Chapter 101

At Earl Wukang’s Manor, Qin Pengxuan dismounted the carriage, still gripped by unease.

The parting words of Su Huaijing lingered in his mind, refusing to dissipate, gradually merging with a hazy memory from long ago.

Autumn leaves, coated in frost, blanketed the courtyard. News of the incident had drawn onlookers from all corners, eager to witness the spectacle.

Officials from the Imperial Court of Justice stood at the fore, while the capital’s youngest and most handsome junior official held a roster in his hands. Standing at the manor’s gates, he meticulously matched each name, ensuring that all one hundred and twenty-eight members of Earl Wukang’s household were restrained and marched off to the dungeons.

From the opulence of lofty banquets to a sudden and absolute downfall, the sheer drama of a century-old noble house meeting its end was enough to attract half the city to watch this tragic raid unfold.

Qin Pengxuan scanned the faces. Some were familiar, others foreign. He listened to their hushed whispers, and watched their incessant chatter. Then, amidst the crowd, his gaze fell on a face he shouldn’t have known but inexplicably recognised.

His eyes widened. A wave of grief surged through him, and anger, unbidden, consumed his reason. Pointing at the crowd, he tried to shout: “You missed someone! He’s one of us, from the Earl’s household!”

But the words that escaped his lips were nothing but hoarse, indecipherable gasps of “Ah… Ah…”

He had lost his voice.

He was mute.

He could only watch helplessly as that man, standing in the crowd with a cold, satisfied gaze, observed the complete eradication of Earl Wukang’s Manor. Then, with a casual gesture, the man lightly flexed his wrist, shifted his head slightly, and turned his attention elsewhere.

——To the two princes who had accompanied the Imperial Court of Justice for the raid.

Qin Pengxuan looked up and saw their faces: the Third Prince, Sheng Chengxing, and the Fifth Prince, Sheng Chengli.

The capital was steeped in the chill of autumn. Cold and desolate, Qin Pengxuan could do nothing but watch as the man’s gaze shifted from the Earl’s ruined household to Sheng Chengxing. A chilling certainty arose in his mind, requiring no further proof:

——They were his next targets.

This man had driven Earl Wukang’s Manor to destruction, and now, he had set his sights on the two princes.

Horror, shock, and confusion painted Qin Pengxuan’s face. He couldn’t fathom how events had spiralled to this point, nor could he understand the depth of hatred that man held toward them.

And yet…

Hadn’t he dismissed all the concubines in his household for that man?

Weren’t they perfectly aligned, even capable of love?

Qin Pengxuan’s mind reeled with confusion. In his thoughts, a bright pink begonia flower bloomed vividly.

Then, the flower morphed into Su Huaijing.

The Shizi Fei of Ningxuan Palace, personally appointed by Emperor Renshou at the New Year’s Eve banquet, and the newly elevated darling of the Imperial Censorate.

Qin Pengxuan could not understand why this image had suddenly surfaced in his mind, just as he could not comprehend why Earl Wukang’s manor had been raided and its members executed.

He burned with the need to uncover the truth, but a voice deep within urged him relentlessly: Stay away from Su Huaijing!

Further, further away. Su Huaijing was like a ravenous, man-eating ghost. At any moment, he could rip away his warm and gentle mask, revealing a cold, pitiless face that would, without hesitation, send others plunging into eternal torment.

The instinct to survive urged Qin Pengxuan to flee. Yet, the growing questions in his heart drove him to seek answers from Su Huaijing.

Had they truly been that close? Was it Su Huaijing who orchestrated the downfall of Earl Wukang’s household? Why? What vengeance could he possibly seek? How could he have gone so far?

More pressingly—how did he achieve it?

Even if these questions were denied outright, even if the begonia flower birthmark didn’t exist, Qin Pengxuan still couldn’t stop pondering.

The capital’s winter snow was beginning to melt, and sunlight pierced the sky, yet he remained ensnared by these questions.

His father had once been a great hero, a loyal servant to the Emperor. Even framed, how could their family’s fate have descended to the level of execution and confiscation?

Was it Su Huaijing who had done something… or…

Had his father?

