The trail—formed by hurried footprints and broken branches—led Zhang Yun's men deep into the mountains, where paths vanished among jagged cliffs and thickets so dense they seemed to swallow the light. The air was cold, and the galloping of horses halted in a narrow clearing.
There, amid the twisted trees and rocks rising like stone fangs, Meixin and Liu Zhen were cornered.
The pursuit had been long, merciless. Both women's feet were bloodied by the rough stones, their clothes torn, their breaths ragged. Meixin's face was covered in sweat and dirt, but her eyes still burned with the stubborn flame of her desire for freedom.
—Run!— she shouted at Zhen, pushing her toward a narrow slope between two boulders.
They tried to flee downhill, dodging roots and loose rocks. But the terrain was treacherous. Amid the chaos of the chase, one of the soldiers slipped as he tried to catch up. He tripped on a stone, and the spear he held with both hands slipped from his fingers.
The weapon flew through the air, spinning like a projectile guided by fate. Meixin barely had time to turn her head when she heard the sharp whistle of steel. A moment later, a dull, piercing sound tore through the air.
The spear struck Liu Zhen square in the chest.
The impact halted her completely. Her body trembled, took two staggering steps backward, then collapsed to her knees. Meixin screamed, eyes wide with horror, and ran to her, sliding across the ground.
—Zhen! No, no, no…!— she cried, cradling her in her arms as warm, thick blood soaked through her blouse and stained the rocky ground.
Liu Zhen's eyes fluttered slowly.
—My lady…— she whispered.
—Hold on, please!—Meixin begged, clutching her in desperation.
Liu Zhen exhaled her last breath in Meixin's arms, her body slowly losing its warmth.
The soldiers' footsteps began to surround them. Some lowered their gaze with regret. Others only watched with military detachment. Meixin remained kneeling, embracing the lifeless body of her maid and friend—her only ally. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the blood and dust.
Then, beyond the line of soldiers, Zhang Yun appeared.
His gaze swept over the young woman's corpse, Meixin's bloodstained hands, her face distorted by grief. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still.
Meixin raised her eyes to him, her soul in tatters, her voice broken by rage.
—Are you satisfied…? Is this what you wanted?
Zhang Yun did not answer. He took a step toward her, moved, aching to comfort her. He reached out, trying to hold her, to embrace her gently.
But Meixin saw him—and something inside her shattered. She laid the body of her dear maid softly on the ground and stood.
—This is all your fault— she screamed, and without thinking, she raised her fists.
She struck him once, twice, three times—fueled by fury, sorrow, and pent-up hatred. Zhang Yun didn't defend himself. Each blow shook him more within than without. He let her strike him until her strength gave out, and finally, she fainted.
Yun gathered her into his arms, placed her on his horse, and brought her back to the manor.
Meixin did not wake that night, nor the next. Her body was unharmed, but her spirit seemed utterly extinguished. Grief had dragged her into unconsciousness, as if her soul had retreated into a dark corner, refusing to return.
Zhang Yun, desperate, summoned the most renowned doctor in the region. The elderly man, with steady hands and a wise gaze, came at once. He examined her carefully, feeling her pulse, watching her breath, checking the warmth of her skin. He looked up at Yun, unable to hide his concern.
—There's no physical damage… but her mind, her heart, have suffered a deep blow. She's fallen into emotional shock. She won't wake until her soul is ready.
Zhang Yun clenched his fists, his face stiff with helplessness.
—Then come back tomorrow. And the next day too. Don't stop until she wakes.
And so the doctor did.
Meanwhile, Yun returned each morning, sitting beside Meixin's bed, speaking to her in a soft voice. Sometimes he told her short stories; other times he read ancient verses to keep her mind anchored to this world. Always hoping that one day her eyes would open and see him.
Five days passed.
At dawn on the sixth, Meixin—pale and fragile like a withered flower—slowly blinked. The doctor, moistening her lips with rice water, held his breath.
—My lady…— he whispered.
She looked at him, at first without recognition, then slowly, like someone returning from a distant place. She tried to sit up, but her body refused. She only managed to murmur:
—Where am I?
—You're safe,— he answered gently. —At home.
A bitter glint crossed Meixin's eyes.
—This… was never a home.
The doctor lowered his gaze, feeling the weight of that confession. Meixin closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. Then, with an effort that seemed greater than her strength, she spoke again.
—Since I arrived here… I've lived like a prisoner. I've been beaten, humiliated, betrayed. I lost the only person I had left… because of this place… because of him.
The doctor listened in silence, moved by her broken voice and the tears that slid helplessly down her cheeks.
—Can I trust you?— Meixin asked, looking at him with desperation.
—You can, my lady,— he said firmly.
She then asked for paper and a brush, and with trembling hands, wrote a small letter and folded it.
—Please… deliver this to the Wen family. To my father… to my brother. They must know.
The doctor took it with both hands, as if holding something sacred. He nodded.
—I will get it to them. I swear it.
Meixin closed her eyes, exhausted, as if merely speaking those words had drained the last of her strength.
When the doctor left, he looked at Zhang Yun, who waited outside the door.
—She has awakened,— he informed him. —But she's broken inside. If you truly want to save her… you must show her kindness.
Zhang Yun nodded and lowered his gaze.
He crossed the threshold with a trembling heart, unable to bear the weight of his guilt, and approached her.
—Meixin…— he murmured in a shaky voice. —I didn't mean for it to happen this way. It wasn't what I wanted…
She slowly lifted her gaze, her eyes like burning embers. She looked at him with hatred, as if he were a stranger, a faceless specter.
—You killed the only person who stayed by my side!— she screamed hoarsely.
Yun lowered his head.
—Zhen wasn't meant to die. It was an accident… I…— he stammered, searching for words in the emptiness.
—And do you think your words will bring her back?— she exclaimed, her voice breaking into a dry sob. —Let me go! I don't want anything from you anymore!
She stood abruptly. Her hands trembled, and her thin frame seemed barely able to hold itself up. She walked to a chest and opened it violently.
—If it's money you want, take it all. Here!— she shouted, throwing a bundle of coins and jewels to the floor like garbage. —But let me go…
He looked at her, each word piercing him. Inside, something broke with every sentence. He took a step toward her.
—You're my wife,— he whispered, as if that alone could explain everything he couldn't say. —You can't leave.
She stepped back, but he reached her and pulled her into his arms.
—No! Don't touch me!— she cried, struggling.
—Let me show you how much I love you,— he whispered, kissing her neck.
He lifted her and carried her to the bed. He began kissing her, removing her clothes. She fought him, hit him, screamed, cried. She begged him not to do it. But he, blinded by his own desperation, by that need to have her, did not listen. Once again, he crossed a line he should never have crossed.
When silence finally returned to the room, Meixin slept. Her cheeks were wet. Her body, defeated. Yun watched her in the dark, barely breathing. Slowly, he ran his fingers down her back. There they were—the scars. The traces of the lashes. And the uneven mark of the burn he himself had left on her skin. Each mark was a reminder of his cruelty.
A sharp pain pierced his chest, as if his soul had been split in two. He kissed her back. Held her tightly, as if afraid of losing her forever.
But the scar on her back would never fade.
And neither would the one he had just left on her soul.