For as long as Rong Tang had been ill, Su Huaijing had taken leave.
It wasn’t until Zhou Gang and Ke Hongxue, who was just one step away from resigning, arrived at Yong’an Lane to ask Su Huaijing about his plans that he finally returned to the Imperial Censorate and resumed attending court daily.
Bi Xin was transferred back from the outskirts of the capital and took charge of Rong Tang’s daily care and pulse diagnosis during the day. Su Huaijing returned home after midday, handling some official matters from the Imperial Censorate and private affairs while Rong Tang drifted in and out of sleep.
From time to time, Rong Tang would open his eyes to the dim glow of the lamps and Su Huaijing’s increasingly haggard face. He couldn’t help but worry. Would Su Huaijing collapse first? Would his eyesight deteriorate from the strain?
Yet, when he suggested lighting more candles to brighten the room, Su Huaijing refused.
He was afraid of disturbing Rong Tang’s already fragile sleep.
That day, after morning court, Su Huaijing descended the steps of the Hall of Supreme Harmony one by one. Ahead, a high-ranking official in a first-rank crane robe was surrounded by attendants. He caught a glimpse of Su Huaijing and waved his entourage away, standing still and waiting.
Su Huaijing stepped forward and bowed respectfully. “Your Grace.”
“Mm.” Duke Ningxuan gave a faint nod and walked alongside him towards the palace gates, speaking as if casually, “Is Rong Tang unwell?”
Su Huaijing found it ironic.
Rong Tang had been ill for over ten days. Even the Empress had sent someone to inquire. Yet his own father, Rong Mingyu, only took the opportunity to ask after spotting Su Huaijing at court.
Su Huaijing lowered his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Rong Mingyu glanced at him and asked indifferently, “How is he?”
For a brief moment, Su Huaijing felt dazed. He truly didn’t know what answer Duke Ningxuan expected regarding his only legitimate son’s condition.
After a pause, he replied, “The physician says he needs proper rest.”
Rong Mingyu’s steady steps faltered slightly. He turned his head to scrutinise Su Huaijing, his sharp gaze roaming over him, extracting the unspoken meaning behind those words:
No further comment.
Good or bad, life or death… his son’s spouse had told him nothing.
Rong Mingyu studied him for a few moments before shifting his gaze away, his voice deep and composed. “Since he needs rest, let the physicians tend to him daily. There are servants to prepare medicine and attend to his needs. You are a senior official of the Imperial Censorate. How can you neglect your duties, wasting your days caring for your husband?”
Su Huaijing lowered his gaze, watching the red glow reflected on the snow along the palace road. He let out a soft chuckle, then stood still and bowed humbly to his father-in-law. “Your Grace speaks wisely. I shall remember.”
That night, the cries of a child from the western courtyard of Duke Ningxuan’s Palace roused the entire household. The Duke’s side consort and their youngest son both developed severe fevers, hovering on the brink of death.
The following day, Duke Ningxuan, who never missed morning court, took an exceptionally rare leave of absence.
Standing among the ranks of officials, Su Huaijing lowered his eyes, his lips curling into a faintly amused smile.
So, it wasn’t that state affairs took precedence. It was simply that Tangtang didn’t hold enough weight in the Duke’s heart.
Su Huaijing’s mood lightened considerably. It was as if a spring that had been compressed to its limit suddenly snapped back, releasing all the pent-up, unspoken frustrations in an almost reckless surge of satisfaction.
The day the youngest son’s fever subsided, the Duke’s third son, Rong Yuan, fell ill. The day Rong Yuan recovered, the side consort’s eldest son, Rong Zhe, caught a cold. When Rong Zhe finally recovered, the side consort, Madam Qian, died in her sleep, her body covered in dark sores.
The news of her death reached Wang Xiuyu, who had to return to the estate to arrange the funeral. Eventually, word reached Rong Tang’s ears.
He woke in the middle of the night, feeling a little warm, and found himself held in someone’s arms. Su Huaijing, eyes closed, seemed to be dreaming sweetly, the corners of his lips curved in a faint smile.
