TBR CH122

The palace banquet proceeded smoothly after that. Ji Ying, seated beside Chancellor Chu, inexplicably fell silent, sipping his sake in small, reserved mouthfuls. The freshly served Taihu carp had tender white flesh and sweet savory sauce, but Ji Ying never once lifted his chopsticks.

He’s not… angry, is he? Chu Huaicun thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have touched him.

But that thought barely flickered through his mind. He had no need to concern himself with a sycophant standing on the opposing side, let alone feel guilty over it. Ji Ying didn’t initiate conversation, and Chu Huaicun also coolly enjoyed the lavish feast, occasionally responding to other court officials’ attempts at small talk.

Then—an accidental glance.

Ji Ying had been keeping his gaze lowered. When the Chancellor declined a palace servant’s offer to pour wine and instead leaned forward to fill his own cup, his eyes suddenly met Ji Ying’s.

How to describe it? That look was like a blade—mercilessly trying to strip flesh off whatever it landed on. Ji Ying looked dazed and restless, as though at war with himself. Greed flickered in his eyes—bright at times, then dimming again—held back by sheer force of will, as if he feared those dark emotions might spread out like a spider’s web from the depths of his pupils.

Chu Huaicun’s hand paused midair. He realized his reflection had been caught in Ji Ying’s gaze.

A glass long cracked finally shattered.

In that split second, Chu Huaicun saw the last vestiges of Ji Ying’s restraint fall apart.

“What am I hesitating for?” Ji Ying murmured softly.

The beast had sunk its teeth in.

He bit his lip hard, then lifted his eyes to stare, unblinking. A vivid red bite mark stained his lip—likely left from anxious, distracted chewing. For some reason, the sight bothered Chu Huaicun. The color was too jarring, the pain behind it too sharp.

He stared back calmly. His pitch-black eyes remained untouched by the chaos of emotions swirling before him—if anything, they seemed to suppress it.

One official who had been planning to offer a toast sensed the strange tension between them and quietly backed away. Everyone knew better than to get involved in the power struggle between these two—it would be like stepping into a bear trap.

Chu Huaicun turned his face toward Ji Ying, black hair flowing like ink down his shoulders, framing a man as serene and untouchable as a celestial immortal.

And the more he looked like that, the more Ji Ying wanted to drag him down from his pedestal.

For over a decade, Ji Ying had been haunted by one phrase: “Why should he?”
When hatred ran too deep, it was easy to lose track of what was light and what was darkness. In his bleakest dreams, the person he hated most was this man sitting in front of him.

But when Chu Huaicun spoke with nostalgia of the man Ji Ying used to be, Ji Ying found himself hating the weakness of his own resentment.

“So what is Chancellor Chu after, exactly?”

Ji Ying let himself speak freely now.
“Did sleeping with me make you suddenly realize your enemy is not entirely without merit? Or have you finally decided I’m interesting enough to warrant a closer look?”

He chuckled.
“Either way, I’m honored. I don’t mind continuing a relationship with the Chancellor beyond mere political business. I only hope that when the time comes, you won’t accuse me of being a wolf in your home—or complain I’m dull company.”

His skin was pale, tucked neatly beneath a deep violet official’s robe. The serpents embroidered on his robe shimmered and quivered with every word, hissing, baring their fangs.

Chu Huaicun’s reason stirred ever so slightly.

Ji Ying idly twirled his now-empty wine cup between his fingers. Outwardly, he still wore a smile—the same one he wore whenever committing something society deemed unforgivable. But beneath the table, concealed by thick embroidered cloth, he had quietly slipped off his boots.

Chu Huaicun’s pristine white fishskin boots bore intricate patterns—now subtly nudged by Ji Ying’s foot, a gesture laced with unspoken intimacy.

This isn’t him.

That thought came to Chu Huaicun like a sudden flash of dew or lightning.

Nothing was that easy.

He only just learned that the man was still alive, and the very first person he tested was someone he was already looking for.

Ji Ying never wore white like he did.
He didn’t like fish.
He didn’t get drunk easily.
His words and actions were entirely different from the person in Chu’s memory—eccentric, impudent, with a completely opposite air about him.

So why— why did he still feel, somehow, there was the faintest chance that Ji Ying could be that bright, noble man from his past?

