Throughout the twelfth month, Rong Tang and Su Huaijing were practically inseparable, indulging in reckless abandon and doing as they pleased…
Young Prince Rong seemed to have been thoroughly marinated by Su Huaijing. His complexion grew rosier by the day, though his demeanour became increasingly languid. Each morning, after getting out of bed, he would simply lounge on the beauty couch with a storybook in hand.
Then, when Su Huaijing returned home in the evening after dinner and a stroll, it could be anywhere. In the study or the bedroom, on the bed or the couch. The moment Rong Tang curled his finger, the main villain would dutifully begin serving him with utmost devotion.
The system had accidentally walked in on them a few times and was so traumatised it wished it could gouge its own eyes out. Later, it learned its lesson: the moment Su Huaijing appeared, it would automatically enter sleep mode, terrified of witnessing anything unsuitable for younger audiences.
Then, on the twenty-sixth day of the twelfth month, Rong Tang got up in the morning, took a carriage to Mu Jingxu’s residence, and brought Yuanyuan out shopping. On the way, they ran into a bustling crowd purchasing New Year supplies, and suddenly, a sharp pain shot through Rong Tang’s head.
It was a painfully familiar sensation. Cold sweat instantly beaded on his skin, and his hands and feet turned icy.
But the pain vanished as quickly as it had come, as if it had never happened. It felt more like a glitch in a game. A momentary data corruption that was swiftly patched and corrected.
A lingering unease settled in his heart. With no mood to continue shopping, he sent Yuanyuan back to the Mu residence before taking a carriage straight to Yong’an Lane.
As he passed through the streets, watching the steady flow of pedestrians and the freshly swept doorways of various households, he hesitated for a moment before joining a queue to buy a bag of freshly baked jujube paste cakes. Then, he turned towards the Censorate.
As the New Year approached, most officials had begun to slacken their workload, with only the Ministry of Rites still occupied with ceremonial and banquet preparations.
By the time Rong Tang arrived at the entrance of the Censorate, it was just past the hour of Shen. The weather was crisp, and the capital’s winter snow never fully melted. It had accumulated into a quiet, centuries-old imperial city. He stepped down from the carriage, standing silently before the solemn stone statues of mythical creatures guarding the entrance.
As the bell marking the end of the workday tolled, Rong Tang returned to his senses and turned towards the doorway.
Su Huaijing emerged, clad in a blue-grey uniform of an Imperial Censor. In half a month, he would trade it for the deep indigo robes embroidered with mandarin ducks, befitting his upcoming promotion to Deputy Censor-in-Chief.
Standing at the foot of the steps, Rong Tang watched as Su Huaijing strode towards him, the twilight breeze sweeping past, as if carrying the echoes of three lifetimes.
Su Huaijing’s eyes brightened, his joy undisguised. Quickening his pace, he instinctively took Rong Tang’s hands into his own, rubbing them to chase away the cold. “What brings you here?”
Rong Tang replied, “I went to see Yuanyuan earlier. On my way back, I passed by Liufang Zhai and saw they had just baked a fresh batch of jujube paste cakes. Since you like them, I thought I’d bring some over.”
Hearing this, Su Huaijing became even more elated. He was already in high spirits from simply seeing Rong Tang. Had Ke Hongxue been present, he might have rushed off to flaunt his good fortune to Tutor Ke.
But Ke Hongxue wasn’t around, and the air was still cold. Unwilling to let Rong Tang freeze, Su Huaijing led him into the carriage.
The jujube paste cakes were piping hot, their rich aroma filling the cabin, almost masking the scent of sandalwood. Soft and warm, they carried the unmistakable comfort of the approaching New Year.
Su Huaijing took a bite before leaning in to kiss Rong Tang. So now, Tangtang’s lips, too, carried the sweetness of the dessert.
That night, Rong Tang was particularly demanding. When an hour had passed, Su Huaijing prepared to get out of bed and fetch warm water to clean him up. But before he could leave, Rong Tang hooked his leg around him, his voice weak and hoarse, yet carrying an inexplicable hint of defiance: “Again.”
Only then did Su Huaijing finally snap out of the haze of beauty and indulgence, realising the details he had previously overlooked.
