TBR CH121

Chu Huaicun’s question had its reasons.

In his memory, that man almost never drank. Even two shallow sips of mild wine were enough to leave him swaying and light-headed. Tonight’s green bamboo wine, though not strong, was already more than sufficient.

However, Ji Ying’s moment of confusion passed quickly.

He lowered his gaze, downed the contents of his cup in one go, and his eyes remained clear.

“Lord Prime Minister jests. It’s just clear wine—how could it intoxicate? If anything, last time we met, it was you who seemed quite inebriated.”

Ji Ying had the temperament of someone who never let a slight go unanswered. Whatever Chu Huaicun said, Ji Ying would always find a way to return the favor—never yielding an inch.

Yet bringing up that matter, which they had tacitly agreed to forget, was clearly a misstep. Only after speaking did Ji Ying realize he’d slipped. The sweet, mellow wine he’d just swallowed began to burn faintly in his chest.

Chu Huaicun studied him, his gaze like unthawed snow—chilling and scrutinizing.

Ji Ying pulled a dark, almost cruel smile.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,”
he said softly. “Instead of worrying whether I’ll get drunk, perhaps Lord Prime Minister should concern himself with the newly revealed Seventh Prince. Look—he, the Crown Prince, and Prince Duan are already standing in plain sight.”

The Emperor’s revelation had sent shockwaves through the court.
The Crown Prince, seated among the ministers, looked utterly ashen. He was never good at hiding his temper—especially not now, when he had already secured the position of heir apparent, only to see the deposed Prince Duan return… and now face the sudden appearance of a royal bastard.

He instinctively looked toward the Prime Minister, but Chu Huaicun wasn’t looking at him.

Countless gazes turned to Chu Huaicun.

After the initial flurry of whispers and confusion, every official in the hall instinctively looked to him. Everyone knew: the Emperor had deliberately chosen this festive atmosphere to drop the bombshell about the illegitimate child, forcing them to take a stand. Proper decorum dictated that they react with joy for the continuation of the imperial bloodline.

But this was clearly a direct provocation to the Crown Prince’s faction—and to Chu Huaicun himself.

Chu Huaicun’s power had become overwhelming.

His face remained calm and cold; he said nothing. The banquet hall fell into a moment of awkward silence, as the seated guests exchanged uneasy glances.

Until Ji Ying’s heavy voice broke the silence.

He clapped his hands and stood, still wearing that fake smile, while his poisonous gaze swept across the hall—like a venomous snake in the shadows. Everyone felt as if they were being targeted.

“Why so quiet, my lords? Allow me to take the lead.”
“Congratulations to His Majesty on his ever-growing lineage—another dragon joins the bloodline! Truly a day of double blessings. This is not only fortune for the court, but a joy for the entire realm. With the Crown Prince and Prince Duan guiding him, the Seventh Prince is sure to grow into a man of both virtue and talent, fit to serve the nation.”

He rose from beside Chu Huaicun, the scent of dragon musk on his robes growing more cloying. His speech was flawless, the perfect example of sycophancy—exactly what one would expect from him.

Chu Huaicun suddenly found himself wondering:
Just how long had Ji Ying knelt in that incense-filled palace before the smell soaked into his very bones?

Following Ji Ying’s lead, his faction quickly followed suit, beaming and pledging loyalty to the Emperor.

The Northern Defense General, still fresh to court politics, laughed along clumsily, echoing the crowd’s cries of long live the Emperor.

The so-called noble clean-faction families had always been fickle in their allegiance.
They disdained Ji Ying’s political scheming, but cursed Chu Huaicun with equal fervor for being an ambitious wolf in sheep’s clothing.
In this moment of uncertainty, many of them stood up to offer congratulations—some so enthusiastically moved, they even shed tears.

After years of being overshadowed by the so-called traitor Prime Minister, and with a weak Crown Prince in place, the Emperor had seemed fully under control.
Now—with the return of the deposed prince and the appearance of a legitimate heir—the political winds were shifting again.

And so, under this tide of shifting loyalties, the Seventh Prince finally made his entrance.
Far from the grandeur people imagined of imperial children, he looked rather ordinary: slender, with long, narrow eyes that were a shared trait among royal kin.
Having grown up outside the palace, he seemed almost blinded by the dazzling imperial yellow that now surrounded him.

He walked under the scrutiny of the entire court, doing his best to appear calm.

But the moment he met Chu Huaicun’s icy gaze, the young prince couldn’t suppress a shiver.

At this first appearance, the Seventh Prince didn’t aim to impress. It was likely that the Emperor had told him not to stand out too much.

He bowed respectfully to the Emperor, then quietly took his seat—eyes lowered in quiet submission.

