Chapter 166

Liuyun felt no guilt for having killed Rong Tang. Even if it had been a mistake, from his position at the time, Rong Tang was a threat to Su Huaijing. And threats had to be eliminated.

His change in stance now stemmed solely from the fact that Su Huaijing had come to see Rong Tang as his very own life. Therefore, Liuyun had no choice but to place Rong Tang at the top of his protection list.

So this wasn’t an apology. At most… it could be considered a form of disclosure… an explanation, regardless of whether Rong Tang understood it or not, for why he had poisoned him back then.

And yet…

In those few minutes of silence, Rong Tang couldn’t help wondering: why?

How had Liuyun come to the conclusion that he posed a threat to Su Huaijing? Just from those few idle, half-serious remarks they’d exchanged at the flower-picking festival, standing beside a blooming peony?

Back then, his understanding of Su Huaijing was deeply coloured by the book’s depiction of him as the archetypal villain. Su Huaijing’s words had stirred a silent, inexplicable unease and fear in him. But now, after so many lifetimes, Rong Tang no longer saw that encounter as a hostile one.

On the contrary, knowing Su Huaijing as intimately as he now did, he was certain that the so-called ‘main villain’ had been utterly at ease that day. His expression was even faintly joyful.

If Rong Tang could read that much from Su Huaijing’s mood, how could Liuyun, who had always been watching from the shadows, have failed to see that Su Huaijing had genuinely enjoyed himself during their time among the flowers?

Based on that premise, Liuyun’s decision to act against him seemed entirely illogical.

Rong Tang frowned, looking at Liuyun intently, as if waiting for an answer.

Liuyun hesitated. Surprise flickered across his features before he lowered his gaze, an almost imperceptible mixture of acknowledgement, apology, and—on some level—relief.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Rong Tang pressed further. “Why?”

Liuyun froze. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.

Why?

He didn’t know either.

The dream had been a chaotic, disordered tangle. He remembered only that he’d slipped poison into Rong Tang’s wine, and that when word of Rong Tang’s death reached them, his master’s expression had gone blank with shock.

For reasons even he couldn’t explain, he hadn’t told Su Huaijing that he had been the one to kill Rong Tang.

The Liuyun of this life could understand why Su Huaijing had reacted that way, but the “him” in the dream had been even more lost.

One person had died: an enemy’s son, a strategist for the opposing camp. By all logic, Su Huaijing ought to have been pleased.

But instead, he’d become… distracted.

He would stop and stare at a flower, leave a game of chess unfinished. Sometimes he’d drink alone under the moonlight at the Liujin Parlour, see the lanterns flickering below, and turn his head with a soft, unconscious smile as he murmured, “Shizi…”

—But the young heir was no longer there. That sickly prince who should’ve died at any moment, yet somehow kept surviving winter after winter, whose every appearance seemed to defy fate. That boy was gone.

So that faint smile would fade without a trace. He’d raise the cup to his lips, drink the last of the watered-down wine, set it aside, and continue down the road he’d already chosen.

Nothing appeared to change. And yet, in those infinitesimal details, subtle emotions would occasionally leak through, emotions the dream-version of Liuyun had been unable to comprehend.

He wouldn’t obsess over having taken a life, not even one that would echo across several lifetimes. But it was Su Huaijing’s unspoken obsessions, resurfacing in dreams, that would bring him back again and again, to those fragments of buried truth.

Even so, he could not understand why he’d dreamt what he did. His instincts were not built to handle such delicate and ambiguous emotions.

When Rong Tang asked the question, Liuyun merely frowned in thought, trying to recall those fragmented scenes from his dream. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “Someone sent me a letter. It claimed that you had rejected my master’s offer and chosen to stand against him. As an enemy of life and death.”

The phrase “enemy of life and death” was meant as a warning, but to a warrior trained to obey and kill, such warnings held little meaning.

If someone posed a threat, you eliminated them.

Killing was the easiest solution.

That had been his thinking. And so he’d acted. Every one of Su Huaijing’s close confidants carried with them a small arsenal of poisons and antidotes. If one wanted a man dead, there were endless ways to achieve it.

Rong Tang was quiet for a moment, then gave a soft “Ah.”

“Who sent you the letter?”

Liuyun shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Rong Tang lowered his gaze, saying nothing more.

After a while, he gave a quiet, ambiguous laugh, as though some long-standing question had finally been answered.

—

They had already reached the Qinzheng Hall.

It was a chilly autumn day. Sheng Chengli, freshly recovered from illness, stood at the palace gates in a thick cotton robe, watching the road ahead. The moment he saw Rong Tang approaching on foot, his brow furrowed.

“Don’t you know your own body is frail?” he demanded coldly. “Why didn’t you bring a sedan chair?”

The attending eunuchs froze in place, visibly startled. A few instinctively looked up, eager to catch a glimpse of the Fifth Prince… only to immediately remember where they were. Years of survival in the palace kicked in, and they all dropped to their knees, chanting in unison, “Your servant was at fault! Please forgive us, Your Highness!”

Rong Tang found their theatrics dull. He stood watching in silence, his face impassive.

Sheng Chengli waited a moment before saying, “Take your punishment.”

The eunuchs turned to Rong Tang with pleading eyes, but he didn’t so much as glance at them. He turned away and coughed lightly, then said, “Didn’t you summon me to ask something? Are you planning to question me here in the wind?”

Sheng Chengli paused, then forced a smile and adjusted his tone. “That was careless of me. Don’t take offence, biao ge.”

Rong Tang shot him a brief look and stepped forward towards the hall. Just before crossing the threshold, he cast a glance at Liuyun, signalling for him to remain outside.

As for the eunuchs being dragged off by the guards… Rong Tang honestly couldn’t be bothered to care.