Only now did Chu Huaicun finally accept the truth:

That man would never have seduced him so brazenly.

In fact, such a thought was an offense in itself.

For the first time, Chu Huaicun found himself sighing. His own misplaced hopes felt ridiculous.
He needed some time alone with his sword—to cut through the noisy mess in his head. The dazzling splendor of the banquet left him blinking slowly, then meeting Ji Ying’s eyes again—cold and sharp, like a mirror of snow.

Ji Ying stared at him a moment longer. Then, as if suddenly understanding everything, he looked away with a smile:

“Seems I’ve embarrassed myself.”

His tone still carried a mocking air:

“But should you ever regret this, Chancellor Chu, I’ll be ready anytime.”

This infamous court traitor—known for his terrible personality—looked away, beginning to carefully erase every trace of having overstepped. Meanwhile, for the first time in two years, Chu Huaicun truly saw the man before him.

The process had been less than graceful, but—

Chancellor Chu did not punish people simply because they disappointed him.

He evaluated fairly.

Ji Ying, he decided, was full of contradictions.
More sensitive and stubborn than most, his body bristled with thorns, easy to offend—but at the same time, no one else discarded pride and reputation as easily as he did. His authority was brutally earned—either through coercion or imperial favor. And though he was scorned by the masses, he never wavered.

What a waste.

Chu Huaicun was surprised at the thought, then paused.

He didn’t dislike Ji Ying the way he disliked others.
Maybe because he was the only one who questioned the plagiarized poem.
Maybe because the drug-laced night had not yet faded from memory.
Or maybe because this man was brilliant—yet mired in filth of his own making. Self-degrading, when he could’ve shone.

Even if he hadn’t been testing him, there were still so many unanswered questions about him.

And for someone like Ji Ying, to expose himself so plainly… that wasn’t easy.
Ji Ying hated rejection.
When he appeared in the shadows like a ghost, draped in purple and making demands—there were few who dared turn him down.

Now, forced to take back every seductive advance, he was awkward, even humiliated.

Then Chu Huaicun suddenly said,
“Lord Ji, I believe I’ve yet to invite you to the Chancellor’s estate.”

Ji Ying was momentarily stunned—then his smile deepened.

“Is Chancellor Chu inviting me?”

His voice was strangely hoarse.

“Ah, of course. I wouldn’t dare overestimate myself. I understand your intent perfectly—merely a polite warning to keep my distance. After all, you shouldn’t associate with a groveling scoundrel like me.”

He lifted his hand, almost theatrically, to cover his lips—mocking in every motion:

“My apologies. I misspoke.”

Chu Huaicun had been interrupted mid-thought—and now, hearing Ji Ying’s smooth string of ironic assumptions, he actually began to wonder if his own words had sounded that sarcastic.

He realized Ji Ying’s spite wasn’t just for others—it was evenly distributed, even toward himself.

Sycophant. Traitor. Fickle.
Not exactly compliments.

“No,” Chu Huaicun said, ignoring Ji Ying’s bitter interpretations.

“I truly am inviting you. It’s only today that I’ve begun to understand you, Lord Ji. I think there’s much still left unsaid. If you’re willing, you’re welcome to visit anytime.”

The day after the banquet, Ji Ying did not visit.

Instead, the Northern Pacification General showed up at the Chancellor’s estate, visibly reluctant.

This large, burly man looked entirely out of place inside a carriage—but the streets of the capital would never allow a man to ride in on a towering steppe warhorse.

He had earned the most credit in suppressing the rebellion, making him the prime target of flattery from nobles and royals alike. He’d barely left the palace before being hosted repeatedly by the Prince of Duan, the Crown Prince—and even the recently registered Seventh Prince had invited him to “instruct the young royals in martial arts,” eager to crown him with the title of “Master.”

By all logic and courtesy, this should have been his first visit—to the Chancellor.

Everyone had seen the invitations sent. And yet, he was late.
In fact, it bordered on disrespect.
Even someone as powerful as Chu Huaicun couldn’t easily control a general whose contributions had been so critical and whose power was far removed from court politics.

The general leapt out of the carriage, finally able to stretch his limbs.

He frowned at the gatekeeper—thinking this place, like the rest of the capital, was full of convoluted rules. The Chancellor’s estate was particularly well-guarded. Soon enough, a steward and maid came to lead the way. He followed them past corridors and a scattering of blooming peach blossoms before catching sight of rooftops nestled within.