Prince Duan was the first to raise a toast to him. The Crown Prince, too, reluctantly lifted his cup toward this sudden brother. His mood lightened noticeably upon seeing the young prince’s timid manner—perhaps believing that someone so sheltered could never stir up real trouble.

But those with sharp eyes could see—this young Seventh Prince had a quiet cunning about him, immune to flattery or pressure.

At last, a true smile touched the Emperor’s face.
One side of his mouth twitched upward, struggling to form a grin, while his clouded eyes remained fixed—not on the Seventh Prince, but on Chu Huaicun.

Chu Huaicun was not like him.
He was young and sharp, a hidden blade whose authority could not be masked, even under his snowy, immortal-like robes.

The old man spoke slowly:
“Is Lord Qin present?”

Only then did Chu Huaicun’s fingers move slightly.

There was no doubt—the Emperor was referring to Qin Sangzhi.
And yes, he was present at the banquet.

Under Chu Huaicun’s covert support, the young scholar had risen like a comet. His reputation was spotless—untainted by corruption. Qin Sangzhi had once voiced concern that association with a powerful figure like Chu might damage his pristine image, so Chu Huaicun had always refrained from approaching him publicly.

Since that incident two days prior, Chu had not spoken to him once.

Not because he lacked the skill to feign civility—but because Qin Sangzhi had returned to his usual frosty indifference.
Chu Huaicun’s people had even been blocked at the scholar’s gates.
The once-mighty Prime Minister now had to grovel just for a chance to earn the young man’s favor.
That had always been Qin Sangzhi’s way with him—aloof and unforgiving.

Even though Chu Huaicun had been poisoned and protected Qin in his delirium, the scholar held fast to his resentment—blaming him all the same.

Just like Ji Ying had said.

At that moment, Qin Sangzhi stepped out from among the civil officials—without sparing Chu Huaicun a single glance.

He was aloof as ever, dressed in robes as pure as untouched snow.
Like a figure out of myth—serene, radiant, and above the mortal dust.
He brushed the hem of his robe and stepped to the center of the hall, bowing to the Emperor, though clearly with some reluctance.

Even the faintest change in Chu Huaicun’s expression did not escape Ji Ying’s notice.
The Emperor’s watchdog smiled all the more deeply, his saccharine scent growing heavier.

His voice, low and mocking, was sharper than ten ordinary jabs:

“As expected… Lord Qin shows up, and suddenly the Prime Minister grows uneasy.”

Chu Huaicun hadn’t heard anyone speak to him in such a tone in a long while.
For a moment, he actually found it novel.
Compared to Qin Sangzhi’s blunt scolding and moral superiority, these few snide remarks almost felt refreshing.

The Emperor’s smile, however, was flawless—leaving no room for reproach.
He looked fondly upon Qin Sangzhi and praised him aloud.

Such brilliance in youth, unmatched talent and virtue, and a spirit untouched by worldly stain—his future was boundless.

He seemed not at all concerned with the boy’s lack of perfect decorum, and Qin Sangzhi quickly rose to his feet, his face proud and cold as he listened to the praise.

“This,” the Emperor added softly, “is all thanks to Lord Prime Minister Chu.”

Yet beside Chu Huaicun’s ear, that murky voice didn’t stop—it enunciated each word with precision:

“If not for Lord Prime Minister Chu, someone like him would’ve been torn to the bone by the court long ago.”

“What kind of person?”

Chu Huaicun finally responded.
His voice was quiet, almost like the faint rasp of jade sliding against jade—subtle and cold.

“Lord Ji, what sort of person do you think he is?”

In the center of the grand hall, Qin Sangzhi basked in the gaze of admiration and envy.
The reigning emperor showered him with praise.
The man who truly held power—Chu Huaicun—was wrapped around his finger, quietly chasing him like a humbled suitor.

He was a noble family’s honored guest, often issuing bold statements among the scholarly elite, unafraid of retribution, admired and untouchable.

His voice was clear and cold:
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

But in his mind, he said calmly to the system:

“See? I was right. Since I stepped into the hall, Chu Huaicun’s gaze hasn’t left me. Instead of chasing someone, it’s better to make them—”

“Grateful. Guilty. That way, they’ll treat my affection like a gift and go out of their way to please me.”

The system remained silent.

Its host truly had a method.
In his original world, this same strategy let him manipulate people into unthinking loyalty.

He stole a devoted admirer’s research and published it first, gaining widespread acclaim. His entire career afterward was built on stitching together the efforts of others, who—under his subtle guidance—came to believe they were worthless, that their work rightfully belonged to him.

Some woke up too late, branded as plagiarists and hounded to ruin—even death.

Only when someone finally exposed the truth did Qin Sangzhi’s reputation collapse. For someone who prized his image above all, it was a death sentence. He took sleeping pills and ended it.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in another world—and before he could process the shock, he heard a voice speak directly into his mind:

“Hello, Host. I am your system.”

