Chapter 8: Blood on White Silk

 

Xie Wuqing's hands were covered in blood—all from Zhao Yucheng's head, from touching what was left of him. He wiped them twice on his white shirt with deliberate movements, leaving streaks of crimson blood on the pristine fabric. The contrast was horrifying, beautiful in its violence.

Then, with clean hands, he wiped the mud off Zhao Yucheng's face with infinite tenderness and picked up his glasses from beside his feet where they'd fallen.

The more methodical he was, the more terrifying it became.

He Wei could hardly breathe, her chest constricting with panic and grief. She turned to open the car door, but Lianfang pulled her back with urgent fingers. "Don't get out."

She murmured softly, meeting Lianfang's frightened eyes, "It's okay."

She was Xie Wuqing's former lover now—at least in appearance. Getting out wouldn't raise any objections. It was expected, even.

The moment He Wei's feet touched the muddy ground, she was met with all eyes turning toward her like searchlights.

Whether it was the people who came with Xie Wuqing, the ones who had surrounded and killed Zhao Yucheng, or even Uncle Mao and the He family employees—they were all surprised that she got out of the car, that she dared to step into this tableau of violence. He Wei looked at Zhao Yucheng's broken body and Xie Wuqing wiping his glasses with the corner of his bloodstained shirt, weak from crying, and softly called out, "Brother Qing."

The man kneeling on one knee gently raised his eyes and looked at her.

The two stared at each other across the muddy ground, across the body between them.

The winter wind outside the train station was like a knife, cutting her cheeks painfully along with her salty tears that froze on her skin. "There are too many people here... it's not a good place. You should let them go first..."

Her words caught in her throat, strangled by emotion and fear.

Xie Wuqing stopped looking at her and stood up with fluid grace, as if the blood on his hands meant nothing.

The dozen or so men who had come with him stepped forward in synchronized precision, some of them taking off their uniforms to wrap around Zhao Yucheng's body, intending to carry him away with the dignity he'd been denied in death. Although the group that had surrounded and killed Zhao Yucheng dared not provoke Xie Wuqing directly, they were still afraid that their important prisoner would be taken away. The highest-ranking officer among them stepped forward and said with forced respect to Xie Wuqing, "Young Master Xie, this is our important prisoner..."

Xie Wuqing stuffed the glasses into his trouser pocket with casual finality.

"What crime?" he asked calmly, his voice devoid of inflection.

The officer who had spoken misunderstood his attitude—mistook calm for acquiescence—and greeted him with an ingratiating smile. "He had an affair with our chief of staff's fourth concubine—"

Xie Wuqing stared at the officer with eyes that had gone absolutely flat.

Seven or eight cocking sounds rang out in sharp succession—a symphony of threat. Except for the men carrying Zhao Yucheng, all the other military officers following Xie Wuqing raised their guns with practiced speed, silently pressing forward, their eyes bloodshot with barely contained rage.

The man stumbled back two steps in shock, suddenly understanding his miscalculation. "This isn't what I said..."

Those on the periphery, seeing their superior pointed at by multiple guns, were unaware of the full situation. Some immediately reached for their weapons in instinctive defense, but the officer Xie Wuqing had beaten rushed forward, shouting at them with desperate urgency. What a joke! If anything happened to Xie Wuqing here, everyone present today would be executed—not just shot, but their families destroyed.

"What crime?" Xie Wuqing asked again, each word enunciated with terrifying precision.

The man's mouth was dry, his tongue thick with fear. "I... I don't know..." He feared that a single wrong word would result in his immediate execution, right here in the mud.

"Tell your chief of staff," Xie Wuqing said with a voice like ice over deep water, "Zhao Yucheng was my former superior, Xie Wuqing. He can only die in battle, and he must die a heroic death."

The wind at Zhengyang Gate, carrying sand and dust, stung He Wei's eyes—or perhaps that was just the excuse she needed for the tears she had so painstakingly suppressed finally breaking free.

Xie Wuqing said nothing more and walked out along the same road he had come from, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. The official who had led the way stood there for a long time, hesitating repeatedly, weighing options and consequences. He really didn't dare to follow, and whispered to He Wei beside the carriage, "Miss He...aren't you going to go and persuade them?"

He Wei shook her head slightly, not wanting to say another word to these people—these men who'd orchestrated this grotesque display—and turned back to get into the carriage.

