Chapter Eleven: The Green Hills Endure

The setting sun had already hidden most of its remaining rays behind the mountains, leaving only the glowing clouds to illuminate the sky. Wisps of clouds floated like delicate feathers, drifting across the heavens, dyed a vivid crimson by the blood-red sunset—a beauty so breathtaking it stunned the soul.

Feng Qiuji gazed up at the magnificent sky, her hands sketching imaginary frames in the air. She couldn't help but lament repeatedly in her heart; if only she had a DSLR, she could capture this rare and splendid scene. In a lifetime, how many such vistas would one encounter? Even if one did, would there always be the leisure to pause and appreciate them?

But now was not the time for admiring scenery.

Bathed in the sunset’s glow, Qin Ruyan and Ling Zetian stood facing each other, eyes locked, silent, as a gentle breeze stirred their hair and sleeves—a scene so exquisite it could have been a masterpiece of landscape and portraiture. Feng Qiuji had even thought of the perfect title for the painting: “The Green Hills Remain, How Many Times Has the Sunset Blazed?”

Yet as she was lost in her musings, she suddenly felt a tightness around her neck. In the next instant, Ling Zetian had lifted her off the ground.

“Hand Arno over,” Ling Zetian said coolly, his gaze sliding to little Ling Shuno’s pitiful face. The blood on the blade made him waver. He had always treated Arno as his own son—not merely because Arno was Yan Wuying’s child, but because he had raised Arno himself. Back then, he had been only sixteen or seventeen, yet he had tried his best to care for this little boy. He hadn’t let Arno call him “brother,” but insisted on being called “Emperor Father,” having resolved to look after Arno for a lifetime, to raise him into a pillar of the nation. Only thus could he be worthy of the departed Yan Wuying and Qin Rushui, and bring them comfort in the afterlife.

Only now did Feng Qiuji realize the precarious position she was in. She hurriedly clung to Ling Zetian’s leg, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Your Majesty, didn’t you say you’d protect me? You’re not seriously going to hand me over, are you?”

Ling Zetian cast her a sidelong glance. The answer was obvious, wasn’t it? Without replying, he tried to toss her aside, but to his surprise, she didn’t budge—looking down, he saw she was clutching his leg for dear life.

“Let go.”

“No.” Hearing his command, Feng Qiuji only tightened her grip.

“Let go.”

“No.”

“…”

“No.”

Ling Zetian, unwilling to waste more words, saw she wouldn’t let go. He bent down, pried her fingers off one by one, and, as if tossing out the trash, lifted her up and gave her a shove. Feng Qiuji stumbled and fell right at Qin Ruyan’s feet, her mouth filling with dust.

Pain shot through her knees and arms. At that moment, all she wanted was to slam Ling Zetian to the ground and let him taste for himself what it felt like to fall on these scattered stones.

Seeing this, Qin Ruyan flung Arno aside, seized Feng Qiuji, and pressed the blade of her sword to Feng Qiuji’s throat. “Today, I’ll use your blood to honor my dead sister.” With that, she pressed the blade down hard.

Feng Qiuji was filled with regret. She finally understood the true meaning of “as weak as a chicken.” Was she, a useless woman with no martial skills, doomed to be tossed and dragged about like this? That wretched Ling Zetian—did he not see the ground was littered with stones? In this heat, wearing so little, every scrape was unforgettable agony.

Grabbing the sword at her throat, Feng Qiuji forced it away, ignoring the pain in her hands and Qin Ruyan’s look of astonishment, using her other hand to push herself upright.

Taking advantage of Qin Ruyan’s momentary shock, Ling Zetian dashed forward, knocked the sword from her grasp, and swept Feng Qiuji into his arms, leaping back several paces.

A crisp, resounding slap stunned everyone present.

Ling Zetian paused, a vein throbbing on his forehead.

Feng Qiuji lowered her bloodied left hand, shoved Ling Zetian away, and spat through gritted teeth, “You lunatics! What does your need to honor the dead have to do with me? I don’t even know them! Ridiculous!” With that, she turned and walked away without looking back.

For a moment, the mountaintop was as silent as still water. Yu Fan, seeing Feng Qiuji limping and cursing as she walked away, couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

Ling Zetian glanced at him, and Yu Fan immediately sobered, resuming a solemn expression.

“As long as I don’t want her dead, you’ll never kill her,” Ling Zetian said, wiping the still-warm blood from his face, his gaze following Feng Qiuji’s receding figure.

Qin Ruyan said nothing, but looked deeply at him before turning away with her sword.

Ling Zetian glanced at Arno and walked over. Yu Fan had already tended to the wound on Arno’s neck. Ling Zetian gently stroked the boy’s throat, “Arno, does it hurt?”

“Father, didn’t you say that lady was my aunt? Then why did she want to kill me?”

