Chapter 28: The Uninvited Guest

Chapter 28: The Uninvited Guests

Yet regardless of the gazes and thoughts of others, the mother and son came anyway.

This was their first time attending such a banquet—though uninvited, they arrived all the same.

Fang Yiniang pushed the wheelchair with some effort, her refined face wearing a faint smile as she comforted her son: "Wenshan, don’t worry, we’re almost there."

The garden paths were mostly cobbled, uneven and winding, with slopes here and there. While ordinary ladies in pearl-studded shoes could manage, those in raised heels had to tread carefully to avoid tripping—let alone navigating a wheelchair.

The hard wooden wheels jolted harshly over the uneven paths, forcing Zhou Wenshan to grip the armrests tightly. He turned his head and offered his mother a gentle smile.

For the first time in days, he spoke softly to reassure her: "Mother, I’m not in a hurry. Don’t rush either."

As he spoke, Zhou Wenshan turned back to survey the lively crowd with an appreciative gaze.

Amid cloud-like curls framing coiled hair and fragrant air, the banquet glittered brilliantly. Delicate butterflies perched on blooming branches, and laughter filled the air. At the center of it all sat Zhou Yuanting.

Zhou Yuanting cut a striking figure today, clad in a scholar’s robe of snowy silk. The people of Great Chen favored white, and scholars often wore such pristine garments—seemingly plain, yet anything but simple. The robe was subtly embroidered with iridescent threads of moonbeam mermaid silk, invisible at first glance but shimmering under sunlight like glacial reflections—a picture of lofty elegance and unshakable dignity.

Looks could carry a man far. Even the most vicious souls, if draped in beauty and seated high, could inspire unwitting admiration.

And today, Zhou Yuanting basked in such admiration.

Countless envious eyes watched him, flattered him. He sat at the thick of the crowd, close to the Crown Prince, as if ready to soar into the clouds at any moment.

Zhou Wenshan observed him through the throngs and blossoms, thinking: No one knew this feast should have been *his*.

After a long pause, Zhou Wenshan’s darkened gaze slid from Zhou Yuanting’s face to the others in the garden.

The garden teemed with people—some of the young lords playing drinking games were even familiar to him. Not long ago, these same men had invited him to go horseback riding and hunting. And when he took a nasty spill from his horse, they had encircled him, jeering and mocking.

Zhou Wenshan’s eyes lingered on them, his scholarly features curling into a faint smile. The longer he looked, the wider his lips stretched.

How wonderful. They still stood alive and gamboling about freely. How wonderful.

A venomous glint, inherited from his father’s phoenix eyes, seeped into his sickly frame, withering him further until he looked like a walking corpse. Yet, for some reason, the sight of these men made him laugh.

The laughter bent his hate-filled eyes into crescents—an expression that seemed joyful, yet brimmed with seething resentment. For a fleeting moment, his smiling face twisted into something grotesque, as if he were no longer human but a centipede draped over the wheelchair, twitching with countless legs, eager to crawl onto them, sink fangs into their necks, devour their eyes, and tear out their hearts to toy with in their gaping chests.

But these chaotic, bloody fantasies were trapped within his crippled body. He couldn’t even walk over—only be pushed, step by step, closer.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Zhou Wenshan’s hand absently stroked the hard surface of his wheelchair, thinking: How beautiful it would be if they all died before him, their blood pooling into a crimson stream.

Meanwhile, Fang Yiniang had pushed him into the thick of the banquet. The wheelchair passed through clusters of jeweled and silk-clad ladies, drawing strange looks.

Who would bring a wheelchair here?

The gossip-savvy matrons leaned in, muttering behind their silk fans, exchanging the latest gossip about the Marquis’ household.

In Chang’an’s web of noble families, by-blows and bastards married into each other’s families—your daughter to my house, my sister to theirs. With so many intertwined lineages, no secret stayed buried. No matter how tightly sealed, news inevitably leaked, spreading from one household to another. And given how boldly Fang Yiniang and Zhou Wenshan had carried on recently, many recognized them.

"They say this is the Marquis’ long-kept mistress—kept outside for over a decade. When the Marquis fell gravely ill, nearly on his deathbed, he finally confessed to raising a mistress and fathering a son. Only then were they brought into the manor."

