TBR CH119

When Chu Huaicun opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the swaying shadows of flowers outside the window. The dark shadows were strikingly vivid, and the crimson blossoms adorned the branches in full bloom. In the next second, his hand gripped the sword. The blade gleamed like cold water, pressed tightly against the neck of the person before him—an instinctive movement.

Chu Huaicun didn’t like anyone getting too close to him.

Especially when that person was considered his enemy.

Ji Ying had woken up even earlier than him. At least, when the sword was pointed at him, he was fully dressed, with no particular disarray except for some stubborn wrinkles on his deep purple official robe. He was frowning, looking at the marks on his wrist.

“Isn’t Lord Chu being a bit unkind?” he said softly, his voice still carrying a trace of hoarseness. “No matter how you look at it, last night we shared the pleasures of the bed. Turning on me so quickly isn’t exactly the conduct of a gentleman.”

With those words, memories of the night flooded back. Chu Huaicun recalled standing in the shadows of the prince’s mansion walls, reading an absurdly ridiculous novel—one where the protagonist shared his name. Then the carriage from the Prime Minister’s residence finally arrived, albeit late. Yet Qin Sangzhi was still inside, his cold and aloof voice cutting through the night.

The black book had warned him: “Do not meet him, or your mind will still be controlled.”

So, he gripped his sword and moved through the depths of the prince’s mansion under the cover of night, aimless, with only the growing heat at his fingertips. Initially, Chu Huaicun had planned to find the cold pool beneath the artificial mountain. The icy water reflected his eyes, tinged with the coldness of moonlight and a hint of a lone beast’s ferocity.

His throat was parched, and he realized the icy water could not serve as an antidote.

Silently, Chu Huaicun turned on his heel, deciding to lock himself in one of the guest rooms in the mansion. His snow-white robes stood out starkly against the deep darkness of the night, betraying the proud beast. Outside the guest room, the swaying flower shadows cast heavy, dark silhouettes. Someone emerged from the thick fragrance. Ji Ying’s expression was an ambiguous half-smile:

“What kind of spell has Lord Chu fallen under?”

Chu Huaicun ignored him, heading inside, but Ji Ying blocked his path. The man’s dark purple official robe nearly blended into the darkness, and there was no one else around. The sword in Chu Huaicun’s hand gave no warning hum, indicating that Ji Ying had indeed come alone. Ji Ying’s漆黑 (漆黑 = jet-black) pupils melted into the night, obscure and unreadable.

Everyone’s pupils are dark. Chu Huaicun met his gaze with equal composure:

“Move.”

His voice was rough, as if scraped by sandpaper, or burning with a hidden fire.

In front of him, Ji Ying felt the illusion of being stared down by a dangerous, proud beast. This man, clearly consumed by desire, wore his white robes with an aura of lethal intent—utterly improper.

Ji Ying paused, concealing the panic of his hurried arrival. He swallowed words sharp as blades, his eyelashes lowering as his fingers brushed closer, hooking onto the arm holding the sword.

“With such a rare opportunity, how could I…”

Before he could finish, Chu Huaicun pinned him against the wall, the scent of incense on him filling the air—a refined, subtle fragrance. Chu Huaicun’s cold, unyielding fingers gripped Ji Ying’s neck, forcing him to tilt his head slightly, his breathing uneven.

He was scrutinized with a gaze devoid of any warmth or intimacy, filled only with cold desire.

In the final moment, Ji Ying did not struggle. He tried to find the most fitting word to describe himself.

And indeed, it was: self-inflicted degradation.

Recalling everything that had happened didn’t seem to make the situation any clearer.

Chu Huaicun frowned slightly at the man before him, whose ambiguous smile never faded, wondering if he had any sense of shame at all.

Last night, he had clearly cried intensely.

Chu Huaicun couldn’t recall exactly what he had done, only that under the influence of the drug, he had shown no mercy, coldly restraining Ji Ying. He only remembered the sound of whimpers, too distracted to notice the tear-streaked face.

Yet now, Ji Ying had quickly adjusted his demeanor, his interactions layered with thick falseness.

Chu Huaicun was familiar with this kind of reaction—they were both people unwilling to show weakness, never exposing their vulnerable sides.

