In just a few days, he became so thin that he looked like he would fall apart with a gust of wind.
Chen Hede's gaze suddenly froze as his eyes casually swept over the area.
On Cheng Muyun's head, a lot of glaring white hairs had sprouted from his black hair, like frost and snow falling on branches in the cold winter, each strand pricking one's eyes painfully.
Those weren't white hairs at all. They were clearly fine needles, piercing Chen Hede's chest, causing a sharp, aching pain that spread instantly.
Cheng Muyun is not even twenty-seven years old yet.
This should be the age of youthful vigor and high spirits, the most prosperous time of life. How could... how could so many gray hairs appear in just a few days?
Chen Hede unconsciously tightened his grip on his hand, his throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and he couldn't say a word.
Cheng Muyun slowly took the heavy newspaper from Chen Hede's hand with his scarred hand.
When his fingertips touched the rough paper, he flinched slightly, as if burned by the ink.
"The people sent from Nanjing," he said in a hoarse voice, his tone devoid of any emotion, "will probably arrive the day after tomorrow. By the time they arrive, I will have already led the Dongzhou Army to establish my own independent power base. At that point, whether they investigate or not, what they find, or whether it benefits me or not, it will all be irrelevant."
Chen Hede's heart sank suddenly, as if he had been hit by a boulder.
He never imagined that Cheng Muyun had made such a resolute plan.
He secretly hoped that the special envoy from Nanjing could bring a turning point and clear Cheng Muyun's name, but it seemed that Cheng Muyun had no intention of saving himself and was determined to go down a dead end.
“Cheng Muyun,” Chen Hede’s voice trembled almost imperceptibly, “Xu Zhuohua is gone, are you just going to give up on yourself like this?”
Cheng Muyun's hand, which was turning the pages of the newspaper, suddenly stopped, and one corner of the newspaper was crumpled from his grip.
He raised his eyes, and those eyes that once held a sharp edge were now filled with an unyielding sorrow, like a thick fog or a candle flame flickering in the wind, ready to be extinguished at any moment.
He looked at Chen Hede with a deep sense of incomprehension and inquiry in his eyes, as if asking, "How do you know this?"
A soft laugh rolled out of his throat, carrying endless mockery and resentment, making the listener's heart tighten.
“Zhuohua is gone,” he said, each word distinct, his voice as soft as a sigh yet as heavy as a hammer blow, “and took me with him. Can’t you see? Chen Hede, I loved her, loved her madly. Xu Zhuohua is dead, and so am I.”
As soon as he finished speaking, a single tear rolled down his reddened eyes, slid down his cheek, and landed on the open newspaper, blurring a small patch of ink.
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