AEGA CH9

In the end, Xie Chongjin did not cry.

It turned out that when a person’s anguish reached its absolute limit, they could not even shed tears. His body trembled violently; except for tightening his embrace around Lu Xuechao, he found himself utterly speechless.

The scenes from his dreams remained vividly etched in his mind. Every single time he was manipulated into callously ordering Lu Xuechao’s execution, his inner soul had been frantically pleading for it to stop. Yet every single time, Lu Xuechao would die right before his eyes, without exception.

This lifetime had been somewhat different. Three years ago, the controller had intended to kill Lu Xuechao, preparing the fatal trio of poison, white silk, and a dagger. At the final moment, however, they changed their mind. Even so, that scene became an indelible psychological shadow for Xie Chongjin. For three years, he frequently dreamed of that exact moment—dreaming that the controller had not softened their heart, that Qingshu had truly died by his hands—only to wake up in a cold sweat.

The memories after his awakening told him that those dreams were real. They weren’t just nightmares; they were the absolute, unvarnished truth of what had transpired across countless past lifetimes.

The treasure he had coddled and protected since childhood, the soulmate he swore to treat well for a lifetime, had been shattered before him over and over again by a reckless controller who used his own hands to ruin, trample, and destroy.

When Xie Chongjin woke up this morning and realized his body was back under his own control, his immediate instinct was to rush to the Cold Palace. But as he stepped out, his footsteps hesitated. He forced himself to walk in the opposite direction, circling the entire imperial palace first to confirm that he could truly go wherever he pleased before he finally dared to set foot in the Cold Palace.

He hadn’t dared to come straight here because he feared it was merely another whim of the controller, feared that the controller would strike at Lu Xuechao again. He was terrified that his treasure would be shattered once more, and that he would still be powerless to protect him.

Xie Chongjin feared nothing in heaven or earth, yet this single matter filled him with a terror so profound he dared not even contemplate it; a mere thought made him shake with dread.

And yet, the very thing he dared not even think about was something Qingshu had personally experienced over and over again.

—And he remembered every single bit of it.

How could Xie Chongjin find any words to speak?

.

Lu Xuechao attempted to ease his burden: “You don’t need to blame yourself so heavily. Didn’t I tell you I studied medicine? I awakened in every single lifetime and learned a great deal over the years. I even formulated a universal painkiller that numbs all bodily sensations. Every time that controller came to the Cold Palace, I would ingest it beforehand. I didn’t feel a single bit of pain when I died.”

Those words were true, but they weren’t the whole truth. Lu Xuechao feared pain above all else, yet in almost every lifetime, he met a violent and agonizing end. No ordinary person could endure that without losing their mind. But Lu Xuechao was different; Lu Xuechao was a prodigy.

Where there is a will, there is a way. To cope with his fate, Lu Xuechao had indeed concocted a universal numbing agent. Knowing in each lifetime that death was inevitable upon his awakening, he would immediately prepare the medicine. The moment “Xie Chongjin” arrived, he would take it in advance and meet his demise with composure.

Yet, before he successfully perfected that medicine, he had already suffered excruciating pain multiple times. There were also many lifetimes where he died before even awakening, lacking the accumulated knowledge of past lives to refine such a pill.

Lu Xuechao left these details unsaid, but Xie Chongjin could easily deduce them, making his heart ache even more. Just how agonizing must the pain have been to force Qingshu to develop such a drug…

To awaken in every lifetime, to carry those tragic, unbearable memories, and to be powerless to alter the recurring tragedy—to know everything clearly yet lack the ability to save anyone, not even oneself. Such an agony was in no way inferior to the despair of being controlled.

Xie Chongjin’s heart bled for him.

He knew that he and Qingshu had always served their country wholeheartedly and brought prosperity to the people, never committing a single misdeed. Even if karmic retribution existed, it should never have fallen upon their heads. Why was this their destiny?

He knew the answer. The heavenly book provided it.

—Because this was nothing more than a game.

