Chapter Seventy-One: Pan An, the Fruit-Tossed Gentleman

“Feng Jinye,” Weishao Qingyu called softly, her tone gentle as she finally made up her mind to speak the words she had hesitated over for so long. “There is one more thing I must tell you.”

Feng Jinye’s hand continued to stroke her hair as he nodded. Since she had decided to speak, he would listen.

Weishao Qingyu quietly slipped from his embrace and sat upright in her original seat, then spoke: “It was I who caused you to lose your memory.”

As her words faded away, the room fell into silence once more.

Feng Jinye had pondered countless reasons for his amnesia, and had considered that Weishao Qingyu might be involved. Yet to hear that she had orchestrated it herself—this, he found hard to accept.

He did not know why she would make him forget, but the thought left him stifled and ill at ease.

How laughable it was: had he not read that letter, he would never have suspected a thing. Every trace had been so meticulously erased; perhaps he would have even believed it the work of a dutiful princess.

What was even more absurd was that he’d been madly jealous of Huangfu Chen, only to discover that the vinegar he drank had been brewed by his own hand.

And most infuriating of all, she had made him forget her entirely!

If only he had not stayed at the border a year ago, if only the Empress Dowager hadn’t bestowed a forced marriage to bring him back—what then? Would she have vanished from his world forever?

He remembered the red corridor in the Weishao General’s Manor, recalled the joy in his heart as he kissed her there. She had truly been ruthless, to make him forget her so completely.

The more he thought, the angrier he became. He stood abruptly, intending to leave, but the memory of the night he carried her home through the snow stayed his steps—she had kept begging him to go, and when he turned away, she wept. He could not bring himself to walk away now.

Today, Weishao Qingyu had only intended to tell him that she could help him recover his memories, but just one sentence had already left him furious.

No matter what had happened in the past, she knew she had gone too far recently—taking advantage of her understanding of Feng Jinye, she had tormented him more than once, enough to leave his heart in knots.

Yun Ming, Huangfu Chen, even the Empress Dowager—each knew part of the truth. Even outsiders had heard some tale of Feng Jinye and Weishao Qingyu, yet only Feng Jinye himself remained in the dark.

To be the proud, admired Prince of War, yet accept such a thing—such humiliation—was almost unbearable.

Weishao Qingyu could understand his anger; had their roles been reversed, she might have wanted to strangle him herself.

Seeing Feng Jinye rise, she too stood, but was caught off guard as he pulled her into his arms, his kiss wild and punishing, stealing all her breath.

Suppressing his fury, he pressed his forehead to hers and growled, “You must remember this: you said you would stay obediently by my side. You are not allowed to go back on your word. Never!”

Weishao Qingyu stared at him, blank and innocent.

Seeing her so guileless only made Feng Jinye more exasperated. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

Her eyes, clear and bright beneath her lashes, darted as she thought, “Isn’t this always the way? You’ve never been able to do anything about me.” The words slipped out, barely audible.

Even now, she dared tease him for his lack of memory. Feng Jinye’s frustration only grew—he truly was helpless before her.

“I haven’t finished yet,” Weishao Qingyu muttered into his chest.

Feng Jinye, remembering the way she had argued with him on their wedding day, couldn’t help but smile. He had thought her spoiled by her family, but now realized she simply delighted in tormenting him; he was powerless against her, no matter the time or place.

He sighed inwardly, cupping her hair as he replied, “Go on.”

Sensing he was still angry, Weishao Qingyu spoke earnestly, “I only wanted to tell you that I have a way to help you regain your memories, if you wish to remember.”

Feng Jinye was stunned—naturally, he wanted to remember—but he could tell Weishao Qingyu was reluctant for him to recall the past.

Holding her in his arms, he suddenly recalled what Yun Ming had said about the day at Zuiqiong Pavilion, when she made Luo Yanqing reveal the truth of Shuoyue Pavilion. It was just like the soul-capturing art his mother had spoken of in his childhood. Could this, too, be related to the prophecy of “once in a hundred years, a goddess is born to the Weishao family”?

“Why is it that even Leng Ling has no method, but you do?” he asked.

Weishao Qingyu did not know how to answer and stammered, “Can we not talk about this for now?”

“All right,” Feng Jinye agreed.

Early spring brought endless meaning, especially near the Dressing Tower.

In Li Yue, spring brought frequent drizzles; at midday, warm sunlight spilled into the room, but soon after lunch, rain began to patter against the windows.

In the side hall of Zhi Yu Tower, Xuechun and Qingxia sorted through the new clothes sent by Jiu Linglong.

Night Eleven had followed Feng Jinye to Zhi Yu Tower, standing outside as the afternoon rain fell. Occasionally, he caught the murmur of maids inside, but no matter how hard he listened, he could not make out Xuechun’s voice.

Qingxia teased with a laugh, “These are clearly the styles our lady likes. Most likely, because Sister Chun is getting married, she gave the new clothes to her.”

Xuechun, in no mood to joke, put the garments away in the wardrobe.

As Dongnuan entered, she heard Qingxia and immediately objected, “I think our mistress just wants Xuechun to look beautiful when she meets her beloved!”

Xuechun trembled slightly and retorted, “When have I ever had a beloved? Don’t talk nonsense!”

Dongnuan smiled. “But just days ago you said you wanted to marry Prince Yun. How have you changed your mind so quickly?”

Xuechun was speechless; she herself could not understand her change of heart.

Inside Weishao Qingyu’s chambers, she was explaining to Feng Jinye how he might recover his memories, and he listened carefully.

“Did you catch it all?” she asked.

Feng Jinye nodded. Still, she was not reassured. “Then repeat it back to me.”

“When Xuan’er returned, it was just as you told me in your story—I was lulled to sleep by you, wasn’t I?” he replied.

