AEOGA CH32

Xie Chongjin’s eyes went blank for a moment, an intense shade of grief welling up within them.

Lu Xuechao knew he had guessed right.

Xie Chongjin truly thought this way. He actually blamed himself for the deaths of the late Emperor and Empress as well.

…

They say that the imperial family is the most ruthless of all—that to be an emperor, one must have blood-stained hands, that beneath the golden dragon throne lies a mountain of white bones and corpses, where fathers turn on sons, brothers slaughter brothers, and familial love is not worth a single mention.

Yet Xie Chongjin had never experienced such cruelty.

The late Emperor doted exclusively on the Empress, with him being their only son; Xie Chongjin had never gone through a brutal struggle for the throne. His home was warm, sweet, and wonderfully harmonious—not at all like other scheming royal households, but more akin to a joyful, ordinary family.

The late Emperor and Prime Minister Lu were closest friends. Lu Xuechao had met the late Emperor as a child and remembered him as a loving elder and a benevolent monarch.

Only a child raised in an environment filled with happiness and love could develop a youthful temperament like Xie Chongjin’s—arrogant, unbridled, bright, and vibrant.

Born into high nobility and endowed with exceptional brilliance, Xie Chongjin was an undeniable darling of heaven. When he was Crown Prince, he handled a few affairs for experience; being remarkably capable and aided by Lu Xuechao at his side, he completed them all flawlessly. Everything went smoothly until the greatest misfortune struck in his seventeenth year: his royal father suddenly fell gravely ill. Beyond the reach of medicine, he passed away in under three months, and his royal mother, consumed by overwhelming grief, soon followed him.

He lost both his parents completely on his eighteenth birthday.

In the game, this was nothing more than a casual opening line: “The late Emperor passed away; Crown Prince Xie Chongjin ascended the throne.”

And his royal mother, who died out of devotion to her love, did not even have a name in the game—a completely insignificant presence not worth mentioning.

Yet to Xie Chongjin, it was the greatest agony in the world.

When the late Emperor was critically ill, Xie Chongjin and Lu Xuechao tended to his bed. The late Emperor pulled their hands together, overlapping them, and said with gratification, “With the two of you, Changli’s future is secure; I can close my eyes in peace. Qingshu, you must assist Huaiyun well and make him a wise monarch of his generation. Huaiyun, you must also treat Qingshu well. If you dare pick on him, I will be the first to punish you.”

He then closed his eyes and passed away with a smile.

Lu Xuechao checked his breath, then bowed at the bedside with red eyes. “Your subject obeys the decree.”

Xie Chongjin, on the other hand, stood frozen, staring blankly at his father sleeping peacefully on the sickbed.

The passing of the Emperor and Empress called for national mourning. The mourning bells rang continuously for three days, and everyone in the palace wiped away tears and wept, as if failing to show a grief-stricken expression would be a grave disrespect.

At the mourning hall, the youth wore mourning clothes and knelt silently before the coffin, the harsh wailing of palace staff and ministers swirling around his ears. Pursing his lips, he did not cry once, finding the ceaseless weeping nothing short of deafening.

Lu Xuechao did not cry either, simply keeping Xie Chongjin quiet company before the coffin. He stayed with him until deep into the night, when the palace servants dispersed and the ministers who came to pay respects left. Only the two of them remained in the mourning hall, yet Xie Chongjin still refused to rise.

“You should go back to your palace and rest,” Xie Chongjin remembered even then that Lu Xuechao’s constitution was weak and that he couldn’t kneel for as long as he could. When he spoke, his voice was already terribly hoarse. “I want to stay with Father and Mother a little longer.”

Lu Xuechao did not rise. “I want to stay with Father and Mother a little longer too.”

Pausing, he added softly, “And stay with you.”

Xie Chongjin’s eyes reddened in an instant. His shoulders trembled, and though he tried his absolute best to hold it in, tears spilled over.

