Chapter 28: Crisis Approaches

Lin Yan looked at Zhou Wanqing, then at Mei Ruoying, finally understanding why the latter had run away from her marriage.

"Then you definitely should have left," he said.

Mei Ruoying, leaning against a tree trunk, hesitated for a moment upon hearing this before finally speaking up. "Mr. Lin, don't you think... I'm being too capricious?"

She sounded as if she were asking herself. After all, she was no longer a child and was surely well aware of the consequences her actions would bring to her family.

"Capricious? That depends on how you look at it. From an outsider's perspective, Miss Mei, whether you run away or get married, it doesn't really matter," Lin Yan said, tossing another stick of firewood into the flames. "But personally, I think it's not strange for ordinary women to obey their parents' orders. However, you've practiced martial arts for so many years. If you can't even make your own decisions regarding this, how can you be considered a daughter of the Jianghu?

"If you don't want to marry, then just don't."

Zhou Wanqing was somewhat surprised to hear this. She stole a glance at Lin Yan but immediately turned her head away. She couldn't help it—Lin Yan's clothes were still draped over Mei Ruoying. It was only because he had mastered two supreme martial arts that he could withstand the cold; otherwise, he would have definitely caught a chill in the night air.

Mei Ruoying fell silent for a long time upon hearing his words before softly replying, "Thank you."

Lin Yan smiled faintly, signaling that it was nothing. He then leaned against Old Niu and closed his eyes.

Zhou Wanqing, however, could not rest yet. Holding a handkerchief, she carefully wiped the wound on Mei Ruoying's arm. "Ruoying, what are your plans now?"

Mei Ruoying shook her head. "I don't know. I can only take it one step at a time. Still, I must thank Zhou for being willing to take me in."

Zhou Wanqing sighed softly. "At first, I was only entrusted by someone to help, but after spending time together, I found that we actually get along exceptionally well."

"Indeed..." Mei Ruoying looked at her, a rare trace of warmth appearing in her Taohua eyes. "It's a good thing I have you by my side."

Zhou Wanqing shook her head and did not speak. After wiping away the bloodstains from the wound, she took a small porcelain bottle from her medicine basket, poured out some pale yellow medicinal powder, and carefully sprinkled it over the injury. Mei Ruoying bit her lip, not making a single sound. Once the powder was applied, Zhou Wanqing tore off a strip of clean cloth and meticulously bandaged the wound.

"All done. As long as you keep it dry for three days, it won't leave a scar."

"Thank you."

Mei Ruoying pulled her arm back and rolled down her sleeve.

The night gradually deepened. The three of them sat silently before the campfire with their eyes closed, each lost in their own thoughts.

The main hall of the Shen family's home was unusually quiet today.

Shen Yizhu sat in the seat of honor, his gaze fixed on the plaque that had been taken down from the wall. The two characters on it were exquisitely written, displaying bold, vigorous strokes and a brushwork as sharp as a blade. Back then, his grandfather had declared that the lintel of the Shen family must hang there for generations to come. Yet now, this very plaque had been unceremoniously taken down.

The person who took down the plaque was Yang Fu, the gray-haired old servant who followed quietly behind Yang Qinghe.

Shen Yizhu gripped the armrests of his chair. Bulging blue veins stood out beneath his loose, wrinkled skin, and his lips trembled incessantly. Such a tremendous humiliation would be unbearable for anyone, let alone the Shen family, which held a respectable level of prestige in Qing Province.

"Elder Shen." Yang Qinghe stood right in the center of the main hall, his back facing the door. The sunlight stretched his shadow long across the floor until it fell directly onto Shen Yizhu's face, looking as though it were about to swallow the old man whole.

"I'll say it again. As long as you tell me my wife's whereabouts, the Shen family will remain a prominent clan in Qingzhou City. Additionally, I will compensate you with a sum of silver. Hmm... Three thousand taels, is that enough?"

The corners of his mouth curled up slightly. Although his words seemed open to negotiation, his tone felt like an act of charity. "If that's not enough, we can discuss five thousand taels."

Shen Yizhu gave no answer.

Yang Qinghe was in no rush either. He walked over to a nearby chair, retrieved a handkerchief from his sleeve, and meticulously wiped down the seat before finally sitting.

However, before Yang Qinghe could even settle in, a figure darted out from the deep shadows of the hall. It was a tall, thin man dressed in a short gray tunic and trousers, gripping a short knife in his hand. His footwork was incredibly light, his steps completely silent as his feet touched the ground.

Yang Qinghe only reacted when the man closed the distance, yet his face showed no trace of panic. The man had clearly been waiting in the dark for a long time, all for this very opportunity. The glint of the blade flashed through the dimly lit hall, aiming straight for the back of Yang Qinghe's neck. This strike was fast and ruthless, leaving himself no room for retreat—and naturally, leaving no chance of survival for Yang Qinghe.

But he had forgotten one thing. Yang Qinghe hadn't come alone.

Before the knife could land, Yang Fu had already struck out with his palm. The speed was so fast that it was completely impossible to react. With a dull THUD, the short knife flew out of the gray-clad man's grasp. His entire body was sent flying backward like a kite with a snapped string, crashing violently into the Eight Immortals table in the center of the hall. The table shattered with a loud CRASH, sending wooden splinters flying as the tea set plummeted to the ground, smashing to pieces.

The man rolled twice before slamming into the corner of the wall. He spat out a mouthful of blood, the glaring scarlet staining the stone floor tiles. Yang Fu retracted his palm and stepped back behind Yang Qinghe. He maintained his meek and submissive demeanor, acting as though nothing had just happened.

Yang Qinghe did not even bat an eyelid. "It seems Elder Shen is not very keen on negotiating."

Shen Yizhu exhaled a long breath. He shifted his gaze from the fallen plaque on the ground to the gray-clad man, a flash of pain and guilt flickering in his eyes.

"I do not know your wife at all!" Shen Yizhu's face was filled with anger, showing absolutely no intention of yielding.

Yang Qinghe looked at him, appearing momentarily stunned before letting out a scoff. This old man was actually still unwilling to yield. After a long while, he burst into a light chuckle. The smile rippled across his delicate face, looking even more charming and beautiful than that of many women.

After laughing for a moment, Yang Qinghe suddenly clapped his hands lightly.

An immediate dragging sound could be heard from outside the door. The noise grew closer and increasingly distinct. Soon, several guards dragged a disheveled figure into the main hall and threw him heavily to the ground. A muffled THUD echoed, making anyone watching wince in sympathetic pain.

The person hit the floor hard, yet he seemed entirely devoid of sensation, not making a single sound. He slowly raised his head, and as his messy hair parted to the sides, it revealed a young face.

Shen Yizhu stood up abruptly, knocking over the teacup by his hand.

How could he not recognize this face? That was his son! Shen Zheng... his Zheng.

But how did the person before him resemble his son in any way? In the past, Shen Zheng had always been dressed in luxurious silks and satins, always applying scented powder to his face before heading out. He loved cockfighting and horse riding; he loved gathering his friends; he loved going to the brothels to listen to music. Yet the person kneeling on the ground right now was disheveled, his clothes covered in filth, and he was so emaciated that his cheekbones jutted out prominently.

Moreover, Shen Yizhu couldn't tell if it was just his imagination, but as he stared at his son's awkward and bizarre posture, an ominous premonition washed over him.

The rest of his body seemed relatively fine, but why was the back of his pants completely soaked in blood?