The next two days saw the Yan Family bustling without respite.
First, they arranged for someone to "determine the funeral schedule" and set the auspicious hour, then prepared mourning lanterns, soul sedans, and other burial artifacts.
Chu Ruoyan barely had time to drink a sip of water. Only after preparing the "offering jar" did she find a moment to ask, "Are the Fifth Young Master’s belongings ready?"
Yulu replied, "They’ve been packed. The Fifth Young Madam chose a dongxiao flute he loved most in life and her own tear-stained handkerchief as burial offerings. The Grand General and Madam also placed items personally under the Old Dowager’s supervision. It seems only the Marquis’s contribution is still pending."
Chu Ruoyan paused.
"Has Wen Jing not chosen yet?"
Yulu shook her head. "Young Master Wen Jing already placed a wooden carving that the Marquis once made for him. It’s the Marquis who..."
Chu Ruoyan understood.
In the entire Yan Family, only this elder brother could affect him so deeply.
"Go and urge the Marquis... No, I’ll go myself."
The Marquis’s courtyard was the second on the eastern side, adjacent to Yan Zheng’s.
As Chu Ruoyan entered, she saw a towering pine tree in the yard, its lush branches thick enough for three people to embrace.
Yan Zheng sat beneath it, his expression shadowed, lost in thought.
"Marquis..."
She had barely spoken when he began.
"Ten years ago, I climbed this tree for the first time. When Father found out, he punished me with ten military lashes. He took eight of them for me and couldn’t leave his bed for nearly half a month. After he recovered, I asked why he interfered. He said nothing—but that very night, while Father was away, he took me up the tree again."
Chu Ruoyan remained silent, listening as he lost himself in memory.
"The wind was fierce that night, the moon full. I told him not to drag me into his death wish. He just laughed and said brothers have only this life, no next—so if they’re causing trouble, they do it together. Then he thumped his chest and swore that as the eldest, it was his duty to shoulder everything. As long as he lived, he’d always shield me..."
At this, Yan Zheng suddenly turned. His ink-dark eyes were bottomless.
"Do you know how he died in the end?"
Chu Ruoyan’s heart lurched as he spoke, each word deliberate.
"When the enemy stormed the city, he carved a path through bloodshed, claiming it was to send me for reinforcements. But the moment I left, he severed the ropes—destroying the only escape route."
"He took twenty-one blade wounds, countless arrows and spear strikes. The enemy beheaded him and paraded his skull on a pike through twelve neighboring cities... just to draw me out. Do you know how my legs were broken?"
Chu Ruoyan dug her nails into her palms, the pain barely keeping her composed.
Yet she gasped aloud at his next words.
"I shattered them myself."
A cold wind swept through, carrying the phantom scent of battlefield blood.
Yan Zheng’s lips curled into a frigid, mocking smile. "The enemy was clever—barricades at every city gate. But they never imagined a crippled beggar would crawl his way to Tiger Prison Pass."
She covered her mouth.
Every word from Yan Zheng was drenched in blood.
This was no mere hatred—it was grief, humiliation, despair, numbness.
She could scarcely fathom how the brilliant, dashing Yan Third Young Master, whispered about by noble maidens, had endured such degradation beneath enemy siege...
"Chu Ruoyan—or should I call you Madam?"
"I’m telling you this today because the man you once admired is long dead."
"What remains lives only because those who deserve death still breathe. So spare yourself the wasted effort."
For the first time, there was no threat or suspicion in Yan Zheng’s voice—just stark clarity.
Yet Chu Ruoyan couldn’t meet his gaze. "Yan Zheng, I—"
She didn’t finish. Yan Wenjing came running in with a box, stopping short at the sight of her. "Third Aunt? You’re here too?"
Chu Ruoyan murmured an acknowledgment.
Yan Wenjing hurried to Yan Zheng. "Third Uncle, look! I found this in Father’s room. It must’ve been his wedding gift for you..."
At the word "gift," Chu Ruoyan glanced over.
Inside lay an exquisitely sharp dagger, thin as cicada wings. The blade bore the character "Zheng," carved clumsily as if on purpose.
Yan Zheng scoffed. "His handwriting’s still atrocious."
Yet he took the blade.
The moment he lifted it, the box’s first layer sprang open, revealing a slip of paper:
—Surprised? Haha, this is for my third sister-in-law!
The second compartment held a snakeskin sheath, perfectly sized for the dagger.
On the note’s back, scrawled in wild strokes:
—Little Yan Zheng, may you be like this blade—forever sheathed! HAHAHA!
The handwriting’s exuberance practically leaped from the page.
Yan Zheng lowered his eyes, fingers trembling around the note.
Chu Ruoyan turned and fled, her tears vanishing into the wind...
Whether Yan Xun, the Yan Family’s heir, or Yan Zheng—both were heroes who shook the battlefield!
She’d come to save her father, but how could she raise a hand against martyrs’ kin?
Heaven, spare this Marquis of Peace his rightful peace...
The burial day dawned gloomy.
At daybreak, Madam Li prepared the "offering jar," filling it with final sacrificial food—the farewell rite.
As the coffins were carried out and the eulogy read, the cry of "Raise the coffins!" lifted seven caskets in procession.
The Yan Family’s funeral march was simple:
Yan Zheng led with the funeral banner; Yan Wenjing bore the spirit tablets—though too small to manage alone, so Chu Ruoyan took most.
Once in the streets, the sight stunned them.
Both sides were lined with commoners’ makeshift altars and memorial tables.
Entire families knelt in white, scattering paper money. The city was a sea of mourning!
"Grand General Yan, journey well..."
"A house of heroes returns home..."
"Your valor echoes through eternity!"
Amid the wails, the cries shook heaven and earth. Yet Chu Ruoyan’s heart settled.
Of course—the Yan men had bled to protect these very people, who now repaid them with their own devotion.
Her eyes stung, but ahead, Yan Zheng stood unyielding.
Hadn’t he always been thus?
Had he known, the moment he returned, that this house’s weight would rest on his shoulders—so he dared not bend, no matter the cost?
As the procession reached the city gates, tradition demanded the "breaking of the tile"—shattering the funeral basin so the dead might carry its fragments easily.
This duty fell to Yan Zheng, but he only took Yan Xun’s tablet from Yan Wenjing and nodded.
"Go ahead."
The boy gritted his teeth, lifting the heavy basin with childish hands—
"STOP!"
A cold voice rang out. Yan Wenjing staggered, nearly dropping it until Steward Fang steadied him.
Turning, they saw dozens of guards escorting an official’s palanquin.
As the sedan chair touched the ground, a man in his forties dressed in official robes stepped out. "I am Cao Yang, Minister of Revenue," he announced. "By imperial decree, I am here to escort the Marquis of Anning to the Ministry of Justice."