He cried fiercely. The emotions he had suppressed in front of others during the day all found their outlet in the dead of night.

Xie Chongjin turned around and held Lu Xuechao tightly. His tone was helpless and aggrieved as he choked out, “Qingshu… I don’t have a father anymore.”

Xie Chongjin always wore a smile in front of Lu Xuechao, like a bright sun colliding with a cool, distant moon. The sun was always warming the moon, bestowing upon it a coat of moonlight.

That was the first time Lu Xuechao saw Xie Chongjin cry—the first time he realized the sun could also be engulfed by the dark gloom of night.

At that moment, he was not a young and accomplished Crown Prince with a multitude of dazzling titles; he was merely a heartbroken youth who had lost his parents.

“I thought a lifetime was very long… I thought they and I would still have plenty of time. At Father’s birthday early this year, I even wished him longevity without bound…” Xie Chongjin said hoarsely. “Was my wish too greedy? I know no one can live without bound, but I thought they could at least live to a hundred—that they could stay with me for a long, long time, or at least accompany me through my eighteenth birthday…”

His tone carried an extra layer of grievance: “Today is my birthday…”

Lu Xuechao held him, whispering in consolation, “Father and Mother are blessed with deep fortune; their next lives will surely be peaceful and smooth.”

“If they were blessed with deep fortune, why couldn’t this life be peaceful and smooth?” Xie Chongjin asked in protest.

Everyone was going to leave him; no one would stay with him forever…

Lu Xuechao had no answer, so he quietly lent him his embrace.

Having neither eaten nor drunk for a whole day, Xie Chongjin was overwhelmed by grief and devoid of strength. Lu Xuechao went and made a bowl of Longevity Noodles for him. He offered no birthday blessings, merely letting him know that someone was still here to celebrate his birthday with him.

Xie Chongjin looked at the steaming Longevity Noodles and did not move his chopsticks right away. “You haven’t eaten today either. Let’s eat together.”

Lu Xuechao said, “These are your Longevity Noodles, symbolizing long life. How could I eat them? I’ll just make another bowl.”

Hearing this, Xie Chongjin immediately snapped the noodles with his chopsticks, fear hidden in his eyes: “I’ll share my lifespan with you. What use is long life to me on my own? I only want you to be with me.”

When Lu Xuechao was young, he was sickly and fragile. An imperial physician once remarked that extreme intelligence often hurts one’s health, and Young Master Lu was very likely destined for a short life. Xie Chongjin thought it was complete nonsense at the time, but ever since, he had paid extra attention to Lu Xuechao’s health, growing wildly anxious over even a single cough.

He had always believed that Lu Xuechao could live a peaceful, long life. Yet he had also believed that his royal father and mother could live long and healthy lives, only for them to leave so suddenly. He was truly terrified that the people he loved would leave him one by one.

The world hailed emperors as ten-thousand-years-old and empresses as thousand-years-old, but he didn’t want that—the gap was a full nine thousand years. He wanted to give Qingshu four thousand five hundred years, so that they could die together.

Lu Xuechao comforted him: “I will stay with you for a long time, never parting in this life. We shall share a bed in life and a coffin in death.”

Xie Chongjin still looked uneasy.

Lu Xuechao extended his pinky, hooking it with Xie Chongjin’s finger. “A pinky swear, just like when we were little. Can your mind be at ease now?”

Only when Xie Chongjin looked at their intertwined fingers did he feel a trace of peace.

…

Losing his doting parents so abruptly made Xie Chongjin feel as though the sky had collapsed. Through the hardest period, Lu Xuechao was the one who accompanied him, keeping vigil and guarding the mausoleum alongside him, encouraging him to pull himself together.

No matter how glorious and indestructible they appeared on the outside, all their embarrassment, sorrow, and vulnerability were laid bare before each other without reserve.

Before eighteen, Xie Chongjin had never faced adversity.

After eighteen, Xie Chongjin had never known peace of mind.

