Chapter 143

From the very beginning, no one had ever given Rong Tang so much as a hint.

Su Huaijing was able to deduce their past and present lives only because Rong Tang had told him about the dreams.

Ke Hongxue had a vague inkling due to his own half-formed dreams, and because he was overly familiar with Rong Tang. So familiar, it was as if they’d known each other long before they’d actually met.

Only Rong Tang had been kept in the dark from start to finish.

No sunlight, no knowledge of cause and effect. Every piece of information came from the system. And now, even the system itself had been deceived.

In an instant, everything he had thought was real seemed to be turned on its head, and he was left to entertain the most absurd of possibilities.

Huimian looked at him and asked gently, “What do you think, devotee?”

Rong Tang met his gaze and saw in his eyes the still depths of an ancient well; dark, unmoving, unfathomable. He couldn’t see the bottom, couldn’t touch the edge. And yet, it now seemed that no one else but him could voice the suspicions he carried.

Not even Su Huaijing. Telling him would only cause unnecessary worry.

Rong Tang fell silent. A breeze stirred the treetops in the courtyard. The seasons were shifting. It would soon be summer.

In a low voice, he said, “I’ve been wondering… who am I, really?”

Am I a task-bearer who died after falling down the stairs in the real world, then crossed into another world and lived through three lifetimes? Or am I a foolhardy prince who belonged to this world from the start?

Or perhaps… I’m both. And neither.

Rong Tang said, “The world should have its rules. But now it feels like everything has come undone.”

First it was Qin Pengxuan, who found Su Huaijing on the strength of a hazy, illogical dream. Then it was Ke Hongxue, who questioned him about the heavy snowfall in his dream.

Rong Tang had no idea how many others had dreamt such strange, disjointed dreams… but not a single one should have existed to begin with.

Let alone everything that had happened to Sheng Chengli…

Ke Hongxue’s doubts were not baseless. Sheng Chengli had indeed changed. Drastically.

Rong Tang had spent two lifetimes by his side. Unless he deliberately chose not to remember, he could sketch Sheng Chengli’s face with his eyes closed.

In the awning-covered boat, during a short stretch of the journey, he and Sheng Chengli had looked at each other for a long time, each seeing in the other’s eyes a multitude of hidden truths.

That was not the male lead from the fourth month of the eleventh year of Qingzheng.

If anything, it was how he looked at the end of that year, or perhaps the beginning of the twelfth.

Young people do grow fast. But for someone’s features to age a year overnight. Anyone would think it unnatural. That was why Sheng Chengli had shut himself away for three months.

It wasn’t the loss of one eye that made him reluctant to face the world. He simply needed time. Time for the world, and more importantly, for the emperor, to naturally accept that he had grown. That his features had matured.

The eye that was removed had been lifeless from the start. The reason Sheng Chengli now seemed perfectly whole was that his body—this body—shouldn’t have belonged to this era at all.

If one wished to prove it, the method was simple: find another assassin to cut open his robes and check whether the scar from that old wound remained.

But the result was all but certain. Rong Tang wasn’t willing to let Su Huaijing’s people risk their lives over and over again.

As for the question he wanted answered: was this the Sheng Chengli of the first lifetime, or the second?

No one in this world could give him that answer… except Sheng Chengli himself.

At the very beginning, the system had told him: the Son of Heaven had failed to take his place, and the world’s order was in urgent need of correction. That was why Rong Tang had been brought in—to protect the male protagonist.

But that order merely needed correcting, not creating.

So what, exactly, was this world? Now on the brink of collapse, yet somehow also inexplicably merging?

What had become of the natural order? How could timelines, flowing at different speeds, from unrelated worlds, begin to overlap in so many places?

If one were to distil Huimian’s four questions into a single one, the answer would be this: Who is Rong Tang?

Who was he? Why had he been chosen to take on this mission?

When Rong Tang came to believe that the so-called “Heavenly Way” was biased beyond reason, that the so-called “male protagonist” was unworthy of the role, and that he and Sheng Chengli were fundamentally opposed. Then who, exactly, was he?

And if he went a step further: why, every time he died, did he enter a space of total darkness, the flow of time around him accelerating, only to be told the “ending” by the central system? Why did he not, as a soul from another world, adjust to this timeline naturally, and bear witness to the real ending as it unfolded?

Why was the world made to accommodate him, rather than the other way round?