Qin Pengxuan furrowed his brows in frustration, a wave of irritability building within him. Lost in thought, he failed to notice a servant carrying a bundle of clothes approaching and collided with him head-on.

Without a second thought, Qin Pengxuan raised his foot and kicked the servant aside, bellowing angrily, “Are you blind?!”

The servant collapsed to the ground, trembling violently. Qin Pengxuan spared him only a brief glance before sneering, “How unlucky,” and turning away.

His arrogant, domineering attitude bore no trace of the hesitation and fear he’d shown before Su Huaijing, where he had wanted to approach but held himself back.

He strode into his courtyard, filled with a harem of concubines.

With a cursory glance at their faces, Qin Pengxuan felt a pang of disinterest.

Once, he might have found them remarkable. But now, inexplicable memories rooted themselves in his mind. And when he thought of Su Huaijing standing in the Imperial Censorate’s office, the majestic bi’an statue looming behind him, his every smile, every frown. Each detail seemed to draw Qin Pengxuan deeper under his spell.

Even Su Huaijing’s cold, distant demeanour exuded an air of unattainable elegance, making him all the more irresistible.

Heat stirred within Qin Pengxuan, and he grabbed a maidservant, asking, “Where is Lady Li?”

The maid trembled, keeping her head lowered. “Replying to the young master, Lady Panyan has been summoned by Madam to the Buddhist Hall to recite prayers.”

Qin Pengxuan frowned.

The Madam of the household, who was not his biological mother, had always disdained him. Last year, upon learning of Li Panyan’s pregnancy, her anger extended to her as well. Days spent in the Buddhist Hall, chanting and copying scriptures, were her preferred form of silent punishment—bloodless yet brutal. Li Panyan was far from the only victim of this cruelty.

Qin Pengxuan dismissed the matter. He turned on his heel, intending to seek amusement elsewhere. But just as he stepped out, Su Huaijing’s smiling words resurfaced in his mind: “I must trouble my lord to look care for her in my stead.”

He froze mid-step and redirected his path.

After all, they were cousins—surely they shared some similarities.

As this thought crossed his mind, Qin Pengxuan abandoned the fleeting sense of danger he’d only just begun to grasp.

…

The officials of Dayu’s capital city finished their duties for the day. To prevent accidents, the carriages and horses within the city moved at a slow pace.

The journey from the Imperial Censorate to Yong’an Lane took nearly half an hour.

The golden sun was sinking in the west, painting the sky with streaks of orange clouds.

Su Huaijing had been suppressing his emotions along the way, but by the time the carriage stopped, he had adjusted his expression. He wore his customary calm smile, carrying the snacks he had bought for Rong Tang on the way, and walked slowly toward the mansion.

It was already late in the first lunar month. The weather was warming, and a few snow-white buds had appeared at the tops of the pear trees in the courtyard.

Su Huaijing looked up at the blossoms, thinking they might be perfect for brewing a mild, non-intoxicating wine for Tangtang.

An incorrigible drinker.

He smiled faintly, almost reflexively, and headed toward the study. On the way, he noticed Shuang Fu carrying a pot of steaming tea, hurrying toward the garden.

Su Huaijing stopped him. “Where are you going?”

Shuang Fu paused, first greeting him respectfully, then replied, “Young Master is meeting a guest in the pavilion, and I’m bringing tea to him.”

Su Huaijing frowned. “Which guest? Why not meet in the reception hall?”

Though the weather was getting warmer, it was still chilly in the capital’s spring. Rong Tang’s frail constitution wouldn’t tolerate prolonged exposure to the cold.

Without waiting for an answer, Su Huaijing turned and began walking toward the garden. Shuang Fu called out from behind, “Young Master said the indoor fire was making him drowsy, and though it’s windy outside, at least it helps one stay clear-headed.”

He added after a pause, “The guest is His Highness, the Fifth Prince.”

Su Huaijing froze mid-step, then turned back abruptly. His tone, rare in its urgency, demanded confirmation:

“Who did you say has come?”

Caught off guard, Shuang Fu nearly bumped into him. Retreating half a step with the teapot, he answered with confusion, “His Highness, the Fifth Prince.”

