diymy Chapter 349 Self-Inflicted Injury with Three Palms! Xu Longxiang's Ruthlessness!
Chapter 349 Self-Inflicted Injury with Three Palms! Xu Longxiang's Ruthlessness!
Xu Longxiang turned around and saw Mo Ya standing at the courtyard gate.
He was dressed in black, his face expressionless, but his sharp eyes were filled with anxiety.
"Your Highness," he strode up to Xu Longxiang, his voice low, like an echo from the earth, "something terrible has happened. That tyrannical emperor—with his officials and envoys from various countries—is heading this way."
Xu Longxiang's pupils contracted slightly, and the sword in his hand slowly fell, its tip touching the ground with a very soft "ding".
His brows furrowed, forming a deep "川" (river) shape between them.
"What's he doing here?" His voice was hoarse, with rough breaths from just finishing his sword practice.
Mo Ya's Adam's apple bobbed.
"I don't know. But Your Highness, your excuse just now was that you were unwell. If that tyrant comes and sees you like this—" His gaze swept over Xu Longxiang's bare feet, his sweat-soaked undergarment, the sword marks all over the ground, and the broken stone slabs, "he might become suspicious."
Xu Longxiang fell silent.
He stood there, barefoot, gripping his sword, covered in sweat, his chest heaving violently.
His mind raced, one idea after another flashing through his mind, each one of which he rejected himself.
His gaze fell on the courtyard gate, on the tightly closed, peeling red lacquer door.
Beyond the gate lies the imperial city, the imperial palace, that man, and those who are waiting to see him make a fool of himself.
"How much longer until they arrive?" he asked, his voice calm, unlike someone who had just practiced swordsmanship for an hour.
Mo Ya looked at him, and seeing the calm, almost cold expression on his face, he felt a chill run down his spine.
"At most, the time it takes for an incense stick to burn."
A stick of incense.
Xu Longxiang closed his eyes.
In my mind, the game of chess is still going on, the pieces are still falling, every move has to be calculated, and every move must be flawless.
He opened his eyes, a fierce glint flashing within them.
The light was like a blade, a sword edge, like the coldest snow in the northern winter.
He loosened the hilt of the sword, and the sword fell to the ground with a clang.
Then he raised his right hand, fingers together, palm facing inward, aimed at his chest.
Mo Ya's pupils suddenly contracted.
"Your Highness—!"
Xu Longxiang slapped his chest.
"puff--"
A mouthful of blood spurted from his mouth, blooming into a shocking blood flower in the air, landing on the bluestone slab, on the crisscrossing sword marks, and on his bare feet.
His body swayed, and he staggered back two steps before managing to steady himself by grabbing onto a stone pillar beside him.
His face, which had been flushed from practicing swordsmanship, instantly turned deathly pale, as white as paper, as white as the layer of lime on the wall that had been soaked in water.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, sliding down his chin and dripping onto his pale white undergarment, spreading into dark red, startling patterns.
His body was trembling slightly, the trembling starting in his chest and spreading to his shoulders, arms, hands, and his white-knuckled fingers as he gripped the stone pillar.
Mo Ya stood aside, watching helplessly as Xu Longxiang slapped his chest repeatedly.
Three palm strikes.
Each palm strike was solid, each palm strike carried internal force, and each palm strike was enough to damage the meridians.
He wanted to stop him, to step forward and grab Xu Longxiang's hand, and tell him "enough."
But his feet seemed nailed to the ground, and he couldn't take a single step.
His lips were trembling, his fingers were trembling, his whole body was trembling.
Only one thought remained in his mind—this was the only way.
Only in this way can we get away with it.
Only in this way could Qin Mu believe that Xu Longxiang had truly "gone astray in his cultivation" and was genuinely "unwell."
Only in this way can His Highness's plans be preserved, and only in this way can the hope of the Northern Frontier be preserved.
He looked at the shocking bloodstains at the corner of Xu Longxiang's mouth, at his pale face, at his slightly trembling body, and the complex emotions in his heart surged so intensely that they almost overwhelmed him.
He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but it felt as if something was blocking his throat, and he couldn't squeeze out a single word.
He could only stand there and watch.
Xu Longxiang leaned against a stone pillar, panting heavily.
Every breath carried the stench of blood, a rusty, sweet, and nauseating smell.
His hand slipped off the stone pillar, he staggered a couple of steps, and bent down to pick up the sword from the ground.
His movements were slow and heavy; with each inch he bent down, a tearing pain shot through his chest.
He sheathed his sword, leaned on it, and walked step by step into the house.
"Clean up the yard."
His voice was so hoarse that it was almost inaudible, and every word seemed to be squeezed out of his throat.
He didn't turn around, but simply leaned on his sword and walked step by step.
His pale white undergarment was soaked with sweat and stained with blood, clinging tightly to his body and outlining his thin, yet still straight, back.
As Mo Ya watched that figure's back, the blood-stained inner garment, and the way he leaned on his sword and walked forward step by step, the surging emotions in his heart finally became uncontrollable.
He suddenly turned around, his back to Xu Longxiang, and looked up at the sky where Xu Longxiang had cleaved a cloud in two.
