Ch 31: When the Wild Goose Returns

Chang Bai stepped into the room. At the sight of Cheng Ji’s corpse on the floor, his expression changed, and he immediately turned to Qing Yan with deep worry in his eyes.

But Qing Yan didn’t even notice Chang Bai—she was staring blankly at Duan Wucuo, who stood at the doorway. Her mind went completely blank for a moment—she hadn’t expected him to return now of all times.

Cheng Ji’s body was still at her feet, completely unhandled. How was she supposed to explain this to Duan Wucuo?

Cheng Ji’s malicious threats before death still echoed in her ears—and she knew there was some truth to his words. After all, she was a foreign princess, married into this household. Her background was nothing compared to the pampered eldest grandson of the Empress Dowager’s favored Left Prime Minister.

And now there was a real, undeniable dead body.

Taking a life could mean losing her own.

She couldn’t help but wonder—would Duan Wucuo uphold the law and hand her over to the magistrate?

All these thoughts flashed through her mind in the span of a few heartbeats.

Then she made a decision. Clutching the hem of her skirt, she stepped over Cheng Ji’s corpse and ran, panicked, into Duan Wucuo’s arms. She threw herself into him and burst into loud sobs.

“Wuu wuu… it was so scary… that bad man… he tried to hurt me… wuuu wuu…” she cried so hard she couldn’t speak clearly, tears falling like rain and soaking into his monk robes.

Qing Yan had flung herself into Duan Wucuo with such force that “threw” was hardly sufficient—”crashed” was more accurate.

Duan Wucuo stood still for a moment, then finally lifted his hand to gently pat her back. The gesture seemed comforting, but his detached manner made others wonder whether it was just for show.

The impersonal feel of his hand on her back made Qing Yan’s heart race. She looked up at him from within his embrace—her small face stained with tears, as though washed clean.

She watched his expression carefully, then lowered her eyes and feigned a pitiful look, clutching tightly at his robe and sobbing, “Wuuu… what do I do… what do I do… I killed someone… wuuu…”

Wen Xi had been just as startled by Duan Wucuo’s sudden return. Her thoughts mirrored Qing Yan’s—worry, fear, and calculations.

And when she saw Qing Yan throw herself into his arms crying, her face, usually calm as stone, flickered with rare emotion.

Chang Bai’s eyes dimmed slightly.

…It probably wasn’t Qing’er, right?

His Qing’er never cried. She even used to scoff at weeping, saying it was the mark of the weak and helpless.

He composed himself, then stepped forward and bowed. “This man disguised himself in dark eunuch robes to sneak into the estate. Most of the servants were newly transferred from the palace and didn’t recognize each other yet, which gave him an opportunity to slip through. I failed in my duty and let Madam be frightened. I await punishment.”

Qing Yan’s eyes flickered—she was just considering whether to use this incident as an excuse to send Chang Bai away.

But before she could decide, Duan Wucuo spoke first.

“Go to the stables and summon Bu Er.”

“Yes.” Chang Bai bowed and quickly left.

Wen Xi came to her senses. She walked over, pretending not to know who Cheng Ji really was, and spoke with anger: “Who knows where this man came from—bold enough to sneak in and pull such disgusting tricks. Either he didn’t care about His Highness, or he really lost his mind. Luckily Her Highness wasn’t sleeping soundly and managed to call for me in time to deal with the scoundrel!”

Qing Yan clung to Duan Wucuo, sniffling pitifully, and followed Wen Xi’s lead. She sobbed, “Since I’ve married you, you’re supposed to protect me! How could you let some thug sneak in and scare me like this—wuuu wuuu…”

She started crying again.

“Got a handkerchief?” Duan Wucuo asked.

Wen Xi blinked, then quickly handed him a clean one.

Qing Yan stared at him with teary, hopeful eyes—nervous about what he would do next.

Then she watched in disbelief as Duan Wucuo, looking slightly annoyed, used the handkerchief to… wipe her nose.

Her cheeks instantly flushed red.

Duan Wucuo glanced at the bloodstains on the floor and frowned. “Go tidy up the guest room,” he instructed Wen Xi.

“Yes.” Wen Xi nodded out of habit, then added, “We’ve just moved in, so all rooms have been cleaned and have fresh bedding. She can go rest there now.”

“Take Madam to lie down,” Duan Wucuo ordered.

“Yes.” Wen Xi walked over, gently took Qing Yan by the arm, and led her toward the adjoining room.

As she reached the doorway, Qing Yan turned to glance at Duan Wucuo’s back—then stepped over the threshold.

Most of her panic had now dissipated.

After all, Duan Wucuo hadn’t dragged her off to the magistrate.

Bu Er arrived soon after. He crouched by Cheng Ji’s body, inspecting the wounds. “That maid beside Princess Huachao did this?”

“Tsk. Not bad at all.”

Duan Wucuo had already seen Wen Xi’s skills before—back when they were at Lake Ouhe.

“But… Cheng Ji is dead. By tomorrow, the entire capital will be talking. This isn’t a small matter. The Empress Dowager will definitely demand answers.”

“My lord, what should we do?”
“Should we destroy the body? Make him vanish without a trace, like he was never here?”

