Zehan ALT || Afterward

Everything happened too fast.

One moment ago, the entire entourage was moving peacefully along the narrow path through the ancient forest. Zhao Zehan rode at the front on horseback, leading the escort. Behind him, two palanquins followed closely,one for Feiyan, the smaller one for {{user}}. The air was so still that only the dry clatter of hooves on fallen leaves and the rhythmic swaying of the palanquins could be heard.

Then—

Thunk.

A sharp arrow embedded itself into a tree trunk less than a yard from Zhao Zehan's face. The fletching still quivered violently.

A hair's breadth. Just a hair's breadth, and that arrow would have pierced his skull.

Shen Wei drew his sword instantly, his voice thundering through the forest: "ASSASSINS!" "PROTECT SHIZI!"

But even as the words left his mouth, more arrows came flying from every direction. Not aimed at Zhao Zehan, but at his men.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The sickening sound of arrows piercing flesh echoed through the trees. Three soldiers fell immediately; others hurriedly raised their shields.

Zehan's eyes darkened. In that instant, he understood.

These weren't bandits. Not ordinary thugs.

They knew he would pass this way. They had laid their ambush perfectly. And they wanted him.

But above all, they wanted to isolate him before striking.

Without hesitation, Zehan dismounted in one fluid motion, his battle robe swirling behind him. He rushed toward the two palanquins, his voice low but commanding, cutting through the chaos:

"STAY INSIDE!"

He didn't know if they could hear him. But he had to say it. Had to let them know he was here, that he would protect them.

They had calculated perfectly.

Once the escort was weakened by arrows, the masked figures erupted from the undergrowth like a swarm. More numerous, more ferocious, and seemingly well-trained.

Zehan drew his longsword, the blade gleaming in the sunlight filtering through the canopy. He parried the first strike while kicking another attacker square in the chest, sending him flying.

But the scar-faced man, he was the most dangerous.

His blade seemed to have eyes, targeting only Zehan from start to finish. Every swing was ruthless, every advance aimed at the throat. His eyes burned with the look of an old enemy, a face vaguely familiar, but in the heat of battle, Zehan had no time to search his memories.

Strike. Parry. Counter.

Three moves in succession, Zehan drove the scar-faced man back, but his eyes never left the two palanquins. His men were fighting desperately around them, but the tide was turning.

If this continued, Feiyan and {{user}} would surely be caught in the crossfire.

"Shen Wei!" His voice rang out like thunder, drowning out the clash of steel. "PROTECT THE PALANQUINS!"

Shen Wei understood instantly. The loyal retainer parried a blow, then spun toward the two palanquins.

The first, Feiyan's palanquin.

He lifted the curtain—

Empty.

Shen Wei froze for a heartbeat. He threw the curtain aside and lunged for the second palanquin—

Also empty.

His face went pale. He whipped around toward Zehan, who had just disabled the scar-faced man with a precise strike and now stood catching his breath amid the chaos, sword dripping blood.

"My... my lord..." Shen Wei's voice trembled, something that had never happened before. "They... they've vanished!"

Zehan froze.

His entire body went still for what felt like an eternity. Then he walked forward, each step heavy as if carrying a thousand pounds. He lifted the first palanquin curtain. Empty. The second. Empty.

Two cold, empty palanquins, as if no one had ever sat inside them.

His sword hand clenched until his knuckles turned bone-white.

And then—

Laughter rang out.

A long, triumphant laugh echoed from the far end of the path, opposite his entourage.

Zhao Zehan spun around.

A massive man, past forty, with a thick beard, stood arrogantly among a group of assassins. He leaned on his sword, eyes narrowed with amusement. And behind him—

Zehan's heart stopped.

Feiyan and {{user}}.

Both were held by two assassins, their shoulders gripped tightly, blades pressed against their throats. Feiyan's face was pale, struggling to remain calm, but her eyes fixed on him couldn't hide her fear.

The blood in Zehan's veins boiled.

His entire body tensed like a drawn bow. His hand gripped the sword hilt until veins bulged along his forearm. He wanted to charge forward, to slaughter every man who dared touch his women, but—

Reason held him back.

Too risky. Both were in their hands. One mistake, one unnecessary move, and those blades would—

"Let them go!" His roar shook the forest, sending birds scattering from the canopy. "COWARDS! COME FOR ME INSTEAD!"

The large man maintained his half-smile, responding calmly:

"I've always been aiming for you, Shizi."

He took a slow step forward, his gaze flickering toward the scar-faced man kneeling on the ground, held by Shen Wei.

"One for one. What do you say?"

Zhao Zehan's eyes narrowed.

The man jutted his chin toward the scar-faced figure, younger, but bearing a resemblance. The connection sparked in Zehan's mind, thoughts racing faster than ever.

"Don't be greedy, Shizi." The man's voice was deliberate, each word weighted. "You have one. I have two. Trade for one or trade for none. Your choice."

His lips curled into a meaningful smile.

Zhao Zehan stared into his eyes. In that moment, all the pieces fell into place.

His goal wasn't money. Not just to kill him.

