TBR CH130

Ji Ying wore a smile that made people uncomfortable. The snake patterns embroidered on his deep purple official robe swayed slightly with his movements, as if those grotesque designs had come alive—venomous creatures ready to strike their prey.

“A fine poem,” he said softly. “Young Master Qin Sangzhi is indeed a man of great talent. Though this poem too speaks of spring, its style is entirely different from your earlier ‘A thousand pear trees bloom as if overnight spring winds had come.’ It reminds me of that occasion.”

Qin Sangzhi hadn’t expected him to bring that up. His usually composed expression froze for a moment. Ji Ying had struck a nerve—something Qin Sangzhi thought he had long smoothed over.

It had happened last spring, during a court banquet held amidst a grove of pear blossoms.

Surrounded by the dazzling white petals, eager to prove his brilliance, Qin Sangzhi had blurted out,

“As if spring winds came overnight, a thousand pear trees bloom.”

Only afterward did he realize that the line wasn’t actually about spring—or pear blossoms. But he had always disliked poetry and never paid much attention to it, so the mistake had slipped past him. Still, those around him recorded “Young Master Qin Sangzhi’s verse,” and even a few high officials had heard it.

To save face, he had quickly amended it to:

“Indeed, it was a night of spring wind; a thousand pear trees bloomed.”

It was a weak poem, lacking elegance. In time, it became known as one of Qin Sangzhi’s few artistic failures—and was quietly forgotten.

Qin Sangzhi gritted his teeth but kept his aloof air, unwilling to be tainted by the presence of a corrupt official. Ji Ying didn’t press the point. Instead, he gave a faint smile and said:

“This Spring River, Flower, and Moonlit Night is exquisitely written. But I could not hear every word clearly during the recitation. If Young Master Qin Sangzhi would be so kind as to put it to paper, would that not be a blessing for us all?”

“What do you mean by that?”

Qin Sangzhi’s expression darkened with a hint of anger.

Ji Ying feigned surprise.

“Why would Young Master Qin Sangzhi refuse? I mean no offense—merely that I have questions, and hope for some guidance.”

His unexpected request caused a murmur in the crowd. Everyone knew Ji Ying was up to no good. But on closer inspection, his request seemed harmless. Anyone with a bit of literary knowledge could guess most of the characters in Qin Sangzhi’s recitation. What harm could come of asking him to write it out?

Qin Sangzhi, knowing the question was ill-intentioned, found it hard to refuse outright. Finally, with a frown, he said:

“Why must Lord Ji speak so cryptically? I truly don’t wish to justify myself to someone like you. Your words—aren’t they really meant to question whether this poem is mine at all?”

Ji Ying only smiled wider.

“Young Master Qin Sangzhi, why say such things?”

So far, Ji Ying hadn’t said anything directly accusatory. His tone was sharp, yes—but vague. The only one making assumptions… was Qin Sangzhi himself.

And in doing so, he exposed his own guilt.

But Qin Sangzhi was in the light, Ji Ying in the shadows. Naturally, the audience leaned toward Qin Sangzhi’s explanation.

Voices buzzed throughout the scene.

Chu Huaicun slowly shifted his gaze toward Ji Ying. Once again, the scene mirrored that day at the palace banquet: Ji Ying, standing alone amidst a sea of judgment, unable to defend himself.

And yet—Chu Huaicun’s feelings had changed.

If he truly wanted Ji Ying on his side, he didn’t want to see him humiliated like this.

Under countless watching eyes, the one with the greatest authority finally spoke.

Chu Huaicun’s expression was cool, his gaze like frost—painful even to be seen by. He looked at Ji Ying and said:

“Lord Ji claimed he came to ‘learn from his mistakes,’ yet he makes a baseless demand of Young Master Qin Sangzhi. Do you not know that his poetic talent has long been recognized? Is he to be doubted without cause?”

Ji Ying, who had just been trading barbs like it was nothing, now froze as though pricked by a needle. His face stiffened briefly before he forced down the storm in his eyes.

He had expected Chu Huaicun to defend Qin Sangzhi.

Still… their relationship had begun to thaw. Was it truly still like this?