After a long silence, Xie Chongjin finally spoke in a raspy voice, “I also had a dream, likely the same as yours, containing many of our past lives. This is the first time I’ve known I had past lives. I didn’t know… that you awakened every single time, carrying so many memories…”

And so much agony.

His chest tightened, a dense, throbbing pain radiating through him, rendering him nearly unable to continue.

Lu Xuechao said steadily, “Take your time.”

This was Xie Chongjin’s first awakening, suddenly inheriting the memories of countless lifetimes. It was entirely natural for his emotions to be unstable under such a massive influx of information. For Lu Xuechao, having awakened so many times, it had become a familiar burden, allowing him to appear far more composed.

Not that he wasn’t moved. Xie Chongjin breaking free from control on his own was entirely unprecedented. But the weeping was done, the intimacy had concluded, and Lu Xuechao could now calmly discuss their situation.

Soothed by Lu Xuechao’s calm voice, Xie Chongjin took a deep breath to steady his emotions and got to the core of the matter: “I obtained a heavenly book.”

“A heavenly book?”

“This object.” Xie Chongjin handed the strange imperial memorial to Lu Xuechao. “It records the events of our world, but the writing doesn’t seem to belong to anyone from our realm. What is written within cleared up many of my doubts. I do not know why it suddenly appeared; perhaps it is a sign from the heavens, so I call it a heavenly book.”

“The language is obscure. I studied it for a long time and could only comprehend about seventy or eighty percent of it, with several terms still eluding my understanding,” Xie Chongjin noted. “Can Qingshu decipher it? You have always been wiser than me. When we were young and I couldn’t understand a poem, I would ask you, and you could always explain it clearly.”

Lu Xuechao took it, opening it to scan the contents thoroughly, his expression gradually turning cold.

The heavenly book contained everything. It detailed how the controllers derived amusement from manipulating their lives, what kind of game plots would unfold in this world, and comprehensive character introductions for various narrative consorts…

By the time he reached his own character introduction, Lu Xuechao’s face was entirely devoid of expression.

“As I suspected,” Lu Xuechao stated flatly. “In the past, no matter how much power I wielded or how thoroughly I investigated, I could never find a single trace of the mastermind. I had a faint inkling back then. The controller is not a resident of our world; they are external spectators watching us like ants, completely indifferent to any resistance the ants might muster. The world where you are controlled is what these ‘players’ call the Emperor Route. The world where Lin Chanzhi is controlled is their Consort Route.”

This realization was simply too staggering, enough to make anyone question the very nature of existence. Even a well-traveled soul might fear to ponder such a world-view-shattering dilemma: Is our world truly real? Could it just be a game in the eyes of higher-dimensional beings? Am I truly acting on my own free will, or am I being manipulated by an invisible hand without realizing it? Is the frequent sense of déjà vu because I have already experienced this exact scene countless times in past lives? Are my experiences from childhood to adulthood, my friends, my lover, and my children truly nothing more than pre-programmed data?

Before concrete proof manifested, people would firmly believe they lived in a real world, because to think otherwise would be to fundamentally deny the meaning of their existence and their entire lives—a concept too absurd and laughable to accept. People knew of The Truman Show, but no one truly believed they were Truman.

Except now, that very proof lay right before Xie Chongjin and Lu Xuechao.

Whether the modern world mentioned was a game remained unknown, but their ancient world was, without a doubt, a game.

Despite having suspected it long ago, the moment his theory was validated, Lu Xuechao still felt a wave of absurdity wash over him.

If that were the case… what did everything they shared—growing up together, understanding each other, falling in love—amount to?

Was it merely that line in the heavenly book: “At age seven, became the Crown Prince’s study partner, childhood friends and sweethearts with the Emperor. At sixteen, bestowed the title of Crown Prince’s Consort; at seventeen, crowned Empress”?

Because the game was configured this way, they acted accordingly. Once Xie Chongjin ascended the throne at eighteen and the game officially commenced, their past experiences became inconsequential, reduced to mere background lore implanted into their consciousness.

