Chapter Sixty-Five: The Word Called Love

Mount Taishi, Jade Maiden Peak, Mother's Tomb.

Wu Youji stood at the edge of the precipice, clutching a scroll of silk in his hands. At times, he gazed at the mist-shrouded abyss below; at others, he looked up at the gloomy, inscrutable sky. For a long while, he remained silent.

Quan Ce approached to steady him by the arm, exerting a gentle but firm pull to guide him back from the edge.

Wu Youji turned to look at him, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes.

Quan Ce averted his gaze, shaking his head. “Uncle, do not grieve. I shall immediately submit a memorial to Her Majesty, requesting the imperial troops assist in the search. We must find Aunt, no matter what.”

“That is unnecessary,” Wu Youji finally spoke. “Every inch of Mount Taishi has already been turned over, and I have combed Mount Shaoshi foot by foot. If she could be found, she would have been by now.”

“But now…” Quan Ce’s brow remained furrowed with worry.

“Perhaps the ancestral gods could not bear to see her suffer further,” Wu Youji said, unrolling the silk scroll and studying it carefully. “Enough. Let this mortal attachment end here. I will visit Shaolin Temple on Mount Shaoshi and seek a ritual for three lifetimes’ fate. In the next life, and the life after, I shall find her again and entangle our fates until she repays me, clear and true.”

“Uncle, I failed to care for Aunt. It was my fault—I am truly ashamed.” Quan Ce knelt on one knee, hands bound before him, admitting guilt.

Wu Youji helped him to his feet. “No more of this nonsense. I know your character well. Besides, this matter happened before many witnesses—what blame could possibly fall on you? Should you unjustly shoulder this, rumors may spread, damaging your reputation.”

Quan Ce rose, though shame still lingered in his expression.

Wu Youji, too weary to continue consoling him, patted his shoulder. “Your father is here. Go to him first. I shall return to the Eastern Capital to arrange the affairs that follow. Convey my apologies to your father.”

As he watched Wu Youji’s departing figure, Quan Ce felt both a little relieved and yet more burdened.

At Zhongyue Temple, Quan Ce met with his father, Quan Yi. Both wore mourning attire, and for a time, father and son stood in silence.

“You have known for some time, haven’t you?” Quan Yi’s gaunt cheeks seemed even more sunken; his arms, thin and withered as branches, made his robes hang loose and empty.

Quan Ce nodded. “I learned of it at the end of last year, when Uncle returned to the capital.”

“And did you go to see him?” A glint appeared in Quan Yi’s eyes.

“I saw him from afar, without a clear look,” Quan Ce replied softly.

“I am unworthy of being your father and not fit to be your model. There’s little point in recounting the details.” Quan Yi, full of words, found himself unable to speak before his eldest son. His wife, though as delicate as gold and jade, had a proud, unyielding spirit, and their union had always lacked true affection. After Quan Ce was born, they considered their duty done and lived apart. She busied herself with wealth and gain; he kept a concubine. When the concubine bore a child, guilt drove him to have more children with his wife—Quan Zhu and Quan Luo. Yet, in truth, he and his wife never truly grew close.

“I only hope, for the sake of blood ties, you might paint his likeness for me, as a small comfort.”

Quan Ce nodded, agreeing with a heavy heart. Wu Youji and his wife loved each other deeply, yet could not be together. His own parents’ affection was shallow, yet their ties could not be severed. Such was fate—love, that most perilous word.

Quan Yi was deeply moved and personally prepared paper and charcoal, anticipation written plainly on his face. Seeing this, a trace of sourness rose in Quan Ce’s heart, but he quickly dismissed it with a self-mocking smile. To compete with a departed child for affection was truly distasteful.

Recalling the child’s features as best he could, Quan Ce set to work. Where his memory failed, he asked his father for details. After more than an hour, he completed the portrait of his half-brother.

Quan Yi cherished the drawing as a rare treasure, holding it close and gazing at it repeatedly, murmuring to himself, tears streaming down his aged cheeks.

Quan Ce lingered for a while, then quietly slipped out, asking the steward to relay his farewell to his father. He left Mount Song without delay.

Though he had other motives for the journey, after such a brief meeting with his father, he could not bear to stay longer. Paternal love was understandable, but his father had more than one son, and his reckless actions had nearly cost Quan Ce his life. Not a word was spoken of that. To say he felt no disappointment or chill would be a lie.

“Juedi, send orders to the Stele Without Words: eliminate all dangerous persons connected to my father. As for the household servants, let Quan Xiang deal with them—show no mercy.”

“Yes, Master,” Juedi replied cheerfully.