Rong Tang watched him for a moment. The smile only deepened instead of fading. Su Huaijing murmured lazily, “If Tangtang wants a kiss, just take one.”
Rong Tang hesitated for a couple of seconds, unsure how to respond to such confidence, but in the end, he leaned up and pressed a kiss to Su Huaijing’s lips.
The momentary initiative was swiftly overturned. Rong Tang found himself pressed into the bed, thoroughly kissed, until he was left slightly dazed. When he finally started coughing softly, Su Huaijing let him go.
Rong Tang panted for a long while, his misty eyes gazing at the main villain.
Su Huaijing raised a hand, gently wiping the corners of his eyes, and smiled. “What does Tangtang want to ask me?”
Rong Tang hesitated, then finally asked, “Madam Qian?”
Su Huaijing admitted it freely. “That was my doing.”
Rong Tang immediately tensed, uncertain how to respond. After a moment of silence, Su Huaijing preemptively reassured him. “The child is fine.”
Young Prince Rong’s eyes instantly brightened, shining like stars even through his illness. Su Huaijing couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss him again.
“Innocent children shouldn’t suffer. Besides, that wasn’t even Rong Mingyu’s child. The fever came from Madam Qian’s negligence. She failed to take care of him, and he caught a chill. It had nothing to do with me.”
If there was any connection at all, it was that when Xingfeng had poisoned Madam Qian, he discovered the child was ill. Concerned that the two events might seem linked, he had asked Su Huaijing what to do. Su Huaijing had simply ordered Bi Xin to sneak into the Duke’s residence and treat the child.
But there was no need to tell Rong Tang all that. After all, he was no saint himself.
He merely said, “Last autumn, Madam Qian tried to poison Mother.”
Rong Tang’s pupils contracted sharply, tension instantly returning. Su Huaijing stroked the back of his hand, murmuring soothingly, “I stopped her. Don’t worry, Tangtang, Mother is fine.”
He continued, “I’m not a good person, but I do believe in karma. Actions have consequences, sooner or later. If I’m in a good mood, I might let someone live a little longer. If I’m not, they’ll pay their dues sooner. That was her own poison. I simply returned it to her. No need for Tangtang to worry too much.”
For a moment, Rong Tang wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be worried about. The fact that Wang Xiuyu had nearly been poisoned, or that Su Huaijing had personally taken a life.
After a pause, he simply looked up and asked quietly, “Why were you in a bad mood?”
Moonlight streamed through the lattice windows, dim and hazy. They lay close together, warmth mingling, intimate yet tender.
Su Huaijing chuckled and sighed half-seriously. “Tangtang promised me something sweet, yet he keeps delaying his recovery and refuses to fulfil it. And now he asks why I’m in a bad mood. How unfair.”
“…”
Rong Tang was momentarily speechless. He rolled onto his side, turning his back to Su Huaijing, and buried his face under the blankets… until the heat of his breath left his ears burning red.
Su Huaijing let him go for a few seconds, then turned sideways and embraced him, gently rubbing his chin against Rong Tang’s hair. In a soft whisper carried by the air, he said, “Good night, Tangtang.”
Winter is already halfway through. When will you finally get better?
Rong Mingyu is the one who deserves retribution the most. You should witness his downfall with your own eyes, shouldn’t you?
…
On the first day of the twelfth lunar month, all officials were on leave.
The weather was clear, and Rong Tang looked much better. He dressed and got out of bed.
Shuang Fu and Shuang Shou had already packed their luggage, and both boarded the carriage leaving the city.
Su Huaijing was somewhat displeased, but in the end, he still yielded to Rong Tang and said nothing more, though the frequency of his furrowed brows increased noticeably.
That day, when Rong Tang caught Su Huaijing performing acupuncture to dispel nightmares, Su Huaijing no longer concealed it. From time to time, he would take Rong Tang’s wrist to check his pulse, making no attempt to hide it.
