Chapter 127

That night, Rong Tang fell into a nightmare.

The dream was strange and surreal, filled with things he could not comprehend.

There were clearer images: his old school, the city where he had grown up, the roads he walked daily, and the ginkgo trees lining the streets, bearing fruit in autumn or shedding their leaves with the seasons.

Then there were the hazier memories: fragments of a past life, arguments and whispered words at the flower-picking festival, a sky filled with rolling clouds and blooming peonies, moonlight and lantern shadows on the gilded Liujin Parlour, the winter snow of the eleventh year of Qingzheng, Mu Jingxu’s funeral procession.

The distant past and the present wove together, blurring the boundaries of dream and reality.

More often than not, he found himself in a chaotic void, unable to see or hear clearly. The wind howled past his ears, clouds churned beneath him, his vision shifting between clarity and haze.

Through the mist, Rong Tang thought he saw the palace of Dayu—

—an imperial city where everyone was alive, their spirits unrestrained, burning bright.

Dawn’s first light broke in the east, the palace gates unfastened their first lock. A proud and spirited Third Prince galloped in on a chestnut horse, his crimson robes billowing… an untamed wanderer returning home. In the palace, the sun gave way to moonlight.

The young Seventh Prince was hauled out of bed, grumbling sleepily, only to be pulled into hushed conspiracies.

The Crown Prince of the Eastern Palace was already awake. In the hush of dawn, he prepared a bowl of sweet dumplings drizzled with sweet wine, plucked a hibiscus still wet with morning dew, and carried it to the chamber where his wife slept, his voice gentle as he woke her.

The Fourth Princess styled her hair into an elaborate, elegant bun. At the first light of day, she slipped into the kitchen, stole a box of date cakes her mother had made the night before, and skipped off to bribe her most beloved didi.

In Fengqi Palace, the Emperor rose to dress for court while the Empress rolled over, burrowing into her blankets for a lazy, indulgent nap.

Rong Tang watched these scenes unfold in his dream, and for a fleeting moment, he felt they were not his imagination but memories. Something he had truly seen before.

The dream stretched long and surreal, flickering between light and darkness. One moment, he recalled his modern life; the next, he stood amid betrayal in a ruined temple.

He glimpsed a conversation at the flower-picking festival only for it to shatter into the sight of Su Huaijing bringing ruin to Dayu.

The golden glow of the Liujin Parlour dissolved into Lil’ Bro Mu’s funeral procession. White mourning banners replaced the full moon, winter snow tumbled down from the mountains, only to melt into dust.

Hope and despair alternated, relentless and without respite. Seeing that radiant, joyous palace, Rong Tang couldn’t help but wonder. What would come next?

The death of his first life? Or the fate awaiting him in this one?

But he waited and waited, and nothing came.

Only darkness. A suffocating abyss.

Like a man drowning in the vast and endless sea, he could neither see nor hear. His eyes were blindfolded, his ears sealed, and in the void of his dream, even scent did not exist.

He was trapped within a nightmare inside a nightmare, sinking alone into infinite darkness.

So long did he remain there that it seemed the world contained only him. The last living soul.

An existence that should not be, yet the only thing that truly existed.

Rong Tang was ensnared, on the verge of drowning.

Above him, black mist swirled, the sun lost, the moon eclipsed.

He sank deeper, confusion clouding his mind, his limbs turning numb with cold.

A voice whispered to him in the gloom… telling him this was how it was meant to be.

That he belonged to the darkness.

That he should merge with it, and from within, witness the birth of light.

But then—

The black mist stilled.

An undercurrent ripped through, tearing a gap in the void. A blinding light pierced through the suffocating dark, and a pair of hands seized him, holding on tightly.

“Tangtang… Rong Tang!” A voice called out, urgent, desperate.

His limbs were ensnared in mist, his lips and eyes veiled. He could not see, could not speak. But he strained to know.

Who was pulling him back?

Who was calling him awake?

“Tangtang, wake up! Wake up!”

“—Rong Tang!”

His eyes snapped open.

For a moment, everything was empty, as though he were still adrift in that endless dark. He exhaled sharply, his lungs still trembling.

“It’s okay… it’s okay.”

Someone was holding him, their hands stroking his back, soothing his breath. The voice was near… so near. And yet it seemed to come from a great distance.

They told him it was all right. But their voice shook, betraying their fear.

A faint pain pricked through his body. Rong Tang turned his gaze, dazed, but still, he saw nothing.

“Is the lamp… not lit?” His voice was weak, breathless.

Su Huaijing’s hand, poised to remove a needle, froze. A sharp, twisting pain seized his chest, robbing him of breath.

He stared at Rong Tang, eyes locking onto those dark pupils… clear and bright, like flawless glass crafted by a master’s hand, pure as the stars.