The late Emperor had governed Changli well, handing Xie Chongjin a prosperous and thriving dynasty. Born a darling of heaven, he kept his father’s final wishes in mind—to be a wise monarch, and to treat Qingshu well.

…Yet Changli had been ruined like this, and Qingshu had suffered so much.

He achieved nothing of what he set out to do, and the person he wished to protect was killed by his own hands.

Not only had he failed to keep his royal father and mother, but across lifetimes, he hadn’t even been able to keep Qingshu.

Upon realizing their world was merely a game, a suspicion took root in Xie Chongjin’s mind.

His royal father had always been in robust health. Why had he suddenly fallen ill, with even the imperial physicians unable to find a cause or a cure, ultimately dying in his prime?

Was it because… he was the game’s protagonist, and he had to ascend the throne at eighteen?

With his father alive, he, as the Crown Prince, naturally could not ascend.

So in order to let him take the throne logically, to allow the player to start the game, his father had to yield the position—had to die…

He was the true cause of his father’s death.

He was born a jinx.

–

Xie Chongjin’s psychological state was off, a fact that could not be hidden from Lu Xuechao.

Even Lu Xuechao, who was rational to the extreme and an onlooker, was tormented to the point of nearly going insane, unable to distinguish reality from illusion, turning from an initial desire to survive into a single-minded desire to die.

Xie Chongjin was the one controlled while retaining his consciousness.

When a mask is worn for too long, it grows into one’s face.

After being controlled for a lifetime, Xie Chongjin could no longer distinguish what difference there was between himself and that controller. The one who committed every bad deed, who was fatuous and incompetent, who ruined the nation, who killed Qingshu time and again—wasn’t it all him?

Why was he still alive?

If he died, would this controlled world finally come to an end? Would everyone’s tragedies cease to repeat?

His feelings of self-blame and self-loathing grew heavier and heavier, reaching a point inclined toward self-destruction.

Especially after learning that he was the protagonist of the game and that all plots revolved around him, Xie Chongjin felt no surprise. Instead, only a ridiculous realization washed over him: So that was why.

So that was why—he was the origin of all misfortune.

His very birth was a mistake. Without him, none of these tragedies would have happened.

Dark, negative emotions haunted Xie Chongjin’s mind constantly, screaming at him: why didn’t he go die and atone for his sins? He had harmed so many people, even caused his father and mother to die because of him, and killed Qingshu so many times—how did he still have the face to stay alive?

Only upon seeing Lu Xuechao did Xie Chongjin forcefully reignite a conviction to keep living.

By working himself to the bone day and night handling state affairs, he tried to leave no spare room in his mind for those negative thoughts to brew.

How could Lu Xuechao not know?

At night, Xie Chongjin could not even sleep peacefully in his dreams, his brows furrowed as he constantly called out, “I’m sorry.”

The name he murmured most was his, though he would also call out for his royal father and mother.

Lu Xuechao had studied medicine, and to guide his own mind, he had learned about psychological and mental illnesses as well.

Xie Chongjin was sick with depression.

Lu Xuechao massaged him and prepared spirit-soothing medicine so Xie Chongjin could sleep soundly, but in the end, it treated the symptoms rather than the root cause.

Fearing Lu Xuechao would worry, Xie Chongjin put on a brave front before him. Whenever he saw him, he wore the same smile as before, yet his eyes were dim and lifeless.

Lu Xuechao pretended not to notice. Xie Chongjin was so proud that he likely didn’t want anyone to know he was ill. The youth who once shone with boundless radiance was now fading away, wrapped in darkness and unable to extricate himself.

At this moment, he didn’t want to pretend anymore. When he was sad, Xie Chongjin would comfort him; but to whom could Xie Chongjin express his grief?

His sun had grown cold in its own temperature, yet it was still exhausting all its light and heat without reserve to warm him.

The moon originally possessed no light of its own; moonlight had always been the brilliance of the sun.

The moon wanted to warm the sun, too.