Zhao Chu’s explanation was actually a little awkward.

What did it mean for two men to comfort each other? It wasn’t as if Fang Linyuan had never experienced it before.

Even hugging—well, that was the kind where you threw an arm around someone’s shoulders or clapped their back. Who ever buried their face in someone else’s chest like this, in such an indescribably ambiguous posture?

…Yes, ambiguous was the word.

And yet Fang Linyuan didn’t pull away, nor did he struggle again.

His whole face was buried in Zhao Chu’s chest… as if that could somehow blur the boundaries of this unexplainable relationship and let him hide within the ambiguity.

Because even he didn’t dare admit that he himself… For some reason… couldn’t bear to leave this posture.

Perhaps the sensation of being in Zhao Chu’s embrace was simply too strange.

A bit cool, carrying the scent of the white snow in the Plum Garden, tinged with fragrance, drifting and dreamlike. His clothing was soft, layered upon layer, light and smooth, like clouds curling gently around him.

But underneath that thin layer of cloud, was a body—firm, invasive in its masculinity.

Fang Linyuan’s heart pounded wildly.

That was right. There was nothing wrong with this. Maybe Zhao Chu, like him, needed this kind of physical comfort.

Besides, they were still nominally spouses—what harm was there in being close?

Yet, the more he tried to comfort himself with that thought, the hotter his ears grew, until even his veins felt soft and languid.

So he simply stopped thinking altogether.

He rarely revealed such a posture of avoidance, of reliance. Like a fledgling bird, he nestled against Zhao Chu’s shoulder and neck the entire way.

Until Zhao Chu gently tapped his shoulder.

“We’re almost there,” Zhao Chu said.

The words were like sunlight piercing into a dream, snapping Fang Linyuan awake in an instant.

People mustn’t see this!

He wasn’t even sure why. But regardless, he shot upright, as if trying to hide some kind of unspeakable emotion, quickly putting distance between him and Zhao Chu.

But… they were still alone together.

For a moment, he didn’t know where to place his hands, or where to look. It was Zhao Chu who spoke first.

Perhaps unwilling to see him so flustered and lost, Zhao Chu’s voice was soft as he asked, “Are you hungry?”

It was the kind of calm, gentle question that easily shifted one’s attention.

Fang Linyuan shook his head at first, then after a moment, nodded twice. He saw Zhao Chu raise a hand and take a box out from a nearby cabinet.

The box was engraved with intricate patterns, exotic in design, inlaid with gemstones and crafted with a very old-fashioned technique. Zhao Chu opened it in front of him, and instantly, a rich fragrance mixed with the sweet softness of grapes wafted out.

For a moment, Fang Linyuan’s eyes lit up. “Grape milk pastries?” he said, looking up at Zhao Chu in surprise.

Zhao Chu nodded.

“The envoy from Loulan kept thinking of you—said you liked these,” Zhao Chu said. “They specially sent them just for you.”

Fang Linyuan’s hand, which had reached out for a piece of the milk pastry, froze mid-air. He couldn’t help but feel puzzled. “How do you know that?”

Zhao Chu looked at him and smiled without answering. He simply said, “Try it.”

But even without Zhao Chu saying anything, Fang Linyuan could already guess.

An envoy sending gifts directly to a court official—however one looked at it, that was not proper by the rites. Since Zhao Chu knew about this matter, it was likely that he had intervened somehow, making it so the pastries could be bestowed openly and legitimately.

Fang Linyuan picked up a piece of the milk pastry from the box, paused, and held it out to Zhao Chu first. “Want to try one?”

The milk pastry was cut very delicately—just the right size for a single bite, extremely convenient to eat.

But Zhao Chu was holding the box with both hands and didn’t have a spare hand to take the piece Fang Linyuan was offering.

Fang Linyuan seemed to realize this awkward situation too.

He cleared his throat, but the hand holding the pastry out to Zhao Chu didn’t pull back.

“Try it. They don’t have white sugar in the Western Regions, all their sweets are made with flower nectar.” He seemed to want to ease the mood, so he added a few more words.

“They produce a lot of grapes over there. Grapes grown in sandy soil are especially sweet. A Loulan merchant once told me, when they have too many grapes, they sun-dry them into raisins and mix them with milk to make pastries, which are particularly—”

His words stopped in his throat.

Because before he could finish speaking, Zhao Chu had already leaned over and parted his lips, taking the pastry right from Fang Linyuan’s hand.

When those vermilion lips parted, a warm breath fell on his fingers.

