TBR CH128

Mr. Fang took out a pale green silk pouch from the fifth drawer of his cabinet. Inside were a few slender, gleaming silver needles—so fine and sharp they seemed as if a light tremor could slice through the air itself. It wasn’t hard to imagine how awful it would feel to have them pushed deep into one’s flesh.

He lit a flame. The ghostly blue fire licked the needle tips, heating them gradually until each seemed to hold a tiny, glowing orb of flame.

Mr. Fang instructed Ji Ying to turn around and sit upright, pulling aside the black hair that fell down his back. Ji Ying silently obeyed, revealing the back of his neck like a man resigned to the executioner’s sword. His body was so rigid he seemed more like a statue than a living person—his skin pale and lifeless, as though he were some resurrected ghost inside this shuttered room.

Mr. Fang turned his head. “Chancellor Chu, come here.”

Chu Huaicun rose at the request. His footsteps were light, and the sweep of his white sleeves stirred faint gusts of air as he approached. Ji Ying began silently counting in his mind, as though he were a condemned man marking off the last moments before his sentence. Mr. Fang had warned him: the first treatment would be the hardest, as they needed to draw the poison out—painful as the worst flare of the toxin itself.

Some say physical pain is nothing compared to mental anguish—the blow to ideals and dignity. But Ji Ying’s thoughts moved sluggishly, dulled by his condition. He envied those who still believed such things. They had never truly suffered.

He desperately wished to return to that former self, the one who placed principle and honor above all. But he knew now—he was terrified of pain.

What if this was all a trap laid by Chu Huaicun? What if he had just exposed the back of his neck to a political enemy?

He must really be confused now… Only now, hearing the hiss of flames licking the needles, did that possibility finally occur to him. But he didn’t move. Even when his clouded thoughts almost convinced him it might be true.

Three steps… two steps…

Ji Ying didn’t make it to “one.”

It felt as if every bone in his body had been shattered in an instant. As if a dry, searing sun had been jammed into his chest. When the sharp pain exploded from the back of his neck, his mind was still sluggishly trying to process it. He instinctively wanted to escape, but all he could do was stagger from the chair, swaying, about to collapse.

It hurt too much. He tried to hold his breath, because even breathing sent jolts of lightning through his nerves—sharp enough to split him in two. He curled in on himself out of pure instinct, protecting his vital organs to soften the fall.

But—

He didn’t fall to the ground.

He fell into a field of burning snow.

Mr. Fang winked at Chu Huaicun. He had silently mouthed to the Chancellor to assist just moments earlier, planning to plunge the needle into the acupuncture point quickly before Ji Ying’s body tensed up. Chu Huaicun had caught Ji Ying and forced him back into the chair, gripping his shoulders with unshakable force.

The famously unpopular Lord Ji was alarmingly thin—Chu Huaicun could feel his bones through skin and flesh. It reinforced what he already knew.

Ji Ying struggled fiercely, digging his nails into his own palms, but Chu Huaicun patiently pried his fingers open, placing his own hand in Ji Ying’s to hold.

Chu Huaicun bent down and looked into his eyes.

Those eyes were dry—drained from struggling too long. Not even tears remained.

Mr. Fang, meanwhile, was quite satisfied with Chu Huaicun’s help. He adjusted the needle in Ji Ying’s neck with care, without worry of the patient harming him. As the needle sank deeper, piercing muscle and tapping bone, the poison clinging to the spine began to seep upward through the metal.

Ordinary poisons turn silver needles black. Chu Huaicun, peering through Ji Ying’s disheveled hair, watched as vivid red slowly climbed up the needle shaft—like it had drawn the blood out of the young man himself. But the substance writhing along the silver didn’t seem like blood at all. It moved like a living thing—vermilion, like rougeworms on a stick of chalk-white steel.

“Good!” Mr. Fang called softly, taking out some powder from the same green silk pouch. He sprinkled the brownish grains like snowy husks over the needle, and rather than calming, the red substance twisted even more violently as if provoked.

“Hold on just a little longer,” he said to Ji Ying.

Chu Huaicun wasn’t sure Ji Ying could even hear him anymore. He looked nearly delirious—but he was pinned too tightly to flee the pain. Instead, he slammed forward and buried himself in Chu Huaicun’s chest.

Chu Huaicun carefully adjusted the angle to avoid knocking out the needle.

“Hey,” Mr. Fang complained unreasonably, “your friend’s condition is worse than I thought. Try distracting him. I know—it’s difficult. He might not have enough mind left to respond.”

“Ji Ying?” Chu Huaicun called his name. “Can you hear me?”

The voice seemed to pull Ji Ying back for a split second—just enough to return some clarity. He looked up in misery, as if silently pleading for Chu Huaicun not to look at him like this. But the Chancellor’s gaze remained steady—like snow at the summit of a high mountain, cool and quiet, offering a sliver of solace.

Ji Ying bit his lip, fighting the urge to fully collapse into Chu Huaicun’s arms.

How hateful, he thought in his haze. Why didn’t I move away?

