After Transmigrating into a Novel, I Turned on Easy Mode - Chapter 17

Just as Wu You had predicted, the Yu Dynasty’s show of aggression turned out to be nothing more than a bluff. Once the Emperor of Daxin promised them certain benefits, they packed up and withdrew from the border.

Wu Zhan was unwilling but helpless. Still, avoiding a war was a blessing in itself. What mattered most now was handling the aftermath of the snow disaster.

Although the government had issued relief funds and taken emergency measures, by the time the money passed through the hands of corrupt local officials, what little remained was greatly diminished.

Wu Zhan clenched his fists, then slowly released them with a sigh. Military officials no longer held much weight at court—how could he possibly control such corruption? Forget it. If he could not manage others, then he would at least do his own duty well.

He reminded himself that he still needed to supervise the soldiers’ drills today, and set off toward the training grounds.

As he walked along the streets, commoners greeted him warmly. Some even tried to press cabbages and eggs into his hands, tokens from their own households. Wu Zhan smiled and declined each gift. In times like these, food was far too precious. Having seen the corruption of the court, the people’s simple sincerity was even more moving to him.

The sound of soldiers shouting in unison drifted from afar as he approached the training grounds, making him nod with satisfaction—at least the men had not been slacking.

But when he stepped inside, his gaze fell on the high platform. A figure stood there in silver-white armor, long hair tied in a high ponytail. Sun and wind had darkened her skin, unlike the pale complexions of most noblewomen. Her sharp brows and stern gaze radiated authority as she watched the soldiers drill.

Wu Zhan was taken aback. Wasn’t she sent to Jinzhou to suppress the bandits? How has she returned so quickly?

The woman on the platform spotted him too. Her stern expression softened into a smile. “General Wu, you’ve come.”

Crossing through the soldiers, Wu Zhan mounted the platform and bowed low. “Grand Marshal.”

Zhang Wenqi waved her hand, unconcerned. “How many times have I told you? Must you always be so stiff?”

“Rituals cannot be abandoned,” Wu Zhan replied seriously. “May I ask, Grand Marshal, did the bandit suppression in Jinzhou go smoothly? Why have you returned so soon?”

At that, Zhang Wenqi’s brows tightened. She sighed. “It was not resolved. The bandits are entrenched in treacherous mountain terrain, and now, with this heavy snow, the mountains are impassable. His Majesty ordered me to return to handle the Yu Dynasty’s threat first.”

Seeing his frown deepen, she quickly shifted the topic. “And how is your little wildcat doing? You didn’t return for her birthday. I imagine she must have been furious.”

At the mention of his daughter, Wu Zhan gave a bitter smile. “What choice did I have? The nation comes first, family second. She will have to bear with it.”

Zhang Wenqi, knowing well his loyalty, silently admired the Emperor’s judgment in appointing him. She signaled her deputy to dismiss the troops, then gestured for Wu Zhan to follow her elsewhere.

Zhang Wenqi, the younger daughter of Marquis Chang’an and aunt to Zhang Boyu, was already thirty-five and still unmarried.

As they walked, she said, “I’ve heard your little wildcat no longer fancies my nephew, but instead has her eyes on the Yongding Marquis’s daughter.”

Wu Zhan frowned in surprise. “Is that so? What does this Yongding girl look like? What sort of temperament? My girl needs someone fierce enough to keep her in check. If she’s too soft, that won’t do.”

Zhang Wenqi laughed. She hadn’t expected him to start making inquiries so readily. “How odd. Shouldn’t you be shocked first?”

Wu Zhan smiled faintly. “I’ve wronged her enough already. If this is what she wants, then I’ll support her wholeheartedly. Why should I play the villain?”

He truly felt he owed his daughter too much. So long as what she sought wasn’t harmful, he would never deny her happiness.

Zhang Wenqi shook her head. “You’ll be disappointed. You’ve spent too long at the border and gone dull. Yongding’s girl is famed for her gentle, quiet nature. She won’t be able to rein in your little wildcat.”

