The Sickly Regent Prince Who Was Abandoned as a Substitute Bride

Chapter 606

"Hide well." The Prince of Zhennan's voice was extremely low, the clear sound of his sword being drawn piercing the deathly silence. His back was taut in a sharp arc, moonlight flowing along the blade, casting trembling silver light on the ground. Qiuqin gripped Dongfang Wan'er's skirt tightly, her nails almost piercing the silk, warm tears seeping into the fabric, scalding the back of her neck.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle pierced the night sky. Sparks from a tinderbox fell like meteors, and the dry wood in the center of the dilapidated temple burst into flames, orange-red tongues of fire instantly licking the cobweb-covered beams. Dongfang Wan'er squinted from the firelight, and in her daze, she saw the iron chains hanging from the torture instruments gleaming with a ghostly blue—they were poisoned locks.

The figure on the torture instrument stirred, its withered fingers leaving long, bloody scratches on the ground. Dongfang Wan'er abruptly broke free from the Prince of Zhennan's grasp, her skirt brushing against the burning wood chips: "Old Steward!" Her voice trembled with tears, but stopped abruptly when she saw the scene before her. The once vigorous old steward now resembled a broken puppet, a half-broken silver hairpin protruding from his collarbone—the very same one Dongfang Mingzhu had worn yesterday.

“Young Miss…” The old butler’s cloudy eyes rolled, his dry lips moved, and a bellows-like sound came from his throat. “It’s Madam… colluding with the rebels… they want to…” His pupils suddenly dilated, his head drooped limply, and drops of blood dripped from the gaps in the torture instruments into the campfire, making a “sizzling” sound.

Dongfang Wan'er's world collapsed instantly. Memories flooded back: the herbal medicine her stepmother brewed every day, the shadowy figures flickering on the window frame at night, and the name her mother held in her dying hand, unable to utter. Amidst the crackling of flames, the group of people in black robes parted like a tide, their skirts embroidered with golden peonies sweeping across the scattered pebbles.

"Didn't expect that, did you?" The stepmother removed her hood, the gold hairpin reflecting a cold light in the firelight. "Your mother was like this back then, chained to this instrument of torture, watching her daughter drink poisoned soup." Her laughter was as piercing as shattered glass, and the black-robed figure behind her simultaneously drew a curved sword, the poison on the blade gleaming eerily in the firelight.

Suddenly, the Prince of Zhennan's spear was held horizontally in front of Dongfang Wan'er's chest, the tassel brushing against her cheek, bringing a tingling sensation. His voice was terrifyingly steady: "Wan'er, remember the footwork I taught you." Before he finished speaking, the man in black robes pounced like a wolf. Dongfang Wan'er gripped her dagger tightly, her mother's dying words echoing in her ears: "Live on, live for yourself."

The first slash grazed her ear, the severed hair drifting into the fire. Dongfang Wan'er sidestepped and spun, the dagger precisely piercing the enemy's wrist. Warm blood splattered on her face, the sweet, metallic taste reminding her of every mouthful of poisoned soup she had swallowed over the past three years. The Prince of Zhennan's spear moved like a dragon soaring through the void; the moment the spear tip pierced the enemy's mask, she saw the traitor's totem tattooed on the man's neck.

The sounds of battle echoed through the dilapidated temple. Qiu Qin, seemingly out of nowhere, grabbed a red-hot wooden stick and swung it at the black-robed figure who had launched the sneak attack. Dongfang Wan'er's dagger arced through the firelight, and just as the blade pressed against her stepmother's throat, she suddenly noticed the cinnabar mole behind the woman's ear—exactly the same as the one on the yellowed portrait in her mother's dressing case.

The night was as dark as ink, thick clouds swallowing up the moonlight, and the dilapidated mountain god temple groaned and creaked in the fierce wind. The mottled murals on the beams and pillars were eroded beyond recognition by time, and the faded statues were covered with thick cobwebs, which, under the flickering torchlight, added to the eerie and sinister atmosphere.

Just as the situation was becoming increasingly critical, a deafening sound of horses' hooves suddenly came from outside the dilapidated temple. The clattering of hooves, like the beating of drums, grew louder and louder as it approached, accompanied by shouts of battle, as if a vast army was charging towards them. The sound pierced the deathly silence of the night, startling countless birds in the forest. The flapping of their wings mingled with the sound of hooves, creating a heart-stopping symphony.

The stepmother's once icy face instantly drained of color, her usually meticulously maintained features now contorted and distorted, deathly pale. The black-robed figure behind her also panicked, his sword-wielding hand trembling slightly, fine beads of sweat beading on his forehead, gleaming eerily in the torchlight.

Seeing this, the Prince of Zhennan seized this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, letting out a loud shout that resounded throughout the dilapidated temple. His spear, like a dragon emerging from the sea, gleamed coldly, and his attacks grew increasingly fierce. Wherever the spear tip struck, the black-robed men were struck, falling to the ground with screams, their blood flowing like a river on the bluestone slabs, staining the old temple grounds a dark red.