“Arno, I’m sorry. That lady isn’t your aunt—she’s a bad person. Next time, you don’t need to listen to her.” Stroking Arno’s small face, Ling Zetian handed him to Yu Fan, then went after Feng Qiuji.

Qin Ruyan was indeed no longer the woman she once was.

As for Feng Qiuji, her earlier fury had numbed her to the pain, but now, as she calmed down and the cold wind blew, her legs and hands ached terribly. Especially her right hand—already scraped by the stones, it had been cut by the sword, leaving her palm a bloody mess, the skin turned back, making her gasp sharply.

One should never try to act tough, she thought. It only leads to self-inflicted suffering.

“Learned your lesson?” Suddenly, someone grasped her wrist. Turning, she saw Ling Zetian had caught up without her noticing.

Seeing it was him, Feng Qiuji’s expression turned frosty. After all, he was the one who’d brought her to this state—how could she be polite to him?

Ling Zetian was unbothered. He gently wiped her wound with his sleeve, then produced a small porcelain vial from his robe. It contained a special hemostatic powder he always carried.

“Ow, that hurts!” As the powder was sprinkled on her wound, tears pricked Feng Qiuji’s eyes.

Ling Zetian gave her a sidelong glance, tore a strip from his sleeve, and tightly bandaged her hand. “Why didn’t you feel the pain earlier?”

“What business is it of yours?” Feng Qiuji shot him an angry glare, shaking his hand off and turning to go.

Ling Zetian grabbed her arm, and, ignoring her glare, bent down. “Get on.”

“What are you… what are you doing?” Feng Qiuji stared at him in surprise, her anger momentarily forgotten.

“I’m carrying you back.”

In the deepening night, two black silhouettes—a man and a woman—were nearly swallowed by the darkness. The evening breeze rustled the leaves in the forest, creating a soothing, empty hush.

Lying on Ling Zetian’s back, Feng Qiuji felt his warmth seep through the thin fabric into her body. Her mind and body suddenly relaxed; even the night wind seemed gentler.

She was suddenly reminded of the lyrics from Eason Chan’s “Bicycle.” In her good spirits, she couldn’t help but sing aloud: “The two of us riding a bicycle, your arms tight around my waist, it’s so hard to part, I want to hold you tighter, in this vast and lonely world...”

Ling Zetian listened to her peculiar singing without comment, carrying her quietly back along the path they had come.

“Ling Zetian, who was that woman just now?” After her song, still in high spirits, Feng Qiuji began to chat.

“Arno’s aunt.”

“Oh. Does she bear some grudge against me?”

“You caused her sister’s death—Arno’s mother.”

Feng Qiuji’s body stiffened, the joy on her face freezing. So, Arno’s mother died because of her? She was the reason Ling Zetian couldn’t be with the one he loved?

After a moment of silence, Feng Qiuji asked timidly, “Don’t you hate me?”

“I do.” His answer was so terse it betrayed no emotion.

“Then why didn’t you let her kill me?”

“Because I want to kill you myself.”

Feeling her body tense, Ling Zetian’s lips curled slightly. This woman was so easy to fool.

After dinner, Ling Zetian redressed Feng Qiuji’s wounds and applied medicine to her injured leg. He did it all quite naturally, but Feng Qiuji was preoccupied, her mind circling around the fact that she had caused Arno’s mother’s death. Though she hadn’t done it herself, the former Feng Qiuji had, and now she was Feng Qiuji—the blame was hers. The thought made her uneasy and guilty toward both Ling Zetian and Arno.

That Ling Zetian could treat her, the culprit, with such calm was truly terrifying. He must hate her deeply, she thought, just suppressing it—one day, he would surely explode, and she would have no place to die…

After much hesitation, Feng Qiuji couldn’t hold back any longer. Watching Ling Zetian, who was bent over cleaning her wounds, she finally spoke. “Um…”

“Yes?” Ling Zetian replied with a soft hum.

“How do you plan to kill me?”

At her question, Ling Zetian looked up and asked slowly, “Do you want to hear a story?” Since she knew nothing, he might as well tell her.

Feng Qiuji was taken aback, then nodded.

The night breeze fluttered gently. In the garden, the silk trees were in full bloom, their pink fan-shaped blossoms casting dappled shadows in the clear moonlight. A single blossom drifted down, carried by the breeze onto the stone table in the pavilion.

Feng Qiuji picked up the small flower and inhaled its fragrance. “It smells wonderful.” The entire garden was filled with the delicate, lingering scent of silk flowers—a single breath was enough to intoxicate the senses.

“All these silk trees were transplanted from the south a year ago,” Ling Zetian said, rising to his feet and gazing at the blossoms dancing in the wind. “This garden faces directly toward the tomb on Dragon Mountain. Every year, when the silk trees bloom, the flowers cover the hillside—a sea of pink seen from above, breathtakingly beautiful.”