What other reason could there be?

It seemed that all the answers were already in Zhao Chu’s eyes.

But Fang Linyuan couldn’t say a word.

It was clearly just a gesture to tidy his appearance, brushing aside his hair — and yet the moment Zhao Chu touched him, it was as though ropes bound his limbs, silken cloth veiled his senses… and sharp fangs brushed lightly against his throat.

He could no longer move.

All that remained were his eyes, fixed on Zhao Chu, dazed, while the turbulent ripples rising in Zhao Chu’s gaze imprinted themselves clearly into his mind.

All across the heavens and earth, there remained only Zhao Chu’s eyes.

He saw Zhao Chu smile faintly.

That smile was so light, yet it sent a shiver down his spine, made his knees weaken, his whole body want to melt.

Then Zhao Chu’s fingertips, the ones that had just brushed through his hair, gently swept across his cheek.

“All right, let’s go,” he heard Zhao Chu say. “If we delay any longer, we’ll miss the opening of the banquet.”

In his voice, there seemed to be a sigh — barely audible.

As if blaming the timing of the banquet for being so inconvenient. Or perhaps discontent with his own elaborate skirts and rouge-red lips that kept him confined, leaving him unable to do anything more than this light caress.

Fang Linyuan’s face flushed red in an instant.

He took a hurried step back. This time, Zhao Chu didn’t hold him in place.

Instead, he calmly raised his hand and smoothed out the wrinkles on his robe with practiced ease.

But Fang Linyuan’s mind had already turned into a muddled fog.

What had Zhao Chu said earlier? That he treated him well… for what reason…

What other reason could there be?

The answer was practically spelled out.

Even after they had returned to the banquet hall, offered their toasts, and taken their seats, Fang Linyuan still felt like he was dreaming.

He stiffly turned his head and saw Zhao Chu beside him, poised and graceful. When their gazes met, Zhao Chu even gave him a faint smile.

Within that courteous and restrained demeanor, a feeling bloomed — subtle, unspoken, impossible to ignore.

He must truly be dreaming.

This scene before him — it wasn’t as if he’d never imagined it.

But that was back when he hadn’t yet known Zhao Chu’s true identity — when he envisioned returning triumphant from the battlefield, basking in glory and accolades, hoping to exchange all that for one person’s peace and stability.

He had dreamed of the day the two of them might become husband and wife, respecting and cherishing each other, hearts beating in unison, a harmony of strings and zithers.

But a vision like that…

Had come true on this very day — even as both he and Zhao Chu stood as men.

*

As it turned out, Li Minshu really didn’t have the guts.

Fang Linyuan’s punch had been both hard and fierce. Even if it hadn’t struck a vital organ, it was enough to leave Li Minshu’s soft belly aching for days.

Yet even so, though he could barely eat a few bites during the banquet, he still didn’t dare speak a word of having been hit by Fang Linyuan.

The grand longevity feast was lively and splendid, with song and dance echoing through the Chonghua Hall well into the night. Courtiers and honored guests raised their cups one after another, celebrating His Majesty’s eternal longevity.

Even the young Ninth Prince, Zhao Jue, raised his cup in both hands and, in his babyish voice, wished his imperial father long life.

The Hongyou Emperor burst into hearty laughter.

*

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, the Third Prince Zhao Jin — newly arrived in Suzhou — did not sleep a wink that night.

As expected, the trusted men employed by his maternal clan moved swiftly. Just two days after his arrival in Suzhou, they had already found Liao Cai.

The moment Liao Cai saw him, he collapsed to his knees, trembling and sobbing uncontrollably. Before Zhao Jin could even question him, he was already begging for his life in tears.

It seemed he had long been expecting this day.

From the moment he retired from the Imperial Medical Bureau, he had sensed someone secretly following him.

After all those years serving the Emperor within the palace, how could he not recognize the signs? If someone wanted to silence a man quietly, there were a hundred ways to make it happen.

So he lived every day on edge, a bird startled by the mere sound of a bow, scrutinizing every bite and sip he took, and eventually fled the capital all the way to Jiangnan.

There were days so harsh, he nearly fainted from hunger on the road, yet didn’t dare ask for even a mouthful of soup from a roadside stall.

Fortunately, once he arrived in Jiangnan, the people following him seemed to vanish after a sudden and accidental fire.

Still, he dared not relax. He remained on high alert for over a month, drifting between towns. Only after confirming that no one was tailing him did he dare to settle down.

He made a home in a county outside Suzhou.

Back in the day, he had performed many services for the Emperor and received generous rewards. With the silver he had saved, he bought property, fields, and shops. For more than half a year, he lived in peace and comfort, gradually forgetting the knife that had once hung over his neck.

That was — until a few days ago, when several of his nearby neighbors suddenly appeared in his home.

Neighbors who had always seemed honest and warm-hearted suddenly became like strangers.