Su Huaijing’s fingers trembled. He stepped back, raising a hand to wave before his eyes. “Tangtang?”

Rong Tang blinked instinctively but gave no other response. “Ng?”

Panic surged in Su Huaijing. His grip tightened around the needle, ready to continue the acupuncture, but his own hands would not stop shaking. The tip slipped, pricking his finger, and a bead of red welled up—sharp, vivid.

He paid it no mind, setting the needle aside as he hurriedly searched for another of the right size.

But perhaps it was the glint of silver against the candlelight, or the starkness of that single drop of blood—

At last, Rong Tang’s sight refocused.

The wooden floorboards, the bright-lit chamber, the candles burning in clusters, the charcoal fire smouldering in the brazier—

It was nearly daylight. And yet, just moments ago, he had seen nothing.

His brows knitted slightly, gaze falling to the fresh wound on Su Huaijing’s fingertip.

He stilled. Then, without thinking, reached out. He took Su Huaijing’s hand, lifted it to his lips—

—and enclosed the wound in his mouth, sucking gently.

The scent of blood lingered in his mouth. Rong Tang held it there for a long time until his tongue could no longer taste the metallic tang. Only then did he part his lips, intending to scold in a low voice, “Why are you so reckle—”

The words caught in his throat as darkness once again consumed his vision, though this time, it was not complete blindness.

Dazed, Rong Tang opened his eyes and saw Su Huaijing kissing him with desperate hunger, like a parched traveller stumbling upon an oasis. His tightly shut eyes trembled, his lashes quivering like butterfly wings, and faint trails of dried tears streaked his cheeks.

The reprimands and warnings he had prepared vanished in an instant. Rong Tang parted his lips, letting him take, letting him plunder.

Letting him kiss his lover like a man on the verge of death.

But the one truly close to death was Rong Tang himself.

For a long while, he lost track of how many breaths had been passed between them, how many times he had responded to Su Huaijing’s hoarse murmurs of “Tangtang.” Only when he was finally released did he take his first sip of warm tea.

Rong Tang blinked and glanced at the bedside.

A cloth pouch used by physicians for acupuncture lay there, silver needles scattered carelessly instead of being placed back in order. One needle tip still bore a bead of blood.

Su Huaijing knew medicine. This much, Rong Tang was aware of.

An illness endured long enough makes a physician of the patient. Even he himself had, on occasion, felt his own pulse and assessed its condition.

Su Huaijing had cared for him for two years. It was no surprise that he had learned to recognise medicinal herbs and practise moxibustion.

At the very least, despite the bitter doses of coptis and lily he occasionally slipped into his medicine, Rong Tang had yet to die.

But to have learned acupuncture as well… Rong Tang had to admit, a main villain truly lived up to his name.

Now, however, the main villain’s eyes were red, his breath unsteady. Rong Tang felt an instinctive urge to praise him.

He chuckled softly, leaned forward from the bed, and traced the tear stains at the corner of Su Huaijing’s eyes with his fingertips. With a teasing lilt, he said, “Huaijing is so impressive, pulling me back from the gates of hell.”

He had only meant to lighten Su Huaijing’s mood, to coax away some of his sorrow. But the moment he finished speaking, his wrist was caught in a vice grip. Su Huaijing, kneeling by the bedside, straightened abruptly and stared at him with dark, burning eyes. His voice was hoarse as he bit out, “So you do realise you almost died?”

Rong Tang immediately understood. This was not something he could joke about.

Su Huaijing was afraid. Terrified. So much so that he could not bear to hear even the slightest mention of “death.”

A dull ache tightened in Rong Tang’s chest.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Lowering his gaze, he murmured, “I’m sorry…”

Silence filled the room. Su Huaijing quietly put away the acupuncture kit, extinguished the candle on the table, and climbed into bed. Without a word, he wrapped Rong Tang in his arms.

In the chaos earlier, Rong Tang only now realised. Su Huaijing wasn’t even wearing an outer robe to ward off the cold.

For as long as Rong Tang had been tormented by nightmares, Su Huaijing had likely been keeping watch by his side, dressed in nothing but thin layers.

A lump rose in Rong Tang’s throat. Softly, he called, “Huaijing…”

Su Huaijing cut him off. “Sleep.”

Rong Tang: “…”

He hesitated, then fell silent.

The winter night was still. The hour had likely not yet reached its deepest. In the darkness, Rong Tang lay awake, quietly tracing the contours of Su Huaijing’s face with his gaze.

A sigh broke the silence. The villain opened his eyes and looked at him. In a hushed voice, he asked, “Tangtang, can’t sleep?”

Rong Tang shook his head, whispering in return, “Were you scared?”

Su Huaijing said nothing, only stared at him for a long moment. “So you knew.”

Guilt flooded Rong Tang in an instant. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Su Huaijing murmured. “I’m just… useless.”

