Chapter 170

Yu capital had fallen into utter chaos. While Su Huaijing was locked in a battle of wits and force with Sheng Chengli and his father inside the palace, Rong Tang took up quiet residence in Wentian Tower.

Huimian asked him, “Aren’t you going to stay with Xiao Qi?”

Rong Tang paused, a faint stirring in his heart, but in the end, he merely shook his head. “He’d be distracted.”

Su Huaijing had triumphed more than once. Even when utterly alone, he still emerged victorious.

Rong Tang wanted to stand by him. Of course he did. But he wasn’t foolish. He knew his limits.

With a frail body like this, caught in the middle of such a battlefield, he’d only become a liability. If anyone used him as leverage, Su Huaijing’s focus would surely waver.

He had even sent Mu Jingxu away to Jiangnan. Clearly, he wouldn’t want Rong Tang at his side now either.

Let alone the fact…

Rong Tang bent low and, with slow, steady movements, brewed a pot of tea. He spoke quietly: “There are things he doesn’t want me to see.”

Huimian was taken aback for a moment. He lowered his gaze, murmured a quiet chant of the Buddha’s name, and said no more.

Rong Tang didn’t press the point. Instead, he asked, “Can that little thing still be saved?”

Huimian nodded… then shook his head. “It depends on its fate.”

Rong Tang raised a brow, eyeing him with faint doubt.

Huimian said gently, “Just wait. Be patient.”

When the turmoil in the capital settled, when the story reached its end, they would know what fate had in store.

Rong Tang had no idea how Su Huaijing was managing it all. For seven days running, the capital was eerily silent. Ordinary folk shut themselves inside, too frightened to step out. All they heard were the voices of messengers calling news through the streets.

First came the report that the crown prince was not, in fact, the emperor’s own blood, and had already been executed by public beheading. Then word spread that the emperor was gravely ill, and had issued an edict transferring the throne to the Fifth Prince, Sheng Chengli.

Just when it seemed the situation might finally stabilise, the city was flooded with notices from the imperial guards. They proclaimed that the Fifth Prince was driven by wild ambition, that the so-called edict was a forgery, that it was he who had poisoned Emperor Renshou. And now Prince Rui was acting on the Emperor’s own orders to root out the traitors.

The notices urged the public not to panic.

…It was impossible not to.

Rong Tang sat atop the seventh floor of the pagoda, gazing far into the rolling mountains and the restless clouds. Huimian kept him company, drinking tea and discussing scripture. The next day, he began to paint.

Rong Tang was mildly intrigued. He watched as the monk slowly outlined a small courtyard on the paper.

Just as Rong Tang was waiting for the next stroke to fall, Huimian set down the brush and returned to his tea.

He painted in fits and starts, one portion a day, starting and stopping as he pleased. On the third day, when the courtyard was complete, he began sketching figures.

At last, Rong Tang understood what he was painting.

It was a chrysanthemum-viewing scene in autumn. In the courtyard, chrysanthemums bloomed in vivid hues or held tightly to unopened buds… each one delicate, elegant, lively.

Had no one told you the painter was a monk, you might have thought the piece the idle work of a reclusive rake with a poetic soul.

The moment the first figure emerged, Rong Tang knew who it was.

—His parents. His kin.

The first to take form was Su Huaijing. Just this single figure alone had taken more time than all the scenery combined.

Rong Tang looked at the almost-breathing image of the young prince and couldn’t help smiling. His brow relaxed with warmth. He teased gently, “You’re playing favourites, xiong zhang.”

Huimian didn’t deny it. “I’m only human, after all.”

When he painted Su Huaijing, his gaze was bright and clear, tender to the point of indulgence. There was no lofty, untouchable holiness in him. Not the aloof compassion of a sage. He was just an ordinary older brother, doting on his youngest sibling.

Rong Tang smiled faintly but said no more. Then, on the fourth day, as Huimian began to sketch Mu Jingxu, Rong Tang realised… it wasn’t favouritism at all.