He forced a smile and muttered:

“So Prime Minister Chu Huaicun’s heart… is biased. I see that now.”

But before Ji Ying could finish that ambiguous, half-resentful sentence, Chu Huaicun turned to Qin Sangzhi.

The young man hadn’t even had time to relax before being caught in the immortal-like gravity of Chu Huaicun’s presence. He instinctively tensed.

“I believe it would be no trouble for Young Master Qin Sangzhi to write down this poem.
One who stands upright fears no shadows. Let this be the proof that none may question your authenticity.
Just once, and it will put all doubts to rest. I will make sure everyone knows your talent is genuine.”

His words were perfect—on the surface, fully considerate of Qin Sangzhi.

Qin Sangzhi was dazed. He wanted to refuse but couldn’t find a reason.

Chu Huaicun had absolute faith in his brilliance. But that faith was now pushing him toward the most dangerous spotlight.

He had to write Spring River, Flower, and Moonlit Night—right here, in front of everyone.

Qin Sangzhi felt like an ant on a hot pan. The panic rose from his toes upward, and he wished desperately for an excuse to leave.

But before he could move, he saw Chu Huaicun gesture slightly with his hand. A servant stepped forward, offering a brush and gently smoothing out a sheet of paper before him.

Qin Sangzhi’s eyelid twitched.

He dipped the brush in ink. No matter what, he couldn’t stall.

But inside, he was screaming.

He wanted the system’s glowing text to move—but the translucent panel always appeared directly in front of his eyes, and it was not transparent.

Which meant it now completely blocked his view of the paper.

His handwriting had always been clumsy. Under these conditions, it would be full of flaws.

If only he had more time…

But Ji Ying was pressing harder, and Chu Huaicun’s faith had made things worse.

Qin Sangzhi had no choice but to shift the glowing panel back in front of him.

His hand trembled—and a fat drop of ink splattered onto the pristine paper.

It’s fine, he told himself. As long as I follow what the system shows me, and glance up from time to time, I’ll manage…

But the moment he started writing, he realized something horrifying:
He had developed the bad habit of forgetting characters once he picked up the brush.

Qin Sangzhi had never seriously read poetry. He had little literary training.
Even the basics he’d learned during compulsory education were long forgotten.

How do I write this character in traditional form?

Forgotten.

He had to glance up.

This character is too obscure.

He copied stroke by stroke. Sometimes he guessed—and guessed wrong. But rather than fix it, he left it.
He couldn’t afford to look unsure.

Even so, he had to keep lifting his head. The poem, which should have flowed smoothly, came out in awkward fragments.

Like a child in primary school copying sentence by sentence.

The gathering fell silent. The young scholars stared wide-eyed at the boy “copying” the poem, doubts swelling in their hearts. But none dared to interrupt.

Only Ji Ying wore a mysterious smile.

He stepped past Chu Huaicun, deliberately lowering his gaze, not daring to meet Chu Huaicun’s sharp eyes.

He stood before Qin Sangzhi, casting a dim shadow over the paper.

I knew it, Ji Ying thought. I was right.

He had watched Qin Sangzhi compose “spontaneous” poems countless times—and finally saw the pattern:

Qin Sangzhi’s eyes always fixed on a certain spot, unmoving, until the recitation was done.
He rarely wrote his poems down. When he did, they were always simple ones.

Ji Ying didn’t believe in superstitions.

But something deep in his bones—a pride that refused to bend—drove him to expose the truth.

“Why do you keep looking at me, Young Master Qin Sangzhi?”

Ji Ying’s smile turned sharp, the snake embroidery on his robes rustling like they could bite.

He had purposefully positioned himself in front of Qin Sangzhi, in the very spot he believed Qin Sangzhi always stared at when “composing” poems.

Looking down at him now, Qin Sangzhi’s brush hovered mid-air. He looked no different than a child, uncertain how to begin.

Chu Huaicun sat just close enough to touch them both. From where he was, he could witness the whole absurd scene.

Unnoticed, Chu Huaicun curled his fingers and tapped the stone table before him—once, twice, three times.

