandalous words continued to slide leisurely into her ears:

“Having lain with someone else isn’t so bad.
More experience means more fun.
Like a fine, heady wine—it has a charm that sweet spring water can never match.”

Dressed in monk’s robes, looking like a figure of ascetic purity, yet speaking such outrageous words with utter calm—he was the very picture of righteous depravity.

Qing Yan’s lips trembled. Staring at his opening and closing mouth, she reached up to cover her ears.

A teasing glint flashed at the corner of Duan Wucuo’s eyes.

He leaned in further, grasped her wrist, and gently pulled her hand away, murmuring by her ear:
“This humble monk, bound by the five precepts and long suffering beneath the cold lamplight of the temple,
—if the princess would kindly offer some instruction in the pleasures of fish and water,
it would truly be the utmost bliss of the mortal world.”

Qing Yan yanked her hands free, desperately trying to escape both his trapping gaze and the filth he was spouting.

She forgot she was perched on a narrow ledge. As she pushed against him and leaned back, her upper body suddenly tilted outward.

She gave a startled cry and flailed for something to hold onto—grabbing the front of Duan Wucuo’s monk robe.

He didn’t move. His hands still rested on the sill around her. He merely smiled at her panic, poised and elegant.

And yet—with those filthy words still echoing in her ears—this beautiful face seemed to hide nothing but treachery beneath its fine features.

The wind brushed past her ears. Qing Yan was truly afraid now.

Afraid she might fall from this third-floor window.

She clung tightly to his robes, tugging them into disarray. The loose monk’s robe slid open, revealing a snowy white inner garment beneath.

The simple blue sash tied at his narrow waist slipped slowly to the floor.

Duan Wucuo looked out the window toward the official road, where Prince Min’s caravan was passing.
Unhurriedly, he said,
“No need for such urgency, Princess.
To begin disrobing in public like this… hardly proper, wouldn’t you say?”

Qing Yan’s ears burned. She let go at once.

She reached blindly for the window frame, but her hand slipped on the carved lattice. She lost her balance—her waist and hips tipping backward.

Only then did Duan Wucuo finally reach out and catch her.

Dangling outside the window, he was her only support.
With his tug, she crashed hard into his chest.

She was soft and warm—but his chest beneath the silken robe was cold and unyielding.

Across the street, a few curious eyes peeked through opposite windows.

Duan Wucuo calmly closed the window. His palm fell gently on Qing Yan’s slim back, lightly patting her.

He seemed to be soothing her, comforting her.

But with each gentle pat, Qing Yan’s spine arched slightly—until her entire body went stiff.

She remained still, her frantic heartbeat pressed against Duan Wucuo’s chest.

Sensing it, his eyes finally took on a different look.

He lowered his gaze to the girl frozen in his arms, thoughtful.

To him, Qing Yan was like a transparent little girl—like a sheet of white paper, every thought written clearly upon it.

He realized, just then, that perhaps he had gone too far.
He had truly frightened her.

But behind every tease was an unspoken premise—he had already decided he would marry her.

Since receiving Emperor Wen He’s approval, he had been halfway there.

After seeing her appearance at the other palace that night, he was nearly fully convinced.

Whether or not she wanted to marry him didn’t matter.
It was never part of his consideration.

Duan Wucuo curved his lips into a light smile.
Thinking about it this way, he didn’t feel he had gone too far after all.

A wife is someone one has to cherish for a lifetime—so it’s only right to make sure she grows into someone interesting. That way, the days to come will be filled with amusement.

He picked a sunflower seed off Qing Yan’s skirt, popped it into his mouth, and cracked it open. The small sound echoed clearly in the overly quiet room.

That tiny crack coincided perfectly with a single loud thump of Qing Yan’s heart.

It was as if a cloud had wrapped around her—yet in that moment, the cloud dispersed with the crisp snap of the seed shell.

The distant hawking and street calls became clear again.

Qing Yan’s heartbeat slowed. The flush on her cheeks cooled as she slowly regained her composure.

Duan Wucuo pinched her chin, lifting her face—and then placed the seed kernel he’d just cracked open into her mouth.

His fingertips were cold, brushing unintentionally against her soft lips.

For a second, their eyes met.
Qing Yan forcefully pushed him away, swiftly slipped past his side, jumped down from the windowsill—and fled without looking back.

The sound of her ornaments chimed faintly as she left. Duan Wucuo didn’t stop her; he only bent down and picked up the blue sash of his monk’s robe that had fallen to the ground.

Qing Yan flung open the door—and ran straight into Su Ruche.

Su Ruche was standing at the door. No one knew when she’d returned, or how long she’d been standing there.

“I… I’m going back first.”