Even after noticing the irregularities in Rong Tang’s pulse and adjusting the prescription, he had still let him teeter on the brink of death.

He didn’t dare to imagine. What if he had noticed a moment too late? What if Rong Tang had suffocated in his sleep, unable to wake?

He had walked such a long road just to meet Rong Tang. What if he were to die right beside him now?

The night was good for hiding things, yet it also made every emotion feel stronger.

Almost the instant Su Huaijing fell into thought, Rong Tang, without so much as a pause, leaned forward and pressed his lips against his.

He mimicked the way Su Huaijing had once kissed him, with gentle pecks and tentative licks, until he drew all of Huaijing’s attention.

Bracing his hands against Huaijing’s chest, Rong Tang whispered, “Huaijing, I’ll tell you a secret.”

Su Huaijing’s heart gave a start. Instinctively, he turned his head away. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Rong Tang loosened his hold, sprawled over him, caught his face between his hands, and kissed the eyes that tried to evade him. “Su Xiaoqi is a coward!”

Su Huaijing replied quietly, “Mm. I am.”

Rong Tang froze for a moment. His nose prickled; he turned his head and sniffed, but the ache in his chest wouldn’t go away. So he rubbed the tip of his nose against Huaijing’s until the other made a faint nasal sound too. That, somehow, evened things out a little. Then, with an air of mystery, he said, “I’ll only say this once, all right? You must listen carefully.”

Su Huaijing said nothing.

With a touch of pride, Rong Tang declared, “I’m an immortal from heaven!”

Su Huaijing looked at him.

Rong Tang blinked. “You’re not surprised?”

Su Huaijing shook his head. “Not surprised.”

Rong Tang suddenly looked crestfallen. “Why not?”

Su Huaijing said softly, “Tangtang’s a celestial immortal who came down to save me, aren’t you?”

Rong Tang faltered, suddenly uncertain, not knowing whether he should nod.

But Su Huaijing went on, calm and rational as ever: “And now that Tangtang thinks I’ve changed for the better, you’re going back to heaven, is that it?”

He asked, rational and calm, “What counts as getting better? What kind of person needs to be saved by gods and Buddhas?”

“How bad must I be for Tangtang to stay by my side?”

“Murder? Arson? Regicide? The destruction of a nation?”

Rong Tang was stunned. He straightened up, staring at him in disbelief.

Su Huaijing held his gaze for a long time before smiling faintly and pulling him back into his embrace. “I was joking.”

He said, “Tangtang came into this world, bound by mortal ties, just to see me change for the better. If I were to turn around and do such things, wouldn’t that be a great injustice to you?”

Su Huaijing’s voice was soft, devoid of discernible emotion, making it impossible to tell if he was speaking the truth or not.

He only asked gently, “So, Tangtang, are you here to save me?”

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, growing so loud that Rong Tang could barely breathe.

He remained silent for a long time before nodding. “I am.”

“That’s enough.” Su Huaijing sighed. “Then, what is it that Tangtang wants to tell me? To stop me from following you in death, are you planning to tell me how to find you in the next life?”

Once again, Rong Tang felt that intelligence was a terrible thing.

A truly terrible thing.

Su Huaijing was so astute that his own lies felt clumsy. The main villain knew everything yet played along, indulging him, watching as he spun his deceptions over and over.

But Rong Tang had to lie.

He said, “Huaijing, when I die, don’t follow. One day in the heavens is a year on earth. I’ll return to find you once my duty is done.”

Su Huaijing nodded. “Alright.”

He didn’t even ask how long it would be.

He didn’t demand that Rong Tang give him a false yet cruel timeframe.

He simply nodded once more, placed a kiss on Rong Tang’s brow, and whispered, “Alright, I understand. Goodnight, Tangtang.”

The next day, Rong Tang couldn’t get out of bed, and Su Huaijing took the day off to stay with him.

On the third day, Rong Tang remained in a hazy half-dreaming state, drifting in and out of consciousness. Every time he opened his eyes, Su Huaijing was there by his bedside.

……

On the seventh day, the heavy snowfall in the capital finally ceased, and the sun shone brightly.

Emperor Renshou made an exception, allowing Sheng Chengli to enter court early to participate in governance. News spread from the palace. His Majesty had summoned the most renowned physicians in the land to treat his beloved son’s injured leg.

That evening, when Rong Tang woke, he told Su Huaijing he wanted turtle soup. The main villain looked at him for a moment, then turned and left to instruct the kitchen.

As his footsteps faded around the corner, Rong Tang turned his head and coughed up a mouthful of thick, black blood.

He lay back down, wiped his lips with a handkerchief, and murmured, “System.”

[Tangtang, I’m here.]

Rong Tang’s voice was quiet as he asked, “Are Sheng Chengli and I bound together, destined to complement one another? Or are we doomed to mutual destruction, fighting until the bitter end?”