Queen O's Timid Fugitive A - Chapter 37

37

After the New Year, spring arrived quickly.

The warm sunlight fell like a veil, and knee-high snow melted into streams flowing toward small ditches. The clear, cool water carried last year’s withered leaves far away. A bamboo-patterned carriage rolled over the red dirt road, swaying as it headed toward the capital.

This trip to the city was due to an imperial summons. Though Jiang Ciqing hadn’t yet celebrated her birthday, in the eyes of the Empire’s people, the New Year marked another year of age. The Emperor, mindful of her, issued a decree on the morning of the first day of the year, granting her a noble title. After sending court robes and a seal, he added that her frail health made her unsuited for exhausting ceremonies, so the formalities were skipped.

This suited Jiang Ciqing perfectly. After accepting the items, she made no further moves, lingering in the mountains for another two months until the Emperor’s summons finally brought her out.

The carriage stopped at the palace gates. Jiang Ciqing stepped onto the green bricks, walking unhurriedly inside.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The dull sound of bells echoed through the palace. Ministers in formal attire filed out of the grand hall, gathering with their colleagues, chatting and laughing as they descended the white jade steps.

Xu Fusheng, who had been specially permitted to attend court, had faced significant opposition in recent days. A group of old-fashioned ministers, citing the lack of precedent for an Omega attending court, argued with the Emperor for half a month. They only relented when the Emperor and the Eldest Prince stood firm.

Now, walking alongside the three heirs, Xu Fusheng appeared calm on the surface, but beneath it, tensions simmered.

Everyone wanted to pull this influential figure into their camp. If one heir approached Xu Fusheng, the other two would immediately follow, leading to the peculiar sight of the three brothers—who usually couldn’t stand each other—gathering to chat and laugh together. It was a bizarre, almost surreal scene for the ministers of Southern Liang.

Xu Fusheng raised her eyes, casually responding to the conversation. The Fifth Prince quickly interjected, keeping the topic flowing smoothly.

Suppressing her irritation, Xu Fusheng’s gaze wandered, seemingly by chance, to the distance. Her eyes froze when she spotted a familiar figure moving against the crowd.

It was rare to see that person in such vibrant clothing—a red robe with golden kylin patterns, elegant yet striking, accentuating her fair, clean complexion. Her features, sharpened by illness, were more defined, her obsidian-like eyes clear and bright, devoid of their former youthful naivety. Her posture was straight, like a bamboo stalk growing through a crack in stone.

Though only a few months had passed, she seemed to have matured and grown significantly.

Those around Xu Fusheng noticed her gaze and followed it.

The Eldest Prince, usually gentle and smiling, paused before saying, “Ciqing’s hair has grown back.”

Xu Fusheng’s eyes shifted upward, noticing that Jiang Ciqing’s hair had indeed grown longer. Even tied in a high ponytail, the ends reached her neck, swaying slightly as she moved.

“Yes,” the Third Princess chimed in, teasing, “I wonder how many days it’ll last this time.”

The group burst into laughter.

Only Xu Fusheng didn’t understand, looking at them with curiosity.

Liang Anchen quickly explained with a smile, “Forging blades requires bending over a furnace. When her hair gets long, it falls forward and can easily catch sparks. Hair is flammable, and Ciqing is so obsessed with her craft that she doesn’t notice anything else when she’s focused. Every time, she only realizes it when her neck or ears get burned.”

The Fifth Prince added, “Last time, it even burned behind her ear. If you’d come back earlier, you could’ve seen her hair looking like a dog chewed it.”

Everyone laughed, clearly familiar with the story.

Xu Fusheng nodded in understanding, but when she glanced back, the red-robed figure was gone.

A strange sense of loss welled up in her heart. The conversation shifted to Jiang Ciqing and didn’t stop. The three heirs and their advisors took turns sharing stories.

“Master Jiang’s winter illness must have taken a toll. She looks much thinner,” one said.

The Eldest Prince sighed, “Last year, my physician checked her pulse and said her constitution is too weak—born frail and never properly nourished. She can’t handle much strain.”

Xu Fusheng didn’t know what expression to make. She thought to herself, She’s fooling you all; her health is fine. But recalling that fleeting glimpse, she admitted Jiang Ciqing did look frailer and silently retracted her thought.

The group continued out of the palace gates. Xu Fusheng learned more about Jiang Ciqing along the way. It was ironic—she, the Alpha Xu Fusheng had marked, should have been the person Xu Fusheng knew best in this world. Yet, through others’ casual talk, she was piecing together a Jiang Ciqing entirely different from the one in her memory.

An Alpha who adhered to old customs, outwardly gentle but distant from everyone, devoted to forging blades, uninterested in marriage, and physically frail—a genius craftsman.

Xu Fusheng wanted to reject this image but couldn’t deny that Jiang Ciqing was indeed someone who lived within rigid boundaries. Every time, it was Xu Fusheng who had to pull her along before she’d budge, stubborn and old-fashioned.

Most strikingly, in others’ eyes, Jiang Ciqing didn’t understand music and had never been seen playing the shakuhachi. The white-robed figure in Xu Fusheng’s memory, standing under a withered tree with a bamboo flute, grew increasingly blurry.

Even Xu Fusheng began to doubt herself. Was the Jiang Ciqing she knew the same person as the one others described?

A servant opened the carriage door after a long wait. Xu Fusheng sat inside, resting her forehead against the window, gazing at the street.

The winter chill hadn’t fully dissipated. Despite the bright sun, the air still carried a biting cold, leaving the streets sparsely populated with only a few vendors huddling by their stalls.

She wondered if Jiang Ciqing, dressed so thinly, would catch a cold.