To the system, Qin Sangzhi’s downfall had merely been an accident—one it would now prevent. With his experience and cunning, he was the perfect partner.

And to Qin Sangzhi, this new world was paradise. A place to start again.

—

Chu Huaicun knew—his former self would’ve been anxious at the sight before him.

The old emperor loathed him; who knew what schemes lay beneath this sudden favor?
Qin Sangzhi, pure-hearted, had always drawn trouble. Chu had protected him closely from high above, yet couldn’t stop the youth from walking right into the storm.

Now, as Chu narrowed his eyes and looked at Qin Sangzhi, there was no ripple in his heart—only a glacial clarity.

Qin stood in glory at the center of the court. The Emperor, smiling, asked him to compose a poem.

He paused thoughtfully, his gaze flickering as though staring into the air, and began to recite. The world knew Qin Sangzhi’s talent was unmatched—able to compose verse on the spot—and now he proved it again.

The youth clasped his hands behind him and smiled:

“It just so happens I was moved by the moment. I’ve come up with a poem titled ‘Bring in the Wine’, and I offer it to His Majesty.”

At once, attendants brought out brush, ink, and jade inkstone.
A graceful palace maid stood ready to transcribe, brush poised over parchment.
Qin Sangzhi stood there proudly, basking in everyone’s attention.

Except for one person: the sycophant Ji Ying beside Chu Huaicun.

Ji Ying had a slight smile on his lips, but his gaze remained fixed on the obsidian ring in his hand—clearly uninterested.

Qin’s gaze briefly paused on him, then turned away, cold disdain showing plainly on his face—as if refusing to associate with such a villain.

Then, his focus returned.

Before him, the system unveiled an invisible screen, displaying verses from his original world. He merely had to recite them aloud, and they would be seen as his own.

With ease and arrogance, he began:

“Have you not seen, the waters of the Yellow River come down from the sky—”

Chu Huaicun watched this man—who had fooled him for so long with the help of a “system.”
The Black Book had long since revealed the truth: Qin’s so-called genius was nothing but theft—plagiarized masterpieces from his past life. Though the verses were breathtaking, even divine, when spoken by Qin Sangzhi, they lacked something—some genuine emotional depth.

It made Chu wonder: What kind of soul had created these lines in the first place? How extraordinary must they have been?

He studied him intently. Ji Ying took notice.

“Why ask me, Lord Prime Minister?”

Though some time had passed since the question, Ji Ying now answered softly.

“In your eyes, there’s no fault to find in Qin Sangzhi. I have no taste for poetry, nor knowledge of fine literature—how could I dare judge?”

“But you resent him,” Chu said plainly, turning his gaze.

By now, Qin had finished his “composition.”
The court erupted into admiration.
Praise, like a sea of blossoms, piled before him. Some were already reciting his lines, savoring them in awe; many more looked at him with pure worship.

The royal family praised him.
And even the mighty Prime Minister Chu said:

“Truly a fine poem—worthy of the ages.”

With imperial favor and the Prime Minister’s support, no one dared object. Even if some noticed something strange in the verses, they wouldn’t dare voice it.

Only Ji Ying had the nerve to break the mood—his mocking laugh like a splash of cold water.

The Emperor’s cloudy eyes turned toward him:

“Oh? Lord Ji has a different opinion?”

The scrutiny suddenly shifted to the man beside him—a rare occurrence for Chu Huaicun.
Though the knives aimed at him were always sharp and many, none stung like the venom now turned on Ji Ying.
All those mocking, accusing eyes—whispers about his unclean origins and shameless ambition—now bore down on him like a black sea of scorn.

“Of course I’m no match for Qin Sangzhi’s brilliance,”
Ji Ying said lightly, swirling his wine, eyes downcast, voice tinged with malicious amusement.
“But I wonder—what ‘King Cheng’ is this? From what era? What records? And then… Qin Sangzhi’s table holds nothing but a few cups of weak wine, yet he sings of wild drunken revelry? I simply found it amusing.”

He had deliberately stepped into the spotlight—and Qin Sangzhi’s face darkened with displeasure.

Chu Huaicun sighed silently, already anticipating what Ji Ying would say next.
Though their factions clashed, he agreed with Ji Ying’s words. But in public, he couldn’t allow anyone to tarnish Qin Sangzhi’s image. His old self would’ve never tolerated it.

Ji Ying knew this too.
The noble families would never allow someone like him to sully their beloved Qin Sangzhi.

“I suppose Lord Qin merely misspoke,” he added, as if backing down.

Hotheaded scholars immediately stood up to argue:
“As for strong or weak wine—that’s nonsense. Lord Qin was moved by the atmosphere, inspired by others drinking. Isn’t that natural? You… someone like you, Lord Ji, wouldn’t understand.”