After that faint touch, a smear of bright rouge was left on Fang Linyuan’s fingertips.

*

Everything that had happened today had indeed all been within Zhao Chu’s calculations.

Sang Zhixin was no longer a threat; there was no need to keep Zhao Jin around much longer.

Compared to Sang Zhixin, he was merely an arrogant fool, easy to bait into a trap with a bit of manipulation.

What Zhao Chu hadn’t planned for, however, was that Emperor Hongyou would try to drag Fang Linyuan into the matter as a scapegoat for Zhao Jin.

This useless son was his own flesh and blood—what good would it do to pull someone else into it at this point?

So, Zhao Chu had unhesitatingly overturned the false appearance of peace Hongyou had tried to maintain. At that point, even if Emperor Hongyou flew into a rage, it would be too late to change anything.

Zhao Chu was born of a princess—his status couldn’t be demoted or executed lightly. At most, he’d be scolded a few times, maybe slapped once.

But the more urgent issue was still: what to do about Zhao Jin.

There were fewer than ten days left before the Longevity Banquet. The death of the suanni had to be explained to the Southern nations, and Daxuan’s dignity needed to be preserved.

That very night, Emperor Hongyou summoned a group of ministers into the palace for a meeting.

But after the unrest from the Yanzhou incident, most of the officials left were either too afraid to speak or firmly aligned with the Third Prince’s faction.

They spoke earnestly and righteously, pleading again and again—but every word they said was a request for leniency.

A chorus of voices filled the room—some said the Third Prince was just startled; if the suanni hadn’t died, he might have harmed the emperor’s own blood. Others claimed the prince was a pillar of the nation, and no matter how angry His Majesty was, he should show mercy.

By the end, someone even began blaming the Persian state : how could they offer such a dangerous beast as tribute? Clearly, their intentions were suspect.

Emperor Hongyou was so enraged he smashed his teacup.

In the sudden silence, the emperor’s face was dark as he gave the order: “Someone, summon Yuan Honglang.”

*

The next day, an imperial edict was issued from the palace.

Regarding the suanni’s death, Emperor Hongyou harshly rebuked the Third Prince, calling him inexperienced, impulsive, and deserving of severe punishment. To account for the Persian envoy’s grievance, the emperor bestowed several treasures upon them and specifically ordered the Third Prince to accompany the Inspector-General to Jiangnan, to temper his temperament through experience.

On the court, this was seen as a resolution that satisfied all parties.

The Third Prince did indeed need to leave the capital to cool off. Meanwhile, the officials under his faction had long been eyeing the easy posting of southern inspection, only hindered by the emperor’s prior choice of his favorite candidate, that blocked their lobbying efforts.

Now everything had changed!

With the Third Prince heading south in person, even if he was only part of the entourage—so what? Would Yuan Honglang and his people dare disobey the Third Prince’s commands?

This so-called “training” was really just putting on a show for the southern envoys. From the looks of it, His Majesty still dearly loved the Third Prince!

But Zhao Jin was furious.

It was just a beast, and yet his father wouldn’t let it go. Not only did he expel him from the capital, but also hastened the Inspector-General’s departure, forcing them out of the city even before the emperor’s birthday.

He hadn’t even been allowed to attend the celebration!

The day he left the capital, heavy, oppressive clouds loomed over Shangjing. Zhao Jin’s face was grim as he boarded a boat at the canal pier and did not appear again.

A grand group of officials followed him aboard.

Originally, their departure had been scheduled for after the emperor’s birthday. Many hadn’t even packed properly, though their birthday tributes were already prepared.

Now their plans were completely disrupted. To say they weren’t resentful would be a lie. But since this was a struggle between His Majesty and the Third Prince, they had no choice but to swallow their grievances in silence.

And so, the journey was solemn and quiet. The massive ships carried hardly any friendly conversation.

It was at this time that an official traveling on the same ship as Zhao Jin came up to his deck and told the attendants outside his door that he had urgent business to report to His Highness.

“What matter must be addressed mid-journey?” Zhao Jin’s tone from within the room was less than pleasant.

The voice outside replied, “Your Highness, Lord Su gave me some parting words before departure. He instructed me to pass them to you as quickly as possible.”

Hearing that it was from his maternal grandfather, Zhao Jin’s expression softened slightly. He ordered the door opened and let the man in.

It was a fifth-rank official from the Ministry of Personnel. Zhao Jin had little impression of him.

