Chapter 171

By day, they lay in tangled abandon; by night, wrapped in a darkness as dense as ink, they clung and entwined…

Rong Tang could scarcely recall a time when he had lived so wantonly, so licentiously.

He knew Su Huaijing had likely collapsed from exhaustion, and had expected that, upon returning home, the man might at least take a decent rest to recover.

But the days and nights blurred, light turning to dark, and dark to light again. The paper-sealed windows let in only a sliver of dim glow, which the bed curtains further muffled.

Rong Tang had eaten several meals in bed without registering time; he’d drifted in and out of sleep, not knowing how long he’d slumbered or how many times.

Only when the figure beside him, on him, behind him, over him… finally rose and left the room, did he at last notice the aching in every limb.

The main villain had truly forgotten everything this time. Everything except the basic needs of food and water.

All the usual tenderness and care were discarded in the throes of frenzy, leaving behind only a wild, unrelenting desire—a storm of emotion with no other outlet.

He’d taken and taken, again and again, invading Rong Tang’s body with brutal persistence. His breath ghosted against Rong Tang’s throat as he kissed, pecked, or bit, leaving mark upon mark.

Rong Tang sat dazed on the edge of the bed for a long time. He wasn’t hungry. His eyes, however, stung unbearably.

He had cried, again and again, pleading for mercy.

When he finally struggled into his clothes and stepped outside, the brilliance of the autumn sun hanging high in the sky nearly brought tears to his eyes.

He stood motionless for some time, then closed his eyes to adjust. Only when he could barely tolerate the light did he open them again.

What surrounded him was a dwelling several times the size of the Tangjing Residence. Since the day they emerged from Wentian Tower, Su Huaijing had brought him here, to the outskirts of the capital.

Presumably, this was one of Xiao Su Qi’s private properties. He had never mentioned it before, and Rong Tang had certainly never known there was a hot spring hidden here.

Su Huaijing had truly been holding it all in for too long. Even when he changed out of his clothes for washing, he couldn’t resist dragging the already-clean Rong Tang into the pool to thrash about in the warm spring water, as though possessed by energy that refused to be spent.

Rong Tang clenched his teeth, surveying the courtyard. Every step stirred the bruises the main villain had pressed into his skin, leaving him burning with soreness.

At that moment, Shuang Fu timidly appeared at the courtyard gate. The moment he saw Rong Tang, his eyes reddened, and he looked on the verge of tears. Hoarsely, he called out, “Young Master…”

Rong Tang shifted his gaze, tamping down the swelling flood of shame and irritation.

He mustered a faint smile, deliberately light-hearted: “Look at that. I came back alive, didn’t I?”

He should’ve said nothing. The moment the words left his lips, Shuang Fu’s tears tumbled down, fat droplets rolling across his simple, bun-like face… simultaneously pitiful and absurd.

Rong Tang chuckled, “Alright, alright, poor choice of words.” Then, to change the subject: “What about the rabbit? Didn’t you promise me spicy rabbit heads when I got back?”

Shuang Fu blinked, momentarily stunned, then cautiously stepped closer. But he didn’t seem to know where to rest his eyes.

He wasn’t well-read, barely literate. He’d only glanced at a few popular romance novels while buying storybooks for Rong Tang. At the time, he couldn’t see the appeal. What was so captivating in a few lines of black text on white paper?

Now, watching his young master stroll lazily out from the house, his steps slow beneath the angled sunlight… that thin autumn robe did nothing to cover the red marks on his neck. His fingers moved with languid grace. And there, clear as day… were hickeys on his wrists, bite marks near the base of his fingers.

Anyone who looked would, unavoidably, conjure up images so vivid and heated their ears might burn.

Silken curtains, red candles, overturned bedding like crimson waves. Su Huaijing, usually calm and restrained, had actually lost control to the point of leaving so many tooth marks on Rong Tang’s fingertips.

It was a complete and total act of possession. Of claiming.

Of announcing to the world that this was his beloved, his person. That Tangtang belonged to him, and he belonged to Tangtang.

It was the physical expression of ten years of repressed emotion finally surging free. Wild, unreasonable, proud, and relentless.

Shuang Fu had once read a line of poetry: “This person is like a rainbow. You’ll only know when you meet them.”

Now he finally understood: to Su Huaijing, Rong Tang was probably that very rainbow in the sky, that halo of moonlight along the clouds.

But now that moonlight stood beneath the eaves, utterly unaware of the ripened, saturated aura he exuded. The corners of his eyes were tinged with red, and every frown, smile, glance, and turn of the head rippled with allure.

Shuang Fu’s throat tightened. For the first time, he didn’t dare look his master in the eye.

He lowered his head and mumbled something.

Rong Tang didn’t catch it. “What?”

Shuang Fu stiffened, then blurted, “The gentleman instructed we’re not to serve you anything spicy for the time being. The kitchen’s prepared squab and bird’s nest porridge. I’ll bring it to nourish you!”