Su Ruche smiled and agreed, her expression giving nothing away.

Qing Yan pulled the just-arrived Wen Xi up the stairs and hurried downstairs.

She no longer wanted to stay anywhere Duan Wucuo was. As long as he was there, even the scent of sandalwood made her dizzy.

Su Ruche watched Qing Yan’s retreating back as she descended. Her gaze turned cold. Even the whites of her eyes gradually tinged red, brimming with hatred.

Her hand on the doorframe clenched tightly. Her nails dug into the aged yellow wood.

She no longer believed that Qing Yan was some foolish, naive princess—she only saw a scheming girl full of hidden agendas.

Su Ruche was tense, her thoughts singular:
If she wanted Prince Zhan, she had to get rid of this wretched woman.

And she was jealous.

Her vision blurred—under the broken, dappled light, it was as if the person falling into Duan Wucuo’s arms wasn’t Qing Yan, but herself.

Dark vines of obsession grew wildly in the shadowed corners of her heart, threatening to strangle it completely.

The thorns on the vines were dense, and with each surge of anger, they stabbed viciously into her chest.

She had already gone mad for Duan Wucuo once—had even set up her own older sister. Why would she show mercy to Qing Yan?

In just an instant, a cruel plan took root in her mind.

Hearing footsteps behind her, Su Ruche turned her head—putting on the bright, innocent smile of a 15-year-old girl. She greeted Duan Wucuo sweetly:
“Prince Zhan.”

Duan Wucuo had somehow already put himself back in order. Not a single wrinkle marred his monk’s robe.

He responded casually with a soft “Mm,” without even glancing at her, then walked out at an unhurried pace.

Su Ruche’s eyes clung to him.

She wished she could follow him right now, never be apart again.

But she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t time yet.

She suppressed her longing, gathered herself, and went to find Cheng Ji.

Cheng Ji—Cheng Mujin’s younger brother—was the legitimate eldest grandson of the Left Chancellor’s family, and a well-known rake in the capital.

Chasing cats, walking dogs, indulging in wine and pleasure, gambling, frequenting brothels, and bullying others—

Every vice a typical rich wastrel might have, he had.
And even a few others they wouldn’t dare indulge in, he had those too.

Su Ruche arrived at the Cheng residence.

Cheng Ji was perched on a courtyard wall, a woman’s ornamental hairpin clamped in his mouth, squinting down at her with a rogue’s grin.

“Well now, what brings the little princess to slum it at my place?”

Su Ruche said,
“I heard you tried to win over the top courtesan at Manxiang Pavilion a few days ago, but lost to a penniless scholar?”

Cheng Ji’s expression darkened at once. He ran his tongue slowly across the bead on the hairpin, then asked,
“What, the little princess want to come keep me company instead?”

Then he burst into loud laughter.

Su Ruche forced down her disgust and had her maid hand over a portrait of Qing Yan.

With a stern face, she said:
“I haven’t seen this top courtesan of Manxiang Pavilion, but I refuse to believe she could outshine the beauty of Princess Huachao.
It’s just a shame she has her eyes set on Prince Min.”

Cheng Ji scoffed and casually unrolled the painting—to reveal a stunning woman in a bridal gown.

His smile faded ever so slightly.

Su Ruche caught the shift in his expression and felt reassured.

She said slowly:
“Cheng Ji, last time you lost to a scholar.
This time, you’re not going to lose to that blind, foolish Prince Min, are you?”

Cheng Ji tossed the scroll aside, leapt down from the wall, and landed right in front of Su Ruche. She took a step back.

He twirled the hairpin in his fingers and chuckled:
“Little princess, you think I’m stupid, don’t you?
Trying to use me like some tool.”

“Think what you want.”

With that, Su Ruche turned and left.

Cheng Ji stood there, tongue leisurely circling the base of his teeth, arms crossed, tapping his elbow rhythmically.

One look, and it was clear—he was already scheming something.

Meanwhile, Duan Wucuo entered the palace to meet with Emperor Wen He.

“Ah Jiu, you’re here!”

As soon as he saw Duan Wucuo, the emperor broke into a broad smile.

Just moments before, his brow had been furrowed with worries about the Empress, imperial heirs, and the chaos of court affairs.

He stood up quickly.
“Come, come—sit!”

Duan Wucuo didn’t sit. He got straight to the point:
“I want Princess Huachao. Bestow the marriage.”

Emperor Wen He paused for a beat before replying blankly:
“Ah?”

He had both hands resting on his desk, but now stood upright like a kindly old man with his hands behind his back.

His smile hadn’t yet faded—but there was a stiffness to it.

He looked at Duan Wucuo, hesitating to speak.

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