Ji Ying left little impression on him, especially outside the court. Their encounters were so few that Chu Huaicun couldn’t even recall if they had ever spoken alone.

Or rather—

Ever since Qin Sangzhi appeared, Chu Huaicun had been so indifferent to everyone else that it bordered on neglect.

Ji Ying had risen in the court just after Qin Sangzhi arrived in the capital. A staunch royalist, handpicked by the emperor, he was forcibly placed in the Ministry of Personnel. Under Chu Huaicun’s control, the court had few loopholes to exploit, but the old emperor’s bet on Ji Ying had clearly paid off.

In just one year, Ji Ying had formed his own faction, rising from the Ministry of Personnel to the Ministry of Revenue, where he fully embraced the role of a corrupt, villainous minister in the most lucrative position.

This man must be formidable.

Chu Huaicun thought that if he had paid attention earlier, Ji Ying might not have grown into a force he could no longer easily shake.

Thanks to the “Child of Destiny,” Ji Ying had quickly become his greatest rival in the court.

Contrary to popular opinion, Chu Huaicun mused absently. Then, he felt a lightness in his heart, as if some shackle had cracked open. His emotions were no longer controlled by some forceful power, finally allowing him to notice other things. But by the time he belatedly recognized Ji Ying’s threat—

He was faced with this inexplicable enemy who had somehow spent the night with him.

Ji Ying seemed to misinterpret his silence.

Under the edge of Chu Huaicun’s sword, he tilted his head, the swaying flower shadows brushing against his face. His hair, for some reason, evoked the image of tangled spider webs—perhaps because Chu Huaicun had finally noticed this dormant venomous spider for the first time:

“Lord Chu need not speculate. Once I step out this door, we’ll go our separate ways, with no debts or schemes between us. No one will change their stance. Even if Lord Chu hates me, for the sake of the night I spent with you—”

He paused slightly. “Let’s not speak of this matter again.”

“Why?”

It wasn’t a good question, but Chu Huaicun asked it anyway. When speaking with him, there was no trace of a gentle tone; every word was sharper than the last:

“Why did you do this? Why do you think I hate you?”

“I’ve admired Lord Chu for years and couldn’t help myself in a moment of weakness. Would Lord Chu believe that?”

It was a lie.

His eyes said as much.

Ji Ying looked at Chu Huaicun’s expression and laughed. “Of course not. I simply wanted to destroy something. For instance, wasn’t Young Master Qin searching for you last night? Qin Sangzhi, renowned for his talent, a leader among scholars—I took his place and ruined your relationship. That was my true purpose.”

They sat on opposite sides of the bed, both in slightly disheveled clothes, yet the atmosphere suddenly grew tense, as if swords were drawn. His words were sincere, dripping with venom.

For such a person, no tactic would be too low.

Yet, unusually, Chu Huaicun didn’t press further. He lowered his sword, his expression softening slightly. Ji Ying hadn’t expected this reaction and was momentarily stunned.

“I don’t hate you.”

The man before him was cold and detached, showing tenderness to no one except Qin Sangzhi. Yet, at least last night, Chu Huaicun’s eyes had once again clearly reflected Ji Ying—

“You slept with someone he despises. Qin Sangzhi is a paragon of virtue; his attitude toward you will surely—”

Ji Ying blurted out, only to realize his misstep.

“I don’t have the energy to hate anyone.”

Chu Huaicun adjusted his sleeves slightly, standing up with an air of aloof pride. His ink-black hair fell loosely over his shoulders, making him resemble a striking landscape painting, vivid in its contrasts.

“You’ve misunderstood. Qin Sangzhi isn’t anyone special to me.”

Such words could only paint him as heartless. Under an irresistible influence, Chu Huaicun had been almost entirely at Qin Sangzhi’s beck and call—a fact obvious to all. Yet now, he dismissed Qin Sangzhi’s importance with a light, indifferent tone, devoid of any trace of emotion.

Ji Ying stared at him, his smile growing even more pronounced. As if joking, he breezed past the previous topic:

“I really wonder what kind of person could capture Lord Chu’s heart. Does such a person even exist?”

The atmosphere between them, for once, softened.