That night, Rong Tang drifted into unconsciousness as he slept. Su Huaijing gently wiped him clean, draped a robe over himself, and left for his own chambers.
Inside a hidden compartment, as always, a letter awaited him. Opening it, he found that Liuyun had written to report: the physician had successfully treated Sheng Chengli’s crippled leg. The message concluded with a simple question. When did the master wish to claim his eye?
Su Huaijing narrowed his gaze, falling into deep contemplation.
He had no idea what connection Sheng Chengli’s leg had to Rong Tang. He wasn’t even certain if Tangtang’s unusual behaviour that day was linked to Sheng Chengli at all. But at present, this was the most plausible lead, one he couldn’t afford to ignore.
He sat still for a long while before finally penning a reply, issuing new orders.
The next day, Emperor Renshou cancelled court, granting officials a semi-holiday. From then on, they only needed to check in at their offices briefly each day before returning home.
Seizing the opportunity, Su Huaijing took Rong Tang to visit Mu Jingxu, and together with their family of five, they spent a lively day.
That evening, as they walked home, Su Huaijing held Rong Tang’s hand, studying his profile and expressions. The suspicions in his heart seemed on the verge of being confirmed. Lowering his gaze, he suppressed the simmering murderous intent beneath his calm exterior.
On the third day, Rong Tang began discussing New Year’s dishes with the cook. He also instructed Shuang Fu to clean out a guest courtyard, saying he wanted to invite zumu and Mother to stay for a few days after the holiday.
Su Huaijing took the day off to keep him company. Before dinner, he returned to his room and spotted a wooden box placed on his desk. A slow, chilling smile curled his lips.
Later, Rong Tang knocked on his door, claiming he was starving and demanding dinner.
But later that night, he clung to Su Huaijing, sobbing, saying he couldn’t eat anymore.
So fragile, Su Huaijing thought.
He leaned down. Rong Tang trembled, trying to shy away, but Su Huaijing only pressed closer, biting his earlobe lightly and whispering, “Tangtang, I have a gift for you.”
At that moment, Rong Tang had no interest in gifts. His thoughts were scattered, his only wish for Su Huaijing to finish quickly.
But the next morning, after breakfast, Su Huaijing presented him with a silk-lined box.
Puzzled, Rong Tang opened it… only to find a single, blood-red eyeball nestled within, its delicate veins stark against the pale fabric, its surface still glistening with moisture.
He froze for a moment, nearly failing to register what he was seeing.
Having long left behind the world of schemes and machinations, he had almost forgotten what these things looked like once they were torn from a living body.
Perhaps his reaction was too composed… too indifferent. It pleased Su Huaijing, who let out a soft chuckle. “Tangtang, take a guess. Whose eye is this?”
The answer surfaced in his mind immediately. An uncontrollable tension gripped him, his scalp prickling as a deep, foreboding sense of judgement settled over him.
Instead of answering, he asked, “When was it taken?”
Su Huaijing’s gaze flickered. He poured Rong Tang a cup of tea, gently set the lid in place, then walked over and leaned in, his voice soft. “Let’s go through it one step at a time.”
“I did him a favour,” he murmured, toying with a strand of Rong Tang’s hair, slowly twining it around his fingers. “And in return, I collected my payment.”
Rong Tang stared up at him, bewildered.
Su Huaijing continued at an unhurried pace, his tone almost indulgent. “On the twenty-sixth of the twelfth month, I had Sheng Chengli’s crippled leg healed.”
Rong Tang was dazed for a second before snapping back to awareness, his eyes widening as if a dying man had just found a lifesaving cure. He locked his gaze onto Su Huaijing.
Su Huaijing’s heart ached uncontrollably, yet he still smiled, speaking slowly and deliberately: “On the twenty-seventh of the twelfth month, I had someone ambush Sheng Chengli and slash his abdomen.”
Rong Tang’s pupils contracted. Not for Sheng Chengli, but for the one Su Huaijing had sent to carry out the task.
By now, the male protagonist had likely mastered martial arts, with guards stationed at his residence. It would be no easy feat to gain the upper hand against him.
Su Huaijing caught the subtle shift in Rong Tang’s expression, and his already foul mood darkened further.
Suppressing the violent urges surging within him, Su Huaijing lifted his fingers, gently grasping Rong Tang’s chin.