“Gentleness has its virtues too,” Wu Zhan said. “If she can teach my daughter to be more caring, all the better. At least she won’t be running wild all day.”

Zhang Wenqi tilted her head skyward. The snowfall seemed lighter, perhaps finally easing. Relief welled in her chest. “It looks like the storm is ending. Since the border is calm, why not return and spend the New Year with your wildcat? She’d be thrilled.”

Temptation tugged at him—he hadn’t seen his daughter in so long. His stern face softened with joy as he solemnly thanked her.

Zhang Wenqi groaned. “You and your stiff formality. Honestly, I can’t stand it.”

As the two of them reached the city walls, her gaze drifted to the endless white beyond, and her mood darkened. The failure at Jinzhou still weighed heavily.

With the snow blocking all roads, merchants should not have entered the capital at all. But greed was boundless—some still risked the treacherous passes, carrying rice and grain to sell for profit. The mountain bandits, who preyed on travelers, found easy victims. Food was worth more than gold now, and merchants were fat targets.

Her chest tightened with guilt as she recalled the incident. The caravan had been reckless, but they were still Daxin’s people. She had rushed as soon as she received word, yet even at her fastest speed, she arrived to find only corpses—and a single survivor. She had pulled him from that hell.

But the boy had not felt relief. Instead, he clutched his twin brother’s body and wept until his voice broke.

Zhang Wenqi had no talent for comfort. Anything she said might only deepen his wounds. So she merely asked his name and returned him to his family.

When Wu Zhan noticed her distraction, he asked, “Grand Marshal, are you troubled? Is it about the bandits?”

She smiled faintly. “Something like that. Nothing worth dwelling on. Come—we can’t linger here. There’s work to be done.”

She strode off, and he hurried after her.

Meanwhile, in Jinzhou, a funeral procession moved along the road. The mourners wore hempen robes, carrying a coffin through the snow. Thanks to the mud spread over the road, the path was less slippery than it might have been.

Beside the coffin walked a young man, his delicate features almost too beautiful for a man. But his eyes were empty, his face drawn with grief.

Onlookers whispered:

“Whose family? Who died?”
“The Mo family’s young lady. Such misfortune. All for the sake of money, in this bitter cold.”
“The Mo family? You mean the wealthy merchants of Jinzhou?”
“Who else? Their greed has now cost them their daughter’s life. And I hear the young master’s spirit is shattered too—they were inseparable siblings.”

But they were wrong. It was not the daughter who had died, but the son.

That day, Mo Ziyi’s elder brother had planned to travel to the capital. She had begged to go along, and though reluctant, he had agreed—on the condition that she not stray from his side.

When they reached bandit-ridden territory, he had disguised her in men’s clothing and smeared her face with dirt. She had teased him for worrying too much.

Still uneasy, he had finally insisted on sending her home, his tone brooking no refusal. Resigned, she had set off back.

But halfway, dread seized her heart. Something was wrong. She broke free of the servants and rushed back—only to arrive in time to see hell itself.

Bandits laughed as they swung their blades. Bl00d splattered the snow. Her brother still breathed, barely, and when his eyes found hers, his lips shaped two desperate words: Run away.

The bandits spotted her. Their laughter turned hungry. She fled, heart pounding, despair chasing her steps. Luck alone saved her, when a female general cut the bandits down and pulled her to safety.

But her heart felt no relief. She had found her brother’s body, cold in the snow. She had clung to him and sobbed until her voice broke.

The general brought her home. She had thought to mourn her brother, but instead, her father declared otherwise.

From that day, the dead was Mo Ziyi, the daughter. The survivor was Mo Ziyi, the son. Her brother was denied even his name in death.

He had died for her, yet her father robbed him of even this dignity.

Clutching the memorial tablet that bore her own name, she thought bitterly—yes, Mo Ziyi was dead. Not her body, but her heart.

As the coffin was lowered into the earth, she stood aside, watching the man she had loved most in the world disappear beneath the yellow soil.

With him, her heart sank into silence forever.