"You know the answer better than anyone, don't you?"
Yan An advanced with his sword, step by step. Zheng Qiao's blood dripped from the blade, splattering across the ground like blooming flowers.
Zheng Qiao struggled to dodge.
A flood of collapse and ferocity surged across his face. "I know? What do I know? Wasn't all of this forced on me? You and your father—my good teacher, who spent his whole life in foolish loyalty—ruined my whole life! Things had gone that far, and he still hoped that a stupid, disgusting piece of trash like that would 'turn over a new leaf' and 'reform his ways'! Why am I the one who gets beaten and killed?"
Zheng Qiao questioned Yan An in a hoarse, desperate voice. "What he did was a thousand times worse than anything I did! Why can he still barely survive, while everyone—including you, Yan Xingning—pushes every last bit of blame onto me? Why!"
Under the surge of his anger, he overcame his fear of death and staggered to his feet, pointing at the palace. "I'm a tyrant who deserves to be hacked to pieces. What is he? You and your father served him as your sovereign. Did you ever once think of killing him?"
"You keep saying you supported me—"
"The whole court praised you. What a noble man you were!"
"Yet when did you ever treat me that way?"
"What was I to you, exactly? Your sovereign? Your junior fellow disciple? Or a stepping stone for you, Yan Xingning, to uphold your principles? A sacrificial offering for your martyrdom!"
Each accusation, each outpouring of deep-seated resentment, made Yan An pause. The hand gripping his sword trembled uncontrollably.
Zheng Qiao did not miss it.
His voice was hoarse with anguish, and his words caught in his throat.