She nodded in agreement. “Should we start now, or do you need a moment?”

“Do you?” Feng Jinye asked.

Weishao Qingyu lowered her gaze. “Then let’s wait a bit. Let’s chat.”

Feng Jinye chuckled. “All right.”

“How about we choose a day to go out for a spring outing?” she suggested.

“Of course. Where do you want to go?”

“You know that little hill in the western suburbs? In spring, it’s covered in wildflowers. There’s a river by the military camp—we went there once with Yun Ming, Yun Shuo, and Qingxuan. When the weather clears, let’s go again.”

Her voice grew softer. “That little hill is so beautiful, blanketed in blossoms, the breeze carrying their scent. You rest on a rocking chair, the fragrance makes you relax, lighter and lighter, as if you could float away, transcending time and space. See that big tree in the distance? Leaves are falling—let’s count them together. Each leaf is a year.”

“The first leaf falls—do you see it?” she asked softly. Feng Jinye nodded.

“Good. It will take you back one year. Now, let’s watch for the second, the third…”

“The fourth.”

“The fifth.”

“The sixth.”

“The seventh.”

“Now the leaves are still—you are seven years in the past.”

“Jinye, don’t be nervous. I’m right here with you. You, Huangfu, and Yun Ming are all at the western outskirts of Yuet Capital, facing an assassination. Slowly, open your eyes and see what happened then.”

Feng Jinye opened his eyes slowly. An arrow shot towards him; he was facing the enemy and couldn’t block it.

Though he was so formidable, it was at this moment that Weishao Qingyu’s hypnosis took hold. Seven years ago, that arrow nearly cost him his life—Huangfu Chen took the hit for him.

With a dull thud, the arrow struck flesh. Feng Jinye’s eyes widened as he saw Huangfu Chen collapse before him.

Instinctively, he tried to rush over and support Huangfu Chen, but he could not move.

“Jinye, relax. Breathe deeply.”

“This has already happened. Don’t be anxious—everyone is all right now; it’s all in the past.”

“If you want to know what happened next, we can continue, if—”

“All right,” Feng Jinye mumbled, not waiting for her to finish.

“Then let’s keep watching,” Weishao Qingyu said softly.

Huangfu Chen fell unconscious, Yun Ming was poisoned, leaving only Feng Jinye unharmed.

Two years passed. Feng Jinye and Yun Ming sat with Yun Shuo at Mingke Residence, drinking tea. Yun Shuo clamored for candied hawthorn, and Yun Ming gave him money to go downstairs and buy some.

Feng Jinye glanced at the hawthorn vendor and spotted a slender figure in mist-gray clothing.

Yun Shuo approached the vendor. The woman turned, knelt to hand him the treat, and pinched Yun Shuo’s cheek just as she always did. Feng Jinye’s face lit with a smile, his gaze shifting from Yun Shuo to the woman.

In an instant, he recognized those eyes—the very girl from the Lu family he’d searched for all these years.

“Night Eleven, investigate,” he ordered, leaving Night Eleven bewildered. “The woman who pinched Yun Shuo’s cheek,” he clarified.

Even as he spoke, a carriage hurtled toward Weishao Qingyu and Yun Shuo. Alarmed, Feng Jinye leapt from the window, snatching Yun Shuo out of harm’s way. He hadn’t anticipated Weishao Qingyu, in her own peril, would still try to save Yun Shuo.

He glanced at her, amused by her audacity.

To his surprise, she glared at him for mocking her, then turned and left.

He cursed himself and hurried to follow, but her figure disappeared into the crowd, beyond his reach.

“Qingyu…” he murmured as Night Eleven handed him information. The name sounded lovely on his lips.

The next day, Feng Jinye visited Marquis Qinbo’s residence to see Huangfu Chen, who was still unconscious. He scolded him, “Useless! You can’t even remember your savior’s name. When you wake up—”

“You still want to sleep? Wake up and let me hit you before you go back to bed, all right?”

Half asleep, Feng Jinye could almost see Huangfu Chen, barely clinging to life, lying on the sickbed—a sight that shook him to the core.

In the days that followed, Feng Jinye had Dongnuan and Banqiu searching daily for Weishao Qingyu’s whereabouts, leading to countless chance encounters.

Until, nearly a year later, on the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival, Dongnuan returned with news just as Yun Ming brought Yun Shuo to visit. An idea sparked in Feng Jinye’s mind, and he began to coach Yun Shuo.

Yun Shuo kept shaking his head. “Brother says scholars shouldn’t stoop to trickery,” he protested.

Feng Jinye shot Yun Ming a glare and gritted his teeth. “Next year, for your brother’s birthday, you can pick anything you like from my storeroom to give him as a gift!”

Yun Shuo’s eyes lit up. “Teacher says, ‘Helping others brings joy.’”

At the lantern festival, Feng Jinye watched as Weishao Qingyu neared a corner and quickly set Yun Shuo down, instructing, “Cry now.”

As predicted, Weishao Qingyu walked over, scooped Yun Shuo into her arms, and soothed him.

Seeing this, Feng Jinye felt both displeased and delighted—he liked her kindness.

But then Weishao Qingyu kissed Yun Shuo, and Feng Jinye could no longer restrain himself—he appeared and pulled Yun Shuo away, only to realize with dismay that she didn’t even know his name.

So every time she addressed him as “Prince of War,” it was not just due to propriety or pique; she truly did not know his name.

That was the first time Feng Jinye felt utterly powerless. Not only did Weishao Qingyu not know his name, she called him a rake and insisted they were not acquainted.

He was the only prince of the Liyue Kingdom, the pride of the nation—everyone vied to curry favor with him, countless women in Yuedu admired him, yet—