He stepped into the inner hall. Though early autumn had yet to bring real chill, the room lacked any floor heating. Still, this was where the sovereign of the realm conducted affairs, and the space was well-lit—bright as daylight.

A second desk had been added below the one the Emperor usually occupied. Sheng Chengli sat there, beside a man in court dress, brush and paper in hand. He was likely a palace scribe assigned to record proceedings.

Once Rong Tang was seated, Sheng Chengli smiled and said, “Please don’t take offence, biao ge. There have been troubling rumours in the palace lately involving the heir apparent. The imperial clan is unsettled, and it’s only natural we proceed with caution. That’s why I’ve asked you here.”

Rong Tang lifted his eyelids and repeated flatly, “Asked?”

Sheng Chengli let out a light laugh and admitted, “Yes, perhaps it was a little abrupt. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Rong Tang lowered his gaze again. His whole manner exuded languid detachment, clearly unwilling to look at him.

Sheng Chengli wasn’t put out. He ordered a cup of tea for Rong Tang, then dismissed the rest of the attendants. The grand hall fell quiet, leaving only the three of them.

Rong Tang frowned faintly, though the crease soon eased. His eyes rested momentarily on the official with the brush. Just for a second.

Sheng Chengli continued, all magnanimity, “I imagine you might have suspected why I summoned you, biao ge. Duke Ningxuan’s been gone from the capital for some time. Has he written to the family at all?”

Rong Tang paused, remembering how, in order to prevent panic and rumours of treason, it had been kept secret from the public that Rong Mingyu had already been executed. Very few people knew.

He stilled his expression and shook his head calmly. “I’m not aware of any such thing.”

Sheng Chengli looked momentarily caught off guard.

Rong Tang added, “I don’t live in the Duke’s residence.”

The implication: even if Rong Mingyu had written back, he wouldn’t have known.

Whatever Sheng Chengli took from this, it clearly wasn’t what Rong Tang had intended. His eyes darkened; the courteous mask of familial affection slipped away. He leaned back, lifted his chin slightly, and looked down at Rong Tang with thinly veiled menace, drawling slowly, as though deeply troubled, “Then what are we to do? Royal bloodlines must remain pure. And with Duke Ningxuan nowhere to be found, biao ge, can you tell me: how am I to prove that my ba di bears no relation to the duke?”

—Biao ge, can you teach me…

—Sir, can you teach me…

The echo of a memory slammed into Rong Tang’s skull. His expression soured as he pressed his lips together and looked at Sheng Chengli.

That man still wore a smile. The tear mole beneath his eye glimmered under candlelight, lending his face an uncanny, almost exquisite beauty.

But to Rong Tang, it was repulsive. In a cold voice, he asked, “What is it Your Highness wants me to do?”

Sheng Chengli replied smoothly, “That’s precisely why I asked you here. Biao ge is clever. Perhaps you might guide me, save my mother from crying herself sick every day.”

A sharp light flashed in Rong Tang’s eyes. He stared at Sheng Chengli. The latter returned his gaze, smiling still, but clearly with ill intent.

Rong Tang’s eyes dropped to the bandage tied around Sheng Chengli’s wrist. A wave of nausea churned in his gut.

He said slowly, “His Highness shed blood to save his father. Your filial piety moved the heavens. As for my father, he departed the capital by imperial order and has since disappeared. If you wish to dispel all doubts about the Crown Prince’s lineage… then I suppose I could offer a drop of blood for comparison.”

It was the most unscientific of methods, yet one the ancients believed in fervently. And it was this very superstition, used previously to concoct a medicine, that had sparked questions about the Eighth Prince’s parentage. Sheng Chengli’s relentless pressing now made it clear what he wanted to hear.

Sure enough, as soon as Rong Tang spoke, Sheng Chengli wore an expression of feigned concern. “But biao ge, your health has never been good. If you were to bleed again…”

Bleed, instead of providing a drop blood.

A sneer tugged at Rong Tang’s lips. “For the sake of securing the Eighth Prince’s rightful claim to the throne, if I were to bleed to death… what of it?”

The words fell softly, yet they hit the great hall with the weight of a mountain.

Sheng Chengli fell silent. His lips slowly pressed into a line as he fixed Rong Tang with a deep, unreadable look.

Then he said in a low voice, “Is that truly how biao ge sees me?”

Rong Tang shot back, “So His Highness doesn’t want me dead?”

The absurdity of the conversation didn’t even register with the record-keeper, who continued writing without the slightest change in expression.

Rong Tang glanced at him again. His heart felt as if it were sinking, inch by inch.

Sheng Chengli chose that moment to ask, “Is it that I want you dead… or that you wish to kill me?”

The tone was bleak, the words brimming with wounded indignation, as though Rong Tang were the cruellest man in the world and had betrayed him countless times.

The tea on the table had long since gone cold. Rong Tang leaned back slightly in his chair and met Sheng Chengli’s gaze directly.

Then came the accusation: “Rong Tang, you were meant to save me. From the very beginning, you should have stood by me without hesitation—even if it meant killing Su Huaijing.”

Sheng Chengli’s voice grew hoarse, as if genuinely bewildered and hurt. “How did it come to this?”

Rong Tang heard him speak, but his thoughts had drifted: I must remember this word for word and repeat it to Su Huaijing. Let him know how many revolting things I’ve had to endure because he let his guard down.

He suppressed the nausea that kept rising in his throat, looked at Sheng Chengli with a cold, unyielding expression, and asked flatly, “What in heaven’s name are you barking about?”

Usurping the throne. Deceit. Lies. Treachery…

Even the condemned criminals rotting in the dungeons weren’t half as loathsome. And Sheng Chengli. He had the gall to come before him and spout such righteous nonsense?

Rong Tang had finally opened his eyes to everything now.