Chu Huaicun prepared to leave, but before doing so, he gave Ji Ying a cursory glance, wondering if the man was unwell after last night’s ordeal.

Though it wasn’t his intention, Ji Ying had deliberately put himself in a vulnerable position, and Chu Huaicun didn’t want to shirk responsibility.

—Unfortunately, even if Ji Ying was suffering, he clearly didn’t want Chu Huaicun to see it.

“Hm,” Chu Huaicun replied simply, “There is.”

He seemed utterly unconcerned by the faint mockery in Ji Ying’s words, answering the question purely and directly.

Chu Huaicun knew he didn’t need to respond to such a faintly provocative question, but having finally broken free from the so-called halo’s influence and reclaimed his true will, he couldn’t suppress his emotions.

He favored snow-white robes, subtle incense, and a white jade belt.

None of this was because of Qin Sangzhi.

The Child of Destiny had merely stolen his emotions, but he couldn’t compare to even a fraction of that person in his memories.

Ji Ying hadn’t expected such an unguarded answer. His usual air of control faltered for a moment, his eyes betraying barely concealed shock. He forcefully closed his eyes to mask his lapse, his lips tightening briefly, for the first time devoid of a smile.

“That person must be very different from me,” he murmured, as if speaking only to himself. “Surely a gentleman of radiant integrity, pure as clouds and rosy as dawn, worthy of Lord Chu’s enduring memory.”

Chu Huaicun glanced at him briefly.

The mere thought of that person seemed enough to thaw the icy detachment of Chu Huaicun, softening the frost in his eyes with a touch of human warmth. But he didn’t respond further, merely noting Ji Ying’s unconsciously curled fingers. Then, he calmly walked to the door, signaling that the absurd conjecture would go unanswered.

“Lord Ji,” he said, “We’ll meet again in court.”

After he left, Ji Ying remained seated on the edge of the bed. With Chu Huaicun gone, all his pretenses crumbled, and he silently stared in the direction of his departure.

It wasn’t until a biting pain gnawed at his chest that he realized it was time to leave. Standing up, he stumbled slightly, the aching soreness in his body settling in like a delayed reckoning, gnawing at his bones. Ji Ying steadied himself against a carved cabinet, taking a few staggering steps before barely regaining his composure.

“Chu Huaicun,” Ji Ying muttered his name through gritted teeth, his fingers curling involuntarily again. He couldn’t let go, nor could he fathom why this man could so effortlessly shatter him just as he tried to move on. His mind replayed Chu Huaicun’s final words over and over.

And that rare, fleeting warmth, like sunlight breaking through ice, tinged with nostalgia.

“I hate you,” he said to the empty room, his nails digging into his flesh. “…I truly hate you.”

Hate.

The word echoed in Ji Ying’s heart like a specter, uncontrollable, as chaotic thoughts crowded his mind. At some point, the initial hatred inexplicably dissipated, replaced by a light, fleeting joy rising in his chest.

Before leaving the prince’s mansion guest room, Ji Ying covered his face with his hand, unable to suppress the broken, intermittent laughter that slipped through his pale knuckles. He tried to force down the upturned corners of his mouth, lowering his head to look at the imperial purple-gold boots adorned with coiling dragon patterns.

Even with no one around, he spoke in a voice only he could hear:

“This is fine.”

Chu Huaicun did indeed have a white moonlight in his heart.

That person was naturally noble and refined, with a grace that captivated the world, once renowned for their astonishing talent. But now, they were nothing more than a wandering soul beneath a mound of withered grass, long forgotten by the world.

It was February, and the early spring chill in the capital’s outskirts still pierced through thin robes and flesh. Chu Huaicun knelt to light a white candle before the unmarked grave, brushing his hand over the moss-covered tombstone.

The moss left faint marks on his hand, but he didn’t care. The grave was neglected, looking less than dignified, as he hadn’t visited in a long time.

The tombstone bore no name, surrounded only by sparse green hills.

The powerful and influential Lord Chu personally swept the grave, then, in the biting early spring chill, opened the black book. It had reappeared on his desk when he returned to his residence, as if waiting for him to read it. Though Chu Huaicun had already communicated briefly with it, many questions remained unresolved.

“I am the Heavenly Dao,” the book’s pages revealed in bold, dripping ink.