In the heart of the Chancellor’s estate, unlike most mansions, there were almost no servants in sight.

Chu Huaicun was already seated inside, having deliberately ordered a pot of water to be boiled—then left to cool.

He heard the door creak open and the heavy steps of boots—bringing with them a wild, unrefined air from the northern frontier.

And he did something rare: he smiled.

“Chu Huaicun,” the general said upon entering, blunt as ever.
“It’s been years—has your sword gone dull? Look at all these guards. What, scared of dying now?”

“Shut up,” Chu Huaicun cut him off firmly, not bothering to entertain his nonsense.

“There’s cold water on the table. Those princes only offer you tea and wine. Serve yourself.”

True to form, the general didn’t waste another word and began gulping the water noisily. His crude manners clashed with the capital’s obsession with decorum—but Chu Huaicun, for once, found it oddly endearing.

He couldn’t help but shake his head slightly and tap the table with a curled finger—

“Li Dahu…”

“Don’t call me that name,” he said between gulps of water, clearly now aware that his real name wasn’t exactly prestigious. “All you capital folks just call me ‘General.’”

He used to be quite proud of that name.

That was more than ten years ago, back when he was still a long way from earning the title. Back then, he and Chu Huaicun had joined the military at the same time. They shared a bond forged in blood. The battlefield had no mercy and only respected strength—Chu Huaicun wielded a masterful sword, and Li Dahu was born with brute strength, able to pull a bowstring taut until it groaned.

When the army later split, Li Dahu followed the Northern Frontier troops to the borders, while Chu Huaicun—driven by more practical goals—remained under the famed General of the Nation. He earned enough merit and took one step into the chaotic court.

No one had expected that the two once-obscure recruits would become what they were now—one, a lawless power-holder; the other, a great general known far and wide.

Very few people knew about their connection.

“All right,” said Chu Huaicun. “I don’t intend to manage you. The capital is already murky enough. Now that you’re here, everyone will try to win you over. Just remember two things. First—don’t make any promises to anyone. Second…”

“Stay away from you.”

The Northern Frontier General finally stopped drinking, wiped his mouth with satisfaction, and said, “I got your secret letter as soon as I returned to the capital. Heh, do you know how people talk about you now? Chu Huaicun, who would’ve thought back then that you’d become someone second only to the emperor himself? All I saw then was your cold face toward strangers.”

“I also never saw that you’d one day become the Northern Frontier General,”
Chu Huaicun replied with a slight, frosty smile, carrying a trace of mockery.

Wearing the brocade robes granted by the emperor, the general declared proudly, “I always believed I’d make something of myself.”

Chu Huaicun paused. It had been a long time since someone spoke to him like this. For a brief moment, he felt a flicker of nostalgia. But memories, like fleeting reflections, passed quickly. Judging by the man sitting across from him now—his once-trustworthy old comrade—this “attachment” from the frontier was nothing short of a headache, a ticking time bomb.

“Never mind,” Chu Huaicun said. “Let’s skip the reminiscing. How did Prince Duan end up coming back with you?”

“I’m not really sure either,” the general shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “After the battle at Jinzhou, the local governor and Prince Duan held a feast for us. They said Prince Duan had performed great deeds, killed over ten rebels with solid proof and witnesses, and asked me to report it back to court.”

“You didn’t see him with your own eyes?”

“Of course not—I was at the front lines,” the general scratched his head. “He probably killed a few people inside the city. I mean, there are plenty of brave warriors more deserving of rewards, but the imperial decree singled him out and demanded he return to the capital for commendation.”

Chu Huaicun nodded slightly.

That matched what he had heard. At the very least, Prince Duan had carefully covered all tracks, making his “battlefield valor” appear watertight. Digging further would be pointless.

“Oh, right,” the general suddenly slapped his thigh, “Did you hear about the supply shortage during the rebellion? The emperor specifically brought it up yesterday. He said the problem came from the Ministry of War—yeah, a logistical error. Damned bureaucrats! We were breaking our backs in battle. You know how miserable it gets when rations run low… I have to find out who was in charge of—”

“That was me.”

Chu Huaicun cut in, calmly observing the sudden shock and confusion on the general’s face.