"But why is he crippled?"

"Rumor has it he went horseback riding and took a nasty spill. Tsk. To end up like this so soon after entering the manor—what cursed fortune."

The crowd gossiped in hushed whispers, occasionally stealing glances at the pair, scrutinizing the mother and son from head to toe.

Fang Yiniang had long anticipated drawing such attention, but they no longer cared. In fact, Fang Yiniang even straightened her back, facing the judgmental gazes head-on.

She used to think the people here were all noble, high-and-mighty figures, and she feared making even the slightest misstep, lest they mock her as "an outsider who doesn’t know the rules." But after experiencing such dramatic ups and downs—and even resolving to seek revenge—she suddenly stopped caring.

They were all human. Even if they were born different, there was one thing they couldn’t change: everyone was a mere mortal. In the face of death, they were all the same.

The smile on Fang Yiniang’s face grew even gentler.

The resentment that had festered in her chest for so long now churned like a cauldron of boiling oil—and soon, she could pour that scalding oil right onto their faces!

Everyone who had harmed her and her son would pay the price!

And for this impulsive yet all-consuming act of vengeance, she was willing to do anything.

Earlier, as they made their way here, the maids and servants along the way had asked where they were going. They simply said they were out for a stroll. The maids didn’t think much of it—who would have guessed that this mother and son, who had been weeping daily and threatening suicide just days before, would now emerge all dressed up for the banquet?

So when their wheelchair rolled into the midst of the feast, not only were the guests stunned, but even the hosts were caught off guard.

What were a concubine and an illegitimate son doing here? And arriving in a wheelchair—were they deliberately making fools of themselves?

At a host’s banquet, even the serving maids had to carefully primp themselves to avoid embarrassment. Lower-ranking concubines weren’t even allowed to step outside, lest they offend the guests. Favored concubines might be permitted to stand and toast at the tables, and while presentable illegitimate sons could attend, someone like Zhou Wenshan? He was practically inviting ridicule.

At that moment, the Marquis of Zhongyi was deep in conversation with the surrounding guests, speaking animatedly, when he suddenly looked up and saw Fang Yiniang.

After days of not seeing her, he had completely written off Fang Yiniang—he was never a man of loyalty to begin with. Before, he had only been kept in check by Qin Chanyue’s watchful eye. Once she was no longer keeping him in line, he had sought out others, and Fang Yiniang’s affection had long faded from his memory.

So when he saw Fang Yiniang, dressed neatly and pushing Zhou Wenshan forward, rage shot up his spine.

With guests all around, Zhou Ziheng couldn’t afford to lose his temper. He could only shoot Zhou Yuanting a sharp glare—what were all the good-for-nothing servants in the estate doing? How had they let these two out? If they started spouting nonsense about "being crippled" or "being wronged" in front of everyone, wouldn’t it be utterly humiliating?

Zhou Yuanting had been attending to the Crown Prince nearby. When he caught his father’s gaze and then spotted the mother and son, he broke out in a cold sweat. He hastily excused himself from the prince and strode toward them.

Today, the pair was dressed respectably, wearing nothing above their station, and their behavior seemed proper—no outbursts or madness. They stood there quietly, clean and composed. Though their sudden appearance was unconventional, it still allowed Zhou Yuanting to breathe a small sigh of relief.

A dignified resolution was far better than becoming a laughingstock.

When they saw Zhou Yuanting approaching, both mother and son broke into warm, radiant smiles.

They seemed especially eager to see him.

But their smiles only made Zhou Yuanting uneasy.

His normally serene face forced a polite smile, his eyes betraying poorly concealed wariness. Venturing cautiously, he asked, "With the banquet today, the estate has been quite busy, so I haven’t had the chance to visit Fang Yiniang’s courtyard. May I ask why you’ve brought Third Brother here—?"

"Your third brother has been unwell these past days, but today he finally had a bit of energy, so I brought him out for a walk. We happened upon the banquet and thought we’d take a look."