Mr. Fang shook his head. Ji Ying tasted the tang of blood in his mouth—he was hurting himself again. Chu Huaicun could tell the situation was just as difficult as he’d expected. He paused and withdrew his hand. Ji Ying, who had been gripping it tightly, panicked and looked up. His hand hovered in the air, grasping at nothing.

Chu Huaicun took his hand again, placing it around his own waist.

Ji Ying gasped sharply. The pain spurred a bit of clarity, but he misapplied his vigilance. Soon, he couldn’t stop himself—he clung to Chu Huaicun, wrapping his arms around him and gripping the folds of his robes as if his life depended on it.

This was nothing like that earlier, barely perceptible embrace. This was desperate, fierce. His nails dug into the snowy fabric. Was this a dream?

His eyelashes trembled, heavy with exhaustion. He tightened his grip, clinging to the one person who’d given him permission to do so—like a snake wrapping around its prey.

Chu Huaicun freed one hand and touched Ji Ying’s lips.

His fingers picked up a smear of blood. In a firm yet gentle tone, he commanded:

“Open your mouth.”

Ji Ying didn’t respond. So Chu Huaicun began prying his jaw open slowly. He understood Ji Ying’s mind—how unbearable it must be to show weakness in front of someone, to cry out from pain when one is used to masking even their pleas for help with a bright smile. Ji Ying tried to bury his face again, but Chu Huaicun didn’t allow it.

He kept his voice calm, but it carried a quiet authority:

“Don’t hurt yourself. Bite anything else you like—just not yourself… Lord Ji, can you still hear me?”

Ji Ying trembled all over, head lowered. After a great effort, he finally managed to raise his head. His eyes were still dry, but the rims had turned red—as if the skin was about to split open from the strain. Chu Huaicun’s expression shifted subtly. He realized Ji Ying was forcing himself to reclaim control, even if only through a single motion. A single word.

Or maybe a gesture.

He leaned forward—almost like he was asking for a kiss.

Chu Huaicun didn’t move. He didn’t step away. He didn’t try to justify it as a medical decision or professional sympathy. Though there were plenty of better ways to handle the situation, he simply stood still, listening to Ji Ying whisper his name. Not “Chancellor,” not his surname—just something more intimate.

“Huai…cun. Huaicun,” Ji Ying murmured, clinging tighter, his faint scent of dragon musk now thick with a syrupy sweetness. “I don’t want to give you to anyone else. No one. Not in the past, not now.”

“You still remember…” Chu Huaicun asked softly, “who you are?”

Clearly, he didn’t.

Not only did he not remember—he had grown bold enough to draw close to the Chancellor. So close, they could feel each other’s warmth with just the slightest shift. Chu Huaicun glanced at the needle in his neck—everything still looked fine. But behind them, Mr. Fang had a strange expression on his face. The mystical old man waved his hand dramatically, even turning his back in exaggerated embarrassment.

How did it come to this?

Chu Huaicun wondered.

Then, helplessly, he realized—he and Ji Ying had not, in fact, only just met a month ago.

According to the Black Book, his memories had continued functioning normally for the last two years, but his emotions had been suppressed—distorted, even. And in those hidden, fragmented moments his conscious mind had forgotten, another version of Ji Ying—one he had known for two whole years—had gradually taken shape.

He had always thought Ji Ying’s smile in front of the Emperor looked fake. Chu Huaicun had never liked it.

Ji Ying had tried to speak to him before—but Chu Huaicun had been cold.

When he protected Qin Sangzhi, he would sometimes think of that treacherous official cloaked in deep purple robes, a man almost swallowed by the shadows, someone no one would stand beside. He always seemed alone, and always seemed to be watching him.

The past and present wove together little by little. Just half an hour ago, this man had made a bet with him using dice—the wager being the vague, intangible idea of “liking.” He had lost, with a one-in-six chance. And just moments later, the same man had borne unimaginable pain, only to plead for a kiss in his arms.

Chu Huaicun had let himself hesitate for too long—long enough for the pain-dazed Ji Ying to lean forward and kiss him.

Fine, he thought without much resistance. After all, the man was injured.

The first thing his tongue tasted was blood—Ji Ying had bitten his own lip. The bitterness of iron spread in his mouth, twining with the complex fragrance lingering on Ji Ying’s body. Ji Ying was gasping, only able to press their lips together clumsily, uncertain what came next. But it was enough. His soul seemed to tremble with euphoric joy, finally realizing a long-held dream—even as it tangled with the unbearable pain wracking his body.

He forced himself to focus.

Doing so seemed to help him forget the pain, if only slightly.

Chu Huaicun gave part of his attention to making sure Ji Ying didn’t move too abruptly, quietly going along with the kiss, letting him take whatever comfort he needed from this messy, ambiguous gesture. He lowered his gaze, not minding how disheveled his white robes had become from Ji Ying’s touch. The jade pendant at his waist struck the back of the chair with a soft chime. Ji Ying swallowed his sobs.

The kiss lasted a while.

