27. Crushed Orchids Stained with Blood

Chapter 27. The Orchid Broken, Stained with Blood

Her thoughts were in disarray, and she felt a suffocating tightness in her chest.

Her father, Gu Kaizhi, had always been upright and honorable. When she was young and mischievous, occasionally making mistakes, her father would at most punish her by copying texts—never once raising a hand to her.

How could such a gentle and loving father abuse his power? There must be more to this than meets the eye.

She walked unsteadily down the corridor and arrived before Xu Hanyun's bedchamber.

The door was half-ajar. She hesitated for a moment before stepping inside.

Xu Hanyun sat by the window, drinking alone under a solitary moon. Clad in moon-white robes, hair unbound, he bore a careworn, desolate air.

Gu Yuanzhi furrowed her brows slightly. It was rare to see him drinking at night, looking so unguarded.

Hearing her approach, he did not turn around. Draining his cup in one go, he said flatly, "What is it?"

Gu Yuanzhi moved quietly to his side and, choosing her words carefully, said, "Lord Xu, I'd like to ask your advice on something."

Xu Hanyun's gaze fell upon the dossier in her hands, and his eyes went cold and hard.

"You dare to go through this official's files without permission?"

"I overstepped my bounds." Gu Yuanzhi let out a soft breath and spoke with difficulty, "I saw that the pardon had already been issued, yet it was suppressed. Who wrote the approval on it?"

A long silence passed before he countered, "Don't you recognize your own father's handwriting?"

She froze, then pressed on, probing, "Xu Yanxiu—was that your former name, my lord? Why would you recklessly break into a minister's residence? My father has always been upright—there must be a misunderstanding. He could never have abused his power to bully someone."

He let out a derisive laugh, laced with bitter mockery and desolation. She only thought to defend her father, yet spoke not a single word for him, silently accepting his guilt as fact. A trickle of wine slid down his throat, its bitterness settling in his gut: "The official seals and documents are all in order. You seem awfully concerned about your father's reputation."

Gu Yuanzhi hesitated several times before voicing the suspicion in her heart: "The way you treat me now, my lord—do you resent me for what happened back then?"

His hand paused, the wine rippling in the cup. Slowly, he raised his eyes to her. Under the moonlight, they were dark with the promise of a storm.

He rose and walked toward her step by step. "You ask me?"

Gu Yuanzhi, cowed by his oppressive presence, backed away step by step, speaking softly, "Lord Xu, whose house did you break into that made my father act that way? Surely the misunderstanding can be resolved."

He said calmly, "Why your father did what he did—you should ask him. Haven't you sent this month's letter home yet?"

It was his own foolish longing that had driven him to recklessly break into the Gu residence—and it had cost his mother her life.

Some wounds, once reopened, would hurt both of them. He would rather she hate him, misunderstand him, than see him at his most wretched.

He couldn't forgive himself, and he couldn't dredge up the past either. Too afraid to defend himself, he suffered in silence.

Gu Yuanzhi gave a bleak smile. "You've trapped me here, but you won't even give me a reason. What do you want from me?"

Xu Hanyun harbored his own resentment, yet said calmly, "Scholar Gu made his ruling back then—surely he had his reasons."

He leaned down, the smell of wine and cold pine brushing against her neck. "Behave. Some things are not yours to ask about."

She bit her lip, indignation flaring: "If it truly was my father's fault, I'll explain it in my letter and apologize to you on his behalf."

He sneered coldly. "Who are you putting on a show for? What, you still can't believe your father, who prides himself on integrity, could bend the law for his own benefit?"

His cold words stabbed her in the chest. She turned her head away. "Compared to you, my lord, of course I trust my father."

"This official is naturally unworthy of your trust—always at odds with you. You can smile and chat with a painting dealer you just met—do you think you've finally found another kindred spirit to confide in?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he frowned with a sharp intake of breath, pressing his knuckles to his temple. His migraine chose the worst time to hit, the alcohol surging up like boiling oil into water, making the pain blaze even hotter.

"Lord Xu is drunk, and he's talking nonsense." Gu Yuanzhi tried to brush past the topic. Seeing his old ailment flare up and afraid he might lose control again, she edged away quietly. "It's late, my lord. Get some rest—I'll head back to my room."

But he wouldn't let her get away that easily. He grabbed her waist, hoisted her up despite her cries and struggles, and slammed her down onto the desk.

The cold, hard wood dug into her back. "What are you doing, my lord? Is your headache acting up? I'll have the servants brew you some medicine." She gasped, tears of pain welling up in her eyes.

"Qing Yun loves paintings so much—how about this official paints an orchid on your skin?" One hand pinned her down while the other reached for the brush rack and grabbed a wolf-hair brush.