Fang Yiniang wore a light cyan cross-collar dress. She had always been slender and delicate, but the past few days of tending to her son had left her with a sickly pallor, her pallor like that of a delicate porcelain figurine—as if she might shatter at any moment.

But Zhou Yuanting wasn’t fooled. Strip away the finery and we're all just skeletons, but dress us up and we become infinite personas. One couldn’t judge by appearances alone. He was certain Fang Yiniang had ulterior motives—she had deliberately brought her son here to make fools of themselves.

Reining in his irritation, Zhou Yuanting swore inwardly that after today, he would place this mother and son under house arrest and never let them out again.

He took a slow breath, preparing to say something conciliatory, when Zhou Wenshan, seated in the wheelchair, spoke up in a gentle tone:

"Elder Brother, I just saw some friends over there. It’s been so long since I’ve seen them while I’ve been ill. Could you push me over so I can exchange a few words with them?"

As he spoke, a flicker of yearning passed through Zhou Wenshan’s eyes, his expression full of hope as he gazed at Zhou Yuanting—as if he desperately wished to return to his friends but, having lost his standing, could only plead with his former rival for mercy. A defeated man begging for scraps of mercy.

Zhou Yuanting witnessed this scene and felt a rush of exhilaration in his chest, an inexplicable thrill rising within him, making his whole body tingle. The sensation of a superior controlling another's fate filled him with immense satisfaction!

He couldn’t resist this feeling—for a moment, he felt omnipotent, as if everything was under his control, so much so that he felt light-headed with power. Without a second thought, he readily agreed, "Alright, I’ll take you over to see them."

What did he have to fear?

This mother and son might have some minor schemes, but they were nothing in his eyes. Even before he became the designated heir, he could have squashed Zhou Wenshan like an ant. Now, as the favored heir by the Crown Prince, destined to rise through the imperial examinations, what could these two possibly do to him?

They were lowly as ants, insignificant as dust—utterly powerless against him.

If they wanted a decent life, there was only one path—to please him!

From now on, this mother and son would never make waves again. And he, as the heir of the marquisate, had grand ambitions yet to unfold.

Being the magnanimous man he was, once he ascended to high office, he might even grant them a leisurely comfort—let them live in ease!

With such thoughts in mind, Zhou Yuanting took over with relish the wheelchair from Fang Yiniang.

Fang Yiniang was meek as a lamb without fangs. When Zhou Yuanting reached for the wheelchair, she obediently stepped back and stood aside.

And so, Zhou Yuanting took over pushing the wheelchair in her stead.

——

As Zhou Yuanting wheeled Zhou Wenshan away, Fang Yiniang stood beneath a flowering tree, watching in silence. Her gaze clung to them like a spider’s thread ensnaring prey—unyielding and unbreakable.

Meanwhile, not far away, Qin Chanyue was making rounds with Liu Yandai. The guests at this table were on friendly terms with Qin Chanyue, so she pulled Liu Yandai down to share the table—Qin Chanyue drinking, Liu Yandai eating, each tending to their own.

The banquet was bustling, with many tables to visit. When encountering familiar faces, they would stop to chat, sometimes losing track of time in lively banter. Thus, the toasts among the women’s tables were far from finished.

But Qin Chanyue hadn’t overlooked the stir at the men’s side.

The moment Fang Yiniang wheeled Zhou Wenshan in, Qin Chanyue had spotted them.

At the sight of these two, her focus inevitably split, her breath deliberately steadying—she had spent so long laying the groundwork for today’s performance. She could only hope they’d perform well.

Her momentary distraction led her tablemates to assume she was angered by the uninvited concubine. One whispered consolingly, "The banquet is still ongoing—just endure it. Which household doesn’t have a concubine with notions above their station? The Marquis of Zhongyi might have momentarily lost his way, but a man’s heart wanders. It won’t stay fixed on one forever."

Qin Chanyue withdrew her gaze and smiled at the table. "It’s fine. I’ve come to terms with it. As long as my sons are well, nothing else truly matters."

The ladies at the table nodded in agreement, chiming in, "Exactly, men are unreliable. But your two sons are outstanding—you’ll surely have good days ahead."

Unaware of the recent turmoil in the marquisate, they still assumed Qin Chanyue enjoyed a harmonious relationship with her sons.