But apparently, the man handled matters quickly and tactfully. Over the last two years, he had won much favor from Zhao Jin’s grandfather, and had worked hard to secure a spot on this southern inspection mission.

In fact, Zhao Jin was living quite comfortably on the ship.

He occupied the largest vessel, which had three full decks. The entire third floor was reserved just for him.

A bedroom, tea room, receiving hall, and a scenic terrace—everything was available, extravagantly luxurious.

Zhao Jin sat in the hall, his expression impatient, watching the man approach and bow before he waved for him to sit below.

“Speak,” Zhao Jin said lazily.

But the man just smiled faintly without replying, instead glancing at the palace maids around Zhao Jin.

Still need to dismiss the servants?

Zhao Jin frowned slightly, then waved his hand to dismiss them. He wanted to see what this man really had to say.

Once the room was empty, the official rose from his seat and knelt down before Zhao Jin once more.

“Your Highness,” the man said, “you are now heading south to oversee inspections in a province. This is an extremely important responsibility. Lord Su places great hopes upon you.”

Zhao Jin furrowed his brows. “That, I already know.”

Before he left, his maternal grandfather had warned him repeatedly. He’d long since remembered everything clearly.

If this man had nothing new to say, then he was probably just using it as a pretext to show his face—trying to curry favor. Zhao Jin had seen too many people like this, and he was already starting to lose patience.

But the man paused briefly, then continued: “However, Your Highness, I fear His Majesty… may not see you the same way.”

Zhao Jin paused. “What do you mean?” he asked.

The man lowered his voice and spoke slowly. “Your Highness, for such a small matter, His Majesty punished you so severely. Lord Su hopes you… will consider this more carefully.”

Zhao Jin’s brow furrowed into a tight knot. “Father was just acting in a moment of anger,” he said. “If you're trying to sow discord, at least recognize what kind of man you are.”

Though he said this, his tone clearly betrayed unease.

Because he knew… this time, his father had punished him with unusual harshness.

More importantly, he had already explained the situation—laid all the blame on the commander of the Sixteenth Guard. But just because Zhao Chu had stirred up a fuss, his father issued an edict punishing him, while Fang Linyuan, the one in charge of the Sixteenth Guard, remained entirely untouched.

All because of Zhao Chu!

That wretched daughter of the woman who caused his mother’s death—his father hadn’t spared him a glance all these years, so why was he suddenly listening to her?

Then the kneeling official let out a soft sigh.

“The Noble Consort died under unclear circumstances, and now the Empress’s legitimate sixth son grows taller and stronger by the year,” he said. “Your Highness, His Majesty is only in his early fifties—still in the prime of his life.”

Zhao Jin’s hand, resting on the armrest, clenched tightly. “What do you mean, unclear circumstances?” he said angrily. “Speak plainly. Weren’t all the culprits back then executed in the Cold Palace?”

The kneeling man said nothing. He simply crawled forward on his knees and respectfully presented a sealed letter into Zhao Jin’s hands.

Upon opening it, Zhao Jin recognized the handwriting—it was his maternal grandfather’s. Though he hadn’t seen it often, he knew it well enough to identify.

‘The cause of Her Grace’s death may lie elsewhere. It is said the physician who cared for her during pregnancy now lives in Jiangnan. Your Highness should go in person and uncover the truth.’

Zhao Jin’s pupils contracted sharply.

The one who oversaw his mother’s prenatal care… Wasn’t that Liao Cai, the Vice Minister of the Imperial Medical Bureau and his father’s most trusted physician?

“Liao Cai is in Jiangnan?” Zhao Jin asked.

The kneeling official bowed again. “After Physician Liao retired, he returned to Jiangnan to live out his days in peace.”

Zhao Jin clutched the letter tightly for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “Very well,” he said. “If Grandfather wants me to investigate, then I shall. Once we reach Jiangnan, you are to seek out Liao Cai immediately.”

The man responded promptly: “Yes, Your Highness! I accept the order!”

Seeing the man’s expression of self-satisfaction, Zhao Jin had no interest in exchanging pleasantries. He waved his hand and dismissed him.

The carved wooden door closed again. In the large, lavish room, only Zhao Jin remained.

Outside the window, the river flowed on ceaselessly. He held the letter in his hand, silent for a long, long time. Zhao Jue was only a few years old… He had overlooked the fact that there was still someone like him in the palace.

This nameless official may have been presumptuous, but on one point, he hadn’t been wrong.

Until Zhao Jue came of age, Zhao Jin was his father's only real option. But five years, ten years from now—when that boy grew up—who could say where his father's affections might shift?

