Recklessly Breaking a Delicate Branch - Chapter 22

The setting sun gave way to a restless night for Jiang Wanshu. By morning, her expression was resolute, masking the tremor in her soul. She spent her early hours in a domestic trance—feeding the poultry with the scraps Zhou Yan had meticulously prepared for her, watering the lush vegetable garden he had cultivated with her nutrition in mind.

Looking at the vibrant greenery, a flicker of guilt touched her heart. If I leave, who will tend to these? she wondered. Zhou Yan had done all this to ensure she ate well. Without her, would he let it all wither? She sighed, but quickly steadied herself.

“Jiang Wanshu, you can do this!” she whispered, clutching the repeating crossbow Zhou Yan himself had taught her to use. “They are just bandits. You have the weapon now. Do not be afraid.”

As a torrential night rain finally cleared into a pale dawn, she seized her moment. With Magura and Musha busy preparing for the steppe festival, she slipped away into the deep forest, her small bundle and crossbow held tight.

The Hunter and the Celebration

Meanwhile, at the Zhenqi tribe, the atmosphere was festive. Men were stripped to the waist, erecting the stage for Zhou Yan’s wedding.

“Brother Cha’er,” a younger, robust boy shouted, “who is this Central Plains girl who has finally captured your heart? You used to hate it when Sister Ma’er brought up marriage!”

Zhou Yan paused, his muscular frame glistening in the morning sun. A proud, joyous smile touched his lips. “She is a woman worthy of a lifetime of devotion.”

“Why haven’t we seen her yet?” the boy teased.

“Silly brat,” Zhou Yan laughed, though his eyes were soft. “She is a lady from the Central Plains—shy. If I brought her here before the wedding, you lot would scare her off.”

The men erupted in cheers, unaware that the bride they were celebrating was currently trembling in a dark stone crevice miles away.

The Swarm and the Trap

In the bamboo forest, Jiang Wanshu’s heart hammered against her ribs. She was wedged into a tiny rock opening, watching in horror as a cloud of insects—the “Vine Insects” Zhou Yan had warned her about—swarmed nearby.

Behind them came the men of the Insect Vine tribe: savage, hulking bandits who hunted by following the scent of their insects. Memory flashed: these were the same monsters who had slaughtered her royal caravan, leaving a trail of severed heads and blood.

As the insects sensed her scent and turned toward the cave, she frantically grabbed handfuls of wet mud, smearing it over her face and clothes to mask her fragrance. The swarm dispersed, confused, but the men remained suspicious.

Hours passed. Hunger gnawed at her, and as darkness fell, a terrifying thought took hold: Zhou Yan is home by now. He knows I’m gone.

The Pursuit

Back at the house, Zhou Yan arrived to a locked door. The lock fell with a hollow clank as he forced it. The house was cold. Empty.

He stormed into Musha’s quarters, his eyes gleaming with a murderous light. “Is Jiang Wanshu here?”

Musha looked up, startled. Seeing the fury on Zhou Yan’s face, the answer was clear.

“I underestimated her,” Zhou Yan hissed, rolling up his sleeves.

“Should I help you look?” Musha asked. “What about the wedding?”

“The wedding continues,” Zhou Yan growled, mounting his black horse. “I will have her back at the steppe by tomorrow’s dusk!”

He galloped into the night, the cold wind whipping his hair. His mind raced with images of the Insect Vine bandits. That woman is insane! I warned her about the forest, and she still ran? If I catch her, she will learn a lesson she’ll never forget.

Blood and Terror

In the forest, the bandits were about to give up when a gust of wind caught the hem of Jiang Wanshu’s skirt.

“A woman!” one yelled in a guttural mix of dialects.

Jiang Wanshu panicked. She drew her crossbow, her hands shaking so violently she could barely aim. She remembered Zhou Yan’s words: Strike the leader. She fired. Missed. Fired again. The bolts whistled past as the men laughed, closing in. “Don’t run, little girl!”

The leader reached the cave and hauled her out by the arm. Jiang Wanshu screamed, a raw, primal sound of terror. She fought, kicking the leader in the groin with a desperate strength. As he doubled over in pain, he snarled, “Take her! All of you!”

Filthy hands grabbed at her neck, her ankles, her waist. She sobbed, mud and tears mingling on her face. Just as the leader moved to unbuckle his belt, a shadow tore through the trees.

A horse thundered into the clearing. A boomerang-shaped blade hissed through the air with lethal precision. In a blur of motion, the heads of the men holding her were severed or sliced open. Blood sprayed across Jiang Wanshu’s face.

She collapsed, screaming and covering her head as a severed head rolled to a stop inches from her knees.

“Jiang Wanshu, look at me!”

The voice was a roar. Zhou Yan dismounted, looking less like a savior and more like a god of death. His face was twisted with a terrifying, dark rage. He strode toward her, his hand—slick with the blood of the men he had just slaughtered—clamping onto her chin.

He forced her to look up. His eyes were abyssal, filled with a terrifying mix of fury and possession. To Jiang Wanshu, he looked more dangerous than the bandits. His face leaned in, his breath hot against her skin, his blood dripping onto her neck.

The weight of her fear, the carnage around her, and the memory of his threat to “break her” if she ever ran finally snapped her consciousness. Before he could pull her into his arms, her eyes rolled back, and she slumped into total darkness.

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