Three days later, Quan Ce stood before the Changxia Gate of the Eastern Capital, surveying the city, which had grown ever more prosperous.

In contrast, Magistrate Wei Yuanzhong of Luoyang was faced with chaos. Over three consecutive nights, more than thirty people had died—merchants, clerks, minor officials, estate stewards, even recluses—every kind of shady character, from all walks of life. The causes of death were bizarre, some appearing accidental, others like murder, leaving no clues behind.

Beset by countless impeachments, Wei Yuanzhong was exhausted and offered his resignation to the court. Unexpectedly, Empress Wu did not punish him, but merely reprimanded him lightly and let the matter drop.

Wei Yuanzhong sensed there was more to this than met the eye and returned to his office preoccupied.

“Sir, the steward of Princess Yiyang’s residence reports that a servant has died suddenly…”

“Enough! Do not trouble me with trifles. In those grand noble households, when is there not a servant who dies suddenly?” Wei Yuanzhong snapped in irritation.

“Sir, there have been seventeen sudden deaths in Princess Yiyang’s residence.”

Wei Yuanzhong paused, his expression complex. With both pillars of the household absent, who could be behind such an incident? And to what end?

Quan Ce did not return home, but first reported to the Ministry of Rites to end his leave of absence.

Grand Minister Doulu Qinwang greeted him with hearty laughter, enthusiastically welcoming him and highly praising his initiative for shortening his leave by two days.

Without delay, he got to the point—truly following their original division of duties, he handed over all matters concerning the ministry’s court ceremonies, trade, and guests to Quan Ce. He even tried to give him the official silver seal, which Quan Ce resolutely refused.

“The old lady is in poor health and unable to attend court. Henceforth, the vice minister shall act in her stead,” Doulu Qinwang said, feigning frailty as he moved with surprising agility, and quickly left the signing room.

Quan Ce, arms full of documents, stood bewildered, sniffing the air. The bureaucracy was full of all sorts, but this old man was truly a rare specimen.

“Well, Vice Minister Quan, are you working on your arm strength?” came a voice, neither friendly nor hostile, but full of authority—it was Wu Yanyi.

“General Wu, well met. What brings you here?” Quan Ce organized the documents methodically and bowed. This man could not be judged by ordinary standards; though he had just taken over the thousand cavalrymen Quan Ce had trained, he showed not a trace of gratitude or humility.

Wu Yanyi circled him with hands clasped behind his back, snorting. “Her Majesty summons you. Come along.”

Together they entered the Yaoguang Hall, where only Empress Wu and Shangguan Wan’er awaited them.

Before Wu Yanyi could announce their arrival, Empress Wu spoke first. “Yanyi, withdraw.”

Wu Yanyi knelt and accepted the order, but turned away with visible resentment, glaring at Quan Ce with a dark and menacing look.

“Having slain so many, how does it feel?” Empress Wu approached, her voice gentle.

“For more than a year, I have been entangled and tormented, finding no joy day or night. Only now do I understand the taste of the mortal world,” Quan Ce replied honestly. His father was a shackle he could never break, and though he did not believe Empress Wu could trace the Stele Without Words’ movements, he knew she would deduce he was behind it.

Empress Wu reached out, grasped his chin, and with a flash of tenderness that quickly turned sharp, asked, “Is it done?”

“As Your Majesty commanded, Lord Wu is handling the funeral, and Lady Wu has vanished from the world,” Quan Ce answered carefully.

Empress Wu shook her head. “Too soft-hearted—never fit for great things. I am considering marrying Taiping to Youji. What do you think?”

“I dare not say,” Quan Ce hurriedly bowed his head. “The princess and Lord Wu are both my elders. I dare not speak out of turn.”

Empress Wu was unimpressed. She stepped closer, the hem of her robe brushing his nose, fragrant and overwhelming. “I order you to answer.”

Flustered, Quan Ce stammered, “I have heard… that once you have seen the vast sea, no water will suffice; once you have seen Mount Wu, no other clouds compare.”

At these words, Shangguan Wan’er’s eyes shone with a strange light, fixing him with an intense gaze, her breath quickening.

Empress Wu considered his words, then laughed lightly, turning to the side chamber. “Taiping, what say you?”

Princess Taiping stepped out gracefully, full of confidence. “Mother once tamed wild horses. Why should Taiping not tame a mere mortal?”

She took Quan Ce’s hand and lifted him gently, her smile warm. “Elder cousin, Aunt must thank you for securing me such a fine match.”

A chill ran through Quan Ce’s body as he bowed his head in silence.