Such amorous games were the stuff of pleasure houses. But she had been raised on propriety and couldn't bear such lewd treatment.

"You're drunk, Lord Xu—let me go." Gu Yuanzhi struggled fiercely, kicking at his chest, but his broad palm caught her ankle. He used the leverage to part her legs, his tall frame pressing forward.

"The ink has alum mixed in—it'll take days to fade. Don't move, or if I mess up the painting, it won't look pretty." He twirled the smooth brush handle between his fingers, then casually flicked open her apricot bodice.

The brush tip hovered above the pale, snowy swell of her breast. The ink gathered into a fine trickle, and a tingling sensation made her shiver.

She lay on her back on the desk, gasping as the brush touched her skin, so cold it made her flinch. She hissed through gritted teeth, "You destroyed the painting, and now you're defiling me—is this fun for you?"

"He could give you a painting, and so can I. But mine, I paint only for you." His burning gaze traced her curves as he pressed down hard with the brush, sending shivers across her skin. "Qing Yun, does it feel good?"

The brush tip swept over her soft curves, coaxing delicate buds to bloom. She arched suddenly, a soft moan slipping from her lips. An orchid, sketched in a few strokes, came to life.

"Xu Hanyun, why do you have to humiliate me like this? I'm not your plaything, not paper for you to paint on..."

"Just the pleasures of the bedroom. When you slept with him on that pleasure boat, when you chatted so amiably with that painting dealer—did you ever think that humiliated me too?"

She was at a loss for words. She didn't understand what right he had to demand that she show joy and sorrow only to him. Between them, there was nothing but a transaction of power and lust.

Rage surged through her. She had her own spirit, her own dignity—she was not an object to be painted on and toyed with. While he was absorbed in his delicate strokes, she groped for the inkstone on the desk and hurled it at his head.

Xu Hanyun reacted swiftly, raising his arm to block it, but the sharp corner still gashed his skin. Pain shot through him instantly, and blood started to flow.

Gu Yuanzhi gasped in shock, her wrist going limp: "I told you to let me go..."

A thin line of blood hung at his brow, trailing slowly down to drip onto her pale chest, vivid as vermilion.

Ink for leaves, blood for petals—it had a grotesque, bewitching beauty.

Xu Hanyun touched the sticky wound but didn't seem angry.

Gu Yuanzhi watched in a daze as he smiled warmly, not bothering to stop the bleeding. Instead, he turned his wrist, dipped the brush tip into the blood at his forehead, and dotted petals on her chest.

"Ink is too pale—nothing beats the richness of blood. Qing Yun, look—doesn't this red look better on you?"

"You're insane..."

"The orchid that blooms unseen in the wild, its quiet grace—doesn't it resemble you?" he murmured. "Pity, though—it was always meant to be plucked, and only I get to pluck it."

"A flower may be broken from its stem, but it won't bend its spirit. Don't covet what doesn't belong to you, my lord—it's futile." Gu Yuanzhi closed her eyes and let out a breath, suppressing the urge to hit him again.

Xu Hanyun smiled bitterly and kept holding her down, doing as he pleased.

The most torturous was his breath on the wet ink. He leaned down and blew, pulling a stifled moan from her. The newly painted orchid seemed to come alive, swaying gently with the rise and fall of her soft curves.

His teeth grazed a sliver of tender flesh. The orchid slowly blurred, as if soaked by spring rain.

His lips and tongue traced her ice-cool skin, the acrid scent of ink flooding his mouth. Her broken sobs caught in her throat as her fingertips buried themselves in his hair bun, drawing his head closer as he nuzzled against her.

The night stretched on, the orchid too fragile for such ravishment, as dew and rain fell slow and soft.

*

The spring in Gusu seemed steeped in nectar, sweet and tender.

Back then, Xu Hanyun was seventeen, recommended by the academy head to work as a records clerk in the yamen to help make ends meet at home. In his spare time, he studied, hoping to make a name for himself in the autumn imperial examinations the following year.

One day, the yamen assigned him to compile the local gazetteer, and he came to pay respects to Scholar Gu, who was home on leave.

Passing through several winding corridors, he wandered into a back garden by accident.

The magnolias in the garden were in full bloom, and amid the dappled flower shadows, he saw her.

Gu Yuanzhi was kicking a shuttlecock with several maidservants, the feathered shuttle flipping at her toes, flashing with iridescent colors.

She laughed, head tilted back, and even the spring sunlight seemed to dote on her, settling softly on her brows and lashes, caressing her willowy frame.

He stood frozen behind the rockery, breath held, his green robe stirring in the breeze.

A proper young lady of the inner quarters must not mix with men outside, and he had always been a stickler for propriety, afraid of ruining her reputation. So he stood until his legs went numb, watching her head back to her boudoir, flanked by her maids.

