The Emperor Wants To Marry The Doctor Chapter 2586 Side Story 90: Mu Qinghe
Previously on The Emperor Wants To Marry The Doctor...
Tianling Dynasty, Imperial City.
The pitch-black night sky enveloped all. The vast Mu Residence lay in silence.
Faint moonlight streamed through the windows, falling upon the straight-backed figure. It bathed him in chill.
He was a strikingly young man with striking good looks. From his brow ridges to his nose tip, every line flowed smoothly.
His jawline was defined.
He still wore the black armor from three days prior. Indeed, he had remained in that posture, sitting motionless for three full days.
These ranked as the longest three days he had ever endured.
Countless images raced through his thoughts. They felt like bizarre, far-off dreams, yet vividly authentic. So lifelike that he wondered if this was the dream.
A chilly breeze swept the courtyard. Leaves whispered in rustle.
He made no move, yet weariness overwhelmed him.
Not even during that time lost in Dahuang Swamp with grave wounds, trekking ten days without pause, had such fatigue gripped him.
He shut his eyes, sensing his mind on the verge of tearing him apart.
After what seemed eternity, he reopened them.
Dawn now pierced the horizon.
He rose, approached the desk, and gazed over it leisurely.
Given his position, he enjoyed the finest in food, attire, and tools.
The inkstone, ink slab, and brush appeared exquisite at first sight. Yet his eyes settled on the brush nearby.
Crafted from fine stuff, but aged, bearing the scars of time.
It seemed plain and ordinary.
He lifted the brush.
Cool against his skin, yet sleek and easy to wield.
In that instant, memory surged of her gentle hands, the warm touch on his hand's back.
"Hold it this way," she had said smiling, no disdain on her face—despite his hands blistered and festered with calluses.
Recalling that moment, he couldn't resist stroking the back of his right hand gripping the brush. His lips curved slightly.
But the smile faded swiftly, frosting over.
Knock, knock.
Raps sounded outside, followed by the guard's cautious voice. "Sir, Her Highness heads to Xin Li Garden today. Shall you accompany?"
In Mu Residence, one alone was Her Highness—the Crown Princess.
Hearing this, Mu Qinghe's hand paused.
The ink-laden brush hung midway, droplets falling, blooming into dark blotches.
Moments later, he unfolded the paper calmly. At last, he set the brush aside.
His motions dragged slowly, intent with focus, yet the hand that could grip tons trembled.
He channeled his entire being into each stroke.
Just one character, yet penned with agonizing effort.
Finishing the final line, his lips paled. Only those eyes remained abyss-deep.
"Sir?" The voice outside pressed daringly.
These three days, the lord had secluded in the study, utterly silent. Worry gnawed at them.
Only mention of the princess stirred him.
Mu Qinghe glanced down at that character.
Yue.
He closed his eyes. Upon reopening, emotions vanished, replaced by icy severity.
"Go. Send a hundred soldiers after her."
The princess visiting Xin Li Garden was routine. She seldom caused fuss, rarely took guards.
A hundred soldiers plus him would do.
Enough to block her every escape.
…
Soon, from Xin Li Garden to the royal ancestral hall.
Mu Qinghe ignored her three pleas for aid.
The Thirteen Yue Guards dispatched to Huli Mountain, her key allies ensnared elsewhere.
Only he proved steadfast, yet he stayed put, smothering all reports.
As flames devoured the ancestral hall, he lurked close by.
Raging inferno soared skyward, consuming near half.
He knew Qi Han raced to return, knew rescuers clamored. He feigned ignorance.
Only near the end did he lead them to douse the blaze and pull her free.
But who could truly save? The blaze left no remains.
Mu Qinghe scoured ashes and ruin endlessly, eyes bloodshot. At last, he crumpled kneeling, then blacked out.
Awakening, Jiang Yucheng stood there too.
"Lord Mu." Jiang Yucheng's face shed the grief shown outsiders. Looming above, he smirked mockingly. "You know now you're no longer her man."
Mu Qinghe stayed mute long, then smiled faintly amid Jiang Yucheng's stunned stare.
He nodded. "I know."
He never had been. Such fortune eluded him; he dared no longer dream it.
…
That blaze haunted Mu Qinghe as his inner demon. Nightly, the vision replayed.
Countless times he jolted awake, shuddering, drenched in icy sweat, chill seeping marrow-deep.
Torment gnawed relentlessly, nearly driving him mad.
Relief dawned in Country Yao Chen, beholding that girl. Those eyes—so familiar, yet alien.
Chiefly, her gaze held shock, doubt, incredulity.
Mu Qinghe pretended blindness.
Since, his dream-fire shifted to those eyes.
He heard her accuse: "Mu Qinghe, how dare you betray me!?"
Each syllable slashed like a blade, blood spilling.
Clutching his chest feebly, despairing. "Your Highness… I…"
Nothing.
Even solitary, even dreaming, he dared not voice it.
This torment demanded her hand alone. Best if she slew him herself.
…
He awaited that day at last.
The frigid blade pierced flesh. Blood ebbed slowly, draining warmth, life.
Yet relief flooded him. No instant sweeter.
He witnessed her awakening, her return, her reclaiming all hers.
As First Deity, his existence stretched eternally.
Ever lofty, power vast, yet true life bloomed only in Tianling's decade.
Life a prolonged nightmare, save scant warm fragments.
Few they were, yet sufficed to soothe forever. For them, his every choice stood justified.
Vision blurred; that face slipped from sight.
He smiled.
At least, I die with purpose, wishes fulfilled.
Perfect.