“Heavenly Dao?” Chu Huaicun’s pupils reflected the ashen sky. He had no need to doubt the book’s supernatural nature, having already witnessed its power. He paused for a moment before asking:

“Why do you need my help? The Heavenly Dao governs the laws of the world and should be capable of far more than mortals.”

This was the part the world’s consciousness dreaded most. After a moment of reluctant hesitation, the book wrote:

“Bound by the laws of the world, I cannot directly interfere with reality.”

“You mean,” Chu Huaicun quickly grasped its meaning, “I am a force opposing this world—no, that’s not the point. This world is being disrupted by a force called the ‘System,’ and Qin Sangzhi possesses that System. That’s why I was once uncontrollably obsessed with him, even ignoring the source of that emotion.”

“Uh, basically, yes.”

“You need me to stall Qin Sangzhi’s ‘conquest’ progress and, as much as possible, expose his true nature in front of others?”

The most powerful villain in the court couldn’t possibly be overly friendly from the start, which left the black book feeling a slight sense of disappointment, though it had anticipated as much. At least it didn’t have to worry about being torn apart. The world’s consciousness quietly observed Chu Huaicun, finding this collaborator a bit too cold and inscrutable, his emotions hidden beneath an impassive exterior.

While it was nice that he didn’t mock or threaten it—

The book couldn’t discern Chu Huaicun’s true feelings at all.

And yet, this world was the closest the System had ever come to success among all the worlds it had experienced. Before arriving here, the world’s consciousness hadn’t imagined the situation could be this dire. It had fought with all its strength against the deeply rooted impressions in Chu Huaicun’s mind, finally managing to awaken him at the last moment and restore his free will.

However, when the black book tried to eliminate the abnormal emotions in the villain’s mind, it encountered resistance.

His emotions were real.

Erasing genuine feelings was tantamount to directly disrupting the world’s order. If the world’s consciousness had a human form, it would surely have broken out in a cold sweat. Everything felt off. The “heartthrob halo” no longer created false emotions as it had in previous worlds, nearly leading the consciousness to a catastrophic mistake.

The black book felt like crying.

Why was the process different this time? It frantically flipped through its pages, trying to find clues from the experiences of countless smaller worlds. Golden words flickered across the pages as they turned rapidly. Finally, it deduced the loophole this world’s aberrant System backup was exploiting.

It was simple—emotional displacement.

The System confused the target’s memories, making itself the most important person to them.

The white candle before the nameless tombstone flickered slightly in the biting cold wind. Chu Huaicun lowered his gaze to it. The candle’s flame, faint in the daylight, didn’t cast much noteworthy light, but it still illuminated the eyes of the powerful minister. Standing before the tombstone, his back straight, white robes billowing, he turned another page of the black book:

“Speak,” he said, his voice calm, yet the world’s consciousness flinched in alarm. “What else can’t you do?”

“I…” As if those frost-like eyes saw through everything, the black book could only confess honestly, “The laws of this world are on the verge of collapse, and I’ve already revealed as much of the heavenly secrets as I can. Even as the Heavenly Dao, there’s little I can do. So… I may need to trouble you further.”

Chu Huaicun’s expression remained unchanged, but in his mind, he had already dissected the world’s consciousness’s words several times.

Though it claimed to be the Heavenly Dao, its manner of speaking lacked any lofty air, sounding more like someone in distress seeking help, even revealing a hint of embarrassment when exposed. It seemed to instinctively feel a sense of familiarity with the world’s “villain,” perhaps because its previous collaborators had been more amicable?

The white candle burned quickly, its wax tears dripping onto the cold, damp earth.

If this was a transaction, conditions could be negotiated.

The “limit” was merely the other party’s claim, but Chu Huaicun wasn’t inclined to believe it. The book before him called itself the Heavenly Dao, capable of seeing the world’s past and predicting countless future paths. For decades, he had been searching for an answer, one that seemed to lie in the grave before him. Yet in the dead of night, he still couldn’t let go of that bone-deep obsession.

“I can help you,” Chu Huaicun said. “I only need the answer to one question.”

He didn’t even need to voice the question. At this time, in this place, before someone’s unmarked grave, there could only be one question worth discussing:

“—Is he still alive?”