Meanwhile, Liu Yandai was mouth full with soft, milky-white pastries. Just as she took a bite, she overheard these remarks. Mouth full, she blinked thoughtfully before lowering her head to continue eating.

Oh well. Might as well play deaf.

——

At that moment, Zhou Yuanting was pushing Zhou Wenshan’s wheelchair toward a gathering of young noblemen.

They had gathered on a grassy patch in the garden, where a stone table had been set up for a game of *touhu*—a throwing contest where participants stood ten paces away, tossing arrows into a narrow-mouthed bronze vessel. Success was measured by the number of arrows landed, with trifling bets—jade baubles or fans—adding to the fun.

As Zhou Yuanting approached with the wheelchair, the young men were laughing and chatting, discussing the ladies of the household between throws.

"Mrs. Wan's trueborn daughter is quite impressive—Lady Wu, the eldest daughter of the Wu family. She has a good temperament, looks, and background."

"Shh—didn’t you notice earlier how Lady Wu was vying for the Crown Prince's attention? No matter how pretty, she’s off-limits."

"A wife should be virtuous; looks and appearance don’t matter. As long as she can manage household affairs, tolerate concubines, and care for illegitimate children, that’s enough. If you like pretty ones, aren’t they everywhere? The other day, I found a charming concubine among the common folk and kept her in the outer courtyard. If you’re interested, go and take your turn. We’re good brothers—let’s share the spoils."

"Hahaha—" someone laughed. "Then I’ll graciously accept. Later, brother, ask your concubine who’s better—you or me?"

The young masters erupted in crude laughter. Outsiders wouldn’t know; they’d think they were just enjoying the game.

Having long been immersed in the circles of high society, they were courteous and disciplined to those above but utterly lacking in virtue toward those below. Bastards were not people—they could cripple one to help a sworn brother secure the heir’s position. Women were not people either, just vessels to be mounted at whim. Of course, if they encountered a woman of formidable background and capability who could break them to heel, they would immediately put on a gentle, courteous facade. Outsiders would then praise them for reforming after marriage, no longer fooling around. After all, for men—it’s never too late to reform.

Amid the laughter, the sound of wooden wheels crunching over gravel came. The young masters glanced over, and their laughter strangled in their throats as if something had caught there.

The others turned in confusion, and their laughter also faded.

In the sudden silence, they exchanged wide-eyed stares, staring as Zhou Yuanting pushed a wheelchair toward them—seated in it was Zhou Wenshan.

Not long ago, they had lured this man to the hunting grounds for horseback riding, and after he fell, they deliberately delayed his treatment, leaving his back incurably broken. It was said even the royal physicians could do nothing—his condition was beyond cure.

This was a man they had personally ruined. By their usual standards, Zhou Wenshan should have been killed outright—along with Fang Yiniang. Only death would bring them peace.

They didn’t understand why Zhou Yuanting had brought him here and eyed him suspiciously.

Zhou Yuanting stood behind the wheelchair, his refined face wearing a faint smile. He lifted his sleeve, and a well-maintained hand rested lightly on Zhou Wenshan’s shoulder as he said, "My third brother has been recuperating and grew bored cooped up at home. Since the banquet is lively, I brought him to watch and join you all in a game of pitch-pot."

After all, pitch-pot didn’t require much movement—Zhou Wenshan could manage.

The brothers found it amusing that Zhou Yuanting was now playing the "fraternal piety" act. If it were his trueborn brother, Zhou Chiye, standing here, they might humor the performance—Zhou Chiye carried that weight. But the man in the wheelchair was just a bastard son. Why bother with the effort?

Yet since Zhou Yuanting had brought him, no one wanted to openly contradict him. Someone handed Zhou Wenshan a pitch arrow and said, "Alright, let Third Young Master Zhou try pitch-pot too."

The arrow was wooden with a weighted iron tip—weighted for true flight.

The young man in the wheelchair had grown noticeably thinner, his cheeks slightly hollowed, but his expression was serene. Dressed in a light-gray round-collared robe that draped over his slender frame, he looked composed, his chest adorned with dark-blue embroidery. His hair was tied back with a matching ribbon, giving him an unassuming dignity—not as dazzling as Zhou Yuanting, but with a quiet grace of his own.

