Extras (6): Ke Mu

Mu Jingxu’s health, it seemed, was far from well. Now and then, when Ke Hongxue stirred awake in the dead of night, he could always hear the rasping coughs echoing from the west wing.

Muted and repressed, they sounded as though he had made an effort not to disturb anyone, but the hush of the academy at night was absolute. So absolute that the smallest sound bloomed unbearably loud across the courtyard, piercing the silence and robbing sleep from restless minds.

Perhaps it was because Mu Jingxu had once, with outrageous discourtesy, likened Sheng Fuze’s skull to that of a cadaver under a magistrate’s inquest. Or perhaps it was his sheer coldness—so bone-deep and unrelenting—that Ke Hongxue couldn’t help but be reminded of his younger self, and with that memory came a stifling sense of inexplicable irritation.

And so it was that the ever-keen, ever-gracious Ke Hanying became instead caustic, aloof, and unkind before him.

Once more woken in the middle of the night, Ke Hongxue furrowed his brow, threw a robe loosely over his shoulders, and padded to the door of Mu Jingxu’s quarters. He rapped once, then said with that peculiar edge in his tone: “If you’ve contracted consumption, Senior, you’d do better to leave the academy and seek treatment at once. Heaven forbid you should die pitifully within these walls. I’d be obliged to clear my name and perform your autopsy myself, lest people start saying I poisoned you in your sleep.”

There was sleep in his eyes and mockery on his lips; he yawned lazily, as though delivering a jest: “Only I’ve yet to master the coursework in forensic practice. Should I misplace my blade or snap the wrong bone, I fear even the netherworld wouldn’t grant you the chance to reincarnate properly.”

Vindictive, cold, heartless, ill-mannered, and scathingly sharp-tongued… He bore not the slightest resemblance to that lauded young gentleman the world so loved to praise.

Having delivered this monologue at the door, Ke Hongxue stood and waited. The coughing within had ceased, but no one came to answer. Finding it dull and tiresome, he turned on his heel and returned to bed.

Once or twice might have been tolerable, but over time, the constant interruptions gnawed at his nerves.

Since the twenty-fifth year of Yuanxing, he had been plagued by insomnia that no physician could cure. Only inebriation brought respite. But if he were stirred mid-sleep, it would take hours, sometimes until dawn, to fall under again.

He had no clear reason to dislike Mu Jingxu, but disliked him nonetheless, and they often exchanged barbs. Still, it was unthinkable to expel him from the courtyard. When the annoyance grew too great to bear, Ke Hongxue would slip down the mountain to drink, hoping for a better night’s rest.

But it was as though Mu Jingxu did it on purpose. Made a mission of disturbing him.

On ordinary nights the coughs were subdued. But whenever Ke Hongxue returned from a drinking bout, he’d find the noise louder than usual—unbearably so. Whether deliberate or driven by some inner torment, it was impossible to say. He coughed as though he might rip his lungs from his throat and cast them onto the floor.

Driven past the edge of patience, Ke Hongxue found himself entertaining less than noble thoughts.

He wanted Mu Jingxu gone.

But there were problems. First, Mu Jingxu had been first in the examinations since the moment he arrived. Second, Ke Hongxue’s own courtyard was conspicuously more spacious and better suited for top-ranked students.

Even if he meant to bully the fellow, he could find no justifiable excuse.

And yet the nightly sleeplessness was intolerable. Even his closest friends could tell: the familiar smile was still there, but it no longer sparkled with untroubled ease. A heaviness lingered beneath it. An oppressive air that made others instinctively keep their distance.

One night, again woken by the coughing, Ke Hongxue sat on his bed till dawn, brooding.

The next day, after lessons, a few friends invited him to drink at the foot of the mountain. Ke Hongxue declined. Instead, he turned and made his way to the courtyard of the Master of Studies.

