[The final outcome: died of illness in the deserted mountains, no one cared about him]
In the winter of the tenth year of the Yuanqi reign, heavy snow fell for three consecutive days outside the capital. The Ci'an Temple, buried beneath a thick layer of snow, seemed utterly silent. The nun in charge of laundry noticed that she hadn't seen "Jingxin" for three days. When she opened the wooden door of her cell, a gust of cold air hit her. She found Shen Ruoruo curled up on the cold bed, covered only by a thin, tattered quilt. Her body had long since stiffened. Her face was frozen with a look of half resentment, half fear, her eyes wide open, as if she had witnessed something horrific before her death.
Scattered beside her pillow were a few wooden shards carved with fingernails, bearing crooked inscriptions: "Chen Weiwan... Even if I become a ghost, I will not let you go... Itchy Powder... Broken Sleeves... My Phoenix Coronet and Bridal Bridal Gown..." The old nun sighed and had her wrapped in a straw mat. They carried her to the overgrown mass grave behind the temple, dug a shallow grave, and buried her. There was no tombstone, no offerings, not even a single prayer for her. Only the howling north wind, whipping up the snowflakes, quickly obscured any trace of fresh earth.
At this moment, the Prince's Mansion was a completely different scene. Shen Weiwan was sitting in the warm room, watching Kengkeng and Wawa chasing and playing in the snow. The two children had built a crooked snowman out of croton powder, their faces filled with innocent smiles. Xiao Yu smiled as he put a fox fur coat on her, his fingertips running through the loose hair at her temples. "Be careful not to catch a cold."
Chun Tao came in with hot tea, hesitated for a moment, and whispered, "Princess, someone just came from the foot of the mountain to report... Miss Shen Er from Ci'an Temple in the suburbs of Beijing passed away a few days ago."
Shen Weiwan was putting a piece of candied croton into her mouth. Upon hearing this, she paused slightly, then returned to normal, humming lightly, her gaze still fixed on the children outside the window: "I know. Find a day to ask the housekeeper to send some paper money. After all... we are blood relatives." Her tone was calm, as if she was talking about a trivial matter that had nothing to do with her, as if she had just heard news from a distant stranger.
Xiao Yu held her hand, the warmth of his palm radiating through her skin. Shen Weiwan tilted her head to look at him, a faint smile playing on her lips. That smile contained neither pleasure nor pity, only a calmness that came from the vicissitudes of life. For her, Shen Ruoruo's existence had been destined, from the day she was reborn, to be a discarded pawn on the chessboard of fate. Now that this pawn had finally landed, she felt no ripples in her heart, only a sense of relief that the dust had settled.
After all, true winners never waste their emotions on the fate of losers. Shen Weiwan's life, having already begun to unfold in a different and more glorious way through the pits she dug and filled, was a reflection of her own actions. Shen Ruorou's fate, on the other hand, was merely the inevitable fruit of the seeds she sowed—the ancient Buddhas and the indignant lamps could not save her. She was ultimately trapped in the boundless sea of suffering, her own jealousy and greed, a villainous footnote in the stories of the "silly daughter of the firstborn" that the people of Beijing often talked about. When spring arrived again, new weeds sprouted from the mass grave behind Ci'an Temple, and no one remembered the woman named Shen Ruorou, whose life, consumed by jealousy and greed, had once been buried there.
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