Instead, it was the patient who started feeling anxious.
Su Huaijing asked what he was nervous about. Rong Tang smiled and said, “A healer suffers alongside his patient. I fear that you will be saddened.”
Su Huaijing had no words to counter that.
How did Rong Tang resemble a man on the brink of death? He even had the leisure to worry about the doctor’s emotional well-being.
Su Huaijing simply did not know what to say. Any words felt powerless.
Despite the bitter cold of the twelfth lunar month, Rong Tang insisted on visiting the temple to worship Buddha. Though Su Huaijing was deeply reluctant, he still allowed the carriage to proceed, stopping intermittently. It was past noon by the time they arrived at the gates of Tuolan Temple.
The temple’s sacred grounds were veiled in faint wisps of incense. Countless officials and commoners alike sought divine protection, while many others ventured to the Buddhist temple, hoping to meet the world-renowned eminent monk, Master Huimian.
As Rong Tang and Su Huaijing stepped through the temple gates, before they could state their purpose, a young novice monk approached, palms pressed together in greeting, and softly intoned a Buddhist chant: “Devotees, please follow me.”
Rong Tang was slightly surprised but said nothing. Su Huaijing narrowed his eyes and asked in a deep voice, “May I ask where you intend to take us?”
The young monk replied, “You misunderstand, sir. Shishu* has only invited devotee Rong. Please wait here.”
(*TN: Address for junior disciple of one’s teacher. The “shu” (叔) is also the address for paternal uncle; father’s younger brother—the same ‘shu’ that Yuanyuan calls Su Huaijing, Rong Tang. So it’s similar to calling “younger uncle-teacher”.)
At these words, Su Huaijing’s expression darkened instantly. He took a step forward to shield Rong Tang. “Who is your shishu? How did he know we were coming?”
“Shishu said that the sky is clear and the snow is pure. It is time for an old friend to return.”
The temple resounded with the steady cadence of Buddhist chants, each syllable washing over the soul like ripples in still water.
Su Huaijing stood his ground, unwilling to let Rong Tang leave his sight. A brief stalemate ensued until Rong Tang gently patted his arm.
Su Huaijing turned his head slightly. Rong Tang said, “It’s Master Huimian.”
Su Huaijing was momentarily taken aback, his eyes flickering with thought. He had indeed heard of Master Huimian’s name before.
Rong Tang continued, “I once met him and received a gift. Today, I have come to return it.”
Shuang Fu, following closely behind, held a brocade box in his hands. Inside was the Buddha portrait that Rong Tang had taken from Tuolan Temple on a previous visit.
No one had been informed of their trip in advance. Even Rong Tang himself had not been certain whether he would be able to meet Huimian.
But at the monk’s mention of an “old friend,” he instantly understood who awaited him.
Rong Tang asked Su Huaijing to wait for him in the temple’s guest quarters, then followed the young monk alone into the Buddhist temple.
In the Sutra Hall, monks and worshippers knelt side by side on meditation mats, chanting scriptures in hushed voices… for penance, for prayer, for the countless desires of the mortal world.
The compassionate Buddha statue gazed down with benevolence, untouched by worldly cravings, neither resentful nor affectionate.
Rong Tang passed through a narrow path and was led into a secluded courtyard. Plum trees stood in bloom, their branches dusted with frost. The door of the house faced the garden. Inside, an elderly monk in a grey robe knelt on a meditation cushion, his hair as white as freshly fallen snow. A small censer emitted curling wisps of incense, and a teapot steamed gently beside him.
As he lifted his gaze, he smiled and gestured for Rong Tang to enter and take a seat.
The mingling fragrance of tea and temple incense created a tranquil atmosphere. Rong Tang’s eyes rested on the old monk’s snowy-white hair, but the monk’s gaze was fixed on his.
Then, with a soft chuckle, the monk spoke.
His warm voice carried the weight of ancient wisdom, as if uttering a prophecy: “Devotee, there is now desire in your eyes.”