With that, he turned tail and ran. But after only two steps, he seemed to recall something. He paused, hesitated, then darted back into the house, flung open a wardrobe, yanked out a robe and flung it over Rong Tang’s shoulders with a loud slap.

“Wind’s strong today, Young Master. Don’t catch a chill! Put something on!”

Rong Tang blinked, a little stunned. Then he turned his head and glimpsed the layers of marks scattered across his neck and shoulders. Finally, he understood what that ban on spicy food was really about.

Rong Tang: “……”

He couldn’t stay in this house a moment longer.

….

As the old saying goes: Autumn is a season rife with misfortune.

The dust in the imperial palace had more or less settled. Sheng Chengli had been arrested for treason and thrown into the imperial prison.

Publicly, Sheng Xuyan declared that he had been murdered by Sheng Chengli. In truth, only a few knew that Su Huaijing had turned him into a living husk—a “human swine”—and imprisoned him in the Shoukang Palace, once the residence of the late Empress Dowager.

Rong Tang had no interest in witnessing it, and naturally, Su Huaijing wouldn’t let Emperor Renshou’s disgrace sully Tangtang’s eyes.

But now the emperor was dead. Of the only two plausible heirs left in the capital, one was a convicted traitor, and the other… quite possibly not of imperial blood.

The Sixth Prince, Sheng Chengyun, had been quietly watching over the ancestral tombs. Yet the moment unrest broke out in the capital, the remnants of Xia Jingyi’s faction rushed to bring him back, hoping to install him on the throne.

But it was plainly evident that Prince Rui, Sheng Chengming, had achieved far more. He had stabilised the court during the crisis, assumed temporary stewardship of state affairs, and was now being urged by officials to ascend the throne. They cited the long-held ideal that the throne should pass to the most virtuous, not the eldest.

Even before he could respond, the Sixth Prince’s faction launched a smear campaign, accusing Prince Rui’s mother, Concubine Yi, of impropriety, saying that she had conducted illicit affairs and tainted the royal bloodline.

As her eldest son, Sheng Chengming would be an embarrassment to the empire should he become emperor.

“How could such a man lead all under heaven?”

They might’ve done better not to speak at all.

The Rui faction immediately responded, their rebuttal sharp and eloquent. They began by denouncing Sheng Chengli’s treacherous ambition. After all, if he could murder his own father, who was to say the rumour about the Eighth Prince wasn’t fabricated by him too?

As for bloodlines… wasn’t the Sixth Prince’s entire maternal family implicated in rebellion? His brother, his mother, his grandfather. They had all plotted against the throne. Were it not for His Majesty’s mercy, even the Sixth Prince ought to have been punished.

Who were they to argue their case so loudly in the hall today?

Moreover, when the palace fell into chaos, His Majesty had specifically ordered the Censor-in-Chief to carry a sealed letter out of the palace and deliver it to Prince Rui.

It was clear he had intended to pass the throne to Rui, but events had unfolded too quickly for a proper edict to be issued.

As the old scholar finished, he exhaled heavily through his nose and spat, “When Prince Rui entered the palace to protect His Majesty, the Sixth Prince was still kneeling before the ancestral tablets, sobbing like a child!”

The sharpness and contempt in his words were unmistakable. Every ear in the hall heard them.

In a chamber meant for the discussion of state affairs, the squabbling between two political factions sounded no more dignified than children tugging each other’s hair.

In the end, Prince Rui’s camp won by a narrow margin, thanks largely to the fact that most of his supporters were the same silver-tongued veterans who had once honed their skills in the cabinet under Senior Official Zhang.

Just as everyone began to believe the throne was settled and preparations for the enthronement ceremony could begin, Sheng Chengming who had been silent until now, rose to his feet and lightly tossed out a bombshell:

“I am unfit to inherit the throne.”

Gasps swept through the court. And before the shock had time to settle, he added, “So is my liu di.”

The ministers in the Hall of Diligent Governance had only just quieted from their earlier clashes. Now, stunned, they instinctively girded themselves to argue anew… only to be cut off by Sheng Chengming’s calm voice:

“Among the ministers present, are there any who served during the late emperor’s reign?”

A beat. Then he clarified: “The Slayer Emperor. My uncle.”

A subtle shift rippled through the room. Expressions stiffened, glances flickered. Everyone looked at one another, yet none spoke.

Sheng Chengming gave a wan smile. “Gentlemen, you are the backbone of the Dayu court. You’ve served long years in government. Even if you didn’t serve under my uncle directly, surely you all know how my father claimed the throne, don’t you?”

A senior official’s face darkened. Whether it was meant as a warning or threat was unclear, but he said gravely, “Your Highness should choose your words with care.”

Sheng Chengming tilted his head and gestured for a eunuch to pass down a folded memorial, its edges stained with blood.

“Before he died,” he said, “my father was overcome with remorse. He wrote this letter of self-confession. In it, he details how he came to power, and more than that, he outlines every mistake, every crime committed during his reign: how many loyal ministers he executed in a fit of rage, how many peasants were slaughtered by his order, how many misguided policies he enacted… and—”

His throat worked. He stopped, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

“—and how he poisoned my grandmother.”

