Chapter 41: Scheming

He leaned back gently against the chair, murmuring, "Miss Qingqing, no need to be so hurried. I have little strength left in me right now; let us take it slow."

Qingqing let out a soft laugh. She lowered her head and gently stroked Zhao Ang’s cheek, her movements tender, showing not the slightest hint of hesitation. Her smile carried a touch of triumph, a look of playful ambiguity that seemed poised to ensnare him completely.

"Do not worry, Young Noble," she whispered. "Qingqing is in no rush this time. Everything shall be as you arrange."

Zhao Ang kept his eyes half-closed, the smirk on his lips deepening with indulgence. "Miss Qingqing, you truly are a delightful creature. How could I not reward you today?"

Just then, a faint knock sounded at the door.

Zhou Qi, who had been observing coldly from the side, raised an eyebrow at the sound. "It has finally arrived," he thought to himself. He walked to the door and pulled it open. Seeing the figures outside, he gave a slight nod and closed the door with a crisp, decisive motion.

"You have arrived," Zhou Qi said in a low voice. He glanced back at the interaction between Zhao Ang and Qingqing, then chuckled softly. "The Young Noble seems quite exhausted; it is time to prepare for his departure."

By now, Zhao Ang was fully immersed in his feigned drunkenness. His body swayed slightly, as if he were about to slump off the chair. Sensing that Zhao Ang had gone completely limp, Qingqing withdrew her hand from his shoulder, a look of satisfaction flashing in her eyes.

"Young Noble, if you wish, I can accompany you for a moment of rest."

Zhao Ang struggled to open his eyes, but they held no clarity, only the lingering, hazy mist of intoxication. "Rest? Rest would be well." He spoke faintly, his body beginning to sink as if he were utterly consumed by fatigue.

Zhou Qi stood to the side, his gaze cold and composed, as if he were well-accustomed to such situations. "Finally," he thought, "Zhao Ang, it is time for you to go."

He raised his hand slightly, signaling to the guards outside. Several men dressed in black entered the room silently, their footsteps as light as a cat's, barely making a sound on the floorboards. Only the faint clinking of metal against sword hilts betrayed that they were no ordinary men.

Zhao Ang remained slumped in the chair like a heap of mud, his drunken state becoming increasingly apparent; he seemed entirely unaware of what was happening around him. His head tilted back, his breathing long and steady. The scent of wine permeated the room, and the flickering light of the green lamp cast shifting, restless shadows across his face.

Qingqing lowered her head, the smile vanishing from her lips to be replaced by cold indifference. She stepped back, her gaze no longer lingering on Zhao Ang but turning toward Zhou Qi. Her voice was low and soft, yet carried a chill. "Lord Zhou, the rest is up to you. I have no desire to be further involved."

Zhou Qi chuckled and nodded. "Miss Qingqing is as sensible as ever. Once this is done, you shall certainly be rewarded."

Hearing this, Qingqing bowed her head once more and retreated silently to the side of the room. She faded into the shadows, a silent observer watching the ensuing events with cold, detached eyes.

Zhou Qi waved his hand, and the guards stepped forward, hauling Zhao Ang up from the chair. Zhao Ang offered no reaction, his head hanging limply against his chest as if he were truly passed out. The guards roughly unbuckled the sword at his waist and tossed it aside, then deftly bound his hands behind his back with rope.

Zhou Qi walked up to Zhao Ang and looked down at him, a playful, icy sneer on his lips. "Zhao Ang, blame only yourself for being so stubborn, insisting on standing in our way. This time, you shall have a taste of the Black Tiger Army's methods."

He gestured, and the guards dragged Zhao Ang out like a sack of grain. Zhao Ang’s head lolled with the motion, his eyes remaining firmly shut, completely unresponsive.

The night was deep, and the biting wind swept through the darkness, whipping up withered leaves and carrying a bone-chilling cold. Several horses stood in the courtyard, snorting white plumes of steam and pawing the ground in agitation. Zhao Ang was hoisted onto one of the horses, his body sagging limply, his hands bound behind him, swaying precariously with the horse's movements.

Zhou Qi stood to the side, wrapped in a long cloak, staring coldly at Zhao Ang as if admiring his prey. "Take him to the Black Tiger Army camp," he said, his tone flat. "Tell them he trespassed in the camp while drunk. Let them deal with him."

One of the guards hesitated for a moment and whispered, "My Lord, is this... too much? What if those behind him investigate?"

Zhou Qi shot the guard a sidelong glance and said coldly, "Too much? Hardly. He is nothing but a useless noble; who in the court still cares about him? Besides, the Black Tiger Army is not under our command; they will leave no traces. Just do as you are told."

The guard said no more, took the reins, and swung into the saddle. He nodded to Zhou Qi, then snapped the reins, and the horses galloped off into the night, splashing through mud and snow.

Zhou Qi stood where he was, watching them depart, a cold smirk on his face. "Zhao Ang, if you want to blame someone, blame yourself for blocking a path you should not have."

The wind, sharp as a knife, whipped against Zhao Ang’s face, the piercing cold nearly numbing his skin. Yet, beneath that numbness, the corners of Zhao Ang's mouth curled into a subtle, cold smile. With his eyes closed, he clearly mapped out every detail of what had just transpired: Zhou Qi’s gaze, Qingqing’s retreat, the guards’ movements—nothing escaped his mind.

"A fine show, Zhou Qi," Zhao Ang thought to himself. "Going to such lengths for this little scheme? Did you truly think I didn't know what you were planning?"

He exerted a slight force with his wrists, secretly loosening the ropes that bound him. Though the movement was minimal, it was enough to prepare him for what was to come. The wind whistled in his ears, and the sound of hooves grew rapid; he could feel the horses accelerating. He caught snatches of the guards' hushed conversation behind him—though the volume was low, he caught the key words: "camp," "trespassing," and "finish him."

Zhao Ang kept his eyes shut, his mind racing. It was not his first time at the Black Tiger Army camp; he knew the terrain, the patrol patterns, and even the temperament of the garrison commander by heart. It was precisely because he knew them that he understood that if he were framed as an intruder, the outcome would be far from simple.

"If that is how you want it, then I shall let you believe you have succeeded."

Zhao Ang suppressed the fury surging in his chest and maintained his drunken facade, swaying his body with the jolting of the horse. Outside the Black Tiger Army camp, the night lanterns glowed like beans, and rows of patrolling soldiers, spears in hand, stood guard in the freezing night. Hearing the urgent sound of approaching hooves in the distance, the soldiers grew alert and turned their heads toward the source of the noise.