TBR CH124

“Go bring Physician Zhang from the manor here,” Chu Huaicun said.

Ji Ying still didn’t look the least bit serious. When he heard that a doctor had been called, the smile on his face only grew more inscrutable. His face was pale, bloodless, and he clutched the peach blossom in his hand—but aside from that, there was nothing unusual.

“You actually believed me,”
he said with a laugh, delighted like a child getting away with mischief.

That mischievous gleam stayed on his face until Physician Zhang, white-haired and spry despite his age, hurried in. The old doctor trembled slightly as he extended his hand and placed it on Ji Ying’s wrist, tilting his head as if straining to detect something unusual from the crisscrossing veins.

Ji Ying, who had made a fuss earlier, now sat obediently and extended his wrist for diagnosis. From Ji Ying’s lowered lashes and expression, Chu Huaicun saw a trace of expectation—something unusual when facing a physician. As if… being diagnosed with a terminal illness was what he wanted.

“…Well…” Physician Zhang chose his words carefully,
“Lord Ji is merely a bit weak in constitution. Other than that, this humble servant sees no issues.”

Which was to say—he was perfectly fine.

The fragile hope shattered silently. The verdict of innocence didn’t surprise Ji Ying.

“…Does it still hurt?”

Chu Huaicun dismissed the physician, then asked quietly.

Ji Ying looked back at him in genuine surprise. During the checkup, he’d still held the peach blossom in his left hand, but now that hand was free, and he cradled the branch across his chest. It wasn’t exactly a precious treasure, yet he held it as though afraid someone might take it.

Ji Ying said:

“The physician from the Prime Minister’s estate just said I’m not sick at all. Chu Xiang, you can’t seriously still believe I was telling the truth, can you?”

He looked at Chu Huaicun with eyes full of malice and mockery, as though triumphant in his deception.

But Chu Huaicun couldn’t help wondering—did Ji Ying realize that his eyes had already betrayed him? His whole body, from the stiffened skin to the hollow at his throat glinting faintly with moisture from emotional turmoil, and the fingers curled against his will—these told the real story. Compared to that, his smile looked too pale. Like a piece of paper.

“You say you’re a liar,” Chu Huaicun murmured.

Ji Ying gave a slow “mm,” and now it was he who looked confused. It was a simple matter, really—he had merely lost control of himself for a moment. As the physician examined him, the flame that had flared in his heart gradually went out. And when the result came—no trace of injury, no blood—the look on his face had even startled the physician.

He had never been ill.
Naturally, he didn’t hurt.
That was all.

Chu Huaicun seemed to understand—yet also didn’t. His eyes, cold as snow, betrayed no emotion. But the way he looked down, with quiet pressure, pinned Ji Ying in place.

“But Lord Ji,” he said,
“you look like you’re really in pain.”

After shaking off the influence of the system, Chu Huaicun had meticulously reviewed the past two years of his own foggy, disoriented behavior.

He recalled the absurd things he had done for Qin Sangzhi.
Others had raised doubts about the dazzling young Lord Qin, but Chu Huaicun had always felt they were defiling something pure. He used his power to suppress any dissent with ruthless efficiency. He cherished Qin Sangzhi like the moon in the sky, like a pearl in his palm.

Whatever rare treasure Qin Sangzhi happened to casually mention, Chu Huaicun would find and present. In the literary society where Qin reigned supreme, its members often spoke without restraint. Chu Huaicun, the most powerful minister in court, was a frequent target of their veiled criticisms.

But not only did he never mind—he even interceded for them when they crossed the line.

And so all credit, all favor, landed on Qin Sangzhi.

In recent days, Chu Huaicun had grown more familiar with the Heavenly Dao attached to the black book. The book told him: all those affections had been stolen by Qin Sangzhi. The person he was truly searching for had been replaced. The Child of Fate had twisted his memories and confused his emotions. Even though some shadow of that person lingered in his mind, it had been reduced to a half-forgotten silhouette.

“Those absurd things weren’t your fault,” said the black book.

“I know,” said Chu Huaicun, his sleeve draped over the page of the book, hidden beneath snow-white robes. He seemed lost in thought.
“I was just thinking… If it was really him, no matter what he’s become now, I would probably still stand behind him, blurring the lines between right and wrong.”