He sighed, “That’s why I told you not to get too close to me. General Li… The truth is, you don’t even know what kind of person I’ve become. I’m guessing you haven’t heard only good things about me since arriving in the capital.”

The general went silent. Light filtered through the gauzy window, illuminating his clenched jaw.

He began to look at Chu Huaicun with increasing suspicion.

“I’ll investigate the matter,”
Chu Huaicun continued, resting his hand lightly on the hilt of his sword—just a habit. “Of course, I don’t expect you to trust me. General, you’re in a good position now. After you leave this room today, let’s not meet again in private. I have no ill intentions toward you, and I hope you understand that.”

The general’s doubt wasn’t on the same level as those old foxes at court. He stared at Chu Huaicun, his eyes showing visible confusion before slowly blanking out altogether.

Then he suddenly cursed.

Chu Huaicun, however, simply looked at him in silence.

“Damn it,” the general muttered, suddenly stumbling over his words, “You’re saying all this just because you think I won’t trust you, huh? You’ve always been like this, Chu Huaicun. Ever since we were green recruits. Cold face to everyone, but when I was nearly dead, you dragged me out of that battlefield, not anyone else.”

“If you hadn’t used brute force to smash open the city gates, we’d have all been trapped inside.”

“I remember,” Chu Huaicun said quietly. “No need to talk of debts.”

“I’ll stick with you,” the general looked over Chu Huaicun’s expression, “At least from the shadows, I’ll do what I can.”

Chu Huaicun allowed a faint curve to return to his lips.

Clad in white, he hadn’t even been this composed in the barracks. Now, he sat with the poise of a celestial being untouched by the mortal world. The general couldn’t help but think—sure, the capital was full of schemes, but it really did polish people. Yet one could still see the sword scars on Chu Huaicun’s palms—his swordsmanship likely hadn’t dulled one bit.

The atmosphere suddenly took on a nostalgic tone. The general scratched his head, then suddenly remembered something.

“By the way, when I arrived, I saw a huge peach grove in your estate. You’ve always liked peach blossoms. We used to tease you about it. You said it was because of someone… Chu Huaicun, have you found the person you’ve been looking for?”

“Not yet.”

Chu Huaicun lowered his eyes slightly, his lashes like raven feathers veiling the emotions buried deep beneath the icy surface of his gaze. Being reunited with an old comrade made memories easier to recall. The general hadn’t meant anything by the question, but now regretted bringing it up. Still, Chu Huaicun’s thoughts had already wandered, drifting once again to the day he joined the army.

Before that, he had stood on a green mountain outside the capital, in front of an unmarked tombstone, blood and tears scalding hot in his eyes. He had traced the name of that person over and over, as if his fingers could leave real marks on the stone.

But he could never carve the name.

It was taboo.

In the mist and chill of that mountain, the stench of burning still seemed to cling to the air. That was the largest fire he’d ever seen in his life. The flames had consumed everything—finely carved buildings, a thousand priceless scrolls in the library…

It devoured an entire family, erased them from history.

Including their brilliant and peerless eldest son.

The last thing that man had told Chu Huaicun was: “Don’t look back.”
But what he remembered most was the line before that—spoken by someone as noble and untouchable as the moon: “Don’t forget me.”
That phrase echoed like a curse, over and over in his dreams.

—

Chu Huaicun returned to the present.

He said to the general, but more to himself,
“I will find him.”

But at that moment, the general didn’t seem particularly concerned with his emotions. His expression suddenly turned awkward, like someone recalling a bad mistake too late. He shifted his feet uneasily—this burly man was never good at hiding it when something was on his mind.

“Um,” he said, “I just remembered something. It probably isn’t a big deal. On my way back to the capital, I casually asked someone about you. Just one sentence, really, and he didn’t even respond.”

…That could be a big deal.

Chu Huaicun remained composed, his voice cool and crisp:
“Who did you ask?”

If it had been some nobody, it wouldn’t matter. But if it were someone like Prince Duan—who likely harbored deep, bone-etched hatred for him—just the act of asking could give away too much.

Worse, most of the escorts for the return to the capital were appointed directly by the Emperor.

The general rubbed his nose sheepishly:

“It was that guy who sat next to you at the palace banquet. Everyone calls him Lord Ji. You two don’t get along, huh?”