Chen Hede was so shocked that he held his breath, and his heart skipped a beat.
The Cheng Muyun he knew was the young marshal who led his troops to quell bandits on the battlefield. He never imagined that such a person would shed tears in front of him and so frankly express his longing for his wife.
Cheng Muyun raised his hand to wipe away the tears on his face, his movements somewhat disheveled, yet exceptionally resolute.
“What I’m doing now,” he said, looking at Chen Hede, a faint but stubborn light suddenly igniting in his eyes, “is the last thing I can do for her.”
Chen Hede frowned and said, "But before this, Zhuohua told me that if she left, I must help you. Zhuohua cares a lot about your safety, and you can't let her down."
Cheng Muyun paused, his gaze falling on the ink stain on the newspaper blurred by tears. Suddenly, as if remembering something, a relieved smile slowly appeared on his lips.
It turns out that Xu Zhuohua had approached Chen Hede earlier to plan his future.
She probably had long anticipated that she might not be able to escape the torrent of fate, but she never expected that—without Xu Zhuohua, there was no difference between Cheng Muyun being alive and dead.
The youthful spirit once surged like the Yangtze River, rushing mightily towards the East China Sea. But some things, once lost, can never be regained.
That burning, indomitable youthful spirit is the rarest thing in the world; once lost, it can never be found again.
Cheng Muyun knew very well that he was now a living dead.
The body remained, but the soul was burned away in the fire.
He was even somewhat impatient, eager to hasten his inevitable death.
He looked up at Chen Hede, his eyes as calm as a still pond, his hoarse voice devoid of any emotion: "I don't need you to save me, Chen Hede."
"Death, on the contrary, is a relief for me."
These words, though seemingly casual, struck Chen Hede's heart like a stone, making his eardrums ring.
Cheng Muyun shoved Chen Hede away with such force that Chen staggered back several steps, all the way to the cell door.
He turned and grabbed the chain, gritting his teeth as he wound it back around the iron bars. The rusty iron rings clanged together, making a harsh sound, as if drawing a line between the two of them.
“My men are coming soon,” he said, his back to Chen Hede, his voice hard. “You’d better leave now and don’t get involved with me anymore. Miss Hu was also seriously injured, wasn’t she? Go and see her, don’t let her sincerity go to waste.”
Chen Hede's words of dissuasion, which were on the tip of his tongue, were completely blocked by the name "Hu Moli".
His heart suddenly clenched, as if gripped by a hand, pounding against his chest, making his fingertips go numb.
"You must contact me once you are safe!" He said this and practically fled.
Their footsteps were so fast, as if they were running away from something, and they didn't even dare to turn their heads.
He was afraid—afraid that Cheng Muyun would ask another question, afraid that the panic in his eyes would give him away, and even more afraid that Cheng Muyun would suddenly ask to see Hu Moli—that would be the most dangerous thing.
Hu Moli is not at the hospital at all.
The claim of being "seriously injured" was merely a pretext he fabricated to stabilize the situation.
Chen Hede clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white.
The most urgent task is to arrange a reasonable "death" for this "Hu Moli".
Only by completely erasing this name can his plan continue, and only then can Xu Zhuohua's safety, hidden in the shadows, be guaranteed.
Cheng Muyun watched Chen Hede's staggering figure disappear, his hurried steps as if a raging flood or ferocious beast was chasing him, and he didn't even dare to turn his head back.
He twitched his lips, revealing a faint, self-deprecating smile, a smile tinged with a cold indifference that seemed to have seen through the ways of the world.
Sure enough, when the tree falls, the monkeys scatter; when the wall collapses, everyone pushes it down. The coldness and warmth of human relationships in this world have always been so realistic.
In his current state, beset by troubles, he truly resembles a mud-covered stone, and everyone wants to stay away from him, afraid of getting dirty.
But then I thought about it again and found it funny.
He himself was the one who blocked Chen Hede's unspoken concern, and the fact that Chen Hede is now running away like this is ultimately the result of his pushing.
But why did I feel a strange, inexplicable sense of grievance when I looked at that hurried figure?
It felt like being pricked by a needle, subtle yet clear.
Cheng Muyun withdrew his gaze and sat down on the floor again. The cool touch seeped through his thin pants, clearing his muddled mind.
He shook his head, as if trying to shake off that inappropriate emotion, then looked down at himself and smiled, a smile that was both ironic and helpless—what's the use of wallowing in self-pity now that things have come to this?
That's so pretentious.
He spread the newspaper out on his lap, his fingertips tracing the bold headlines and dense text.
"Heinous," "Murderous maniac," "Refined scoundrel"...
It's just the same old words over and over again, nothing new, and even the story it tells is full of holes.
However, Cheng Muyun's lips always held a faint smile, and there was no anger at being slandered in his eyes. Instead, there was a sense of composure as if he was in control of everything.
These clownish performances and the public opinion that seemed poised to completely destroy him were merely the most insignificant link in his carefully laid trap.
Seeing that everything is going as expected, even if he has to endure these foul words for the time being, it is enough to make him feel satisfied.
The edge of the newspaper brushed against my fingertips, carrying the rough texture unique to paper, like sandpaper gently rubbing against my skin.
Cheng Muyun's fingertips paused for a moment, and in a daze, he recalled the scene of teaching Xu Zhuohua to recognize characters in the Aurora Library.
Sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, casting dappled shadows on the wooden desk, and the air was filled with the distinctive scent of ink from old books.
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