The adjutant who had followed Xie Wuqing ran to the front of the carriage, saluted He Wei inside with military precision, made a straight gesture, and cleared the way for the carriage. Uncle Mao, reading the room with the instinct of a survivor, took advantage of Xie Wuqing's lingering influence and started the carriage, driving toward the group of people who had formed a circle. Everyone seemed to have lost their backbone, their courage evaporating, and scattered like leaves, letting them go.

---

The group returned to the He residence in heavy silence. Kouqing sat on the couch in the side hall, mechanically peeling a small bowl of walnuts, wanting to ask if her former son-in-law had left safely, but seeing He Wei's red and swollen eyes—evidence of prolonged weeping—she was frightened into silence. Lianfang didn't want them to follow He Wei to her room, but still insisted on bringing hot water to wipe her body.

She let Lianfang do as she pleased, then lay down on the bed, curling up into a ball as if her soul had left her body and she was nothing but an empty shell.

Late into the night, the clock on the coffee table struck nine times—each chime like a funeral bell. A moment later, a soft, yellowish light fell on her eyelids, pulling her from whatever dark place she'd drifted.

She squinted against the intrusion. The light was from a distant wall lamp, which Lianfang had shielded from direct view with the bed curtains to avoid glare—a small kindness in a day of horrors.

"Young Master Xie's people have arrived," Lianfang said softly, as if speaking any louder might shatter something fragile.

The room was so quiet that she could almost hear an echo of her own breathing.

Lianfang continued with careful neutrality, "They brought several pots of crabapple blossoms, saying they were blooming beautifully, and asked someone to bring them to you."

He Wei closed her eyes, struggling to wake up from the half-death of grief. The flowers were surely an excuse—they probably wanted to see her, to assess her state, to deliver some message that couldn't be written.

She propped herself up and sat on the edge of the bed. Lianfang handed her a hot towel, and after He Wei finished wiping her face—erasing the evidence of tears—changed her into clothes suitable for receiving guests. She left the bedroom and headed toward the small study.

"Not in the study, in the courtyard," Lianfang corrected.

"Why didn't you invite someone into the study?" she asked, her voice hoarse from crying.

"He wouldn't come in, saying...it's a special day, and it's not appropriate to go inside."

He Wei walked to the side hall and saw a very young, unfamiliar face—not the usual adjutant. The young man bowed upon seeing He Wei with military precision and called out, "Second Miss He."

After greeting her, the young military officer stepped forward, holding a long strip of folded letter in both hands like an offering. He Wei, by the light of the side hall lamp, unfolded the letter, working at the creases carefully. She didn't know if the writer was preoccupied or what, but the letter was heavily folded—as if whoever wrote it had been shaking.

When she opened the paper, the words were distorted by the creases, fighting to be read:

"My brother was in trouble, and only Second Miss offered him a helping hand. This kindness will never be forgotten, and I will repay it with my life. Thank you, Shan Hai."

She almost cried again—truly feeling a throbbing pain in her left chest, as if a knife were cutting into her flesh with surgical precision. She had done nothing, hadn't saved him, hadn't even tried hard enough, yet she saw these words, making her even more heartbroken at her own inadequacy.

"He…" she asked softly, struggling with the words, "Did your young master arrive safely at the Six Nations Hotel?"

There was a curfew order from General Xie at 9 PM—his nephew had mentioned it, another constraint, another cage.

The young man shook his head. "He didn't go back; he's in the Hundred Flowers Garden."

After saying this, the young officer carefully observed He Wei's expression like someone reading dangerous weather and whispered again, "Lieutenant Lin said that if Miss He is free, she could call and talk to him. This wasn't the young master's idea; it was something we discussed privately."

"Did he go back and get angry?" she worried, imagining Xie Wuqing's controlled fury unleashed in private.

The young man shook his head firmly. "No."

"I saw him hit that person this afternoon, and I thought..."

"There was a reason for that. Young Master Xie has a reason for laughing and a reason for fighting. He never does anything out of anger," the young man seemed to admire Xie Wuqing with the fervor of true belief, and said a few more words in defense of his commander. "Lieutenant Lin said before that Young Master Xie told him, 'A lord should not raise an army out of anger, nor should a general wage war out of resentment. A general who cannot even control his personal emotions is not fit for a great responsibility.'"

He concluded with quiet sympathy, "We just felt that it was pitiful that he had been guarding Staff Officer Zhao for several hours without anyone to talk to."

He Wei nodded slightly, took the number with trembling fingers, and instructed Jun Jiang to take the young official to wait in the side room while she went to the small study—to make a call that would be monitored, analyzed, weaponized.