The cloud had not yet closed; its two wisps churned to either side, like a torn wound that would never heal.
The door of the inn slowly opened, and sunlight poured in, turning the threshold white.
Qin Mu stood on the threshold, his moon-white robe gleaming warmly in the sunlight.
Zhao Qingxue stood beside him, her bright red palace dress shining brightly in the sunlight. She wore a golden phoenix hairpin, her face was adorned with exquisite makeup, and her eyes held a faint, dignified smile.
Civil and military officials stood behind them, dressed in purple, scarlet, and blue, arranged neatly according to rank.
The envoys from various countries stood further back: Tuoba Ye, Yelü Gu, the envoy from Nanzhao, the envoy from Donghai, and the envoy from the Western Regions. Each of them wore a different expression, but their eyes were all looking in the same direction—to the tightly closed door deep inside the post station.
Qin Mu stepped forward and crossed the threshold.
Sunlight streamed in from behind him, casting his long, long shadow on the ground.
He walked ahead, his pace unhurried, as relaxed as if he were strolling in his own backyard.
Zhao Qingxue followed beside him, her bright red skirt trailing on the ground, making a soft rustling sound.
Officials and envoys followed behind, but no one spoke, no one dared to speak, only the sound of footsteps, dull and jumbled, like some kind of ancient lament.
Mo Ya stood at the courtyard gate, his hands hanging down.
His face was expressionless, only his sharp eyes were filled with complex and suppressed emotions.
The moment he saw Qin Mu walk in, he knelt down, his knees slamming onto the bluestone slab with a dull thud.
"Your Majesty. Your Majesty the Empress."
His voice was hoarse, and he kept his head down, not daring to look at Qin Mu or Zhao Qingxue.
Qin Mu glanced at him, said nothing, walked past him, and headed towards the closed door.
The door was ajar, and a dim light shone through the crack.
Qin Mu raised his hand and pushed open the door.
The door hinges emitted a sharp, creaking sound that was particularly jarring in the quiet courtyard.
Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the dim, heavy atmosphere inside the room.
Xu Longxiang was lying in bed.
A pale white undergarment was loosely draped over her body. Her face was deathly pale, as white as paper, and her lips were dry and cracked with a layer of white skin, devoid of any color.
His eyes were closed, his eyelashes drooping slightly, casting two faint shadows on his eyelids.
His breathing was light and slow, each inhale carrying a barely perceptible tremor, like a string that had been blown by the wind for too long, ready to snap at any moment.
Qin Mu stood by the bed, looking down at him.
Zhao Qingxue stood beside him, her gaze fixed on Xu Longxiang's face, on that pale, bloodless face.
Her face was expressionless, except for a slight flicker in her deep purple phoenix eyes, which was then swallowed up by an even deeper calm.
"Minister Xu," Qin Mu said, his voice soft, carrying just the right amount of concern, "I've come to see you."
Xu Longxiang's eyelashes trembled slightly.
He slowly opened his eyes.
In those deep brown eyes, there was no anger, no resentment, only a deep, weary calm.
He looked at Qin Mu, then at Zhao Qingxue beside Qin Mu, at her exquisitely made-up face, at the golden phoenix hairpin in her hair, and at the bright red palace dress she was wearing.
Something inside him shattered.
It shattered quietly, without a sound or a trace, so quietly that even he himself could hardly notice it.
A faint, weak smile slowly curved the corners of his lips, like a flower blooming on the edge of a cliff, ready to be blown away by the wind at any moment.
"Your Majesty," he began, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible, each word seemingly forced out of his throat, "I—cannot rise to greet you, please forgive me, Your Majesty."
After he finished speaking, he coughed softly and slowly.
The cough was very light and restrained, but with that cough, a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, slid down his chin, and dripped onto the moon-white pillowcase, spreading into a small dark stain.
Qin Mu stood by the bed, looking down at Xu Longxiang's pale and weak appearance, and sighed softly.
The sigh was very soft, as soft as a leaf drifting across the water, barely causing a ripple.
But there was something indescribable and profound in that sigh, like a sword that had not been drawn from its sheath, the blade hidden inside, yet everyone could see the patterns on the sheath.
"My dear minister," he began, his voice carrying just the right amount of emotion, "how could you be so careless?"
Xu Longxiang leaned against the pillow, the weak smile on his lips still lingering.
He looked at Qin Mu, at that smiling, ever-composed face, at those deep eyes that seemed to see through everything.
His fingers slowly tightened under the covers, his knuckles turning white, his nails digging into his palms; the sharp pain kept him conscious until the very end.
"I ran into a little trouble during my cultivation," his voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible, each word seeming to be forced out of his throat, "but it's nothing serious."
Qin Mu nodded.
His gaze shifted from Xu Longxiang's face to the bandaged, bleeding wound on his chest, and then to the small, shocking bloodstain on the pale white pillowcase.
His gaze lingered there for a moment, then returned to Xu Longxiang's face.
"My dear minister, you are a pillar of the nation," his voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable solemnity, "You must take care of your health. Otherwise, what will become of the Northern Frontier?"
He paused, the smile on his lips deepening, his gaze filled with a gentle, brotherly concern.
"Your sister will be sad too."