Chapter 902: Chapter 531: The Brisk Autumn Air Invites Murder (Part 2)
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In the Imperial Mausoleum, seeing Zhao Rong leave the main hall without a word and head towards the rear hall, Gui couldn’t help but fall into deep thought…
“Zhao Rong.”
It couldn’t help but call out.
The young Confucian Scholar said nothing, clutching the Jade Token and sachet, and continued forward.
The Purple-clothed Sword Spirit thought for a mont, then said earnestly:
“You wouldn’t be planning to indulge yourself before you die, would you?”
The young Confucian Scholar, silent as he moved forward, couldn’t help but twitch his lips, paused slightly, shook his head speechlessly, and then continued on.
He passed through a narrow corridor and arrived in front of the sealed rear hall door.
There was a massive stone door here, blocking Zhao Rong’s path.
Behind the door, there were faint signs of living beings.
According to the map of the Imperial Mausoleum, the defenseless concubines left behind by the Emperor of Great Li were buried in this sealed tomb chamber.
Zhao Rong pondered for a mont, then walked to the right side of the stone door, stopped at the seventh floor plank on the right, squatted down, tapped on the stone slab, then lifted it up, and opened the stone door switch as recalled.
Accompanied by a slight “rumble” sound.
The heavy stone door slowly opened.
Zhao Rong imdiately stepped inside, and after roughly assessing the interior of the hall, he breathed a slight sigh of relief.
The people were all there.
The lighting in the rear hall was dim, but the dim light of the pearl on the do above was indeed brighter than outside, allowing him to roughly see the figures.
Zhao Rong carefully glanced around, and within his sight, the eighteen white-robed, veiled won he had seen that day by the waterfall pool were all present, not a single one missing.
They were kneeling neatly in the hall, the white cloth covering their eyes had been removed, but the veiling white gauze was still there, hiding their beautiful faces.
What surprised Zhao Rong was that these widows of the concubines, youthful and beautiful by their figures but with tragic fates, didn’t seem to have been weeping or making a fuss earlier. Before he entered, they seed to be devoutly paying respects to the crystal-glazed moon on the do above.
So these are the elegant and mystical won of Li? Indeed, not like the ordinary won of the towns below the mountain.
Zhao Rong took another look and nodded.
At this mont, due to his sudden intrusion as an unknown outsider, the ritual and prayers of the eighteen white-robed, veiled young won were interrupted, all turning back in surprise and casting their eyes towards him.
They rose involuntarily, retreated a few steps, distancing themselves from the doorway where this one-ard Confucian Scholar stood, moving to the deeper part of the rear hall.
Gazing at him with varied expressions.
At this ti, Zhao Rong’s gaze withdrew from a seemingly unford little girl’s figure among the crowd and he lightly shook his head, muttering a sentence, “Truly a bit of a beast.”
Then he lowered his eyes, no longer paying attention to the diverse gazes of the won in the hall, and began his final task…
Tear—!
A sound of fabric tearing rang out.
The one-ard Confucian Scholar blocking the doorway lowered his head and began to tear at his clothes.
In the rear hall, the gathered eighteen veiled young won couldn’t help but stare wide-eyed, retreating a few steps.
Then the next second, they paused in their retreat.
Because the seemingly lustful and dirty one-ard Confucian Scholar in front of them suddenly knelt on one knee, spreading the torn fabric from his clothes on the marble floor, and then pinning it down with his knee.
The right sleeve of the one-ard Confucian Scholar dangled empty, soaked with dark red liquid, and the bandaged amputation still seed to be dripping that dark red liquid.
However, he seed unconcerned about this, directly raising his left hand, pressing his index and middle fingers together, and dipped them into the sleeve saturated with the dark red liquid.
The one-ard Confucian Scholar used his fingers as a pen and vigorously wrote on the fabric on the ground.
The eighteen veiled young won in the hall looked at each other in dismay.
This wretched and disheveled one-ard Confucian Scholar… writing a blood ssage?
Kneeling on one knee and writing, the one-ard Confucian Scholar kept his head bowed, lips pressed together, and focused on his writing, occasionally lifting his fingers to reach the blood-red sleeve for more “ink.”
The Great Hall fell into silence.
Only the rough, short breaths of the one-ard Confucian Scholar and the sound of his fingers scraping the ground were particularly loud.
Monts later, under his fingertips erged a complex map and corresponding text written in fresh blood…
The one-ard Confucian Scholar completed his wild calligraphy in one breath and withdrew his slightly trembling, blood-stained fingers.