As the sole heir for many years, he had long seen that resplendent golden throne as his rightful inheritance.

Something already in his grasp… could not be allowed to fall into another's hands.

*

The imperial convoy of officials heading south followed the canal, and with the Third Prince sent away, the capital returned to its former tranquility.

Everything seemed unchanged—except for Fang Linyuan. Every time he picked up a piece of grape milk pastry, he couldn’t help but glance at the fingertips of his right hand.

That smudge of rouge, though it had been wiped clean in an instant, seemed etched into his skin. Each time his eyes fell on that spot, that faint, vivid red seemed to bloom again in a blurred haze—lingering, and tantalizing.

He felt an urge to bring it to his lips, as if he wanted that vivid color to stain them, to leave its mark somewhere.

Such behavior was utterly absurd.

So much so that, on the day he led the Sixteenth Guard out of the city to greet the long-delayed Goryeo envoys, they passed by a street theater. From within, he heard the actors singing The Female Prince Consort.

Out of nowhere, a strange thought arose in his mind.

If not for her wish to rescue Li Lang, could Feng Suzhen—disguised in male attire, passing the imperial exams, and ascending to the golden hall—have truly shared an equal and lasting union with the princess?

After all… aside from the fact that they were both women—they were married.

Somehow, as he thought this, the question slipped from his lips—and was overheard by Li Cheng’an beside him.

Li Cheng’an gave him a peculiar look, then turned to glance at the stage in the distance. After a moment of silence, he opened his mouth with difficulty. “Why would General think such a thing?” he asked.

Fang Linyuan paused slightly. Why else? He was clearly losing his mind.

Fang Linyuan said nothing, only turning his eyes away in silence.

Unexpectedly, Li Cheng’an took the question seriously.

“If the two of them truly didn’t want to be separated and kept up the act… I suppose it could work,” he said.

“After all, the princess didn’t need to inherit the throne. To outsiders, at most, it would just seem like she died childless.”

Inherit the throne.

That phrase made Fang Linyuan pause.

Zhao Chu wasn’t like the people in the play. From the moment he entered the marquis’ estate, it was with ambitions of greatness. As a noble of imperial blood, what other grand undertaking could he pursue, if not that lofty dragon throne?

What stood between the two of them… was not merely the matter of being man and woman.

Fang Linyuan lowered his eyes slightly.

But in that very moment, as he looked down, a sudden realization struck him— When he imagined growing old together, forming a perfect match… the one he saw beside himself wasn’t the princess from the play.

It was Zhao Chu.

Fang Linyuan’s mind was in complete chaos.

Was this truly how he felt about Zhao Chu?

He… He had grown up in the military camps. It wasn’t like he hadn’t interacted with men before. So why would he harbor such thoughts about another man?

Perhaps… it wasn’t about men at all.

Throughout his life, whether man or woman, all his fantasies—every single one—had been about Zhao Chu.

At first, it was the shadowy, idealized “she” he’d built in his memory—delicate yet resilient, like a lone flower blooming on a mountaintop amid a blizzard, trembling yet unbroken.

But later, the holy blossom bared her claws and tore off that illusion, revealing her true nature—ruthless, poisonous, and sharp.

So why did things change afterward?

Perhaps he gradually came to understand that a tender flower couldn’t survive in a pit of monsters. Piece by piece, he grew his own protective scales and fangs, took on a monstrous form—but underneath those layers of storm and shadow, he was still the same flower he had seen all those years ago.

Still tenacious, still gentle, still yearning for light. The only difference now was that “she” had become “he.”

It was as if… after all these years, he had fallen in love with the same person all over again.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

Beside him, Li Cheng’an seemed to sense something.

Seeing him sit there on his horse, silent and vacant like half his soul had been taken, Li Cheng’an jumped in fright.

It couldn’t be because of a stage play, right? Their general wasn’t the sentimental type—surely he wasn’t getting emotional over two women in a mistaken marriage?

…Two women! Even if he were sentimental, there was no reason their general would empathize with that!

“…General?” he called out tentatively.

Fang Linyuan turned to look at him, expressionless. But in his eyes, the emotion stirring there was clearly far beyond sympathy for two women in a tragic story.

“Are you all right?” Li Cheng’an was stunned.

Fang Linyuan simply nodded, saying nothing.

His mind was a mess. He truly didn’t know what to say.

 

--

Author’s Note:

Fang Linyuan: Damn. I’m screwed.

Translator : DarNan