Thus, he made a declaration before the black book—not one of righteousness, but something far more personal.

As the will of the world, capable of observing past and future, the Heavenly Dao was silent for a long time. Of course it knew who Chu Huaicun was truly looking for, and what that person had now become. It felt… regret, even pity. But the situation was becoming thorny.

After a moment of hesitation, it wrote sincerely:

“I’ve seen people in love like the two of you before…”

Chu Huaicun froze slightly.

He lowered his eyes suddenly.
His gaze, bright as lightning, landed squarely on the wet ink of the black book’s new line. The impact was immediate and intense. Chu Huaicun’s entire being became alert, like a sword unsheathed.

“In love?” he asked slowly.

The black book suddenly had a bad feeling—but didn’t know why.

“Well, of course—wait, don’t tell me… you’re not?”

Chu Huaicun snapped, unable to hold back.

“How could you even think that? He treated me with utmost care, like family. Entertaining filthy thoughts would be no different than desecrating him. I’ve always respected him as an elder brother. He’s the only vulnerable spot I have in this world. But there’s no reason to tie that to romantic feelings. Just what sort of worlds have you been monitoring—”

(Almost entirely ones where villains fall in love.)

The black book sulked, thinking this was the first time anyone had ever accused it of being perverse.

“But if that’s the case,” it began to write, “then why did you never lay a finger on Qin Sangzhi—”
It stopped midway. A realization struck.

“Wait… so you didn’t touch him not because you adored him too much or were pining hopelessly… but because the feelings you had weren’t even the kind the Child of Fate was trying to imitate?”

Chu Huaicun gave it a cold, aristocratic glance.

He clearly hadn’t expected the Heavenly Dao to be so dim-witted—only now seeing the truth. The black book, meanwhile, was enlightened. Its handwriting grew more erratic, full of revelation and excitement:

“That’s why Qin Sangzhi drugged you! I get it now! If you had truly loved him in a romantic sense—desperately, uncontrollably—then the moment he made advances, you would’ve submitted completely. But he noticed something was off—”

The Child of Fate had made a fatal mistake.

He had browsed the villain’s memories, and mistaken the untouchable white moonlight in Chu Huaicun’s heart for himself. Everything must have gone smoothly at first, until it all began to stall. Only then did he realize: to Chu Huaicun, that “white moonlight” was truly sacred and untouchable. Subtle hints and deliberate seduction were completely ineffective. Chu Huaicun would never touch him.

Chu Huaicun’s lips were pale. Though he wielded immense power, he possessed a certain aloof grace—something entirely unlike anyone Qin Sangzhi had met before. And now that such a man was utterly at his mercy, the contradiction only made Qin Sangzhi more intoxicated.

Even the Child of Fate himself didn’t know when his resentment began—resentment that in Chu Huaicun’s eyes, there was only indulgence, never desire.

So he made a decision.

If he could just get him into bed,
even the purest affection would eventually rot.

The black book suddenly understood everything. But while it lay calmly in Chu Huaicun’s hand, a chill crept up its spine. Chu Huaicun could now talk about all this rationally, even speak of that chaotic night with Ji Ying with the detachment of a true power player.

But if he knew—if he knew now—

That he had already slept with the very white moonlight he revered—

It would be a complete disaster.
The black book trembled with lingering fear.
It didn’t know whether to feel relieved the truth hadn’t been exposed, or hope it would be soon. Either way, it could no longer reveal anything from the heavens.

“You look like you’re really in pain.”

—So I believed you.

Ji Ying repeated the words silently in his mind.
Suddenly, his bones were once again filled with that deep, aching sorrow. And he realized—it had always been there, rooted so deeply in his body that it ached every second. He had just grown used to ignoring it.

He bit down hard on his teeth. The grating noise between them helped suppress the urge to cry.

Chu Huaicun seemed to sigh softly, like a commander facing a wounded soldier on the battlefield.
Strangely, he felt that the person in front of him was far more wounded than any physical pain could explain.

After only a brief pause, he made a decision—to set aside all the impressions he’d held about Ji Ying before. To look only at these past two days.