On the final tap, Qin Sangzhi finally lost patience. He lifted his head in anger to glare at Ji Ying—but there was fear in his eyes.

He tried to memorize as many characters as possible in that fleeting glance before copying them down.

The entire process was torture—full of flaws—and Ji Ying stood before him, grinning like a shadow stuck to his bones.

Qin Sangzhi, gritting his teeth, said quietly:

“There are so many other spots—why must Lord Ji insist on standing here?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Ji Ying replied in a low voice, like a coiled serpent. “Unless… Young Lord Qin has some shameful secret he doesn’t want others to find out?”

Qin Sangzhi said nothing and could only glare at Ji Ying with hatred.

But behind them, Chu Huaicun added fuel to the fire.

His brows and eyes were as cold as frost and snow, like a divine statue meant to judge right from wrong. Yet at this moment, the one closer to him was not the Qin Sangzhi he usually defended, but the very Ji Ying he was always at odds with. Qin Sangzhi looked toward him with a faint hope of rescue, only to see Chu Huaicun displaying complete trust in him—his gaze didn’t even lower in the slightest, as if completely unaware of his distress. Instead, he rebuked Ji Ying:

“Lord Ji, I suggest you look carefully—Young Lord Qin stands upright with a clear conscience. What would he have to worry about?”

Qin Sangzhi’s cheeks flushed hot. Right now, only Ji Ying, standing before him, could see the shoddy quality of his copied work. But what about later—when everyone else saw it? What would they think?

Ji Ying, grinding his teeth, pretended to be indifferent to Chu Huaicun’s words.

Qin Sangzhi, under the weight of growing suspicion from the crowd, finally put down his brush. He had already spent far too much time “copying” a poem he claimed to have composed himself. At the moment he set down his pen, instead of relief, he only felt shame as he looked at the messy scrawl covering the paper.

“Oh?” Ji Ying was the first to look him over from head to toe, then glanced at his “masterpiece” with fake concern. “Young Lord Qin doesn’t seem to be in top form today. Don’t you all think so?”

Qin Sangzhi barely managed to maintain his haughty air and gave Ji Ying a condescending look, at least preserving some dignity on the surface:

“You… people like you… what do you know of poetry?”

But the other scholars began to gather around at last, emboldened to get a look at the ink work Qin Sangzhi had taken so long to complete. One candidate, Liang Kechun, only skimmed it briefly before unintentionally letting out a quiet, “Hmm?” The sound was so out of place he immediately clamped his mouth shut, clearly regretting the slip.

Though the crowd carefully avoided Ji Ying, even those who disdained imperial lackeys couldn’t help but be drawn to the poem. Qin Sangzhi had always been known for his poor handwriting, but that was easily overlooked given his brilliant reputation. Yet what lay before them now was not only lacking in elegance—it had blatant mistakes, missing or extra strokes, even outright character errors.

Worse yet, some characters appeared to be homophones written incorrectly—something understandable for a schoolchild, perhaps.

But for the most brilliant poet of the age—Qin Sangzhi?

No one dared to speak. The air grew thick with silence, and dozens of eyes slowly moved from the poem to Qin Sangzhi’s shifting expression, and then to Chu Huaicun standing behind him.

Chu Huaicun let out a soft “Hm?” before straightening. His snowy white robes flowed like a gleaming sword under spring light. He rose, intending to inspect the poem, and in doing so, brushed shoulders with Ji Ying.

Their garments briefly brushed together—such closeness was fleeting, but they had been closer before.

A hand grasped his.

Ji Ying’s expression was grim. As their clothes brushed in passing, he seized Chu Huaicun’s hand tightly. Outwardly, he still bore the look of a man besieged by criticism, his face even paler than before. But between clenched teeth, he forced out two almost inaudible words:

“…Trust me.”

Chu Huaicun’s steps faltered briefly. To the outside world, it looked as if he had merely glanced down at Ji Ying with icy contempt before moving away. He reached the table where Qin Sangzhi stood. But the boy had already realized he could not afford to let this slip grow into a catastrophe. As Chu Huaicun approached, he quickly folded the paper in front of him, not even noticing how wrinkled it had become.