Expressionless, swift and skilled, they forced him to his knees, pressed blades to his neck, and demanded to know: What exactly caused the death of Noble Consort Qing all those years ago?

It had been… over a decade! A case long buried in the past!

Liao Cai had never imagined that the loop around his neck would come not from recent matters, but from a case settled over fourteen or fifteen years ago.

He had thought the ones tracking him were sent by the Emperor to silence him.

But now — just who were these people in front of him?

Of course, he never could have imagined it.

When he left the capital, there were indeed men sent by the Hongyou Emperor tailing him, under orders to bring back his head as proof of the mission. Had it not been for Zhao Chu’s men, who had long prepared a ruse—using the corpse of a condemned criminal to stage the illusion that Liao Cai had perished in the fire—Liao Cai would already have died under an imperial decree.

Liao Cai simply thought himself lucky.

Thank heavens! The people following him were indeed after the matter from back then. Thank heavens he had been cautious and left something behind to save his own life…

That day, in front of Zhao Jin, Liao Cai sobbed as he trembled, taking out an old chest.

Now those killers were still posing as his neighbors, eyeing his house like tigers watching prey. They had told him that as long as he handed the preserved evidence over to the “honored one” who came to claim it, that person would spare his life.

But if he didn’t…

Then as soon as the honored guest left, his own head would roll.

Liao Cai didn’t dare make any more moves. He held the chest in both hands and passed it up, then immediately prostrated himself on the ground, listening as the honored person opened it. But then, the chest slipped from his trembling hands and fell to the floor.

Its contents tumbled out with it.

There were medicinal prescriptions once used by Consort Qing during her “pregnancy care,” records of the abortion herbs obtained, registry entries of the imperial attendant Huang Wei fetching safflower (NT: herb known to cause miscarriage) on the Emperor’s orders… And one letter—a secret imperial decree, unmistakably written in a hand Zhao Jin would never fail to recognize.

“Consort Qing miscarried because she did not take the medicine as instructed. Her death is thus due to her defiance of the imperial command and has nothing to do with Zhen. You will not be held accountable. But this matter must never reach a third party. Bury it in your gut. Never speak of it again.”

Under heaven, no one else would dare refer to themselves as “Zhen,” nor could anyone forge the personal seal of the Son of Heaven.

This secret decree—was written by his own imperial father.

His mother… was killed by his father.

*

That night, Zhao Jin got completely drunk.

His mother had been the most beautiful woman in the entire palace—also the only one his imperial father had truly loved.

When he was little, he would see them together every day, deeply affectionate. If his father stayed elsewhere for the night and he wanted to see him, all it took was a few tears from his mother for the Emperor to come rushing back.

Later, his mother died.

On her death anniversary, he once returned alone to her old quarters, only to find his father there too—solitary, like a lone wild goose separated from its flock.

That night, his father told him many things—stories about his mother.

He said when he first met her, how lively and sweet she had been, the only ray of sunlight in the lifeless harem.

He said how all the other noble-born women in the inner palace schemed to gain power for their clans, while only she had asked him to take her to watch fireworks from the city tower on New Year’s Eve.

He spoke of taking her boating, admiring the snow, composing poetry… While all the other concubines showcased every treasure before him, only she had no love for elegance, hiding to one side and secretly dozing off.

He spoke of the snow that day in the plum garden, how it fell on her hair—and then, the Emperor wept it.

“I will never live to grow old with her,” he had said then.

Zhao Jin had cried too. Afterwards, in that same plum garden, he had nearly left Zhao Chu to freeze to death in the snow.

But now someone was telling him… that his mother died at his father’s hands?

He couldn’t believe it.

Yet no matter how tightly he gripped Liao Cai’s throat, nearly snapping his neck, he couldn’t force out anything more.

“His Majesty never meant to kill Her Ladyship… It was just that she was frail, and the miscarriage came too late in the term…” Liao Cai’s voice rasped from his throat in broken gasps. “His Majesty only… only didn’t trust the child in her womb… At the time, Your Highness was the only prince in the palace. His Majesty feared… feared…”

Feared what!

Hadn’t he said it himself? That his mother was the only one who never schemed against him—what was there to fear!

The night was as black as ink. Zhao Jin was drunk beyond knowing north from south.

And just then, the capable subordinate from his maternal clan—the junior official from the Ministry of Personnel—came knocking at his door.

Zhao Jin told him to get lost, but the man said he had an urgent matter to report.

Zhao Jin ignored him. The man entered without permission, falling to his knees amid the toppled wine jars.

“I understand what my lord grandfather means,” Zhao Jin slurred. “But if he didn’t even dare keep my mother alive, how could he ever pass the throne to me?”

As he spoke, he gave a faint, bitter laugh—as if telling a joke. “I’m not his only son, after all.”