In the Imperial Mausoleum, seeing Zhao Rong leave the main hall without a word and head towards the rear hall, Gui couldn’t help but fall into deep thought…
“Zhao Rong.”
It couldn’t help but call out.
The young Confucian Scholar remained silent, clutching the Jade Token and sachet, and continued onward.
The Purple-clothed Sword Spirit pondered for a mont, then said earnestly:
“You wouldn’t… be thinking to enjoy yourself one last ti before dying, would you?”
The corners of the young Confucian Scholar’s mouth twitched involuntarily, and he paused slightly, shook his head wordlessly, then continued onward.
He passed through the narrow corridor and arrived at the sealed rear hall door.
A massive stone gate blocked Zhao Rong’s path.
There were faint sounds of living people behind the gate.
According to the Imperial Mausoleum map, the powerless concubines left behind by the Emperor of Great Li were buried alive in this sealed tomb chamber.
Zhao Rong pondered briefly, walked to the right side of the stone gate, stopped at the seventh floorboard on the right side, crouched down, lightly tapped the stone slab, and then lifted it to reveal the chanism to open the gate.
Accompanied by a light “rumbling” sound.
The heavy stone gate slowly began to open.
Zhao Rong imdiately stepped inside. After roughly assessing the situation within the hall, he breathed a slight sigh of relief.
Everyone was here.
The light in the rear hall was dim, but the faint glow of the pearl on the do above was slightly brighter than outside, allowing for a rough visibility of human silhouettes.
Zhao Rong carefully scanned the room. In his vision, the eighteen masked won in white robes he had seen by the waterfall outside were all present, not one was missing.
They were kneeling neatly in the hall, the white cloth covering their eyes had been removed, but the white gauze veiling their faces remained, concealing their beauty.
To Zhao Rong’s surprise, these widows of the concubines, who appeared youthful and beautiful by their figures alone but had a tragic fate, did not seem to have wept or lanted. Before he entered, they seed to be reverently saluting the crystal-glass moon on the do above.
Were these the attractive won of Li? They certainly differed from ordinary won down the mountains.
Zhao Rong glanced a few more tis, nodding slightly.
At this mont, due to his sudden intrusion as an unknown outsider, the prayers of the eighteen masked young won were interrupted, and they turned around in surprise, casting their eyes upon him.
They couldn’t help but rise, retreating a few steps back, distancing themselves from the one-ard Confucian Scholar at the doorway, withdrawing into the depths of the rear hall.
Varied expressions scrutinized him.
At this point, Zhao Rong withdrew his gaze from a figure in the crowd, seemingly an undeveloped little girl, shook his head lightly, and muttered, “Truly beastly.”
He then lowered his gaze, ignoring the varied looks from the won in the hall, and began his final task…
Riiip—!
The sound of fabric tearing echoed.
The one-ard Confucian Scholar standing at the door lowered his head and began tearing off his clothes.
In the rear hall, the eighteen masked young won gathered together couldn’t help but widen their eyes and stepped back a few paces.
But in the next second, they stopped retreating, looking puzzled.
Because the dirty, seemingly desperate one-ard Confucian Scholar suddenly knelt on one knee, spread the torn piece of cloth on the marble floor, and pressed it with his knee.
The right sleeve of the one-ard Confucian Scholar hung empty, soaked and stained by the dark red liquid, and it seed that more of the dark red fluid dripped from his roughly bandaged severed arm.
But he seed to disregard this, directly lifting his left hand, pressing his index and middle fingers together, and dipped them in the dark red liquid from his blood-soaked sleeve.
The one-ard Confucian Scholar used his fingers as a brush, writing vigorously on the cloth on the ground.
The eighteen masked young won in the hall looked at each other.
This tragic one-ard Confucian Scholar… was he writing a blood script?
Kneeling on one knee and writing, the one-ard Confucian Scholar lowered his head, lips pressed together in silence, focusing on his writing, occasionally lifting his fingers to replenish “ink” from his blood-red sleeve.
The Great Hall descended into silence.
Only the labored breathing of the one-ard Confucian Scholar and the sound of his fingers rubbing against the ground were particularly loud.
Monts later, a complex map and corresponding text born from fresh blood erged beneath his fingertips…
The one-ard Confucian Scholar’s calligraphy was wild and unrestrained, written in one bold stroke, finishing as he put away his slightly trembling blood-stained fingers.
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