Lu Xuechao lowered his eyelids, a shadow casting over his face.

“Do not let your mind wander into dark places.” Xie Chongjin flipped the page, halting Lu Xuechao’s descending spiral of thoughts. “Regardless of whether this is a game to outsiders, it is absolute reality to you and me.”

“This heavenly book also states that in the Consort Route, spending more nights together increases the Emperor’s ‘Favor Value.’ The higher the value, the more indulgent the Emperor becomes, to the point of ignoring right and wrong, even shielding them when they commit murder for amusement. It is true that when ‘Lin Chanzhi’ used that method of saving and loading to force me to choose his name tag exclusively, the Favor Value did rise, rendering me incapable of acting against him due to the control. Yet my heart was filled with absolute hatred for him; where was the love?” Xie Chongjin argued. “In the Emperor Route, focusing on pursuing every plot consort to maximize the so-called ‘Affection Value’ yields an exclusive ending. But in those worlds, I never touched them in my entire life. Once the palace doors closed, we slept in separate chambers. At most, a semblance of friendship bloomed, strictly limited to a platonic bond between gentlemen, entirely unrelated to love.”

“Love cannot be measured by numerical values. I know exactly whom I love, and my heart only has room for one person.” Xie Chongjin stated with a hint of dissatisfaction, “If you dare to doubt me further, will you not be doing an injustice to my virtue, having resisted the game mechanics to remain faithful to you across so many lifetimes?”

The darkness in Lu Xuechao’s eyes dissolved: “I was merely borrowing trouble.”

He always overthought things, lacking Xie Chongjin’s piercing clarity.

“What do you intend to do now?” Lu Xuechao asked regarding his future plans.

“Naturally, I shall welcome you back to the Central Palace, dismiss the imperial harem, resume court assemblies starting tomorrow, clean up this disastrous mess, and restore Changli to its former golden age.” The perpetual melancholy in Xie Chongjin’s eyes finally gave way to a spark of ambitious vigor, ready to take on the world once more.

Lu Xuechao, however, remained cautious: “We have achieved freedom in this lifetime, but what about the next?”

Xie Chongjin paused, his brow furrowing tightly once more.

They hadn’t faced a tragic end in every single lifetime.

In the Consort Route worlds, if Lu Xuechao awakened early enough, he could send Lin Chanzhi out of the palace the moment he entered, before he could accumulate enough Favor Value to paralyze Xie Chongjin’s willpower. This would force the consort-line player into an early game over. In those instances, the real Lin Chanzhi would also regain his freedom, liberated from external control, allowed to find a good partner outside the palace walls and live a peaceful, happy life.

Or, if he awakened late and the player had already accumulated sins, they would apprehend Lin Chanzhi for murder and framing, sentencing him to death to bring a swift end to the player’s game. Though, that path inevitably sacrificed the innocent Lin Chanzhi.

It was an unavoidable predicament. Once a character became the player’s main avatar, control could only be broken by reaching a definitive game ending. Being sent out of the palace early was the best outcome for Lin Chanzhi; otherwise, he would either perish in palace intrigues or the player would sweep through opposition to trigger a Happy Ending like [The Empress Regnant].

What the players never realized was that after they achieved their happy ending and contentedly closed the game, the real Lin Chanzhi, adorned in his ceremonial empress robes, would regain his free will—and his very first act would be to take his own life.

He was a youth so inherently kind it verged on weakness, entirely unable to bear living with hands stained in blood. Death was his only means of atonement.

When the player’s deeds were exposed and Lu Xuechao sentenced him to death, Lin Chanzhi’s final words before dying were actually, “Thank you.”

Lu Xuechao had stood in silence for a long time before ordering a proper and honorable burial for him.

As for the Emperor Route, it required the player to continue until the Emperor’s death, offering no liberation throughout his entire lifespan. Thus, Lu Xuechao’s only method to terminate the game prematurely was to personally assassinate Xie Chongjin.

