Chapter Forty-Eight: Twin Blossoms

Leng Yijun stood up, her face as pale as death, and staggered toward the corpse. Ji Changge and Wen Qiran watched her in astonishment.

Step by step, Leng Yijun forced herself to suppress her terror and walked to the side of the body. When her eyes fell upon the dead woman’s hand, the last glimmer of hope in her gaze was utterly extinguished.

“It’s her… Such brilliant crimson nails… Only my Hongjian would be worthy to possess them…” Leng Yijun murmured to herself.

Wen Qiran looked at those dazzling nails. Leng Yijun’s words confirmed her initial suspicion: such rouge must contain other dyes mixed within.

“Hongjian, we promised that once we’d earned enough to buy our freedom, we’d return home together. It’s all my fault… all my fault…” Tears streamed down Leng Yijun’s cheeks.

Some years ago, Leng Yijun and Lu Hongjian had been sold to Madam Chun one after the other. Sharing a room, they ate and slept together, endured Madam Chun’s training side by side. Leng Yijun, though two years older, was also more stubborn, like a wild horse untamed by any hand, always resisting. Lu Hongjian, on the other hand, was gentle and sweet-tongued. It was usually Lu Hongjian who pleaded for her when Leng Yijun was beaten and scolded, but more often than not, both suffered punishment together.

Leng Yijun never thanked Lu Hongjian. Instead, she would sneer, “Mind your own business. If you want to degrade yourself, that’s your affair—not mine.”

Lu Hongjian only smiled, never arguing back. Each time Leng Yijun was punished, she still pleaded for her, leaving Leng Yijun at a loss, unable to stop her. At last, one day, she said coldly, “It’s just an act. I can play along too. You don’t need to play the good person anymore.”

Lu Hongjian was delighted. She knew that beneath Leng Yijun’s cold exterior lay a warm heart. As for herself, she no longer knew where her own heart had gone. She envied Leng Yijun, who still held hope for life, while her own heart was riddled with wounds. If anyone was truly cold, it was her. She took pleasure in toying with those contemptible men—they saw her as a plaything, and so did she. She relished watching them ruin themselves, all for the sake of her smile.

Leng Yijun loved blue; Lu Hongjian preferred red. Leng Yijun rarely smiled, Lu Hongjian never spoke without a smile. Lu Hongjian’s business was better, yet her reputation could not match Leng Yijun’s. Everyone knew that to meet Leng Yijun depended on fate—without it, even a house piled with gold would not grant an audience. But with Lu Hongjian, so long as the price was right, she never refused. From ancient times, human nature has craved what cannot be had; only the unattainable is truly precious.

The two made a pact: once they had gathered enough to redeem themselves, they would go together to Lu Hongjian’s hometown of Luoyang. But years passed, and they remained short of the sum. Not because Lu Hongjian hadn’t earned enough, but because Leng Yijun’s earnings could barely make up for her losses. Time and again, after she beat a client, Madam Chun not only refunded the money but also paid compensation for damages and broken furniture. Each time, to spare Leng Yijun from punishment, Lu Hongjian would let Madam Chun deduct the losses from her own earnings. Only Madam Chun knew how much she truly took. Whenever Lu Hongjian asked if she had enough for her freedom, Madam Chun’s answer was always the same: “Almost.” Everyone knew that only a fool would let a hen that lays golden eggs go so easily.

One day, a wealthy merchant fancied Lu Hongjian, offering to buy her as his concubine for a price that greatly tempted Madam Chun. In the end, Lu Hongjian refused. When the heart is dead, it matters little where one remains. But if Leng Yijun left her, only death would await.

“If not for me, you could have long escaped that hell…” Leng Yijun wept, clutching the corpse.

“Miss Leng, we must go,” Uncle Quan stepped forward.

“No, I want to bury Hongjian first.”

“I will arrange for Miss Lu Hongjian’s burial,” Ji Changge consoled her. “But if you don’t return soon, Madam Chun will become suspicious. Then finding the murderer will be all but impossible. Do you not wish to avenge Miss Lu?”

Leng Yijun’s eyes grew resolute. She stood and walked toward the door.

Wen Qiran and Ji Changge also climbed into the carriage.

“Mr. Ji, what if that old villain goes in and discovers something while I’m away?” Leng Yijun asked anxiously.

“Don’t worry, miss. Everything is arranged,” Ji Changge replied with a reassuring smile.

Though she didn’t know what he had planned, Leng Yijun couldn’t help but trust him. His presence soothed her nerves, as if with him around, all problems found their solutions.

Meanwhile, inside the Peony House, Leopard was crouched by Leng Yijun’s door, eavesdropping.

“Miss Leng’s music is elegant, her voice heavenly. To meet you is the fortune of three lifetimes.”

“Mr. Hengwen flatters me. I have long admired your talents.”

…

“What kind of incense do you use in your room?” Wen Qiran suddenly inquired.

Leng Yijun glanced at her indifferently. “I never use incense.”

Wen Qiran was startled. That was odd—she was certain there was a faint fragrance about Leng Yijun, though most people might not notice.

“Why do you ask, Madam Qi?” Ji Changge asked, curious at Wen Qiran’s puzzled look.

Leng Yijun’s gaze dimmed. Seeing the look Ji Changge gave this woman called Madam Qi, she could only smile bitterly to herself. How dangerous it is to imagine affection where there is none. If they had never met, there would be no knowing; but now that they did, she feared she would never forget.

“You truly can’t smell it?” Wen Qiran pressed.

Ji Changge shook his head.

“Mr. Ji, when you visited the Peony House, did you feel any physical discomfort?” Wen Qiran continued.

Ji Changge pondered a moment. “No discomfort—only a surge of blood and a slight shortness of breath.”

That was it, Wen Qiran thought to herself. Ji Changge was a martial artist, his self-control far above ordinary men. If her guess was right, the Peony House must use a special incense. Leng Yijun, long exposed to it, naturally bore the scent. Ji Changge hadn’t lingered, so the scent did not cling to him.

“Uncle Quan, see Miss Leng home safely,” Ji Changge instructed.

“Yes, young master,” Uncle Quan replied, leading Leng Yijun into the night.

Ji Changge watched Leng Yijun’s lonely silhouette, wanting to say a few words of comfort, but the opportunity slipped away.

“This Miss Leng is truly a remarkable woman,” Wen Qiran said with admiration. To hold oneself aloof in such a world was no easy feat, and Miss Lu Hongjian too, with her loyalty and affection, deserved respect.

Moments later, Uncle Quan returned, accompanied by another man.

Wen Qiran studied the newcomer—handsome, scholarly, with a roguish charm about his brow and eyes.

“Mr. Ji, I offer my respects,” the man said.

Wen Qiran was startled. Though his lips moved, the voice was unmistakably Leng Yijun’s—what astonishing ventriloquism.

“Brother Zhuo, your gifts of mimicry grow ever more wondrous. I fear even I would be deceived. Thank you for today. I shall certainly call to thank you properly in the future,” Ji Changge said with a smile.

“Please don’t. It would be best if you never sought me out again. Each time I see you, I spend hours talking to myself—brother Ji, this business is enough to kill a man,” the man sighed, stamped his foot, and strode away.

Wen Qiran couldn’t help but smile. This man was truly an extraordinary character—his ventriloquism among the best in the land.