Though he had been sparing with colour in painting the flowers, when it came to the young prince, Huimian held nothing back.

Brilliant red. Blazing yellow. The most dazzling colours under heaven were lavished on Mu Jingxu’s opulent robes, as if pigment cost him nothing. The lavish embroidery at collar and hem was traced with a brush no thicker than a strand of hair… drawn one line at a time, each mark precise and loving.

The monk’s expression was solemn, not like one painting, but like one in prayer.

Rong Tang paused beside him for a long moment, unable even to joke about favouritism.

Because this wasn’t favouritism. This was the private longing of an elder brother.

He had hoped that the next day would bring more figures to the painting. But he waited, and waited… and all that appeared was a golden hairpin, a silk palace gown, a string of fine jade beads, a pair of mandarin duck lamps, necks entwined.

Every item belonged to someone, but none of those people were ever drawn. Not a single outline, not a shadow.

Only Su Huaijing and Mu Jingxu remained. Vivid in memory, radiant on the page.

The day the painting was complete, Rong Tang stared at it for a long, long time.

And somehow, without a word from Huimian, he understood.

That silent hope nestled in his heart had never been spoken aloud. But Huimian had known.

This painting was both an elegy and a warning.

A remembrance of loved ones long gone.

And a gentle reminder: the dead are not meant to rise again. The past is not meant to be rewritten. If you try to unmake what has already been decided, how are you any different from the Heavenly Way?

Sometimes, in the deep quiet of night, Rong Tang still felt the sting of regret. He couldn’t help but wonder: if he had stopped it all from the beginning, if he had taken a different path, could the pain of these past years have been wiped away?

But perhaps not.

He stared at the painting for a long time. Then finally turned, seated himself properly, and asked softly, “There’s something I don’t understand.”

Huimian replied, “Go on.”

Rong Tang said, “So many have dreamed of past lives. Why has Su Huaijing never remembered his?”

Outside, the clamour of war had ceased.

Huimian washed his hands clean, then replied in a quiet voice: “What use is there in revisiting a nightmare once it’s ended?”

Whether lived or dreamt, it had been a nightmare. And it was enough to destroy anyone.

For others, it was an unresolved obsession.

But for Su Huaijing, every step he took had gone exactly to plan. The vengeance he needed had already been carried out. The meaning of his survival had reached its end the moment the dust had settled.

To walk that road once was already exhausting.

He had done what he came to do. His obsessions had long faded. His loved ones were all gone.

There was nothing left to remember.

Rong Tang was silent for a while. He understood now what Huimian meant. And in his heart, something unspoken and sorrowful welled quietly to the surface.

There were sounds of hooves and wheels approaching downstairs. Huimian let out a quiet laugh and said warmly, “Go on, Shizi. Pack your things. Someone’s come to take you home.”

Rong Tang froze. He leaned over the railing and saw that the fireworks over the palace walls had been extinguished.

Relief bloomed in his chest. But oddly, so did a faint thread of nervousness.

It had only been eight days since he’d last seen Su Huaijing, and already the yearning had grown loud and unruly.

He rose to his feet, moving on instinct to head downstairs… only for Huimian to ask, as if offhandedly, “There’s nothing more you wish to say to me, devotee?”

Rong Tang paused mid-step, puzzled. His thoughts had long since drifted outside, and for a moment, he couldn’t quite grasp what Huimian meant.

Huimian waited a beat, then smiled softly. “Then let it be. Karma will see itself through.”

He rose, lit three sticks of sandalwood, then knelt back onto the meditation cushion, facing the vast world outside the tower. “Go now. Excellency Su carries too much mortal blood. He shouldn’t step into the Buddha’s pagoda. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Rong Tang frowned slightly. “What are you going to do?”

“Recite scripture,” Huimian said. “Chant the Rebirth Sutra. Send off an old friend.”

