Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
The Dark Veil Covers the Sky(灯灭人亡 )
The sun rose over the Marquis’s estate, but it brought no warmth. The morning air felt thin and brittle, as if the world itself were holding its breath, waiting for a tragedy to be unveiled. Inside the servants' quarters, a thick, heavy silence had taken root, suffocating the usual sounds of morning chores.
When the other workers arrived to call Douhua for the day’s duties, they were met with a stillness that made their skin crawl. They pushed the door open, expecting to see her bustling about with the baby, but the room was deathly quiet.
They found her on the floor, curled slightly on her side, her hair spread out like a dark fan against the rough wood. Her head was tucked as if she were protecting herself from a cold wind. They called her name, their voices rising in confusion and mounting terror. Douhua did not answer. She did not stir. When the head maid reached out to touch her shoulder to shake her awake, she recoiled with a sharp, ragged gasp. Douhua’s skin was already turning the color of ash, and she was cold—unnatural, winter-cold.
A scream tore through the morning silence, high and jagged. It was a sound that shattered the peace of the estate. Within minutes, the quarters were in an uproar. Servants scrambled, tripping over their own feet in their desperation, rushing to find the Madame.
Shen Mingzhu was in the library when the news reached her. She dropped the quill she was holding, the ink spattering across the ledger. She didn't wait for her carriage; she ran, her silk slippers skidding on the stone floors, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She burst into the servants' quarters, breathless and disheveled.
"Douhua, wake up!" Mingzhu shouted, her voice sharp and commanding, trying to cut through the paralyzing fear. "You cannot stay here! Your baby is crying—she needs you. Stop playing these games. This isn't funny anymore."
Mingzhu knelt on the hard floor, reaching out to shake her, but her hand froze in mid-air. Douhua’s arm felt like stone—rigid, heavy, and lifeless. Panic, cold and absolute, flooded Mingzhu’s heart. She frantically snatched the crying baby from the cradle and handed her to a servant, her eyes never leaving Douhua’s pale, vacant face.
"Douhua! Wake up! Please, stop this!" Mingzhu sobbed, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her hard. But Douhua remained limp. Mingzhu leaned close, pressing her ear against Douhua’s chest, hoping against hope for the rhythm of a heart, the warmth of breath. There was nothing. The silence was absolute.
The shock hit Mingzhu like a physical blow. The colors of the room drained away until everything was a blur of gray. The world tilted, her vision went black, and she collapsed to the floor, sliding down into the darkness.
At that exact moment, the Marquis and Baozi walked through the main gate. They had been discussing the border logistics, their faces grim from the burden of command. They stopped dead when they saw the chaos. The courtyard was filled with weeping servants and frantic guards. The Marquis didn't need to be told; he saw the devastation in their eyes. He sprinted toward the quarters, shouting for a doctor, his voice booming with a desperate, uncharacteristic fear for his wife’s health.
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But Baozi did not run. He stood rooted to the spot. He saw the way the servants were looking at him—with eyes full of pity and dread. He looked toward the quarters, his gaze fixated on the open door where his life had just ended.
He didn't cry. He didn't scream. Instead, he started to laugh. It was a dry, hollow sound, like dead leaves skittering across a tombstone.
"Douhua," he whispered, a mad, flickering smile on his face. "You don't know my wife. She loves to play tricks. She’s probably hiding under the bed, waiting to see if I’ll miss her. This is just a game to make me worry."
He walked toward the room, his movements jerky and unnatural. He knelt beside her, his hand shaking so violently he could barely touch her. "Stand up, my love. This is not the time for games. You know my heart cannot take this. Just stand up."
He tapped her cheek, his fingers brushing against her frozen skin. The realization didn't come all at once; it crashed into him like a tidal wave of ice. He shook her, harder and harder, begging her to laugh, to open her eyes, to call him a fool. When her head lolled back lifelessly, the truth finally tore him open.
Baozi let out a wail that sounded like a wounded animal, a raw, primal sound of agony that echoed off the high stone walls of the estate. No one had ever seen him so broken. He fell to his knees, his forehead pressed against the floor, his body shaking with such force he seemed to be breaking apart. He blamed himself. If I had never gone to look for the truth, he thought, if I had never defied the uncle, she might still be alive. Every choice he had made felt like a nail in her coffin.
Inside, the Marquis was frantic. He knelt by Mingzhu, his face a mask of terror. The shock had been too much for his pregnant wife, and she lay unconscious. He ignored the world around him, his only focus on her pale, still face, whispering prayers for her to return to him.
Outside, Baozi was a man possessed by grief. When the other guards tried to come near him to offer comfort, he shoved them away with a roar of pure, unadulterated fury. He stood up, his face twisted into a mask of hatred. He turned toward the front gate, his eyes burning with a terrifying, singular rage. He was going to find the Uncle, and he was going to dismantle him piece by piece.
Just then, the gate creaked open. The Uncle walked in, looking calm, his robes pristine. He had expected to see a mourning house, but he had hoped for a different outcome. When he saw Baozi’s murderous gaze, his smile flickered, replaced by a momentary, sharp calculation.
Baozi didn't wait. He didn't think about his rank or the consequences. He lunged, his hands locking around the Uncle’s throat. The older man gasped, his face turning purple, his hands clawing at Baozi’s iron grip.
"You," Baozi hissed, his voice trembling with the weight of his loss. "You killed her. You stole her from me."
The guards rushed to pull Baozi away, struggling to break his hold. The Uncle fell to the cobblestones, gasping for air, clutching his neck. He looked at his servant and whispered, his voice raspy and cruel, "Go inside. Search her room. See if she left anything behind. Find the proof."
The Marquis finally stepped out of the house. He saw the chaos—the broken husband, the gasping traitor, the shattered servants. But he did not go to his uncle. He did not ask what happened, nor did he seem to care that his own blood had almost been killed. The Uncle stared at the Marquis, truly shocked by his total, freezing indifference.
The Marquis walked straight past his uncle, ignoring him as if he were nothing more than a stray dog in the courtyard. He placed a hand on Baozi's shoulder. It was a silent, powerful promise—a vow of loyalty that transcended rank.
The house had always known two things: the cold edges of war and the warmth of Douhua. She was the sun that brightened the stone walls by day, the laughter that made the cold halls feel like a home. She was the one who had taught Baozi—a man who only knew weapons—that he could also know love.
But the house was silent now. The light that had kept the shadows away was gone. A dark veil had fallen, thick and heavy, swallowing the sun, the moon, and every star. Where there was once life, there was only cold, dark silence. The light had been covered, and now, the house finally understood what true darkness meant.