With studied nonchalance, the boy said:
“I didn’t write it very well this time. I won’t trouble Prime Minister Chu to read it. I’ll write out a better one later and send it to your residence.”

He clutched the paper tightly, determined not to let go.

The others didn’t care much—especially those scholars still reliant on his favor. The only person whose opinion truly mattered was Chu Huaicun. In truth, even the reason Qin Sangzhi had agreed to transcribe the poem was not due to Ji Ying’s pressure, but because of Chu Huaicun’s earlier words in his defense.

But Chu Huaicun saw through his thoughts.

More than Qin Sangzhi, Chu Huaicun was an expert judge of character. Qin Sangzhi assumed that the scholars he’d invited wouldn’t dare challenge him, but Chu Huaicun knew otherwise. If the tide turned, these same men would pick at this “trivial flaw” over and over again.

Since Qin Sangzhi had dug this pit himself, Chu Huaicun had no intention of covering it up for him again.

Facing the young man before him, Chu Huaicun finally softened his tone a little:

“Young Lord Qin need not be so modest. Everyone here can see that there is nothing wrong with the poem you recorded—any doubt will vanish.”

Every word was like a sharp knife stabbing into Qin Sangzhi’s heart. He almost couldn’t keep his expression neutral, unable to meet the eyes of the scholars gathering nearby. He only responded vaguely to Chu Huaicun. The prime minister, however, smiled faintly and turned to the crowd once more:

“Today’s matter is resolved. I ask that you speak of it widely after you leave, to help restore Young Lord Qin’s good name.”

Qin Sangzhi wanted to crawl into the ground from the shame.

By this point, the poetry banquet had lost all of its elegant charm. Each attendee was wrapped in private thoughts. Qin Sangzhi forced himself to drink a few more cups and reluctantly gave closing remarks for the event. Even the Seventh Prince, who had been sitting quietly the entire time, seemed unaffected. He hadn’t followed the others to see Qin Sangzhi’s poem and harbored some unknown intent.

As for Ji Ying, after Chu Huaicun’s comments, he quietly returned to his seat.

His black hair draped over his shoulders, which he had pushed back several times. When Chu Huaicun sat down beside him, the distance between them seemed even smaller than before. Ji Ying found himself distracted by these trivial details. He had come here for a purpose, and that purpose had been fulfilled—he had disrupted the poetry gathering more successfully than expected. And that was because of Chu Huaicun…

Everything Chu Huaicun said and did had seemed cold and unfamiliar, yet on the surface, he still appeared to protect Qin Sangzhi.

But still. Still.

Ji Ying lowered his eyes, expression unreadable. His palm still tingled with heat.

When he grabbed Chu Huaicun’s hand earlier, it had been impulsive—bold and reckless. After whispering “Trust me,” he’d felt the words were too presumptuous. Chu Huaicun had always cared for Qin Sangzhi. How could he compare?

He had prepared himself to see the fragile bond they’d just mended shatter once more.

Yet Chu Huaicun stopped for him.

His face remained calm, still like frost, but he had responded—gently tracing a word into Ji Ying’s palm. Ji Ying held his breath in that moment, piecing together the hurried stroke like deciphering a miracle. Chu Huaicun quickly brushed past him, and Ji Ying slowly exhaled.

“I said, trust me.”
And his reply was:

“All right.”

Chu Huaicun slowed his steps slightly, waiting for Ji Ying to catch up. Ji Ying was the first to speak, lowering his long lashes. The damp spring breeze of March clung gently around them. He was walking alone with the person he liked, amid the bright scenery of lake and mountains, and all he wanted was to delay the serious talk a little longer—to savor this moment more fully.

He paused with rare care, cherishing the silence before he broke it:
“What does the Prime Minister want with me?”

There were no obstacles around Qingyu Lake, and with Chu Huaicun’s secret guards having cleared the area, there was no worry about anyone intruding. Chu Huaicun turned to face him, and only then did he carefully look him over from head to toe, asking,
“Does it still hurt?”

“Oh,” Ji Ying took a moment to register, realizing that Chu Huaicun was referring to his injury. “No. It doesn’t hurt much now.”