---

In the light of the desk lamp that cast long shadows, she picked up the receiver.

"Good evening, where would you like to go?" the operator on the other end of the line asked softly, professionally cheerful.

"192."

"Please wait a moment."

On the low table on the couch lay a stack of passenger lists she had looked through that morning—a lifetime ago. Afraid of seeing Zhao Yucheng's name among the departed, she rolled up the list and tucked it under the table where it couldn't accuse her.

The echo of the phone being picked up connected her to another space, another reality.

No one spoke.

She wanted to speak, but the adjutant on the other end asked in a low voice, clearly not addressing her, "The chief of staff has come in person; the car is at the entrance of the alley in Huguosi East Lane." Still no response from Xie Wuqing; he must have gestured for the adjutant to leave—a silent dismissal.

Why wasn't he speaking? What was he thinking in that terrible silence?

"Why aren't you speaking?" a slightly lower voice asked a similar question—his voice, finally.

She was about to respond when he added with barely concealed impatience, "You can continue, but I may not have the patience to listen any longer."

She realized with a start: the previous call had been interrupted, and the operator had just picked up her call. Xie Wuqing still believed she was the previous caller—the chief of staff, perhaps, or some other unwelcome voice.

"This is He Wei," she said softly, announcing herself like a password.

The other end seemed to have lost its connection; there was no response again—just breathing, evidence of life.

He Wei, afraid of delaying his business, said softly, "If you need to talk to someone, I'll hang up first. I don't have anything urgent."

"Jinxing," he asked softly after a prolonged silence, using that intimate name, "do you know you're making this call?"

He reminded He Wei with a single sentence that even though he was deep in the Hundred Flowers Garden, the phone line was connected to an unpredictable place—to listening ears, to those who would analyze every word, every pause. It was inevitable that she would be eavesdropped on, dissected, interpreted.

No matter how much she had to say, she had to get into character first. This was performance, not confession.

"He and I are just friends, and so are my feelings for you," He Wei said softly, holding the receiver like a lifeline. "Why do friends need the other person's consent to make a phone call?"

"Jinxing is a good person, different from me," he said with something like regret. "He can give you what I can't."

"What I want, none of you can give me," she said with quiet honesty, then asked softly, "Can we not talk about this tonight?"

"Okay," he complied immediately, surprisingly gentle. "We won't."

He Wei couldn't help but think that Xie Wuqing's past relationship with Jinxing was really intriguing—brilliantly convenient. It was no surprise that the relationship between a man and a woman who couldn't get what they wanted was so complicated, so useful. Because she was supposedly a close friend from a past life, it wouldn't seem abrupt for him to send an officer to the He residence, nor would it seem excessive for her to call him late at night. It would also make future interactions easier, more natural. Who knows, some young lady might take a liking to him and want to befriend him, but she'd have to get to know her—his confidante—first. Fortunately, she had been involved in business with her second uncle since childhood, and in terms of social skills and performance... she was practically a natural actress.

"I've met many people over the years, I'm used to it," he suddenly said with flat exhaustion. "I've heard plenty of comforting words since this afternoon, so I'd rather have some peace and quiet."

She looked at the carved patterns on the edge of the coffee table, tracing them with her eyes. "I'm much younger than you, any comforting words I offer are superficial and don't get to the point. I just wanted to… thank you for the crabapple blossoms."

She wanted to express that she had seen the letter and that sentence—that promise of lifelong debt.

"Are they blooming well?" he asked, as if flowers mattered, as if anything mattered on a day like this.

There was no time to see them; the flowers were still in the side room, witnesses to nothing.

"Yes," she replied, lying easily now. "Better than the ones at my house."

"Are you going back to the hotel tonight?" He Wei asked him with genuine concern beneath the performance.

After the young officer finished speaking, she had a vague worry that General Xie must have a reason for this curfew order. After witnessing what happened at the station today, she no longer thought it was to prevent his nephew from being promiscuous, but rather to ensure his safety—to keep him alive in a city full of people who wanted him dead.

"I'll go back now," he replied with resignation. "I was delayed a few minutes because of the phone call."

"Then hurry up, I won't hold you up any longer," she said hastily, protective instinct rising.

"How about I delay a little longer," he said, and she could hear something raw beneath the words. "It's rare for you to call me."

