AEGA CH7

Lu Xuechao spoke those words with utter serenity; it could hardly even be called a question.

In his endless memories, being bestowed death in the Cold Palace had long since become a commonplace occurrence. Moving from initial disbelief to eventual numbness, he could no longer muster even a shred of superfluous emotion. The controller’s methods were always the same few tricks; he had long grown tired of watching them.

Yet, this method was crude and violent, and absolutely effective.

Lu Xuechao did not believe in fate. When they were young, while others schemed to curry favor with the Crown Prince for power, Lu Xuechao only thought of relying on his own merits to pass the imperial examinations and rise to the pinnacle of court. Destiny had to be held in one’s own hands. He could be a fine bird choosing a propitious tree to roost upon, capable of soaring into the sky at any moment, but he would never be a dodder flower coiled around a tree, unable to leave its host for a lifetime.

On the surface, the young master of the Lu family appeared gentle and uncontending, but his very bones were filled with pride and ambition—otherwise, how could he have become the soulmate of the fiercely rebellious Crown Prince? He firmly believed that as long as a person was intelligent enough, worked hard enough, and excelled enough, there was nothing they could not achieve.

In every past lifetime, faced with sudden crises, Lu Xuechao never sat idly by waiting for death; he exhausted his mind and strength to seek a sliver of survival. He was originally a scholar whose talents lay in literature, strategy, and governing a nation for the benefit of its people. Later, to escape the fate of being toyed with in the palm of another’s hand, he would desperately learn everything he could without wasting a single second upon every awakening, striving to possess the power to contend against the hateful controller.

Lu Xuechao painstakingly mastered medicine, poison, divination, and tactical arrays. After discovering that his frequent, inexplicable sudden deaths might be linked to witchcraft, he even dabbled in the forbidden art of Gu (poisonous insects)—a practice strictly prohibited in Changli. Possessing a rare, unparalleled intellect, he learned a vast array of disciplines and mastered them all perfectly. To use a modern term, Lu Xuechao was the ultimate overachiever, a master of all trades who excelled at the absolute highest level in every field.

Except for martial arts—which required a foundation built from early childhood, and which he failed to master due to awakening too late—the skills Lu Xuechao had unlocked across his countless lifetimes could circle the Changli Kingdom three times over.

Accumulated across countless worlds, Lu Xuechao had long since grown to a terrifying level. Yet even so, he had never managed to unmask the true mastermind. Across so many lifetimes, he had never discovered where the controller—who caused Xie Chongjin and Lin Chanzhi to completely change their personalities—was hidden, or who they actually were.

Reasonably speaking, with Lu Xuechao’s capabilities, even if he could not find the controller, resisting an execution order or an assassination plot and escaping the imperial palace should have been as easy as turning over his hand.

However, no matter how vast his supernatural skills were, every time he was ordered to die by “Xie Chongjin” or targeted by “Lin Chanzhi’s” witchcraft, Lu Xuechao would inexplicably lose all power to resist. All his methods became utterly useless, and he would die with terrifying ease.

At those moments, Lu Xuechao deeply experienced the taste of Xie Chongjin’s utter helplessness.

The execution order or the witchcraft were absolute laws, ironclad rules, forces of nature that could not be resisted. All the efforts he had made for the sake of survival became a cruel joke; his struggles in every lifetime were entirely futile. Later on, he died earlier and earlier in each lifetime, denied even the chance to resist. The continuous cycle of reincarnation, death, and rebirth was like an inescapable destiny.

He truly seemed powerless. It turned out there really were desperate straits in this world that could not be resolved, no matter how intelligent, hardworking, or outstanding one was.

The pristine, aloof immortal who had initially possessed the moral integrity of a scholar, the bamboo-like nature of a gentleman, and a gentle, harmless demeanor, finally birthed a hint of suppressed, twisted madness through lifetimes of tragic cycles. He became as enchanting as a crabapple blossom, as toxic as a poppy—a high-risk entity in the eyes of the “players.”

But no matter how high-risk, he was still just a 2D game character; with the mere swipe of a finger, they could send him to his death.