The Master asked what he required. Ke Hongxue smiled faintly. Summer was in full reign; the cicadas sang in waves. Dressed in gauzy violet robes, the young lord drifted through the garden like a spirit in gossamer. “At the beginning of the year, did you not speak of expanding admissions, sir?” he asked. “I’ve given it some thought. If the academy is to welcome more students, we’ll need additional housing. I would be willing to fund the construction of a new dormitory complex in the south, along with a dining hall. What say you?”

The Master studied him a moment, then asked, “And what is it you hope to gain?”

This had the scent of charity about it, but he knew Ke Hongxue never acted without aim.

Sure enough, the smile remained, but the angle of his mouth flattened, and a cool gleam crept into his eyes “Have Mu Jingxu moved out.”

The Master paused… just long enough that the book in his hand slipped slightly. He caught it in time and recomposed his face. “Truly?”

“Truly,” said Ke Hongxue.

He had had enough of that sickly ghost of a scholar. Something in Mu Jingxu’s presence stirred an inexplicable irritability in him—a crawling unease that not even he could name.

The Master looked at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. “Very well.”

The Ke family, after all, was obscenely rich. Enough to make tongues wag and eyes widen.

The very next day, workers arrived, marked out the land, and began construction on the southern slope.

The students found it novel and wandered down daily to watch. At a drinking party, more than one friend clapped Ke Hongxue on the back and toasted him: “You’re magnanimous indeed, Bro Hanying. The next generation of scholars shall surely remember your kindness!”

His reputation was bolstered; his objective achieved. That night, he drank to his heart’s content.

But when he returned to the academy and stepped past the threshold of his courtyard, the long-shut door to the west wing creaked open.

There stood Mu Jingxu, clad in white, upon the steps beneath the moonlight, his gaze fixed upon Ke Hongxue from across the courtyard.

Strangely, the smile slipped from Ke Hongxue’s face. His steps faltered. He did not move forward.

Mu Jingxu regarded him in silence for a moment, then spoke: “I heard from the Master. you’re building the new dormitory so I might be moved out?”

At this, Ke Hongxue cursed the Master in his heart for being so damned swift with his tongue.

He felt, briefly, the twinge of guilt. But when his gaze met Mu Jingxu’s calm, unreadable eyes without the slightest ripple of emotion… that guilt fled.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Why?” asked Mu Jingxu.

Ke Hongxue’s lips curled into something that was almost a smile, but carried a note of mockery. “Do you truly not know, Senior?”

“I don’t,” said Mu Jingxu.

Ke Hongxue’s voice caught in his throat.

He had always thought of Mu Jingxu as the worst kind of scholar. Proud, pretentious, full of his own virtue. A man like that, even when ignorant, would never admit it. And yet here he stood, unguarded, asking plainly for an answer.

Why did Ke Hongxue want him gone? Why was he disliked?

For the briefest instant, Ke Hongxue thought perhaps he’d drunk too deeply the night before… hallucinating, maybe. Otherwise, why did it seem as though, buried deep within Mu Jingxu’s serene gaze, there flickered a trace of… was it woundedness?

The thought unsettled him. But he recovered quickly.

“Because you cough all night,” he said. “I cannot sleep.”

“That’s all?” Mu Jingxu asked softly.

Ke Hongxue arched a brow. “Do you suppose there’s more to it?”

Mu Jingxu pressed his lips together. A beat passed. Then he said, “Is it not because of what I said… that day… about the skull in your room?”

The final words were chosen with care, as though he didn’t quite know what phrasing would wound least.

At this, Ke Hongxue’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, his voice so cold it might have turned the summer air to frost.

“Since you knew, Senior, why press it again? Or is it that the Master never taught you restraint, that you must claw at old wounds to feel alive?”

Mu Jingxu seemed, for a moment, to lose his composure. That face, unchanging as frost, carved from perennial snow… it flickered with a rare trace of panic. Even his foot moved forward instinctively, as if pulled by impulse. “I didn’t…”

But Ke Hongxue had already grown weary. He turned away, intending to leave.

