Tang Xiangui's face went blank. He knew the boy's name—Chen Xiao—but had never bothered to investigate further. Old Master Li only smiled and continued as if narrating a well-rehearsed piece.
"I did the digging for you," Old Master Li drawled. "He's an orphan. But he did have someone who raised him — a foster father who kept in touch even after the apocalypse. The man you see there is his foster father and uncle: Chen Changqing."
At the mention of the name, the bound man in the cage flinched and strained wildly, howls muffled by the gag. Old Master Li ignored him and let the revelation hang heavy in the air.
Below, Jiang YunHan's fingers curled into a fist, white at the knuckles. The Jiangbei Triangle had become the strongest force in Jiangbei; he was here as its representative. The Li family's maneuver made his skin crawl — petty, merciless, and precise.
Something near him exploded into motion. Dashan's hand clamped around a railing as if he wanted to rush the stage. Jiang YunHan grabbed his arm with a hard whisper: "Dashan — if you want to survive, calm down." The giant's breath shook, and for the moment the impulse to tear the hall apart receded.
Even in the crowd, Tang Xiangui detected the tense ripple. He let out a short, derisive snort and laughed with forced gaiety. Old Master Li's face split into a grin. The theater of the wedding continued to operate on two tracks now: spectacle for the guests, and accusation for the powerful.
Jiang ChuXue, radiant in a floral dress, looped an arm through Jiang YunHan's and leaned close. "Do you think Chen Xiao will show?" she asked, voice low and worried.
Jiang YunHan shook his head. "I don't know. Part of me hopes he does. Part of me… doesn't." The Little Monk, perched awkwardly on a seat, piped up in his blunt way: "He should come and grab her from the stage." Jiang YunHan smothered the boy's words with an embarrassed hand.
A bell tolled. The hall stilled. The auspicious moment had arrived. Servants shifted the cage out of the way so the ceremony could proceed. The announcer cried out, and the crowd's cheers rose in expectation: the bride and groom were about to appear.
They emerged under a blaze of lanterns and trumpet calls. Yang Kai, uncharacteristically sober, wore a bright red formal jacket and a jade ornament at his chest. He looked the part of the obedient fiancé.
But when Tang Shirou stepped onto the stage, the air changed. Her wedding dress was a crimson flame; every stitch seemed designed to stop the world. For a heartbeat, the assembled men forgot to breathe. Her beauty was devastating — not a costume but a weapon, and it struck like a blade.
Old Master Yang took center stage, voice booming, welcoming guests and praising the families who had traveled in this dangerous age. Then, to everyone's surprise, Tang Shirou interrupted.
Her eyes found the cage before anyone else's did. She had heard, backstage, the rumor that the bound man was the last living relative of the boy who had once saved her — or whom she had known. She moved forward, voice trembling but fierce.
"Please," she said, addressing Old Master Yang more than anyone. "Let him go."
Tang Xiangui snapped toward her so quickly he startled half the hall and would have struck her had Old Master Yang not interposed with a frown and a stern rebuke. "In-law," Old Master Yang said, putting himself between the patriarch and the bride. "This is a joyous occasion. We will hear her."
Tang Xiangui's hand fell away with a muttered protest. The crowd's mood shifted from pomp to curiosity. Tang Shirou, seizing the moment, took the key offered by her family and walked to the cage. She knelt, fingers trembling, and unlocked the bindings.
Chen Changqing's voice cracked as he grabbed for her sleeve. "Miss… you know Chen Xiao? Don't you? Where is he? Is he safe?" His eyes were frantic but soft when they fell on her.
Tang Shirou nodded. "Yes — he's… he's my friend," she answered, voice thin with emotion. "I was looking for him. I tried to find him after the apocalypse. I was scared for him."
Chen Changqing's face brightened with fragile hope. "Then tell me—where is Xiao'er? Is he alive?"
For a beat, everyone wanted to believe. Tang Shirou opened her mouth to gloss the truth, to offer some thread of hope. But before she could finish, Tang Xiangui stepped forward like a shadow cutting off the light.
"He's dead," Tang Xiangui said bluntly.
The words struck like anathema. Chen Changqing lurched, the words tearing through him. He pushed, heaved himself out of the cage, eyes blown wide with horror and grief. "What did you say? He's dead? Xiao'er—my boy—dead?" He stumbled forward, unsteady, breath hitching, unable to reconcile the cheer around him with the dagger in his chest.
Tang Shirou bowed her head in shame and heartbreak. The hall's festive colors dulled as if a stain had spread across them. Around them, the great families exchanged glances—some pitying, some opportunistic—while others calculated how this newly revealed grievance might be used in the power games already playing beneath the pomp.
For a moment the wedding lay suspended between celebration and catastrophe: a girl in a crimson dress, a caged man roaring for his foster son, and a lie or a truth that would shape the alliances of the capital.