Those crises that were thought to be resolved by Luo Yunqiao are now coming back like a tidal wave.
Her fingernails dug deeply into the mottled vermilion lacquer.
What was thought to be a win-win strategy has now turned into a lose-lose situation—Cheng Muyun's reputation has not been salvaged, and he himself has been dragged into a deeper quagmire.
The kapok tree rustled overhead, and its bright red petals drifted down onto her shoulders, feeling like heavy shackles that made it hard for her to breathe.
"..."
Xu Zhuohua was speechless.
“Right now, many people in Xinhai City are participating in the protests, saying they want Cheng Muyun to step down, but Cheng Muyun has the Si family backing him up, so no one above dares to touch him.”
Xu Zhuohua was even more speechless. What was all this about?
Xu Zhuohua staggered and grabbed the cold pillar for support, her knuckles turning white from the force.
The kapok trees rustled, and the vibrant flowers gradually twisted into a grinning face in her eyes.
"Cheng Muyun was clearly on the opposite side of the Si family..." she murmured to herself, her voice trembling uncontrollably, "How did he become a member of the Si family now?"
"Then everything he did back then was for nothing, wasn't it?" Xu Zhuohua suddenly laughed, her laughter tinged with despair. "He'll just be called a lackey of the Si family from now on, and this mess will be so easily pinned on him!"
A draft swept up the kapok petals on the ground, which landed on her shoulder and were quickly brushed away.
When she was extremely angry, she calmed down, but a self-deprecating smile appeared on her lips.
When will the distinction between black and white in this world truly become clear?
Those malicious speculations and distorted facts are like an invisible net, trapping them within, with nowhere to escape.
"It turns out that you can't completely trust what you read in history books..." she murmured as she squatted down and picked up a whole fallen kapok flower. The burning heat of the petals contrasted ironically with the coldness of her palm.
Words written a century later cannot measure the suffocation of this moment, just as she never truly understood the cruelty of this era.
The wind blew through the corridor, lifting the ends of her hair. Xu Zhuohua looked at the petals scattered all over the ground and suddenly smiled.
It turns out that the trajectory she tried so hard to rewrite was trapped in the palm lines of the times from the very beginning. The history that she regarded as "known" was nothing more than a partial interpretation by later generations through the fog.
In this real torrent, she and Cheng Muyun were nothing more than two pawns manipulated by fate, their very presence swallowed up by the clamor of the world.
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