In the blink of an eye, a group of soldiers dressed in royal guard uniforms surged into the dilapidated temple like a tidal wave. The leading general, a burly figure with resolute eyes, knelt on one knee, his voice loud and firm: "Your Highness, the Prince of Zhennan, His Majesty, having learned of the rebellion here, has specially ordered this humble general to lead three thousand imperial guards to provide support!" The Prince of Zhennan nodded slightly, a rare hint of relief appearing on his usually stern face: "You've arrived just in time!"

Once the Imperial Guards joined the battle, the situation instantly reversed. The well-trained Imperial Guards, working in perfect coordination, wielded spears and shields, forming an impenetrable wall that completely surrounded the men in black robes. Amidst the flashing blades, the men in black robes quickly crumbled; some knelt and begged for mercy, while others attempted to break through but were mercilessly slaughtered.

Seeing that all was lost, a flicker of panic crossed the stepmother's eyes. Without hesitation, she turned to flee. The instant she took her first step, Dongfang Wan'er, like a black lightning bolt, leaped forward. Light as a feather and swift as lightning, she precisely kicked the weapon from her stepmother's hand, the gleaming dagger already pressed against her throat: "Where do you think you can run to? So many years of grudges, today it's time to settle them!"

The stepmother stared wide-eyed in terror, her former arrogance vanished in utter fear. Her lips trembled, but no sound came out; she could only look around with pleading eyes, but by then her accomplices were already in dire straits.

Moonlight, having pierced through the clouds, cast its cool, silvery glow upon the ruined temple, now a scene of utter devastation. Before the Prince of Zhennan could finish speaking, the intermittent sound of a clapper resounded from afar. The midnight clapper, mingled with the night wind, carried a chilling undercurrent of desolation amidst the stench of blood. Dongfang Wan'er gazed at the corpses strewn across the ground, and in a daze, she recalled the night her stepmother had pushed her into the pond as a child; the suffocating sensation of the icy water filling her nostrils strangely overlapped with the heavy, metallic scent of the air now before her.

"Your Highness, the inventory of the corpses is complete." The voice of the Imperial Guard general interrupted her thoughts. The Prince of Zhennan nodded slightly, but then saw Dongfang Wan'er suddenly stagger and grab onto a mottled pillar, her fingertips unconsciously digging into the rotten wood: "That...that mask with the blue face and fangs..." Her voice trembled, her gaze fixed on the eerie mask half-hidden under a black robe in the corner, "I wore a mask like this at my seventh birthday banquet...someone covered my mouth..."

The Prince of Zhennan followed her gaze, his pupils suddenly contracting. The scarlet paint on the mask had long since dried, but the upward curve of the lips was still discernible—exactly the same as the shamanic priest mask recorded in the documents of the Southern Frontier. He subconsciously pulled Dongfang Wan'er behind him and whispered, "Collect all the masks of the black-robed men and examine them carefully."

As night deepened, the sound of horses' hooves splashing through puddles suddenly came from outside the dilapidated temple. A guard dismounted and knelt on one knee, presenting a secret letter. The Prince of Zhennan unfolded it and his face instantly turned ashen. Dongfang Wan'er caught a glimpse of the dark red fingerprints on the paper, and her heart sank: "Has something happened again?"

"The remnants of the Southern Frontier Witchcraft Cult are still roaming the territory." The Prince of Zhennan tucked the secret letter into his sleeve, his gaze sweeping over the mess on the ground. "Those black-robed men were nothing but scapegoats." As he turned, the silver ornaments on his armor jingled softly. "Wan'er, I'm afraid you'll have to come back to the capital with me. His Majesty wishes to see you."

Dongfang Wan'er froze. To her, the capital was a cage teeming with her stepmother's henchmen, a nightmare of perpetual darkness within the deep mansion. But the worry in the Prince of Zhennan's eyes made her nod as if possessed. Just then, a night wind swept up withered leaves, and a few blood-stained scraps of cloth were blown to her feet, on which the totem of the Southern Frontier witchcraft—the three-legged crow—was faintly visible.

On the carriage journey back to the capital, Dongfang Wan'er gazed through the curtain at the dilapidated temple gradually disappearing into the night. The Prince of Zhennan removed his cloak and draped it over her shoulders, his warm body heat seeping through the fabric: "We'll arrive in the capital tomorrow. I've already arranged for the west courtyard of the Marquis's residence to be renovated." He paused, "If you're afraid, I..."

“I’m not afraid.” Dongfang Wan’er gripped her cloak tightly, her nails digging deep into her palms. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting flickering shadows on her face. The fear that had been building up for years now burned like a raging fire in her chest. “I want to see those people pay the price with my own eyes, and I want to expose the Southern Frontier Witch Cult’s conspiracy to the world.”

The carriage continued its swift journey along the official road. Amidst the sound of the wheels rolling over gravel, Dongfang Wan'er leaned on the shoulder of the Prince of Zhennan and fell into a deep sleep. She had a dream in which she stood atop a magnificent palace, sunlight streaming through the glazed tiles onto her body, while the evil spirits that had kept her awake at night knelt trembling at her feet.