Reborn once more, Lu Xuechao possessed not a single shred of a desire to survive. He adopted a lazy posture of lying flat and letting himself be killed, finding it too exhausting to even feign a reaction.

The greatest agony in the world is to be unable to live, yet unable to die. He had once preferred death over bowing his head to fate, only to realize that eternal death was nothing more than an unattainable luxury.

Reincarnating up to this point, Lu Xuechao no longer dared to hope for freedom; he only yearned for eternal sleep and true peace. He wished there would be no next lifetime. He prayed that he, Huaiyun, and every innocent soul treated as a pawn on a chessboard could be granted absolute liberation, which was far better than this endless, lifetime-after-lifetime torment.

But he also knew this was impossible. If he died in this life, there would always be the next, and the one after that, repeating his pathetic fate.

Never a day of peace.

So, what would it be this time? Poisoned wine, a dagger, or a white silk sash? Lu Xuechao thought absentmindedly.

Poisoned wine sounded the least painful, but the feeling of it tearing through his organs was agonizing; each time, it took nearly half an hour of excruciating pain before he was released, so he didn’t like it. The choking suffocation of the white silk sash felt even worse, and the corpse looked unsightly, offending the eyes. By comparison, a dagger brought a swift and tragically beautiful death, though plunging it into oneself required immense courage.

…He was, in truth, deeply afraid of pain.

Even after enduring countless lifetimes and stabbing Xie Chongjin and himself more times than he could count—almost making it a routine—each instance still demanded every ounce of Lu Xuechao’s courage.

Seeing that “Xie Chongjin” remained silent for a long time, likely because the controller behind him was hesitating over which method of execution to choose, Lu Xuechao spoke in a calm, detached manner: “Though I know your choice won’t change because of my words, I still hope you use a dagger.”

“The others hurt too much, I don’t really like them…”

Before his words could fully fall, he was suddenly pulled into a fierce, tight embrace.

Lu Xuechao’s body went rigid.

He did not receive poisoned wine, a dagger, or three feet of white silk. He received a hug—a warm, long-lost embrace.

“…Qingshu,” the man’s voice trembled violently, sounding as though he would break into tears if he spoke another word. “It’s me.”

Lu Xuechao’s fingers twitched slightly. His hand, which gripped Xie Chongjin’s robes, slowly tightened, bunching the fabric into deep, stark wrinkles.

He closed his eyes, submissively leaning into the man’s chest, and smiled faintly. “So the dream hasn’t broken yet.”

He had dreamed of Huaiyun regaining his freedom many, many times. In those dreams, they were completely free, everyone was free, and the world was incomparably beautiful. There was no endless cycle of reincarnation; they walked hand-in-hand through a single lifetime, from the rising dawn to the falling twilight, truly growing old together.

It was only waking from the dream that brought a lingering melancholy.

A scalding tear fell onto the back of Lu Xuechao’s hand.

…How strange. How could there be warmth in a dream? Was the person holding him crying?

Lu Xuechao suddenly opened his eyes. Breaking away from the embrace, he raised his gaze to stare coldly at him. “Who are you?”

If it wasn’t a dream, then it was reality. But in reality, Huaiyun was entirely helpless; even if his heart bled for him, he could never shed a tear. Across countless past lifetimes, “Xie Chongjin” had always looked upon his deaths with cold indifference, and it was only in the final moments when Lu Xuechao’s vision blurred that he would catch a fleeting glimpse of the sudden, horrified despair in the other man’s eyes.

The man in the dark purple imperial robes sank down, half-kneeling before the couch. He gazed tenderly and sorrowfully at the youth whose long hair cascaded around him, whose expression was guarded. Just like the pinky-promises they made when they were children, he reached out and hooked his finger around Lu Xuechao’s pinky, his voice raspy and broken.

“Xie Chongjin. Xie Huaiyun. Your… Crown Prince gege.”

Xie Chongjin did not use his title as Emperor. Since becoming the Emperor, he had not been himself for a single day. He had been taught since childhood to be a wise and just ruler, and he had always carried that responsibility proudly, until he grew to utterly loathe the identity. If he were not the Emperor, perhaps everything would have been different.