An old friend from twelve years ago. And with him, the wrongly slain from the past twelve years. And those fallen in the final reckoning, now just concluded after twelve long years of struggle.

Rong Tang’s body jolted. He stood motionless for a long while before finally collecting himself, bowed deeply, reverently—

And turned to leave in silence, retracing his steps down the spiral stair.

Outside, the clamour of horses and wheels drew nearer. Without thinking, Rong Tang’s pace quickened. After so many lifetimes spent in sickness, he seldom moved with haste. But now, descending step by step in a tight spiral, he was already far quicker than when he’d come up.

Outside the gates, a white horse galloped forth. The youth astride it was dust-covered and high-spirited, wind in his hair, sunlight in his eyes. It was as if every fondness in the world had gathered in him alone.

Rong Tang had, these past few days, imagined how he’d scold Su Huaijing when they met… perhaps give him a fright so he’d remember the lesson. But now, watching that man surge towards him through the morning haze, trailed by a distant escort, atop a horse streaked with dried blood…

All thoughts vanished.

Instinct seized him. Without pause or decorum, he ran.

There were still steps to go. By the sixth, Rong Tang had already lost patience. He practically leapt the last few bricks, and nearly stumbled headlong to the ground.

Su Huaijing’s eyes widened. Before he could dismount, his heart clenched. He pulled hard on the reins, bent low, and in one motion, caught Rong Tang’s arm and hoisted him onto the horse into a tight embrace.

Rong Tang lurched into him, colliding with a chest that was firm and warm… though the breeze carried the thick, unmistakable scent of blood.

Su Huaijing didn’t scold his recklessness or chide his haste. He simply wrapped one strong arm around Rong Tang’s waist, bent his head, and rested it gently on his shoulder, like a man who’d finally found permission to exhale after holding his breath too long.

His heart thundered beneath his ribs. Through fabric, flesh, and bone, the beat transmitted until both hearts fell into rhythm.

A beast returning from the hunt, frantic to scent his mate, to soothe the battlefield clamour still roaring inside his chest.

Su Huaijing spoke. His voice was hoarse and ragged. “I’m filthy. I stink.”

The blood on him had splattered and dried in countless layers. He couldn’t tell which stains were his, which weren’t, nor how many there were. The stench was nearly overpowering.

“But I missed you,” he whispered. “I missed you so much…”

“I should’ve bathed. Changed. Dressed properly to see you. But I couldn’t wait. I’m sorry.”

He buried his face in the crook of Rong Tang’s neck, rubbing his scent into him like a plea. His voice, low and raw, trembled. Though his arms hadn’t loosened their grip one bit as he kept Rong Tang utterly immobile, his words came out as soft entreaty:

“Don’t turn away from me, Tangtang. Please…”

He had severed Sheng Xuyan’s limbs. Cut off his ears. And in that moment, longing had reached its peak.

He wanted to see Rong Tang. Wanted to touch him. Hold him. Bury him in his arms. Bite into his flesh. Swallow him whole.

A thousand dark, wild, unutterable desires had raged through his mind. Su Huaijing had suppressed them all, calmly rescuing Sheng Xuyan from the jaws of death, using pills to drag him back from the brink.

But the instant his hands were free, desire surged like a broken dam.

He had to see Rong Tang.

Now. This instant.

Rong Tang should be at his side. He should be holding Tangtang’s hand.

Just like every one of those nights over the past four years, when they’d slept skin to skin, limbs tangled.

Rong Tang ought to witness his revenge, to stand with him at the moment of triumph, to rise with him to the throne.

“I missed you so much, Tangtang aaa…” he murmured into his ear, in the passing hush of the morning wind.

The swell of longing poured out from him, caught and scattered on the breeze. Most could only glimpse a fraction of it. But even that was enough to steal the breath from one’s lungs.

The author has something to say:

Su Xiao Qi, honestly! Look at you, acting all pathetic! Tsk tsk tsk…

It’s only been seven days, you know~~~