They both fell into silence again—almost in sync.

“Earlier I said to Lord Ji that Qingyu Lake has beautiful scenery. It’s a shame you didn’t have the chance to come see it. Now that you’re here, I thought I ought to walk with you along the shore. Otherwise, wouldn’t it be misleading of me?”

Chu Huaicun’s expression softened slightly, the sharpness that usually clung to him now subdued. He looked more like a graceful swordsman in flowing white than a fearsome statesman. Though the sun hadn’t quite set, twilight was beginning to spread. As they walked together, Ji Ying gradually moved closer, their steps nearly falling in sync. It reminded him suddenly of how snakes hunt—

Moving silently toward their prey…
Then striking in a flash.

“Is that so?” Ji Ying replied easily, following along with his words. “To be honest, I’ve never had the chance to stroll leisurely in a place like this.”

“Is Lord Ji very busy?”

“Of course,” Ji Ying blinked once. “Busy… Too busy for things like this. And someone like me—probably doesn’t deserve to enjoy them anyway.”

“Someone like you?”

“There’s no need for me to repeat it, is there?” Ji Ying gave a faint smile. “You must’ve heard what they say about me.”

“I don’t like judging someone based on what others say.”

Chu Huaicun’s voice felt like the distant sky—vast and unchanging, impossible to sway.

“Then how does the Prime Minister see me?”

Ji Ying decided to pose a slightly harder question. “For example—what I just did to Young Lord Qin.”

“You shouldn’t have—”

Chu Huaicun began, but Ji Ying cut him off. He had expected it and only tilted his head slightly. Ji Ying, however, avoided his gaze and smiled:
“What’s wrong? Does the Prime Minister feel sorry for him?”

“More than Qin Sangzhi, the one likely to suffer is you,” Chu Huaicun paused. “I don’t want you taking risks. Before you officially fall under my command, Lord Ji, you should learn to protect yourself.”

“And after that?”

Their conversation now sounded like the casual talk of old friends. The twilight had cast large, blurry shadows over Qingyu Lake. It was getting harder to see each other clearly, but the atmosphere was all the more relaxed. Ji Ying, unusually, didn’t talk back—perhaps he too had been hoping for this outcome.

Then he asked, a glimmer in his eyes that Chu Huaicun couldn’t see:
“And after that?”

Chu Huaicun calmly replied,
“Then I will protect you.”

“You say it like you mean it.”

Ji Ying kicked a small stone by his foot. His voice had lightened, as if softened by the damp wind of evening. The man beside him seemed awkwardly pleased. Chu Huaicun could tell he would try to reach for his hand in a few heartbeats. He looked away, gazing toward the vast waters in the distance. Suddenly, he realized it had been years since he truly appreciated the view by Qingyu Lake.

He saw through Ji Ying clearly—yet somehow felt that not pulling away might not matter.

Sure enough, after two or three seconds, a finger brushed lightly against his—testing, tentative. Ji Ying wasn’t a subtle person, but he followed that small allowance with shameless persistence, grasping Chu Huaicun’s hand completely. His touch was dry and cold.

Chu Huaicun’s expression didn’t change. A man like him should have stood high above, his icy eyes never landing on someone like Ji Ying. But Ji Ying knew that his pace had slowed to match his, and now their fingers were intertwined.

“Why?” Ji Ying asked.

He looked at the man beside him with a slight smile, ready to say anything:
“Has the Prime Minister fallen for me too? Or do you just pity me—is that why you treat me this way? Don’t worry about sparing my feelings. I can take whatever answer you give. The way you’re acting… it’s already making me feel so happy I could go mad. Wouldn’t it be kind of you to throw a little cold water on me?”

“It’s not pity,” Chu Huaicun paused. “…But not quite love yet, either.”

“Oh.” Ji Ying accepted the answer, and even so, a bit of satisfaction showed on his face. Chu Huaicun thought this quiet, compliant version of Ji Ying—walking beside him like this—was strangely rare.

Then Ji Ying asked again:
“Has the Prime Minister come here with anyone else before?”