When they finally parted, Chu Huaicun noticed a film of mist on Ji Ying’s lashes. He hadn’t cried from the pain, but the redness at the corners of his eyes made the sight more striking. The Chancellor himself hadn’t changed because of such a pure kiss. He only let his gaze linger on Ji Ying’s face for a few seconds before gently turning him the other way.

Ji Ying took several seconds to regain his clarity. On the half-exposed needle at the back of his neck, the red “worms” had stopped writhing. The medicine had triumphed, drying them up rapidly. Mr. Fang pinched the needle tip between two fingers, but did not pull it out immediately. Instead, he twisted it a few times before smoothly drawing it out.

“All right,” he said. “That’ll do for now. This was the source of the poison in your body. It’s latched onto your bones, forming a web. Each treatment can only clear a small part. When pulling the needle out, you also have to break the connections between the threads. You two—”

Ji Ying looked even stiffer than before the treatment.

Only now did he realize what he had done. He didn’t even dare lift his eyes to look at Chu Huaicun. Yet he could still feel the faint chill of that kiss on his lips, still taste the cold breath lingering at the corners of his mouth.

Mr. Fang continued, voice tinged with teasing:
“You said you’re not his friend, right?”

Chu Huaicun replied calmly, “Today’s trouble—I must thank you, Mr. Fang. I also ask that you keep what happened between me and Ji Ying confidential. We’ll need your help again later.”

“No need to be so formal,” Mr. Fang waved a hand. “I even held you when you were a baby—though I’m just joking. You’re that man’s disciple. We folks of the martial world have our own rules. Not like your shadowy, murky court. As long as I get to share a drink or two with your master next time, that’s enough for me.”

As Chu Huaicun and Ji Ying walked down the corridor, they kept a mutual silence. It wasn’t the first time. They both knew the proper course would be to make a pact, to agree to forget what had just happened—just like that previous, confused night. But for now, neither of them brought it up.

“The next treatment is three days from now,” Chu Huaicun said, eyes fixed ahead. “…The first few will be the hardest. Mr. Fang said it’ll get easier over time. Eventually you won’t need to come often.”

“Oh,” Ji Ying answered slowly, “okay.”

Their steps unconsciously slowed. Once they left this gambling house, once they returned to places with people, they would have to be mindful again—of their positions, their opposing factions. They couldn’t speak like this anymore. Chu Huaicun considered asking Ji Ying whether he was willing to switch sides, but decided against it.

Pushing too hard would only backfire.

Besides, the poison likely wasn’t the only thing holding Ji Ying back. Chu Huaicun preferred to operate with precision—uncover every secret, confirm every hidden danger, and then calmly, carefully draw what he wanted into his grasp.

“Where is Chancellor Chu headed next?”

After a pause, Ji Ying suddenly asked. Then added with a smile, “Of course, if it’s inconvenient to say…”

“The scholars who passed this year’s spring examination are having a Qu Shui Liu Shang banquet in the capital today. I have to make an appearance,” Chu Huaicun answered casually. “I’ll stop by the residence to change, then head directly to Qingyu Lake. What about you, Lord Ji?”

“Qu Shui Liu Shang…” Ji Ying repeated vaguely, then gave a knowing smile. “It must be Young Master Qin who invited you. An event like that wouldn’t welcome someone like me—and I wouldn’t want to see those cold faces anyway.”

“What a shame.”

Chu Huaicun said this just as they neared the end of the corridor. Ji Ying thought he had misheard:
“What?”

“I said, not seeing you is a bit of a shame.”

Chu Huaicun stopped. He had long since straightened his robes. Now, dressed in white, with a long, subdued sword at his side, he stood with effortless poise—elegant and aloof.

“The scenery at Qingyu Lake isn’t bad. As for those scholars, even if they flatter me on the surface, most of them see me as a treacherous villain behind my back. They’d write a thousand essays condemning me if they could. I don’t particularly care to befriend them.”

“And you tolerate it?” Ji Ying asked slowly, then regretted how bitter his tone sounded. “Of course, I know it’s for Young Master Qin. Still, your attitude toward the clean-faction scholars… is certainly an opportunity.”

“Whose opportunity?” Chu Huaicun paused, then chuckled. “Oh. Right—yours.”

Only then did he remember that this man still held the account book used as a bargaining chip by Prince Pingjiang, and was firmly on the Emperor’s side. By all accounts, Ji Ying was his political enemy—perhaps even his most dangerous one.

But that wasn’t necessarily a mistake. After all, who can draw such clean lines after sharing a kiss with an enemy?

Ji Ying fell quiet too.

They both seemed to sense that the conversation had reached its end—or feared that if they kept talking, it might never stop. So finally, they said their goodbyes.

As soon as they stepped past the threshold, Chu Huaicun saw, from a distance, a low-profile sedan waiting at the door. It wasn’t an ostentatious palace carriage, but it was still enough to suggest someone of high rank was inside.

He didn’t have the time or interest to watch Ji Ying leave. Yet at some point, something made him glance sideways slightly.

Out of the corner of his eye, their gazes met for a fleeting instant.

Then the thick sedan curtain dropped between them.

And that was their true goodbye.