A swirl of wind blew over a flower-patterned note. He picked it up and committed Gu Yuanzhi's verse style and handwriting to memory.

And so, when they later connected at Luoxue Pavilion, he knew all along who she was.

*

Luoxue Pavilion had long fallen into ruin—just a lone pavilion on the lake, its plank bridge broken, and rarely visited by anyone. And precisely because of its neglect, it had become Gu Yuanzhi's private haven.

At first she came alone, but one day a copy of "The Peony Pavilion" appeared on the stone table.

This was a banned book for young ladies—she'd never read it, but she was curious.

She scribbled a few annotations on a plain sheet, tucked it into the book, and set it back down reluctantly.

A few days later, the book was still there.

She opened it and found a line of elegant script, offering to lend it to her.

In time, Gu Yuanzhi took the pen name "Han Zhi Jushi," and the two traded letters, becoming close friends.

All she knew was that he was a seventeen-year-old young man, deeply learned.

Whenever her tutor set her essays or poems, she'd lazily palm them off and have him write them for her, and the tutor would sing their praises.

But she rarely got to go out, and he seemed busy all day, so they kept missing each other.

Since he was reserved by nature, it was Gu Yuanzhi who took the initiative to propose a meeting.

"To Mr. Yanshan:

You said 'The Peony Pavilion' is a tragedy of rare beauty, so I thought I'd write a play called 'Luoxue Pavilion'—what do you think? In it, there are no dreams, no life or death—just two young people who've never met, trading words by ink in this pavilion. They speak not of love, but only of poetry, books, chess, and painting. When snow blankets the mountains, they agree to meet here and share a lake of shattered jade—wouldn't that be more real and honest than a dream meeting?

But I wonder—would the other lead in my play be willing to grace the stage?

Respectfully yours, Han Zhi Jushi"

*

From spring to winter, they finally settled on a meeting.

But at Luoxue Pavilion, she never showed. The rain came fast, hammering the jade-green lake.

Xu Hanyun had no umbrella, in his plain green robe, still gazing into the distance.

He waited from noon to dusk, with only the rain for company.

Suddenly, a clear bell rang from afar, borne on the wind, drawing nearer.

He turned slightly and saw an oiled-cloth carriage approaching, the wind lifting its black gauze curtain.

The young woman's brows and eyes were like fresh ink on water, carrying the softness of Jiangnan's drizzle.

She was murmuring to someone inside the carriage, a smile at her lips, beside her a young nobleman in fine robes.

The carriage vanished at the road's end.

Xu Hanyun left, rain tracing down his handsome brow.

In his hand, he clutched the note, crumpling it into a ball—the rain never touched it.

Whether from that day's cold rain or his weak constitution, he fell gravely ill once home.

Melancholy curdled into sickness, and he wasted away—a rack of bones, dark circles under his eyes.

Lying in bed, the smell of herbs clung to his clothes. The scent of a soul-reviving herb, yet he didn't know where his soul wanted to go.

Drifting in a haze, rising and sinking all day. His elderly mother, heartbroken, bought herbs and brewed them, keeping him barely alive.

Bitter, sour, drowsy—the medicinal reek seeped into his bones.

Tears piled up, he refused food and drink, but nothing could erase that graceful figure.

He cursed that poem for ruining his life.

The bright moon high above couldn't light the sunken stone at the bottom. Miss Gu—why would she ever favor him, pity him?

That night, at the third watch, he locked up his house and stepped out.

The Gu estate lay south of the city. He walked in the dark, his green hair ribbon trailing like a wisp of smoke, floating without touching the ground.

A sickly yellow crescent hung alone in dead silence.

The scholar was still unwell, his high, straight nose casting shadows, splitting the light. Half his face was pale as frosted glass in the moonlight, the other half dark as a ghost from the underworld.

His dark eyes flickered with a faint glow, like ghost fire, searching for something unknown.

He squeezed the note in his sleeve, sweat dampening his palm.

In the end, he didn't climb the wall. He wouldn't tarnish Gu Yuanzhi's name. The night patrol spotted the suspicious figure and summoned the newly appointed centurion, Mei Hezhi.

The scholar hurried off, and something slipped from his robe—a plain note.

Mei Hezhi crouched, picked it up, and looked. The script was soft and refined—Miss Gu's.

He and Miss Gu had already bonded over poetry and exchanged feelings—how could he not know her hand?

The thin paper still bore a reddish-yellow damp stain, as if water had dripped on it.

Mei Hezhi quietly tucked the note into his sleeve.

Though gentle and kind by nature, he knew that mercy had no place in command. If he couldn't cut off Xu Hanyun's delusions, how could he marry Gu Yuanzhi in peace?