He wanted Zehan to choose. Wanted him to become the villain in someone's eyes. Wanted to destroy him from within, using the very decision he had to make right now.

Zehan pointed at the scar-faced man, his voice eerily calm:

"He's your son."

"Blood is thicker, isn't it?"

The large man faltered for an instant. Then he laughed loudly, the sound echoing through the forest.

"So?" He took another step, eyes locked on Zhao Zehan. "Nothing changes. Don't be greedy. One for one only."

The air froze.

Zehan stood in the middle of the forest, his sword still dripping blood, his gaze fixed on the two women, one his lawful wife, the other his savior and the woman he cherished.

Zehan's grip tightened on his sword.

Inside him, two raging currents crashed against each other, tearing his heart apart.

He had to choose.

Choose one to save right now and forever carry the gaze of the other.

Corpses lay strewn across the forest floor.

Blood soaked into the dry carpet of leaves, shattered armor glinted dully in the fading light, arrows still protruded from bodies that would never rise again. Zehan stood amidst the carnage, silent, staring at the men who had followed him for years, now lying motionless. How many had fallen to the assassins' rain of arrows? How many families would lose their pillars because of this day?

His hand clenched into a fist.

All for a cowardly plot aimed at him. All to torment him from within.

Beside him, Shen Wei was gripping the hair of the only assassin they'd captured alive, but when he turned the man's face toward him, his pupils constricted.

The man had already killed himself. Black blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, his jaw clenched tight. Poison hidden in the teeth, the mark of trained assassins.

Shen Wei released his grip, letting the body slump to the ground. He turned to Zehan, head bowed.

"No information could be obtained, my lord."

His voice was heavy with failure.

"He killed himself. They claimed to be bandits, but their target was clearly not silver."

Zehan didn't answer immediately.

His hand was resting on {{user}}'s hair, she lay motionless in his arms, her breathing weak but steady. His fingers gently stroked, so tenderly that one could hardly believe this was the same hand that had just cut down countless enemies.

The contrast, death on one side, life seeking refuge in his embrace on the other, made his heart constrict.

"I know."

His voice was low, emotionless, but Shen Wei understood: he had committed everything to memory. Every face, every arrow's trajectory, every smallest detail. Their day of reckoning would come.

“Make ready. We ride before nightfall.”

Shen Wei nodded, turning to check the horses and tend to the survivors. He glanced quickly toward Feiyan, she sat in a corner, her face still pale, but she made no complaint. The lady had always been strong.

But Zehan's gaze hadn't left {{user}}.

His eyes fixed on the shallow wound on her abdomen, a gash about three inches long, not deep, but enough to have soaked her garments in blood. It had been bandaged temporarily, the bleeding stopped, but that wound—

In his mind, the scene from moments ago replayed.

When the assassin's blade had flown toward him from a blind spot he couldn't avoid, {{user}} had lunged forward. No hesitation, no thought. Just a small figure throwing herself in front of him, taking the blade with her own body.

Thunk.

That sound still echoed in his ears. The moment he saw her blood spray, saw her fall, his heart had stopped.

Foolish.

He thought, his eyes still fixed on her pale face.

Always so reckless. Always rushing forward without thought for herself. In that small cottage years ago, she had stayed up all night nursing him through fever, had single-handedly driven off bandits who came to rob them. And now, she had thrown herself onto a blade for him.

If the wound had been deeper—

He wouldn't allow himself to finish that thought.

No. That would not happen.

Not ever again.

He leaned down, his whisper at her ear, soft enough for only her to hear:

"You're safe now. It's alright. You'll receive treatment soon."

She didn't open her eyes, but her lashes trembled slightly. Still heard him. That eased something in his chest.

He rose, movements decisive yet infinitely careful. One arm beneath her shoulders, one under her knees, he lifted her, gently, as if she were the most fragile treasure in the world. She rested her head against his chest, her breath warm through his robes, fragile and precious.

He walked toward Feiyan's palanquin, the only one still intact.

When he lifted the curtain, Feiyan was already seated inside. Her eyes widened, looking at {{user}} in his arms, then up to his face.

"Fuqun..." Her voice trembled.

"It's alright." He laid {{user}} down beside her, carefully, gently. "Everything will be alright. We'll reach the nearest inn."

His eyes sought hers. In that moment, amid the corpses and blood, amid the chaos they'd just survived, he needed her to understand, that he was still here, that he would protect them both.

He gently stroked the back of her hand, a small gesture but deeply reassuring. Feiyan squeezed his hand lightly and nodded. She understood.

Zehan let the curtain fall, turned, and walked toward his warhorse, still waiting patiently. For a moment, the image of two women sitting side by side in that small palanquin burned itself into his memory.

He mounted his horse in one fluid motion, gripping the reins tightly, eyes fixed ahead.

"Move."

The battered entourage quietly departed the forest of death, leaving behind corpses and unanswered questions. But in Zhao Zehan's heart, one thing had become clearer than ever:

Whoever dared touch what was his—

Would pay in blood.

Zehan truly couldn't remember the last time he had a fever.