Like a pine tree standing quietly in the mountains.

The young masters around him felt he was markedly different from before.

When they first met Zhou Wenshan, he was just a newly arrived bastard son, arrogant and ignorant, basking in the Marquis of Zhongyi’s favor. His pretensions to the heirship were laughable—did he think the title was a trinket from the Marquis’s strongbox, to be handed out at will? Had he asked the Qin family, the Prince of Southern Pacification, or even the Emperor?

They had despised him—a clueless posturing wretch elevated by the Marquis’s fleeting favor, yet still an arrogant waste at his core.

But now, the young man in the wheelchair playing pitch-pot had an unshaken refinement, his illness lending him an air of luminous without glaring, deep as still waters.

A few of the young masters exchanged glances.

They had expected Zhou Wenshan to collapse after being left incurably broken, yet here he was, serene and present in just a few days. It unsettled them.

Then, Zhou Wenshan landed a throw.

The metal tip struck the bronze pot with a familiar metallic ring. He smiled, his eyes crinkling, then adjusted the master-crafted contrivance’s position.

Turning to face the young masters, he asked, "Gentlemen, did that sound familiar?"

They stared at him, puzzled.

Zhou Yuanting then replied, "Third Brother, what does that remind you of?"

Zhou Wenshan laughed again.

His ruifeng eyes (a Chinese term for a specific eye shape), identical to Zhou Yuanting's, carried a hint of mockery as he drawled, "The CRACK of my bones shattering when I fell from the horse that day was just like this. Eldest Brother, you didn’t hear it, but weren’t all the gentlemen present listening?"

These noble scions froze for a moment before immediately retorting, "What madness are you spewing, Third Young Master Zhou? Have you drunk too much? Your fall was your own doing—what does it have to do with us?"

They absolutely could not admit to this!

As they spoke, the group turned their accusing gazes toward Zhou Yuanting.

Look at you, can’t even handle your own kin properly!

Zhou Yuanting’s heart also sank.

He had just thought his third brother had finally learned his lesson, understood not to oppose him anymore—yet in the blink of an eye, he had turned hostile again. Taking a deep breath, he coldly reprimanded, "Enough. I’ll have someone escort you back now. From now on, you're forbidden from leaving."

You reject the toast only to drink the penalty!

The smile on Zhou Wenshan’s face slowly faded, replaced by confusion and bewilderment. He seemed unable to understand why his eldest brother didn’t remember—it was them, after all.

But it didn’t matter.

Zhou Wenshan let out a slow "Oh," then said, "Eldest Brother doesn’t remember, but I can help you recall."

With that, Zhou Wenshan suddenly pressed a mechanism on his wheelchair.

The wheelchair, already adjusted to face the crowd, revealed two rows of hidden crossbows beneath the armrests as the panels retracted. Unlike the blunt-tipped game arrows used in the traditional game, these bolts were sharp and glinted coldly under the summer sun, aimed directly at everyone.

Zhou Yuanting froze for a moment at the sight.

He had never imagined a wheelchair could conceal hidden weapons, nor why Zhou Wenshan would turn them against him—ordinary people, untrained in martial arts, lacked the reflexes to react in danger. Even if the thought of fleeing crossed their minds, their legs wouldn’t obey.

And Zhou Wenshan gave them no chance to dodge.

With a forceful press of the mechanism, arrows shot forth, embedding in flesh before them. Zhou Wenshan let out a triumphant, unhinged scream!

Screams of pain and terror mingled with his cries, attracting horrified onlookers. But Zhou Wenshan didn’t care. Throwing his head back, eyes bloodshot, he shrieked madly, "Die! Die! All of you, die!"

Die together! Die with me together!

He had waited far too long for this day!

That day, his mother had rushed back from the kitchen, clutching his face with trembling hands, her eyes red as she whispered fiercely, "Child, I know you’re suffering. If you want to die, I won’t stop you. But you mustn’t go alone. Don’t those who ruined you deserve death too?"