Before the morning mist had dissipated, the ruts on the bluestone official road had already rolled over the last city gate. The black banners of the Prince of Zhennan fluttered in the wind, and a convoy of twelve strong horses slowly entered Zhuque Avenue. The tinkling of the copper bells on the eaves startled the crows in the locust trees, which fluttered past the vermilion gate of the Marquis's mansion.

A few servants had already gathered in twos and threes in front of the Marquis's mansion, the shadows of the lanterns embroidered with gold cloud patterns stretching long on the blue brick ground. Just as Dongfang Wan'er stepped down from the gilded footstool, the crisp sound of tinkling jade pendants suddenly came from outside the hanging flower gate. A figure in a crimson ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress) billowed like a red cloud, appearing before her. The flower ornament on Dongfang Mingzhu's forehead gleamed dazzlingly in the morning light, and the rouge at the corners of her eyes was exceptionally vibrant: "Sister, you've finally decided to come back?" She deliberately leaned closer, the jasmine powder at her temples mingling with a hidden sarcasm emanating from her. "I thought the wolves and tigers of the desolate temple had already snatched some people up to fill their bellies."

Dongfang Wan'er's fingers, gripping the jade pendant at her waist, turned slightly white. The girl before her still vaguely resembled the younger sister who used to follow her around when they were children, but now she was like a poisoned rose. She lowered her eyes to avoid the other's provocative gaze, her silver-embroidered skirt sweeping across the frosty leaves, leaving a cold arc on the bluestone slab.

“Mingzhu, you mustn’t be rude.” An aged voice came from inside the door. Madam Dongfang stepped out, leaning on her sandalwood cane, the pearl hairpin at her temple swaying gently with her movements. The gold-embroidered peonies on her moon-white silk cloak were in full bloom. “Wan’er, let your mother take a look.” She stretched out her hand, adorned with jade nail guards, but her fingertips froze in mid-air when they touched Dongfang Wan’er’s sleeve—the bruises from the fight the day before still lingered on the girl’s neck, like an unhealed scar on her pale skin.

Dongfang Wan'er abruptly took a half-step back, her cold, star-like eyes meeting the fleeting panic in the other woman's eyes. "I've remembered my stepmother's concern," she said, her voice clear and icy, each word carrying the chill of a winter's day. "However, some debts, the longer they're left unpaid, the heavier the interest." Suddenly, an icicle on the eaves snapped and fell to the ground, the crisp sound startling Madam Dongfang, causing her eyelashes to tremble. But she quickly replaced it with a kind smile, covering her lips with her handkerchief and whispering, "What nonsense are you talking about? Go back to your room and rest."

As she walked through the winding corridor, Dongfang Wan'er caught a glimpse of several maids whispering under the eaves. They scattered like birds at the sight of her approaching. The copper locks of the west courtyard were long since covered in rust. Pushing open the mottled carved wooden door, a wave of dust mixed with the scent of bygone days rushed out. The faded window curtains danced lightly in the draft, and the diamond-shaped mirror on the dressing table, though covered in a thin layer of dust, still reflected the stubborn silhouette of the young girl. Her fingertips traced the paper windowpane torn by a sharp blade, and she suddenly remembered what the Prince of Zhennan had said the night before: "The Witchcraft Cult's spies in the capital are probably deeper than we realize."

As night fell, a solitary lamp suddenly lit up in the west courtyard. Dongfang Wan'er sat before the carved window, the three-legged crow totem of the Southern Frontier witchcraft flickering in the candlelight on the open parchment scroll on her desk. She brought the secret letter close to the flame, watching the words "Three days ago, someone entered and left the Southern Frontier trading post" curl into ash in the flame. Suddenly, she heard a soft clatter of tiles outside the window. Looking up, she saw dark clouds obscuring half the moon, and amidst the swaying shadows of the trees, a figure in a black robe flashed past the corner of the veranda.

Meanwhile, in the study of the Prince of Zhennan's mansion, a message delivered by carrier pigeon by a secret guard gleamed coldly on the sandalwood table. The letter contained only eight small characters in vermilion ink: "The poisoned wine has entered the Marquis's kitchen." Suddenly, a candle wick burst open, and the Prince of Zhennan's hand holding the brush paused, the ink spreading into a black haze on the Xuan paper. The sound of a wooden clapper outside the window shattered the long night; this time, the undercurrents in the capital had arrived faster than he had anticipated.

The night was as black as ink, so thick it seemed impossible to dissolve. The Prince of Zhennan's knuckles turned white as he gripped the reins. The secret letter he had received during the day still felt warm in his palm; the handwriting was hasty, yet every word carried immense weight—there was a traitor within the Marquis's residence plotting poison. He leaped onto his chestnut horse, his black cloak fluttering in the night wind. He lashed out with the whip, and the steed neighed, its hooves shattering the moonlight. The sound of hooves, like war drums, broke the silence of Chang'an, startling several owls that fluttered past the eaves.

Meanwhile, under the paulownia tree in the west courtyard of the Marquis's mansion, Dongfang Wan'er was leaning against the window, embroidering a handkerchief. The embroidery thread shimmered softly in the candlelight. Suddenly, she stopped, her ears twitching slightly—a soft clatter of tiles came from the back alley, as subtle as a cat's paw hitting the ground. Whoosh.