He just knew—he didn’t hate him.

And—he really did owe him a debt.
Chu Huaicun thought, it wasn’t like Ji Ying had said—mutual manipulation. That night, Ji Ying had helped him. He should be clear about debts and favors. Then again, perhaps this was just an excuse he was giving himself.

Before him stood the court’s most notorious schemer, shrouded in scandal. His head was bowed, dark hair draped over his shoulders like the night itself spreading behind him.

Ever since hearing that sentence, Ji Ying hadn’t said a word. It was like he couldn’t force a smile anymore. He hastily avoided eye contact.

He fidgeted with the peach blossom in his hand.

And then Chu Huaicun saw it—the stiff line of his jaw.

A thought flickered through him. He reached out, lifted Ji Ying’s face, and leaned in slightly—an almost forceful motion. The black strands of his hair spilled down like ink over his snow-white robes. He held the position at a close distance and didn’t move.

“Lord Ji,” he said, then paused. That didn’t feel like the right thing to say anymore.
“Ji Ying.”

Ji Ying tilted his head up with the motion, slowly processing what was happening.

“Do you want to come with me?”

Chu Huaicun waited patiently—
Then finally spoke.

Prime Minister Chu was long past the stage of eagerly recruiting talents. The capable officials at his side were already more than sufficient—under any circumstance, it made no sense for him to extend an olive branch to someone who had long been his political rival in court. It was unrealistic. And yet, he did exactly that. Because now he had the power to do so. And because he had come to realize—he wished to bring Ji Ying under his wing.

A talent like his should not be squandered by those who fail to cherish it.

He certainly shouldn’t be reduced to someone who could only show a sliver of real emotion while standing before his enemy—while in pain.

Ji Ying seemed not to understand what he had said. He blinked slowly. His eyes were always dark and unfathomable to others, but Chu Huaicun seemed to have some kind of special access—as if he could see through the illusion veiling the darkness. And suddenly, he felt a flicker of familiarity. Like a blade, his gaze sliced through the layers of disguise, almost able to reach the core of the man before him.

But Ji Ying truly did not seem to be listening.

His body remained stiff like a statue, and when he moved, it was as if a mountain or an island had begun to collapse. He didn’t move like something alive. They stood very close—Chu Huaicun had leaned in to speak, and Ji Ying, in turn, leaned toward him. He reached out and cautiously wrapped his arms around him.

Only when he had lightly, carefully embraced Chu Huaicun did he speak in a hoarse voice for the first time:

“Don’t move. Just a moment. I’m in pain.”

Chu Huaicun should have pushed him away. But Ji Ying, presenting himself like this—slightly petulant, completely defenseless—was hard to reject. The embrace was so light it might as well have not been there at all, save for a few strands of hair brushing against his neck, and the lingering fragrance. Chu Huaicun’s snowy white robes would probably now be infused with the scent.

And so, the Prime Minister, who was never known for sentimentality, once again made an uncharacteristic decision.

He thought: if he’s in pain, then it’s only natural he should have someone to lean on. Ji Ying doing this makes sense—there’s no harm in allowing it.

He reached for Ji Ying’s hand—and the moment Ji Ying felt him deliberately closing the distance, he clamped down like a trap. For the first time, Chu Huaicun was pressed up against the imperial purple robes bestowed upon him by the Emperor himself. He let Ji Ying cling to him and slowly adjusted his stance until Ji Ying could relax—until he stopped trembling from tension.

Ji Ying breathed deeply, each breath hot and damp.

But he calmed down quickly. So much had happened since Chu Huaicun had asked that first question. One thing after another, coming in a rush—if not grasped, it would all pass by too easily and be forgotten. Ji Ying steadied his emotions fast. He tried to speak but found he couldn’t make a sound.

So he shook his head.

A refusal.

“Why?” Chu Huaicun asked after giving him a bit of time—but Ji Ying still didn’t answer. The tension between them had reached its peak. Chu Huaicun quietly stepped back, asking: “—Is it because you’re unwilling? Or because there’s something—or someone—you can’t leave behind? Or do they hold something over you?”

His gaze was sharp—frighteningly so.