Zhou Wenshan had thought dazedly—yes, shouldn’t they?

He could die, but not silently. At the very least… he would take a few with him.

The mother-son pair was ecstatic when Qin Chanyue announced her banquet.

For this day, they schemed tirelessly. They sought craftsmen to build the wheelchair, toiling behind closed doors for days. The household staff deliberately ignored them—after all, Concubine Fang had once been seen digging up dirt like a madwoman, babbling incoherently. Lady Qin ignored her, the Lord of the House steered clear, so the servants learned to turn a blind eye.

Poison had seemed simpler initially, but while searching for ingredients, Concubine Fang chanced upon a mechanist who specialized in wheelchairs. The man bragged he could build one with hidden mechanisms, even offering to supply the hidden bolts himself—fatal within thirty meters. Seduced by the idea, Concubine Fang hired him.

To think this wheelchair could be as effective as a legendary weapon!

As everything unfolded in the garden, Fang Yiniang stood quietly beneath a tree, watching.

She saw her son personally avenge her. She saw Qin Chanyue's son, Zhou Yuanting, riddled with arrows in the chest, thighs, and abdomen, clutching his chest as he crumpled in pain. She saw her son tilt his head back and roar, feeling fierce satisfaction in her heart.

How wonderful.

Fang Yiniang gazed lovingly at her son, a tear of emotion rolling down her cheek.

Now she could die content.

——

When the screams erupted from the garden, Qin Chanyue put down her wine cup.

She had already guessed what had happened, so she remained composed, calmly telling the guests beside her, "I shall see what has occurred. Please continue enjoying yourselves."

The ladies at the table naturally nodded.

As Qin Chanyue rose, Liu Yandai hurriedly stood up as well—she had been too busy eating earlier, forgetting all about decorum, her cheeks bulging with pastries like a chipmunk. Now, she couldn’t even chew fast enough, covering her mouth with her palm as she hurried after her mother-in-law.

Qin Chanyue, however, had no time to glance back at Liu Yandai. She walked faster and faster.

The crowd ahead swelled, everyone silent, staring in shock. Just the sight of their stunned expressions made it clear—something terrible had happened.

The plan seemed to have succeeded. Now, she had to push forward, mustering her strength to stage a convincing act in front of everyone.

After a distant glance at the commotion, Qin Chanyue turned to Liu Yandai and instructed, "There’s been a disturbance at the banquet. Don’t be afraid—it’s nothing serious. Once this is over, our good days lie ahead. Just follow my lead: if I cry, you cry. If I faint, say I’ve had a spell of dizziness and take me to Qiufeng Hall for treatment. If anyone asks you anything, just say you don’t know. Is that clear?"

Liu Yandai didn’t understand what was happening, but she nodded repeatedly.

Whatever Mother-in-law does, Yan Dai will do the same. Yan Dai understands!

As they made their way through the crowd, Qin Chanyue finally saw the scene before her.

The open space, once set up for arrow-throwing games with a stone table bearing wine and pastries, had now turned into a scene of carnage.

Zhou Wenshan sat in his wheelchair, laughing maniacally. Before him, seven or eight young men lay on the ground, pierced by arrows—with Zhou Yuanting at the forefront, bearing the most wounds.

Within a hundred paces, unless one was an exceptionally alert warrior, no ordinary person could dodge such crossbow bolts. And though the arrows pierced flesh, their small wounds meant little blood loss—death wouldn’t come quickly, only agonizing pain.

The ground was littered with writhing, screaming men, their cries mingling with Zhou Wenshan’s laughter, creating a scene of pure horror.

The ladies and young ladies in the courtyard were terrified, while some of the young men trembled—they had nearly joined the arrow-throwing game earlier!

When Qin Chanyue finally spotted her son through the crowd, she gasped sharply, her face twisting in anguish as she cried out, "Yuanting, my son—!"

Under the watchful eyes of all, Qin Chanyue rushed forward, sobbing and wailing.

Liu Yandai hurried after her, opening her mouth to cry, "Yuanting, my husband!"—but the sticky pastries in her mouth clung to her teeth, muffling her words into incoherent mumbles.

Ah! Dumb mouth! Chew faster!