Xu Fusheng’s thoughts drifted back to her. This was indeed a long-planned revenge. The hatred, born the night Jiang Ciqing vanished, had not faded over three years but had grown deeper and more entrenched.

Due to her experiences in the wild lands, Xu Fusheng rarely trusted anyone. She remained constantly vigilant, always on guard, a habit that was exhausting but kept her alive. Trusting Jiang Ciqing wasn’t accidental. Initially, it was because of her familiar black hair and eyes that Xu Fusheng overlooked her boundary-crossing actions.

But every step closer was earned through Jiang Ciqing passing one test after another. When they were hunted for a month, Jiang Ciqing’s unwavering loyalty and willingness to risk her life to save Xu Fusheng finally made her lower her guard and mark an Alpha she’d never imagined choosing.

The ever-wary hedgehog lowered its head, shed its spines, and entrusted its back to another for the first time.

It was laughable—when Jiang Ciqing disappeared that night, Xu Fusheng’s first thought was that someone had abducted her. She personally led soldiers to raid luxurious mansions, interrogating her trusted subordinates one by one. Only at dawn did she accept that she’d been betrayed by the one person she trusted.

Orders to capture “Eleven” were issued repeatedly, with bounties rising daily. Any lead, no matter how small, sent Xu Fusheng racing with her troops, determined to drag her back and subject her to the cruelest punishments, forcing her to confess why she betrayed her.

Xu Fusheng even carried an iron chain, vowing to shackle Jiang Ciqing’s ankle if she found her, keeping her within sight at all times.

But Jiang Ciqing left few traces, just as she had when they fled through the mountains together. She was adept at hiding. The most substantial clue came from a rural mother and daughter who said she’d knocked on their door at night, leaving money behind.

Staring at them, Xu Fusheng realized they bore a faint resemblance to Eleven’s former roommate.

Jiang Ciqing, even at the risk of exposure, ensured the family of someone who tried to kill her was cared for.

Recalling the obedient “woof” in the interrogation room, Xu Fusheng felt her heart tear open, sharp winds and snow pouring in, chilling her to the bone, leaving her immobile.

That knife you thrust at someone—was it a feigned surrender, meant for someone else?

Looking at the collar found near the village, Xu Fusheng’s lips curled into a bitter smile. Hatred grew like vines, entwining her entire being.

You care so much for strangers, so why couldn’t you show me even a fraction of that warmth? Why did you have to abandon me at my happiest moment?

Even receiving a longsword crafted from a sixth-tier magic core didn’t lessen her hatred. It only felt like Jiang Ciqing was cutting all ties, refusing any connection.

Three years later, sending the collar early was her way of collecting interest. Seeing Jiang Ciqing at the ball, Xu Fusheng felt the thrill of a cat catching a mouse.

But the mouse didn’t play along, dismissing her with a simple “Miss Xu, I don’t understand.”

How could someone who did wrong remain so calm? It was as if a noble lady, out of curiosity, dipped her toe into a muddy swamp, wiped it clean, and returned to her pristine, respected life as the head of the Jiang family.

The fun of toying with the mouse faded in the face of her indifference. Xu Fusheng, no longer satisfied with mere physical pain, patiently set traps, waiting for the Alpha to step into them.

But traps need bait. To make the prey lower its guard, Xu Fusheng had to offer her true feelings. Only a heart-for-heart exchange could ensnare someone inescapably. The only flaw was that, in the end, even the hunter couldn’t tell truth from pretense.

Xu Fusheng had given her chances, asking questions repeatedly. If Jiang Ciqing had offered an answer or explained her betrayal, Xu Fusheng might have stopped, sinking into a trap of lies and concealment.

But she remained silent, choosing not to respond.

In the end, Xu Fusheng couldn’t tell how much of her heart she’d invested. The scales tipped, and the unyielding hatred pulled at her limbs, urging her on.

Until that moment under the eaves, when their eyes met, Xu Fusheng felt no satisfaction from her revenge—only a weary sense that it was finally over.

People raised in dangerous places don’t learn gentleness or forgiveness. They only know that if someone wrongs them, they strike back, even if both end up scarred.

The carriage passed Ping’an Street, where a century-old pastry shop had only a few customers waiting. Xu Fusheng suddenly craved osmanthus cakes, which she hadn’t eaten since that night. She ordered the carriage to stop and walked to the shop.

The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes, saw Xu Fusheng step out of the carriage and knew she was someone of status. She intended to serve her carefully, but Xu Fusheng’s request stumped her. With a wry smile, she said, “If you’d come two months ago, we might’ve had some. It’s March now—where would we get osmanthus cakes?”

Xu Fusheng paused, finally feeling the passage of time.

It was already March…

“We just made a batch of qingtuan and peach blossom pastries. They’re popular. Would you like to try them?” the shopkeeper asked tentatively, seeing Xu Fusheng’s silence.

Xu Fusheng snapped back, replying listlessly, “One of each, then.”

“Alright!” the shopkeeper replied cheerfully, quickly packing the order.

Xu Fusheng glanced back. Among the sparse figures behind her, none felt familiar.

Of course.

Jiang Ciqing didn’t like sweets. Why would she send someone to queue here? She wasn’t some frivolous noble throwing money around.

Handing over the silver, Xu Fusheng took the paper-wrapped pastries and returned to the carriage. The black carriage reflected the fleeting street scenery.

True to its century-old reputation, the qingtuan was soft and chewy without being cloying. Xu Fusheng took a bite and set it aside.

Cold wind swept through the streets. A vendor at a stall shivered, muttering that spring was late this year—the snow had melted, but it was still so cold.