Mu Jingxu called after him. “Am I really that noisy every day?”

Ke Hongxue had his back to him, couldn’t see his expression. And yet, inexplicably, that peculiar sense of grievance returned… light as mist, yet unmistakable.

It felt… as if Mu Jingxu had truly been hurt.

And still, he nodded, firm and deliberate, adding weight to the blow: “Very noisy. Ever since you moved in, I haven’t had a single good night’s sleep.”

There was a long silence, before Mu Jingxu asked, “Why? Is it only because I cough?”

The phrasing was clumsy, almost arrogant. After all, waking someone in the dead of night is hardly excusable, and yet he had the gall to say “only.”

But perhaps because they were both intelligent men, Ke Hongxue instantly caught the heart of the question.

And because, buried somewhere beneath all his defences, he did indeed sense that this man was aggrieved, Ke Hongxue didn’t look back. Instead, with rare patience, he answered: “It’s not entirely your fault. I’m a light sleeper. I’ve always struggled with falling asleep… and staying asleep.”

“Then… may I stay?”

Ke Hongxue froze. For a moment, he thought he’d misheard.

He turned, surprised, only to hear Mu Jingxu go on,

“This coughing… it’s only because the journey from the south took a toll on me. The climate here doesn’t suit me, and it’s the change of season as well. Give me a few days, I’ll be fine. I won’t disturb your nights anymore.”

He paused, looking at Ke Hongxue beneath the moonlight, his expression serious. So serious it tipped into stubbornness.

Once more, Mu Jingxu asked, “So… can I stay?”

And in that instant, that fragile, floating suspicion fell softly into place. Ke Hongxue understood. The man before him was, in truth, feeling wronged.

So wronged, in fact, that he had swallowed his pride, waited in the silence of night, pleaded his case in clumsy words, and asked… not demanded… for permission to remain. “I won’t be too loud. Please… don’t make me go.”

As though being told to leave were not a simple matter of logistics, but a blade driven straight into his chest.

Ke Hongxue’s first instinct was not to believe him. It was to wonder. Why?

The entire Academy knew that nearly all its books, housing, even its tutors and lecturers, had been funded by the Ke family. Whether prince or noble heir, the moment one set foot in Linyuan Academy, all eyes turned first to Ke Hanying.

And now there was someone who, from the start, had been unpleasant to meet, tiresome to live beside. But when Ke Hongxue made the decision to remove him, this person stood before him, face still cold, yet riddled with grievance, and asked: “Can I stay?”

Ke Hongxue’s mind turned reflexively: Why? What is he after? What could he possibly want from me that he must stay close to achieve it?

They stood locked in silence beneath the moon, and after a long while, Ke Hongxue gave a quiet laugh.

It wasn’t the laugh of a gentle, refined youth. Nor was it the insouciant charm of talent left unchecked.

It was a laugh laced with exhaustion. An edge of scorn that cut deep. He said softly, “Senior, do you know why I haven’t been sleeping well?”

“The one I longed for died five years ago. I saw, with my own eyes, how his skin and flesh were picked away, day by day, by the birds. Every year I journey south in search of the bones he left behind. And in the depths of the night, even in dreams, I can still feel dried blood dripping down onto my face.”

“And the moment you moved in, the very first thing you said was that the skull was from an autopsy, like some coroner’s relic. Your first words were soaked in malice, hinting that I should throw him out. And now you ask whether you can stay?”

Ke Hongxue’s smile barely touched his lips, but his eyes were iced over, layer upon layer. The snowman he’d once been, before the age of nineteen, seemed to rise again.

His voice was cold but composed, and almost magnanimous. “No. You may not. In fact, I’d prefer if you left the Academy entirely.”

“So, Mu Jingxu,” he said evenly, “you’d best keep your distance. Otherwise, I may very well do something to you I’ll regret.”

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Oh? How excessive? Holding you while screwing ? (Show me.jpg)