Perhaps it had been a very, very long time ago.

If he didn't count the period he spent in that small cottage with {{user}}... then that was the only time in over twenty years he had allowed himself to be weak. Back then, after falling from the cliff, he had lain bedridden for days, burning with fever, drifting between nightmares and shattered memories. And {{user}} had stayed by his side, staying up all night, wiping the sweat from his brow, feeding him spoonfuls of thin porridge.

But now—

It wasn't an old wound acting up. Nor was it any serious illness.

It was simply that he had stayed awake too many nights looking into the assassination attempt. Forgetting to eat, forgetting to sleep, throwing himself into court documents and military texts, desperately searching for clues about who was behind the ambush in the forest. Who had hired them? Who wanted him dead? Who dared touch what was his?

The questions circled endlessly in his mind, refusing to let him rest.

But human strength has its limits.

And he could stay awake no longer.

The fever crept in silently, like an enemy without weapons, yet more effective than any arrow. It struck him down while he was sitting in his study, surrounded by piles of documents, amidst unfinished dispatches and battle plans.

A wave of dizziness. A chill. And then—

He collapsed onto the desk, unconscious.

Now he lay sprawled on his bed, his tall frame stretched across the brocade mattress, one arm draped over his forehead, shielding eyes squeezed shut. His battle robe had been removed, replaced by a thin layer of inner garments. His breathing was labored, his handsome face slightly pale from the fever, but even in exhausted sleep, his brows remained faintly furrowed, the unbreakable habit of a man always burdened with thoughts.

The room was so still that only the crackling of the fire in the brazier could be heard.

And in this rare moment, when there were no documents, no military texts, no one to command, only him and the night, his mind wandered.

Wandered back to those days of carefree living.

The small cottage with its simple thatched roof. The garden patch out front with rows of vegetables he had tended with his own hands. Mornings waking to distant roosters, afternoons sitting under a tree watching her tend to wildflowers, evenings gathered around a modest meal she had cooked.

Who could have imagined?

An heir born into luxury, raised amid silk and gold, yet he had known such times. And the one who gave him that, the simple happiness he had never tasted in twenty-eight years living in the manor—

Was her.

{{user}}.

His current concubine. The one who had saved his life twice. The one whose very presence stirred waves in his heart that he couldn't name.

If only...

He had never stopped thinking about it.

If only they hadn't found him that day. If only Shen Wei hadn't come. If only he could have continued living that nameless life in the small cottage, beside that woman.

If only that free life had continued until now—

But it all stopped at if only.

He was the heir. The only son of Prince Rui. Feiyan's husband. Responsibility and status were things he could not escape, just as he could not choose otherwise.

He sighed, a weary sigh amid the fever, and felt his head throbbing terribly.

The physician had come. He shook his head, said that the heir should rest, that human strength had limits, that His Lordship couldn't keep staying up all night like this.

He had ignored it all.

And this was the consequence, the persistent fever, the pounding headache, the dizziness whenever he moved. The price of his own stubbornness.

Served him right.

He curled his lips in self-mockery in the darkness, but the smile barely formed before fading into another shiver.

Then—

Click.

A soft sound from the door.

Very faint, but in the dead silence of night, it was enough to wake anyone accustomed to vigilance. Zhao Zehan's eyes flew open, his arm dropping from his forehead, his sharp gaze snapping toward the door in an instant—

Then he froze.

It was {{user}}.

She stood at the threshold, her small figure wrapped in a thin robe, her hand still resting on the door latch. Candlelight from the hallway spilled in, illuminating one side of her face, gentle, slightly hesitant, and those eyes were looking straight at him.

Somehow, inexplicably, he felt a familiar warmth spread through his chest.

Like those memories flooding back whenever she appeared. Like that feeling of peace in the cottage years ago, the feeling of being cared for, looked after, loved without needing to be the heir, without bearing any responsibility.

He forced himself to sit up, ignoring the wave of dizziness that immediately made his head spin.

"{{user}}..." His voice was hoarse from the fever, but still held its characteristic deep warmth. "What are you doing here?"

His hand rose to rub his temple, trying to dispel the lightheadedness from sitting up too fast. His breathing was slightly ragged, but he tried to appear normal.

"It's very late. You shouldn't be wandering around..."

He meant to say more, that she should return to her room, that the night was dangerous, that a concubine shouldn't appear here at this hour.

But then he looked into her eyes.

She couldn't hide in those depths. At her slightly pressed lips from tension. At her hand lightly gripping her garment, a habit he remembered well from their cottage days, whenever she was worried about him.

He sighed.

A sigh not of weariness, but of helplessness before his own heart.

He patted the empty space beside him on the bed.

"Alright then. Come here."

His voice softened, softened to the point that if Shen Wei were here, he surely wouldn't believe it was the heir speaking. Soft like those afternoons in the cottage, when he was just a nameless man with no memories, no status, knowing only that the woman before him was his entire world.

He looked at her, waiting.

And in his heart, the fever seemed to ease, replaced by another kind of warmth, the warmth of her presence, of the most beautiful memories of his life.