And once suspicion took root, once a direction for speculation emerged, so many things suddenly began to fall into place.

Were anchor-point time travel and divine perspective truly the sort of “golden fingers” that a task-bearer in a palace intrigue novel ought to possess?

And what’s more, they had no usage limits.

Rong Tang had read plenty of modern novels. Even in xianxia, where characters cultivated immortality, this sort of intra-world travel required a talisman, or an array as a conduit.

In a narrative grounded in political manoeuvring, how could such things be handed to a task-bearer as tools? It went against the very structure of the world.

Unless… he’d always had them to begin with?

Rong Tang’s thoughts were a mess. On the one hand, every speculation seemed utterly absurd. But on the other hand, if one insisted on logic, this might be the only explanation that fit.

Unless this world had never been logical to begin with.

In the teacup, emerald leaves rose and fell, ripples stirring without end. The scent of tea filled the room.

He looked straight into Huimian’s eyes and asked, slowly and clearly, “Am I Rong Tang?”

Huimian chuckled softly and replied, “The devotee is, of course, the devotee.”

Rong Tang asked again, “Then… am I the Heavenly Way?”

This time, Huimian said nothing. He simply rinsed the tea once more and asked in turn, “What does the devotee believe… should one enter the world, or renounce it?”

“You wish to enter the world, Master?” Rong Tang asked.

Huimian replied, “I am already in the world of mortals, I’ve no choice but to walk through it.”

“To save lives?”

Huimian gave a gentle smile. “If lives can be saved, all the better.”

Rong Tang fell silent, staring for a long while at the lone tea leaf drifting in his cup before speaking. “Master sees things far more clearly than I do. I imagine you already have your own thoughts on the matter.”

Huimian said, “Your eyes are sharp and your heart unclouded. When the road ahead seems uncertain, trust your own heart.”

Rong Tang said no more. The two of them drank a cup of tea in companionable silence. Then Rong Tang rose to take his leave. Just as he stepped out of the room, he paused and turned back to ask, “Xiong zhang… through all these lifetimes, in what role have you been watching this farce unfold?”

He pointed directly to Huimian’s identity and origin, yet Huimian did not refute him. He sat steadily upon his meditation mat, hands resting serenely, and softly chanted a Buddhist verse: “Those within the game are blind, while onlookers see with clarity. I, too, am but one among the common folk.”

Huimian glanced up at the sky and smiled. “It’s getting late. Take the mountain path down, good sir. Walk a little brisker, and you might reach the main road before night falls.”

Rong Tang gave him a long look, then nodded his thanks.

Su Huaijing was waiting for him just outside the courtyard. Rong Tang walked over, took his hand, and gave it a firm, silent squeeze. Together, they began their descent.

Su Huaijing had many questions he wanted to ask, but in the end, the words circled in his mind and quietly faded. He said nothing, simply accompanied Rong Tang obediently down the mountain.

By the time the carriage reached the main road, darkness had fully fallen. On the other side, another carriage was already passing through the mountain gate.

Rong Tang lifted the curtain and looked out. In the distance, scattered firelight flickered at the mountain’s peak. The scene overlapped, in his mind, with the blaze from the twelfth year of Qingzheng.

He closed his eyes, let the curtain fall, and leaned back in the carriage, pretending to rest.

Su Huaijing held his hand. After enduring for a long while, he finally couldn’t hold back and whispered, “That lightball told me… there are many things you can’t say. I only need to trust you.”

Rong Tang opened his eyes and looked at him, puzzled.

Su Huaijing asked, “Tangtang, can you at least promise me… you won’t put yourself in danger?”

Rong Tang was taken aback. He didn’t answer for a long time.

A trace of pleading appeared in Su Huaijing’s gaze, though his tone remained calm. “At the very least… don’t let me live in constant fear. Please?”

He wasn’t being coy, nor manipulative.

He was simply making a request, an ordinary one. Honestly voicing the fear he carried within.

Rong Tang felt an ache in his chest. After a moment’s pause, he leaned over and kissed him.

For the first time, Su Huaijing pulled away.

He turned his head to the side, eyes growing increasingly intense, shadowed with something dangerously obsessive.

“Don’t placate me,” Su Huaijing said. “Tangtang, every time you try to soothe me, you’re lying to me. Just be honest. Will you leave me?”

Rong Tang was at a complete loss. His heart ached. He stared into Su Huaijing’s eyes and murmured, “I want to see you ascend the throne.”