Ji Ying faltered. For the first time, he seemed to struggle, trying to reapply the mask of a smile tinged with bitterness and anger. He tugged at the corners of his mouth, pulling the muscles of his face into place. Good. All he had to do was speak like he usually did. He opened his mouth—but no sound came out.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t speak.

Chu Huaicun looked at him closely. In silence, he saw the unsaid truth and sighed:

“I understand. Lord Ji still plans to refuse.”

He saw Ji Ying struck dumb, so he softened slightly and extended his hand:

“If you can’t say it, then write it on my palm.”

Ji Ying was quiet for a while. Chu Huaicun sensed that the gaudy exterior had finally been stripped away before him—revealing a glimpse of what lay beneath, though still obscured and unreadable. Ji Ying moved slowly, as though studying an elaborate puzzle. He laid the flower branch across his lap.

Chu Huaicun felt fingers gently touch his palm.

“Chu, Huai, Cun.” Ji Ying first traced out these three characters, then lifted his eyes, seeking confirmation. Chu Huaicun stayed expressionless, indicating that he understood what had been written.

He waited—for Ji Ying to reveal a secret, perhaps even a grand conspiracy.

But Ji Ying focused only on his palm. His gaze was so intent that Chu Huaicun felt a strange heat beneath it. Ji Ying didn’t press hard—Chu Huaicun had to concentrate to reconstruct the strokes in his mind.

“I”

Ji Ying wrote. Then paused for a long time.

Time did not slow for his hesitation. He had leaned in closer to write, and from Chu Huaicun’s vantage, he could see the top of his dark head, smell the lingering dragon-scented perfume, and watch his hair tremble faintly with every motion.

If it were anyone else, this moment might not have seemed so strange.

But Chu Huaicun suddenly thought of that absurd night. His gaze drifted down the pale neck, to the body now concealed beneath deep purple official robes. His eyes flickered—and he forcibly stopped the thought.

Ji Ying moved again.

He quickly finished writing the remaining characters, all the strokes connected in one fluid motion. Then he looked down, nervous. As his finger slid over Chu Huaicun’s palm, the skin beneath seemed to burn faintly:

“…like, you.”

For the first time, Chu Huaicun felt that language could be so difficult to comprehend—that it could take far too long to process.

He had said: “Chu Huaicun, I like you.”

—

Ji Ying didn’t always understand himself.

For example, why could he still laugh like nothing mattered in his current situation? Why did he still flinch when others cried, even though he should have long since become numb? Why, after doing such vile things, did it still feel like lightning was splitting his soul?

And most puzzling of all—when the person he had liked since youth stood in front of him, why could he still hear his own heartbeat?

It was strange. Ill-timed.

People need something to live for. That was especially true for Ji Ying. And now, seeing the normally unshakeable Prime Minister’s mask tear slightly under his confession—he felt unexpectedly satisfied.

Could the man who used to be that high-minded, self-disciplined gentleman have ever said such words to you?

Ji Ying, full of spiteful glee, thought: might as well become completely different from the person he used to be. He didn’t dare dream that Chu Huaicun would reciprocate. He just felt that if he didn’t say these words now, he might never get the chance again.

The Emperor was growing increasingly moody. He had to tread carefully, show endless deference. From now on, he would seem more and more like an enemy to Chu Huaicun.

Walking on thin ice. No way to win both sides.

But even this outcome was hard-won.

Two years ago, the power structure of the court collapsed. The Prime Minister alone held absolute authority. Only then did the Emperor remember the ancient noble families he had banished with a single decree—like Ji Ying, who had been imprisoned in the imperial dungeon for over ten years. The Emperor now desperately needed capable men, and Ji Ying—though tortured until he was skin and bones—had once been famed as the most talented gentleman in the realm.

Ji Ying remembered kneeling on the cold black iron, only the faint light in his eyes betraying a sliver of his will:

“…I am willing to serve His Majesty, body and soul.”

He had wanted to survive. He had fought for it.

He had also wanted a fleeting moment of joy—even if it was never going to last, even if it was utterly absurd. His deep purple robes were embroidered with serpents—a thousand venomous snakes coiled together. He lowered his eyes, revealing nothing but unease and longing, even the smile fading.

He had to do something.