The last sentence was said with scorn.
They almost called him “vermin,” though the scholar was smart enough not to say it aloud.

Ji Ying only smiled wider—his expression dark and venomous.
The scholar felt chilled to the bone. This man truly is a snake… who knows what retaliation might come?

By now, Qin Sangzhi had recovered.
Standing proudly, he replied coldly:

“I said ‘King Chang,’ not ‘King Cheng.’ I spoke quickly, that’s all. You misheard.”

The momentum fully returned to Qin Sangzhi’s side.
Ji Ying still stood cold and unmoved, his deep violet robe like frozen blood, absorbing every glare and insult, gathering more enemies—and more infamy.

No one asked him to sit.
It seemed he would stubbornly stand forever, waiting for more attacks to rain down.

Then Chu Huaicun spoke, calm and cold—yet every word weighed a thousand pounds:

“You’ve heard it, Lord Ji. Just a misunderstanding. To dwell on it would be… unbecoming.”

Chu Huaicun’s word was law.
His decree signaled the end of the matter.

Qin Sangzhi’s lashes fluttered. Hearing Chu speak up for him, he gave the Prime Minister a rare glance—like frozen snow beginning to melt. For the first time, he was willing to soften.

But Ji Ying didn’t seem inclined to cooperate.

The two sat very close.
Beneath the wide sleeves of their robes, fabric brushed together softly.
Chu Huaicun quietly reached out under his sleeve and gave Ji Ying a subtle tug.
The man stiffened at the touch, nearly snapping his head around in shock. Even his pulse skipped.

Chu Huaicun’s fingers were long, cool as jade, firm with the strength of a swordsman.

Ji Ying shot him a quick, complex glance, then turned away.
But he obediently let himself be pulled down, sitting back into his seat in silence.

As he touched the cushion, he muttered something under his breath.
Chu Huaicun thought he heard: “What character do I have, anyway?”—
but wasn’t sure if he’d misheard.

No one saw how these two—supposedly irreconcilable enemies—had, for a brief moment, touched in public, unnoticed by all.

As Ji Ying sat down, he tried to speak to the strange rhythm of his own heart:

“You even slept with him—what does this count as? Besides, you only did it to save Qin Sangzhi from embarrassment. What’s it got to do with you?”

But he found—he couldn’t quite convince his heartbeat of that.

At the very moment Ji Ying sat down, Chu Huaicun withdrew his hand from his wrist.

The Prime Minister’s expression remained cold as snow, even the color of his lips pale. It was as if he had never done anything unnecessary—serene and quietly overpowering, presiding over the court like an unshakable force. And yet, his hand had been cold—so cold that even after it let go, the sensation remained on Ji Ying’s skin, like a mark burned into him.

To Chu Huaicun, the gesture had truly meant nothing.

He disliked physical closeness with others, but merely reaching out to pull someone down—it hardly counted as intimacy. Besides, unwilling as he might be, he and Ji Ying had shared far more intimate moments than this.

But why?

—Was it because he didn’t want to see Ji Ying, the one who had dared to object, become the target of scorn?
Was it a flicker of pity, knowing full well that Qin Sangzhi’s poem was problematic?
Or was it simply part of playing the role—of showing false leniency to the so-called Child of Fate, to help smooth things over?

Chu Huaicun thought back to many years ago.

Back when that person was still by his side.
He had only just begun learning poetry, and often found the words unbearably troublesome—elusive and hard to pin down. He much preferred sharpening his sword, listening to the zheng zheng whistle of the Frostblade slicing through air in the training grounds. So once again, he had skipped his lessons.

But that time had been different—because he had come looking for him. Resigned but indulgent, he hadn’t forced Chu back to class. Instead, they sat idly together, and he began to speak of poetry.

“‘Intent in the heart becomes expression in poetry’—that’s from the Great Preface of the Book of Songs,”
he said.
“Writing poetry is a deeply personal matter. Only when your thoughts truly stir, when you feel something deeply, can you write a good poem. You must resonate completely with the emotion within the verse.”

He was always serious about poetry.
Chu Huaicun had known that.

He had outshone all his peers—his poems already praised by great scholars and noblemen.

“What matters most in poetry is the heart,” he had said with a smile.
“Huaicun, I know this topic is a bit dry. Anyway, if you don’t want to write, that’s fine. Just listen to the lessons. Otherwise, even if you do feel something someday, you won’t have the words to express it.”

That moment, for some reason, came vividly back to Chu Huaicun now—on the court floor, so many years later.

Everything about that man—his emotion, his heart, his integrity—and all those things that once couldn’t be named, couldn’t be understood…
Now, when he tried to recall them, they felt like scattered dust.
Gone.
Impossible to piece back together again.