Song Pu froze. After a moment, he said, “What has this to do with His Majesty?”
The astonishment and confusion on his face did not seem feigned. Song Lingyun watched him closely for a while before asking, “It truly has nothing to do with His Majesty?”
“What could it possibly have to do with him?” Song Pu replied.
Then he added, “Ge, don’t overthink it. I just… don’t want to hold up a good girl’s future.”
He did want to fall in love. Marriage, however, felt far too soon. But in this era, how could he possibly court anyone? Marriages were arranged by parents and matchmakers; most likely, they would still be strangers the night before the wedding. The margin for error was far too small, and the cost of a mistake far too high. Naturally, he had even less inclination towards it.
Seeing that his expression appeared genuine, Song Lingyun did not believe him in the slightest, but neither did he press further. “I feel much the same,” he said. “I am thinking of serving under Prince Yong’an. Ah-Xian is already eighteen. If I truly go north to join him, it may not be a good match for her.”
Song Pu’s heart gave a jolt. Hearing this, he recalled certain events. In the original story, when Tantai Yi lost the throne, Song Lingyun had played a crucial role. He had turned the ever-loyal Prince Yong’an, allowing Prince Gong to gain a powerful ally and enough leverage to challenge Tantai Yi.
Could it be that, just as in the original, Song Lingyun already harboured thoughts of rebellion?
The thought made Song Pu’s feelings turn complicated. He had spent so long at Tantai Yi’s side; though he feared him, there had also been moments of closeness. To watch that damned emperor meet the same end as in the original left him oddly unsettled. Yet, true to his nature, he chose not to dwell on it. It was still years away, and worrying now served no purpose.
Lost in thought, he did not notice Song Lingyun watching him. The latter curved his lips into a faint smile. “What are you thinking about? Reluctant to see me leave home?”
Song Pu came back to himself. “Ge, why do you want to serve under Prince Yong’an? He’s stationed in the northern frontier. I’ve heard it’s plagued by drought, short on food and water. You’ll suffer terribly there.”
“A man should have lofty ambitions,” Song Lingyun replied. “Yanjing is a place of comfort. Stay here too long, and even your bones will soften. Better to guard the frontier. If I can earn some military merit…”
He looked at Song Pu, his voice lowering slightly, carrying a restrained gentleness. “Then I can better ensure you live a carefree life.”
For no clear reason, Song Pu’s eyes grew warm, as though tears might fall. Song Lingyun truly was a good brother. But what had he done to deserve it?
If he were lucky, he had transmigrated into a novel; yet he had ended up beneath a tyrant’s thumb, constantly oppressed. If he were unlucky, then why had he gained such good parents and such a devoted elder brother in this world? He had someone to rely on. He would never be left utterly alone.
In the end, he was deeply moved, deeply grateful. His voice took on a faint nasal note. “Thank you, Ge. To have a ge like you… it must be the fortune of several lifetimes.”
Song Lingyun laughed, his tone softening. “I only hope that in this life you will be safe and happy.”
Spoken by Song Lingyun, such words carried nothing but sincerity. Song Pu felt warmth stir in his chest, yet found himself at a loss for what to say.
But Song Lingyun did not expect a reply. His tone steadied as he continued, “As for matters between you and His Majesty, I will not pry. Since you are no longer serving at his side, I need not worry about you. I can go to the northern frontier with peace of mind.”
“Are you truly going?” Song Pu asked.
“Of course,” Song Lingyun said with a smile. “Though I must wait a while. I should at least inform Father and Mother.”
In other words, he had not yet told them.
Song Pu could barely make sense of his own life. He was content to drift, while Song Lingyun was determined to carve out a future with his own hands. Their aspirations were entirely different; there was little he could say to dissuade him.
After their conversation, Song Pu immediately went out to a teahouse to listen to Master Qian’s storytelling. Once that was done, he went to find the youngest son of the third branch, Song Qianyuan. He was playful, clever, and lively, with two deep dimples when he smiled, giving him a sweet, boyish charm.
Song Qianyuan was fond of tofu and would occasionally come over to play with the cats. He kept several of his own as well, the sort Song Pu thought resembled tabbies. They were beautiful, and by all accounts thoroughly spoiled, fed all manner of expensive delicacies without a second thought.
People who treated animals with such gentleness rarely had poor characters. Song Pu therefore had a favourable impression of this younger cousin.
The moment he heard Song Pu ask about ways to pass the time, Song Qianyuan perked up. “Er tang-ge, you’ve come to the right person! Do you know how to play cards? Dice? Cockfighting? Cricket fighting? If you don’t, I’ll teach you! And if none of that appeals, we can visit the pleasure houses. The girls there are far prettier than those at Zuichun Pavilion, and not expensive either. My monthly allowance of twenty taels is enough for several visits. We can listen to music, watch performances, even hold hands and steal a kiss. An afternoon passes in no time. Bliss!”
Song Pu: “…”
His impression of a pure and innocent pretty boy shattered completely. Barely out of boyhood, and already talking about holding hands and kissing. This wretched ancient society… were all youths this frivolous? Were these truly the only entertainments available?
Song Pu realised that now he no longer served in the palace, he had nothing to do at all.
Song Pu sank into a mild gloom.
…
At the summer retreat, Tantai Yi did not leave his chambers that day. He remained inside, lost in thought.
How dared he?
How dared he!
The words echoed endlessly in his mind.
Even now, he could not understand how things had come to this. At first, he had merely intended to leave Lord Song to stew for a while. How had it turned into issuing an edict sending him away?
Naturally, he did not consider himself at fault.
As the Son of Heaven, he had already decided to let bygones be bygones. Before Lord Song could even come to soften his stance, he had already lowered himself, offering a signal of reconciliation. And yet Lord Song still dared to stand on ceremony. How could that not anger him?
Even in anger, he had left room for retreat. Though he had written the edict, if Lord Song came to plead and spoke as sweetly as before, he would take it back. It bore no seal; withdrawing it would cost him nothing. It had only been meant to frighten him.
And yet, he had truly left.
No… give him more time. Once Lord Song took up the edict and wept over it in private, he would realise it was unsealed, that there was still room to turn back. He could return to serve him. And when he came to plead, he would grant him another chance.
And yet, Tantai Yi could not quell the irritation and restlessness in his heart.
How dared he actually leave?
Did he not understand that once he left, he would no longer serve at his side, would no longer see him?
Were all those words he had spoken before lies?
The more Tantai Yi thought on it, the angrier he became. What infuriated him most was the realisation that it was he who felt as though a single day apart stretched into three years. It had only been one day since he last saw Song Pu, yet he was already restless, unable to find peace.
He despised this version of himself. The man he once was would never have imagined such urgency, such… longing for another person.
Yes, after only a single day, he already missed him.
But he would never take the initiative again. He was the Emperor. He could not bow to a subject again and again, no matter how close they were.
With that thought, his anger surged. He clenched his fist and slammed it hard against the table, leaving a deep dent in its surface.
Outside, Cao Xi stopped a newly arrived eunuch who was about to enter, shaking his head.
The Emperor’s temper was clearly due to Lord Song’s departure. If he could not bear to part with him, why send him away?
But such thoughts were best kept to oneself. For those who served, the rule was simple: think less, ask less. Only then could one live long.