Duan Wucuo walked over to the side table in the room and slowly poured himself a cup of cool tea. He had rushed back, dusty and tired—he was thirsty.

He said, “Leave signs of the torture I used to kill with. Dump him out on the street.”

Bu Er froze, then said quickly, “My lord, the recent string of murders in the capital hasn’t turned up a culprit yet, but every victim has wounds matching your old methods. A lot of people already suspect you. If you keep this up…”

Duan Wucuo looked down at Cheng Ji’s corpse from above. His gaze was gentle—almost pitying.

“For the sake of framing me,” he said, “seven people have already died. What’s one more? This will give them a fresh example to copy—might as well gift them something useful.”

His lips curled into a faint, mocking smile.

Bu Er didn’t understand his master’s intent, but he didn’t need to. He swiftly got to work, cutting the tendons in Cheng Ji’s wrists and ankles to mimic the signs of a brutal death.

Meanwhile, Duan Wucuo stepped into the adjacent room. Qing Yan was there, sleeves rolled up, washing her face and hands.

Wen Xi’s attack had been clean and precise—Cheng Ji had barely bled. Still, Qing Yan’s hands were stained, and whether real or imagined, she felt her face and skin were filthy.

The moment Duan Wucuo entered, Qing Yan noticed.

She studied his face as he approached. When he was near, she softly asked, “Why are you back?”

“Isn’t this my home?” he replied with a question.

“That’s not what I meant…” Qing Yan lowered her head, voice growing smaller.

She had just washed her face but hadn’t dried it yet. Droplets clung to her cheeks, her hands still submerged in the basin, fingers splayed.

As Duan Wucuo passed by her, he reached out and lightly patted her head, then walked straight to the bed and lay down.

“It’s late. Once you’re done, turn out the lights.”

Qing Yan couldn’t guess what he was thinking, and she was too anxious to question anything. All she could do was act obedient and try to stay in his good graces.

She quickly dried her face and hands, then motioned for Wen Xi to take the basin and leave.

Her sleeping robe was dirty—Wen Xi had brought a clean one, draped neatly over a chair.

Qing Yan glanced at it, blew out the candles, then groped in the dark for the robe.

Ever since she began using medicated cloths on her eyes each day, her vision had worsened—especially in the dark, where she could barely see at all.

In her hurry, as she stripped off her robe and reached for the new one, it slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.

She crouched to retrieve it and accidentally bumped her forehead against the chair leg.

“Mm.”
She winced, letting out a small sound and continuing to grope around the carpet—until her hand touched something.

A hand.

Qing Yan’s fingertips froze.

“Here.”
Duan Wucuo picked up the fallen robe and placed it in her hand.

She hadn’t even realized when he’d gotten out of bed.

Without thinking further, she just wanted to dress quickly.

As she slipped an arm into the sleeve, Duan Wucuo said calmly, “It’s inside-out.”

Qing Yan paused.
How could he tell?

She didn’t want to think about it. She pulled the robe off again and fumbled to turn the sleeves right.

Watching her scramble awkwardly in the dark, Duan Wucuo asked, amused, “Madam, shall I light a candle for you?”

“No!” she said quickly.

The robe slipped from her hands again. She didn’t want to know how much he could see in the darkness—if she couldn’t see, then it was like hiding behind an invisible wall.

A pitiful illusion, but one she clung to.

Duan Wucuo sighed.

He picked the robe up from the carpet and draped it over her shoulders.

Before she could react, he took her wrist and helped guide her arm into the sleeve. Then he overlapped the robe across her front, his long fingers straightening the fabric.

Qing Yan wanted to refuse him—but delaying would only make things worse.

Duan Wucuo leaned in and bent down to tie the sash at her waist. A lock of his hair brushed her cheek.

It tickled—cool and tingling.

“Can you handle your pants on your own?” he asked.

“I can!” she said, cheeks burning.

She found the chair behind her and slowly sat down, grabbing the pants hanging there and pulling them on with two hurried kicks.

Even if he told her she wore them backwards again, she wasn’t going to fix them.

“It’s late. I’m exhausted!” she declared, standing up and walking quickly toward the bed.

But she didn’t see the step-stool in front of the bed. Her foot caught, her shoe flew off, and she stumbled forward with a surprised yelp.

The pain never came. Her forehead hit a hand instead.

It was braced between her and the bed. Duan Wucuo had stopped her from crashing headfirst.

He wrapped his other arm around her waist and pulled her into his chest.

Qing Yan staggered—then realized she was sitting on his lap.

Her back stiffened.

Duan Wucuo let go and casually shook the hand he’d used to block her fall.

Then he said, “Madam, move forward a little. You’re about to break something.”

Qing Yan blinked, confused—until Duan Wucuo shifted his hips slightly.

She jumped up like she’d been burned and scooted to the edge of the bed, mortified.

Her thin legs were pressed tightly together. One foot still wore a shoe—the other was completely bare.

Flustered, she pulled off the remaining shoe and scrambled under the covers, curling up near the wall and dragging the blanket over her head.

In the dark, her wide almond eyes stared into nothingness.

She couldn’t see, so she listened—every sound Duan Wucuo made.

After a while, she carefully reached out from under the covers, touched his robe, tugged it gently, and whispered, “Let’s sleep now?”

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