Chapter 654: Seventeen-Year-Old Yangyang

Chapter 654: Seventeen-Year-Old Yangyang

The waiter, who had been all smiles moments before, instantly changed his expression. A pot of hot wine was hurled straight at Zhao Changhe’s face.

At the same time, the patrons who had been cheerfully chatting just a moment ago suddenly drew daggers and viciously stabbed toward Zhao Changhe’s kidneys.

The next moment, everyone’s eyes went wide.

The hot wine aimed at Zhao Changhe’s face seemed to hit an invisible wall of air—not only did it fail to reach him, but it rebounded, splashing all over the waiter’s face. The waiter let out a scream, his face instantly disfigured. He clutched his face, writhing in agony for a moment, then fell silent, dead.

“Such poison, such poison.” Zhao Changhe chuckled, casually waving his hand. The daggers around him reversed their course, plunging back into the assassins’ hearts.

In the blink of an eye, the tavern was littered with corpses. A few genuine patrons cowered in the corner, holding their breath, too terrified to move.

Zhao Changhe glanced at them, then sat back down in his original seat. He casually summoned a jug of wine from a neighboring table and drank leisurely: “I know not all of you are real patrons—there are still some rats hiding among you. I can’t be bothered to find out who. But pass a message to Xuexiao for me.”

None of the patrons dared to respond.

“Trying to assassinate the imperial and Cui family envoys to sabotage the talks between both sides? Save your effort. The Cui family isn’t stupid, and neither is His Majesty. If no envoy is sent, fine—but once one is dispatched, it’s not something on your level that can assassinate them. Xuexiao himself wouldn’t bother to personally ambush an envoy… Actually, he doesn’t dare.”

Still, no one answered.

Indeed, their assassination attempt wasn’t aimed at Zhao Changhe. Aside from gods and demons, no earthly force had the capability to assassinate Zhao Changhe anymore—unless leaders like Tiemuer or Xuexiao came in person. Their ambush was meant for the envoy from the capital to Qinghe. If both sides believed their own envoy had been killed by the other, the talks would collapse before they even began.

Who could have guessed that after days of lying in wait, the first envoy to arrive would be Zhao Changhe himself? If they’d known it was him, why would these people have come to throw their lives away?

A man of worth does not sit where danger lurks. Who would believe that Zhao Changhe, in his current position, would still dare to ride alone through the jianghu? Even harder to believe was that from Xia Chichi to Tang Wanzhuang to Zhao Changhe himself, they all thought it was only natural—if he didn’t ride the jianghu, who would?

Even now, the assassins hadn’t figured out who this yellow-faced man really was…

“What I want you to tell Xuexiao is this: go find a woman. Losing your virginity might give you a bit more backbone, instead of scheming all day, staring at other people’s cracks.”

Zhao Changhe finished his wine, set the jug down on the table, and turned to leave.

This assassination was just a minor episode for Zhao Changhe—less significant than his first foray out of Beimang. But it also dispelled his notion of lingering outside to gather information, because this might not be the Listening Snow Pavilion.

He had mentioned the Listening Snow Pavilion, saying “pass a message to Xuexiao,” to mislead others into thinking he was certain it was them.

In truth, those most likely to sabotage the talks were the Wang, Yang, and Li families—the first suspects—and the Cui family itself. Even if it was the Listening Snow Pavilion, they would have been hired.

He couldn’t delay any longer. The Cui family wasn’t a one-man show where Cui Wenjing alone decided everything. He couldn’t ignore the collective opinions of the vast clan. Circumstances push people forward; no one is an exception.

Galloping through the snowy night, Zhao Changhe turned his head to look back, feeling a faint reluctance.

The jianghu of those days… how interesting it was…

Pity that now he didn’t even need to use his brain much. His qi-watching technique allowed him to clearly see the cultivation levels of those around him, even their malice. When everything began to grow clear, it brought safety but robbed him of joy.

Perhaps it was just masochism.