“And after that?” Su Huaijing pressed, unusually persistent. “What happens after that?”

Rong Tang was stumped. For a moment, he had no answer.

Su Huaijing kept his eyes fixed on him. The corners of his eyes flushed red, and suddenly, a tear slipped down without warning.

Rong Tang was flustered. He truly didn’t understand how the apocalyptic main a villain of the original tale had become either a jealous lover or a weepy mess.

He couldn’t even recall how many times he’d seen Su Huaijing cry.

And yet now, crying once more, Su Huaijing still found strength to accuse, “Tangtang, you either coax me or lie to me. You let me live in fear every day. Now you won’t even give me a promise?”

Rong Tang wanted to say: you’re mixing things up.

He didn’t even know if he’d live long enough to see Su Huaijing ascend the throne. How was he supposed to promise him anything?

But looking at those tear-reddened eyes, he fell silent for a couple of seconds, then leaned in again and gently kissed his eyes. In a low voice, he whispered, “I won’t leave.”

“As long as you don’t push me away, I’ll stay by your side,” Rong Tang murmured, not noticing that in the moment Su Huaijing closed his eyes, all the panic and fear gave way to a deeper, darker emotion. One forged in shadow and blood.

…

A major event occurred after the flower-picking festival. To pray for His Majesty’s health, the Fifth Prince personally travelled to Tuolan Temple. By chance, or fate, he encountered the renowned Master Huimian, and the two exchanged words.

The eminent monk, moved by the prince’s filial piety, agreed to leave the monastic order and enter the imperial city, to chant sutras and offer blessings for the royal family.

Emperor Renshou was overjoyed. He lavished the Fifth Prince with commendations and even allocated funds to rebuild the Grand Hall at Tuolan Temple, which had recently been damaged in a fire.

The monk who had refused the imperial summons in two previous lifetimes was “successfully invited” this time. The Emperor had initially wished to name him the Imperial Preceptor, but Huimian declined repeatedly. At last, the Emperor relented, though he still conferred upon him the title of Protector of the Nation, granting him a second-rank stipend and formally ushering him into the bureaucracy.

Rong Tang paid a visit to the Mu household. While chatting idly with Mu Jingxu, he asked, as if offhandedly, “When we were in Suzhou, Huaijing once mentioned that his er ge was raised outside the palace. You’re close in age. Do you know the reason? And where he was raised?”

Mu Jingxu didn’t know why Rong Tang asked, but he had always been open with him, especially due to Su Huaijing. After a moment’s thought, he replied, “They say that on the day my er ge was born, half the sky was filled with auspicious clouds, each shaped like a golden lotus beneath the Buddha’s seat. A wandering monk passed by the palace, claiming the child was destined for the Dharma. If raised in the palace, he would not live past three. Only by being raised under the Buddha’s care could he live a peaceful life.”

“At first, Imperial Father didn’t believe it. But er ge was indeed sickly as a child, burning with fever every night—he almost didn’t survive more than once. The only place where his condition improved… was the Buddhist hall.”

“In the end, they had no choice. When the monk visited the palace again, he took the child away. Only Imperial Father, Imperial Mother, and er ge’s birth mother knew where.”

“And how is he listed in the imperial records?” Rong Tang asked.

Mu Jingxu raised an eyebrow slightly, surprised by his attention to detail. “Recorded as the Emperor’s second son, deceased at age three.”

Rong Tang understood. He nodded. “Thank you, xiong zhang.”

He didn’t know if Huimian had changed his appearance, like Su Huaijing and Mu Jingxu, but in the eyes of the world, a child thought to have died at the age of three, reappearing decades later as a reclusive monk uninterested in worldly affairs… shouldn’t pose much danger.

A weight lifted slightly from Rong Tang’s heart. He noticed the camellias in the courtyard, blooming on the verge of withering. He rose to take his leave, planning to bring back a late-season blossom for Su Huaijing—to place it on his desk, kept fresh in clear water.

He’d asked Huimian if he was the Heavenly Way, but in truth, the answer had been given from the very beginning.

“What brings you here today, kind sir?”

“Master, don’t you already know?”

“I am but a humble monk walking the secular path. How could I divine the secrets of Heaven?”

He still hadn’t recalled the answers to Huimian’s four questions.

But the phrase “divine the secrets of Heaven” said it all.

From start to finish.

He was the one who should never have stood in that place.