Lu Xuechao repeated softly, “Crown Prince gege?”

Only now did he truly look at the man before him. In this world, they had not seen each other for three years. The eighteen-year-old youth had grown into a twenty-one-year-old young man; though the gap in years was small, he looked like an entirely different person.

The man’s features were still strikingly handsome, yet he appeared disheveled and gaunt. He had clearly neglected his appearance and health, entirely losing the vibrant, high-spirited aura of the youth who once rode fine horses in splendid clothes. He looked completely drained of life.

Yet this lifelessness, upon seeing his beloved at this moment, sparked with a sudden, bursting vitality, making him look marginally more spirited.

“It is our Qingshu’s Crown Prince gege.” Xie Chongjin sat upon the soft couch, pulling the youth back into his arms. He tried his best to remain steady, but his words tumbled out in a panicked, incoherent rush. “Your gege was useless… I only just broke free from the control. The moment I gained my freedom, I ran straight here to see you. I’ve come to take you out. I missed you, I missed you every single day. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Qingshu… I love you, I have only ever loved you, I’ve never touched anyone else.”

Lu Xuechao bit his lip, his eyes gradually reddening. He buried his face deep into Xie Chongjin’s chest, staying perfectly silent. After a long while, his shoulders began to tremble violently.

Xie Chongjin could feel the front of his robes dampening, soaking through with the youth’s utterly suppressed, agonizing sobs.

Lu Xuechao’s tears fell against Xie Chongjin’s heart, burning him with an agonizing pain. Xie Chongjin stroked the youth’s back continuously, offering gentle, soft comforts to soothe him.

“It’s alright now, it’s alright, Qingshu.”

“I’m back, and I won’t leave again.”

“If you want to cry, then cry. I’ll cry with you,” Xie Chongjin’s voice caught in his throat. “I am also… deeply broken.”

Lu Xuechao’s restrained weeping gradually fractured into a devastating, sorrowful wail, as if he wanted to completely vent the accumulated grievances and pain of so many lifetimes in one exhaustive flood. Hearing him break down, Xie Chongjin’s heart ached terribly. He silently comforted the collapsing youth in his arms, his own eyes red, unable to conceal his profound grief.

Men do not easily shed tears, unless they have reached the absolute depths of sorrow. And the sorrow between them was perhaps the most desperate torment in the world.

“This isn’t a dream, is it?” Lu Xuechao clutched his sleeves, staring fixedly at him. “If it is a dream, I beg you, do not let me wake up again.”

“It’s not a dream, Qingshu… Xuechao. I rarely call you by your name. If it were a dream, you wouldn’t dream of me calling you that.” Xie Chongjin kissed him gently, kissing away the tear tracks on Lu Xuechao’s pale face, his heart nearly suffocating under the weight of his distress and guilt.

Xie Chongjin truly rarely called Lu Xuechao by his given name. From childhood to adulthood, they had always called each other by their courtesy names, which was far more intimate.

Only now did Lu Xuechao’s heart finally settle into reality. He reached up, returning the kiss with a fierce, burning desperation. The kiss carried little raw lust; it was the behavior of a badly wounded beast that had finally found a warm sanctuary in a thorn-ridden jungle, desperately seeking to lick its wounds and quiet its agony.

The experiences of their accumulated lifetimes were far too heavy and painful; for the moment, neither wanted to speak of them. The long-separated lovers only wished to use the closest, most seamless intimacy to purge the unspeakable anguish, using the entanglement of their bodies to prove the absolute reality of this very moment.

Xie Chongjin understood completely. So, he closed the windows.

The sky outside suddenly darkened as a wild wind swept through the courtyard. The flowering trees swayed violently, swallows flew low, and the palace servants in the laundry courtyards scrambled to gather the hanging clothes.

Inside the golden house, the dark purple robes and the white silk garments lay scattered in a chaotic heap upon the floor. The lattice windows were tightly shut, sealing away a secluded world from the storm of falling, scattered crimson blossoms outside.