…

That night, as he passed by cities along the way, all their gates were shut. Closing the gates at night was normal enough; what was abnormal were the vigilant troops on the walls and the tall watchtowers on either side.

This was wartime standard… The direction they faced north was toward the capital. Who were they guarding against?

Zhao Changhe didn’t enter the cities. He rode around them, his heart growing heavier.

The Cui family was truly prepared for war. This situation could already be considered in the worst possible light. In theory, he wasn’t going to his betrothed’s home for a family visit or talks—he was walking into a tiger’s den.

He wondered how Yangyang was faring in this atmosphere… Was the little rabbit crying?

Dawn. Heavy snow.

The dark steed trod through thick snowdrifts, travel-worn, straight to the outskirts of Qinghe.

At least during the day, the city wasn’t sealed; people were still entering. Zhao Changhe rode to the gate, where a group of guards blocked his way: “Dismount! Travel permit! Uh… you…”

On the road, he had kept a low profile and concealed his identity, but here there was no need for pretense. An ordinary envoy would face unnecessary harassment and trouble, maybe even be barred entry. If he fought his way in, it would still expose him—pointless trouble. Better to come openly.

So, just before arriving, Zhao Changhe had wiped off his disguise.

The guards stared at his scarred face and, in unison, stepped back with their spears: “Zhao…”

The best measure of a man’s prestige was that they couldn’t even utter the name “Zhao Changhe.” After stammering for a moment, what came out was: “Prince Zhao…”

Zhao Changhe reined in his horse and raised his whip: “Can I enter the city?”

The guards exchanged glances. Despite the heavy snow, cold sweat beaded on their foreheads.

Damn it—you, a prince, known to those in the know as the highest authority in the new dynasty, riding alone through the snowy night for a thousand li, straight to Qinghe… Are you insane? Our superiors never told us how to handle this!

Not just ordinary guards—even the city’s general dared not speak. He hastily sent a personal soldier to notify Cui Wenjing.

Seeing the commotion around him, Zhao Changhe laughed heartily, raised his voice, and projected it: “Zhao Changhe has come to fulfill the marriage contract, seeking to wed Miss Cui, Yuan Yang!”

The might of a Heaven List expert with three hidden treasures—his voice carried throughout the entire city, startling roosting birds into flight.

The two to three hundred thousand people in the city all heard it. Their mouths hung half-open, stunned. Snow fell in thick flakes, and the entire city fell silent.

Suddenly, a commotion arose from within the city. The sound of hooves came from inside out, and a frantic voice could be faintly heard: “Miss, you can’t—”

“All of you, get out of my way!”

“Whoa!” The steed neighed, its hooves striking the stone pavement. The young girl, riding her white horse with the black saddle, swept through the snow like a whirlwind out of the city.

Then she reined in at the city gate, standing still, gazing quietly at the man who had come.

It was Cui Yuanyang, dressed in white martial attire—white clothes, white horse, silver robe, silver saddle. Beneath the city gate in the snow, she was like a poem, like a painting.

A carved bow hung diagonally across her body, as if she had been about to go hunting or something… Hearing Zhao Changhe’s call, she had galloped over, not even bothering to grab her quiver.

She had grown taller… Her long, straight legs clamped against the horse’s flanks, her back straight. The baby fat on her face had faded; it was no longer so round.

Her face was now an energetic, oval shape. In her eyes, there was still the sharpness she had used to scold the guards, but as she looked at her lover, it slowly softened into bright laughter.

This was a young commander who, during the siege of Puyang, had led troops in a night raid on the Wang family camp. In the months of war, she had grown rapidly, no longer resembling the little rabbit she once was, nor the immature, rebellious girl who had run away from home that year.

Cui Yuanyang… seventeen years old.

The young man and woman gazed at each other for a long time in the heavy snow. Then, as if by telepathy, they both smiled at once and spoke in unison:

“I’ve been waiting for those words for two years.”

“My Yangyang… has grown up.”

After that, they smiled again, both laughing aloud.

From within the city came Cui Wenjing’s voice: “Since you speak of the marriage contract, come in and talk.”