She guessed that Xie Wuqing didn't want to see the chief of staff waiting at the alley entrance—didn't want to face the architect of this afternoon's horror. His usual composure and refinement had been used up during the day, burned through like fuel, and now, on the first night after Zhao Yucheng's departure from this world, no one would want to deal with the culprit who'd orchestrated it all.

The two held the phone, falling silent simultaneously, their breathing restrained and controlled—evidence for anyone listening that nothing inappropriate was being discussed.

"Let's talk," he said quietly, almost pleading. "Anything."

"Okay," she replied, giving him this small mercy.

But she hadn't considered that appearing too calm on the phone after today's events at Zhengyangmen East Station seemed inappropriate—too controlled for a former lover, too composed for someone who'd witnessed such violence. She picked out topics she could discuss, topics she wasn't afraid of being overheard, and asked softly, "Why...why did you hit that person today?"

"What?" Xie Wuqing's voice was distant, muffled, like he was drinking water or trying to swallow something bitter. "Did he make things difficult for you?"

"No. But after you left, he asked me to talk to you. He seemed terrified."

"Want to speak up for him?" he commented with faint amusement. "It's not worth your time."

"I don't even know him, why should I speak up for him?" she said softly. "But you're a famous distinguished guest visiting the capital, and it's not worth getting angry over such a nobody. It wouldn't sound good if word got out."

He was silent for a moment—considering, perhaps, or just breathing through pain.

She could hardly imagine that the real Xie Wuqing was sitting in that high-backed chair deep in the Hundred Flowers Garden, holding the receiver with an indiscernible expression of joy or sorrow, looking at a brick on the floor or a black-and-white photograph on the wall, listening to her speak—to this performance they were both giving.

There was a sound of a porcelain cup falling onto a saucer; he must have put down his teacup with more force than intended. He said, "Lieutenant Lin went to Zhengyang Gate to collect the body, but his men stopped him outside." He paused, then continued with terrible calm, "They said they received a strict order: no one is allowed to move anything at the scene until a distinguished guest arrives."

He calmly repeated the strict order like reciting scripture: "Make sure the young master of the Xie family sees the original scene with his own eyes."

In the past hour or so, he had known that his friend had been murdered—beaten to death in the mud. On his way there, when he arrived, he discovered that precisely because the victim was Xie Wuqing's friend, even in death, Zhao Yucheng had to lie there waiting. Waiting for Xie Wuqing to witness the horrific scene. Waiting to be used as a warning to this proud young master of the Xie family who believed himself capable of saving the country and its people—a lesson written in blood and broken bones.

"Weiwei," he suddenly called her by her childhood name, dropping all pretense.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she couldn't speak—couldn't breathe.

"You shouldn't care about this," he said softly, and it sounded like a warning and a plea all at once.

She found her voice and replied softly, carefully, "You let me ask, just a couple of questions. If you're unhappy, I won't ask anymore."

He smiled—she could hear it in the slight change in his breathing.

Because of that childhood nickname, He Wei suddenly found it hard to get into character, thinking that this phone call needed to end before she said something that would get them both killed.

"Are you free the day after tomorrow?" Xie Wuqing asked her, pivoting suddenly.

"The day after tomorrow?" She didn't know whether to tell the truth or a lie, which version of herself to present.

He continued on the other end of the line, "I have a junior from West Point who just finished his studies and arrived in Beijing yesterday. He's a promising young talent and military expert. If you're free, come and meet him."

"If he really is a talent… he's already been spotted by all the unmarried young ladies," she said softly, playing her role. "It's pointless to meet him."

He Wei's fingers unconsciously traced the turquoise surface of the coffee table, their gazes meeting those of a clock in the display case in front of her—a silent exchange between woman and object. She couldn't fathom what kind of arrangement he was setting up, what game he was playing...

Was it meant for those listening, or was there truly such a person he wanted to introduce to her? Since he had spoken, he couldn't have fabricated someone out of thin air—too easily verified. Did he really intend to repay her for her help with a junior brother, with an introduction to marriageable prospects?

"Are you unhappy?" Xie Wuqing broke the silence, reading something in her pause.

She feigned displeasure and said softly, "No."

"I'm letting you choose others, not letting others choose you," he said with quiet intensity. "You meet them first. If you like them, I'll find a matchmaker that no one can refuse to bring you together."

"If you think it's good, then I'll meet them," she thought for a moment and said, trying to sound natural. "It's nothing."

"I'll have a car pick you up the day after tomorrow," he said finally, ending the call before she could protest or ask questions.

The line went dead, leaving her alone with the dial tone and the weight of everything unsaid.