He bent down, his gaze fixed upon his god, drawing infinitely close until their foreheads touched. His tone was soft, but laced with an unspoken menace. “Don’t make that face. It makes me unhappy.”
Su Huaijing was straightforward in expressing his emotions. Rong Tang froze for a moment before reacting. He hesitated briefly, then tilted his head up and kissed him recklessly.
A brief touch before he pulled away… meant to soothe. Rong Tang said, “I’m not sad or distressed for him. I’m just worried about whether you might be in danger.”
Su Huaijing stiffened. The seething rage that had nearly driven him to murder was instantly pacified. He faltered for a moment, his grip loosening, then lightly rubbed his forehead against Rong Tang’s like a pet seeking comfort after being wronged.
He pressed himself against Tangtang and continued, “Then, on the twenty-eighth—yesterday—I had them collect the payment.”
The payment: an eyeball, stored inside the wooden box.
Rong Tang already knew but still asked, “Why the slash on the twenty-seventh?”
Su Huaijing countered, “Then why the jujube cake on the twenty-sixth?”
Silence. Mutual understanding.
Su Huaijing had always been someone who scrutinised Rong Tang’s every move. A momentary lapse in vigilance might be forgivable, but once a single clue surfaced, he would unravel the entire thread, no matter what it took.
Because he wanted Sheng Chengli to taste joy before plunging into despair, the gift he had prepared inadvertently became an essential part of this closed loop.
On the twenty-sixth, Sheng Chengli’s injured leg had healed, yet something was amiss with Rong Tang. His eyes held a barely restrained madness, tinged with an undercurrent of despair. A man who was never particularly indulgent in pleasure had become ravenous, as if desperate to drown himself in it.
On the twenty-seventh, Liuyun slashed Sheng Chengli, and Rong Tang remained entirely unaware.
Which was why Su Huaijing had dared to have Liuyun drug Sheng Chengli and then gouge out one of his eyes.
Lowering his gaze, Su Huaijing stared into Rong Tang’s eyes and asked hoarsely, “Tangtang, what exactly is he to you?”
He was deeply confused. Utterly lost.
Dreams were real. So was the present.
Rong Tang had rescued Sheng Chengli from the cold palace, taught him strategy, and exhausted himself for him… only to be betrayed in the end.
Su Huaijing had always assumed that Sheng Chengli was someone truly special.
The jealousy gnawed at him, driving him mad, yet he couldn’t enter those dreams and experience firsthand what Tangtang had gone through.
So he forced himself not to care, not to dwell on it.
Tangtang didn’t like Sheng Chengli. He loathed him. Tangtang liked him. They were husband and wife.
That was enough.
The Fifth Prince of the Dayu Palace—whether man or ghost—was irrelevant to them.
But then Su Huaijing realised something.
Rong Tang would panic at Sheng Chengli’s fleeting rise. He had never met him, yet he could sense his state.
Su Huaijing was bewildered.
What was this connection?
A debt of gratitude? The bond of a mentor? The companionship of shared years?
Or were they simply two forces in opposition… plundering, countering, and destroying each other?
He lowered his head, repeating himself, “Tangtang, tell me. Who is he to you?”
A dense mist gathered in Su Huaijing’s eyes, veiling a murderous intent that ran deep.
Rong Tang swallowed, then cupped Su Huaijing’s face in his hands, his voice soft but unwavering. “No one.”
They restrained each other, though he didn’t yet understand why. If he had to put it into words, then… they were enemies.
Sheng Chengli’s success was bound to come at the cost of Rong Tang’s death… as though heaven had gifted the protagonist a little reward.
At that moment, the irony curdled in his chest, and the sightless eyeball in the wooden box on the table felt all the more repulsive.
Su Huaijing asked, “Then can I kill him now?”
Rong Tang hesitated, first shaking his head, then nodding. “Anything but death. Do whatever you want.”
He couldn’t wager an entire world’s existence on an uncertain outcome.
But…
Rong Tang lifted his gaze and met Su Huaijing’s eyes for two seconds. Then, without warning, he kissed him fiercely—until the taste of blood, neither of them sure whose, flooded their mouths.
He was suddenly consumed by hatred.
Two lifetimes. Seven years.
What had he done?
Had he simply been walking himself to his own execution all along?