Su Huaijing was silent for a moment, then handed the snacks he was holding to Shuang Fu and took the teapot instead. “Have the kitchen prepare dinner. Add a dish of cordyceps soup for warmth. Dinner will be served at the second quarter of the You period*.”

(*TN: 5-7 P.M.)

Shuang Fu acknowledged the order but hesitated, pointing to the teapot. “Then this…?”

“I’ll take it,” Su Huaijing said. “Also, have the kitchen boil more hot water and bring out some mugwort in preparation. After dinner, Tangtang should use it.”

Alarmed, Shuang Fu asked, “Is Young Master’s condition worsening?”

Su Huaijing’s expression chilled. “No.”

Shuang Fu blinked in confusion. “Then…?”

Su Huaijing’s voice was low. “To dispel misfortune.”

He dismissed Shuang Fu with a wave and strode toward the octagonal pavilion with uncharacteristic urgency.

Each step seemed to unleash the murderous intent he had struggled to suppress, threatening to consume him entirely.

In the pavilion, Rong Tang sat cloaked in a heavy robe, holding a hand warmer. He raised his eyes and quietly observed the figure standing before him.

Sheng Chengli was the central protagonist of the book. He was renowned for his extraordinary appearance; which the author has mentioned more than once.

His youthful beauty had matured into a refined, striking handsomeness.

A vivid red mole at the corner of his eye seemed almost alive, capable of captivating or unnerving anyone who met his gaze. In the original narrative, every character who initially despised or underestimated him eventually succumbed—either as willing pawns in his schemes or as victims of his relentless retribution. They lost their pride, their status, and sometimes their dignity, grovelling at his feet for mercy.

His charm was unparalleled, his cunning unmatched.

For Rong Tang, whose past life’s death and present rebirth had sharpened his perspective, Sheng Chengli was the epitome of ruthlessness.

Breaking the silence, Rong Tang addressed him first. “To what do I owe the honour of Your Highness’s visit?”

His tone was calm and natural, with an innate dignity, but also a sense of alienation that could isolate people thousands of miles away. He asked in a calm voice, without any hint of humility or any unnecessary emotion.

Sheng Chengli’s eyes flickered briefly with surprise before his expression softened. “I’ve long heard of biao ge’s recovery and wished to visit earlier, but I was confined to the Cold Palace and couldn’t go out. At the flower-picking festival, I was unwell and couldn’t meet. Afterward, I sought opportunities to see biao ge, but palace restrictions prevented me and I couldn’t make it in time to meet at the palace banquet.”

He paused. Rong Tang’s figure was reflected in his shallow pupils, so focused that he was the only one in his line of sight in the vast world. He asked softly: “ I will prepare to leave the capital in a few days time and I don’t know how long it will be until I return or if biao ge would still remember me when I do. I implored Imperial Father to grant me this chance to see you one last time. How has biao ge been this past year? Have you been in good health?”

The setting sun cast long shadows across the lake, where the ice had begun to melt. A gentle breeze stirred the willow branches, rippling the water’s mirrored surface.

Rong Tang’s expression revealed a trace of confusion, as if puzzled by Sheng Chengli’s familiarity. His brows knitted briefly before smoothing out. “Your Highness, my health has always been frail, but I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

Sheng Chengli quickly stepped forward, his face etched with restrained sorrow. “Biao ge, please remember not to overwork yourself. Your health must be your priority.”

Rong Tang nodded absently, pouring himself a cup of tea. The cold liquid startled him into a frown, and he replied perfunctorily, “The household has doctors to attend to me, and Huaijing manages large and small matters at home. I have nothing to worry about and have been resting well. Thank you for your concern, Your Highness.”

After a pause, he added, “His Majesty’s regard for zumu and respect for my father is why we were allowed to maintain this royal connection. For Your Highness to address me as biao ge is overly courteous. It would be more appropriate to call me by name.”

Nauseating.

Rong Tang’s attention wandered toward the garden path. Where was Shuang Fu with the tea? As he looked up, a figure in a green robe came into view. His body froze briefly before his eyes brightened with delight. Rising instinctively to greet the newcomer, he was halted by Sheng Chengli’s plaintive voice, heavy with sorrow.

“Biao ge, don’t you want me anymore?”