The chamber fell deathly silent.

All those ministers who, moments before, had been red-faced and ready to trade blows, were now struck dumb.

Sheng Chengming continued quietly, “You were his trusted confidants. I imagine you recognise his handwriting.”

The officials lowered their gazes to the memorial, uncertain how to respond. Most had long suspected these truths, seasoned as they were in courtly intrigue. Yet even so, to see it all laid bare written in the emperor’s own hand… was still a blow.

The tone of the confession was almost pathetic, a man writing as though repentance might move heaven and offer peace to a guilt-ridden soul.

Fratricide, matricide, filicide.

Loyalty betrayed. The people abandoned. Rule mired in incompetence.

Collusion with the enemy. Rebellion. The ceding of sovereign land.

Each line, on its own, would warrant execution. But taken together, committed by a single emperor… they chilled the blood.

One of the more hot-blooded generals snapped. He glared at a particular line where the emperor had admitted conspiring with Dasui to stir unrest in the northern border.

His voice trembled with fury. “That border was held by my brothers’ blood!”

And in the end, it had merely been a pawn discarded in Sheng Xuyan’s bid for power.

After the disastrous border campaign, Dayu had handed over an untold amount of gold and silver to Dasui, even waiving their tariffs for three years.

So it had all been a deal. A trade.

Perhaps the earlier crimes might still be chalked up to palace intrigue… a bitter battle for the throne. But treason? Collaboration with the enemy? That alone was enough to sentence Sheng Xuyan to death and scatter his ashes to the wind.

Sheng Chengming’s face remained pallid. He had expected this response.

With a weak tug at the corner of his mouth, he asked quietly, “Do any of you still think I’m fit to rule?”

“My father,” he said, “was a traitor to Dayu.”

And they—his sons—carried the blood of that traitor. How could they dare to sit upon the throne, to accept the worship of the people and the reverence of their peers?

The hall was silent as the grave.

No one dared respond to Sheng Chengming’s question. A long, heavy silence followed, until at last, from a far corner, a voice sounded… soft but clear:

“Then who is suitable?”

Sheng Chengming looked up.

There, at the very back of the ranks, stood the same boy who had once followed him during the flower-picking festival. Now clad in official robes and a black gauze hat, the youth had lost all traces of adolescence. His brow was furrowed, worry carved deep into his expression.

At the sight of his old friend, something inexplicably eased in Sheng Chengming’s heart. The weight that had pressed on him for days began to lift.

He showed the first faint smile since entering the hall.

He said, “In the chaos of that year’s Yu capital incident, Duanyi zumu saved a prince.”

The room shook. Everyone spoke at once:

“Who was it? Is he still alive?”

The Crown Prince had died on the frontier. The Third Prince had been beheaded. None had dared hope that either of those brilliant, golden boys still lived. But if there had been other royal children—sons or daughters—they surely would not have been lacking in virtue.

Had this been revealed earlier, they might not have realised how deeply unfit the Second and Sixth Princes truly were. Had the guilt letter not come to light, they might still have insisted that the imperial line must never flow outside the main branch.

But now? With these revelations?

They were aflame with curiosity.

Sheng Chengming said softly, “The Seventh Prince. Sheng Fuya.”

As he spoke, his gaze shifted to Su Huaijing, who had remained silent since entering the chamber. He stood by the window, watching a persimmon tree outside the hall.

And just like that, the entire court turned to look.

An impossible thought took shape in their minds… yet it felt too perfect, too fitting not to be true.

Sensing the weight of their stares, Su Huaijing turned. His expression remained serene.

After a pause, he gave a small, easy smile.

“Ah… it’s been so long since I heard my given name, I nearly forgot it,” he said gently. “I beg your pardon.”

In that moment, the mist lifted. The puzzle pieces clicked into place. At last, they understood the chain of storms that had roiled the capital these past years… one eruption after another, thunder following lightning.

They understood the reason.

Or rather, for whom.

Su Huaijing’s smile was mild, without the slightest air of menace. He sounded almost cheerful, as if he were proposing a walk in the garden.

“Well, since none of my cousins are suitable… why not give the throne to me? What do you all think?”

Every head lowered.

Their eyes were drawn to the tiger tally hanging casually at his hip. Then to the general behind him, commander of both the Embroidered Imperial Guards and the Imperial Palace’s defences.

And when they looked to their own ranks, they saw that nearly every young official who had risen in recent years, those now becoming the pillars of court had been discovered, promoted, and cultivated by this very Deputy Censor-in-Chief.

His influence had seeped into every corner, silent and immense.

Though Su Huaijing smiled with all the warmth of a spring breeze, none could shake the feeling that he had no real need for anyone’s consent.

If they agreed, all the better. peace without bloodshed, prosperity through harmony.

If they didn’t… well, no matter. He could seize the throne. He could change the dynasty’s name, if he wished.

This realm had already fallen quietly into his hands.