In the worlds where the Consort Route ended early, they could spend the remainder of their days following their true desires, living out a peaceful and blessed life together. Xie Chongjin would dissolve the harem, bestow exclusive devotion upon his Empress, govern with supreme wisdom, and grow old together until their hair turned as white as frost.

Yet in the next lifetime, the game would reset, and they would find themselves helpless once more.

What Lu Xuechao sought now was no longer a single lifetime of freedom.

He wanted to terminate this endless cycle of reincarnation forever.

This lifetime differed from all previous ones; it marked the first time Xie Chongjin had broken free within the Emperor Route without being manipulated until his dying breath.

This had to be the breakthrough they needed.

.

“The word you couldn’t understand, is it this one?” Lu Xuechao pointed to a specific line of text.

[When on earth is Lu Xuechao’s bug going to be patched? A martial stat of 20 successfully assassinating an Emperor with a martial stat of 100? I am literally speechless.]

[So exhausted, I hope this game stops rolling out version updates; the more they update, the more bugs appear.]

[Lu Xuechao is way too overpowered. Even though his stats dictate a Wit of 100 and a mind close to a demon, his ability to see through the player’s identity and precisely counter the main character every single time is genuinely terrifying. It’s too much of a bug, seriously, an absolute bug.]

[The Emperor’s name-tag selection rate is the biggest bug here, alright? Why is it that whenever it’s not Lu Xuechao, he chooses to sleep alone? Are we players completely invisible to him?]

[I suspect the pregnancy pill is also a bug, rather than an unreleased feature. If you haven’t implemented the mechanic, don’t let the item drop in the first place. The pregnancy pill clearly exists, so why can’t anyone conceive? It’s not like the Emperor and his consorts are literally just chatting under the blankets every night, Hahahahaha.]

The term “bug” appeared with high frequency, yet Xie Chongjin could not grasp its meaning at all, unable to even deduce it from the context.

“Yes, that one. Qingshu, do you know what it means?” Xie Chongjin praised readily, “I knew my Qingshu was the most brilliant…”

Lu Xuechao replied, “I do not know either.”

Xie Chongjin: “…”

“However, looking at the context, it isn’t difficult to infer,” Lu Xuechao added. “It likely signifies a loophole, a flaw, or a defect.”

Xie Chongjin was astonished: “How did you infer that from the context?”

“My martial prowess is valued at 20, while yours is 100. The fact that I can successfully assassinate you—is that not a massive loophole?” Lu Xuechao looked at him.

Xie Chongjin fell into contemplation: “I hadn’t considered that.”

From his own perspective, he had been entirely willing to be killed, offering no resistance whatsoever, so he naturally never viewed it as a flaw.

But in the eyes of the players, it manifested as an irreconcilable logical error. While a few players theorized about an absolute devotion between Emperor and Empress, the vast majority played for a sense of conquest and gratification. When that gratification was denied, it was invariably labeled a bug.

Then there was the pregnancy pill. According to the laws of Changli, before the Empress gave birth to a legitimate heir, no consort within the imperial harem was permitted to consume fertility medicine, unless the Empress proved consistently unable to conceive over many years. Though Lu Xuechao had been deposed, no one in the harem had ever ingested the medicine, nor had they ever been touched by the Emperor, making conception an impossibility.

“Looking at these players’ comments, the game initially enjoyed an excellent reputation and immense popularity, but complaints gradually mounted over time. These are all expressions of dissatisfaction,” Lu Xuechao explained deliberately. “Because of my existence, coupled with your fierce resistance, we became what they call loopholes, severely degrading the players’ gaming experience.”

“Our resistance across those countless lifetimes was not entirely meaningless. At the very least, it caused the game’s reputation to decline significantly, and quite a few people mentioned abandoning the game entirely—which presumably signifies a loss of popularity and active engagement.”

“In this lifetime, we have achieved the highest degree of freedom possible.” Lu Xuechao closed the heavenly book, a chilling resolve settled in his eyes.

“Why don’t we simply upend this entire world, shatter every single plotline, and generate an infinite number of loopholes…”

“Until this game collapses entirely?”