But then, the man kneeling below slowly opened his mouth: “Your Highness… but what if… His Majesty actually has only one son?”

Zhao Jin looked up at him—some of the drunken haze fading from his eyes. “What do you mean?”

He sat upright, staring at the man intently.

The man was silent for a long moment, then lowered his head deeply. “When this humble official was investigating the whereabouts of Imperial Physician Liao on Your Highness’s behalf… I came upon another matter,” he said. “It concerns the Ninth Prince… and Her Majesty the Empress.”

*

This night, the cold wind in Suzhou blew the entire night. The chilly wind carried with it icy rain, freezing one’s bones to the core.

And on this very night, a drunken Zhao Jin, carrying a treasured sword and leading a group of men gathered by that official, stormed into an inconspicuous villa just outside Suzhou city.

This was the ancestral property of Empress Jiang Hongluan’s family.

Even though the Jiang family had produced an empress, Jiang’s father never forgot his roots. He still managed his academy in Suzhou, and even Jiang Hongluan’s several legitimate and illegitimate brothers had never left Suzhou.

Zhao Jin’s men broke open the villa’s gates.

In the cold wind and dark night, the panicked cries of women and the wailing of children rose one after another.

And it was also tonight that Zhao Jin witnessed a scene he would never forget.

Women, children.

Seven or eight women kept here, all with traces of Hongyou Emperor’s features in their appearances. Three or four children, boys and girls alike, all around the same age as Zhao Jue.

Among them, a girl exactly the same age as Zhao Jue, thin and timid, shrank back and looked at Zhao Jin.

She was the one among these children who looked the most like him.

*

When Zhao Chu left the palace, he looked up at the sky.

Judging by the time, Zhao Jin would probably be taken by his men within the next couple of days to witness the absurd secrets of the Jiang family.

Zhao Jin would likely be shocked.

After all, Hongyou Emperor’s harem had few heirs; every concubine in the palace prayed day and night to bear a child.

Once they were pregnant, they would then constantly worry, hoping desperately for a son—reciting scriptures every day, almost willing to break their heads kneeling before the Buddha.

Yet among so many consorts, only Jiang Hongluan had understood the truth that man can conquer fate.

She gave birth to one Zhao Pei, and afterward, well into her thirties, was never pregnant again. If it dragged on any longer, she would probably never conceive again in her lifetime—and naturally, the one who ascended the throne in the future would not be a child of her bloodline.

So, she started plotting early.

She had her legitimate eldest brother, whose looks were most similar to hers, search far and wide for women who resembled the emperor in features, and raise them in the villa.

After she finally became pregnant with another of Hongyou Emperor’s children, the women her brother raised also became pregnant one after another.

She was lucky—it happened that she went into labor during the days following the former empress’s death.

Only pity—it was a daughter again.

So when Zhao Chu was kneeling before the imperial study, she took advantage of the chaos in the palace, brought in a male infant induced into early labor by her brother’s concubines, and switched him with the useless princess.

Thereafter, stealing heaven and swapping day, the ninth princess became the ninth prince.

Back then, it had taken Zhao Chu great effort to uncover this information. Now handing it over to Zhao Jin, it could be said he was letting him off easy.

By Zhao Chu’s nature, he ought to demand something from Zhao Jin in return.

But right now, he didn’t have the time to worry about that.

*

Because the moment he returned to the residence, Fang Linyuan had locked himself inside the Fuguang Pavilion again and refused to come out.

“His Lordship said he drank too much at the palace and had a headache, so he went to sleep early in the Fuguang Pavilion,” Han Lu said at the door to Zhao Chu.

Zhao Chu didn’t say a word, only lifted his eyes to look at Fang Linyuan’s window.

At the window of the bedroom where the lights had already been extinguished, a hidden figure flashed past.

Fang Linyuan clearly hadn’t gone to sleep yet.

His heart was in utter chaos, thudding wildly in his chest as if it were about to leap out, to the point that he needed to be alone to calm down.

He needed to figure out what exactly had happened today. And he needed to understand clearly what exactly should become of this complicated relationship between him and Zhao Chu.

But…

Saying he needed to calm down, he still couldn’t help himself. He quietly lay at the window, secretly peeking out at Zhao Chu.

He really was good-looking. Good-looking when he spoke to Han Lu with lowered eyes, good-looking when he furrowed his brows slightly…

Huh!

Why is he walking toward the Fuguang Pavilion?!

Fang Linyuan was stunned and watched as Han Lu stepped aside to make way. Zhao Chu lifted his foot and walked straight into his courtyard.

Fang Linyuan was terrified.

He paced around the room like a trapped beast, then suddenly remembered that he had said he had gone to bed already.

He hurriedly sat back on the bed and frantically began to remove his outer robe.

But the more he rushed, the more flustered he became. He had only taken off half of his outer robe when the bedroom door was pushed open by Zhao Chu.

The marquis’s ceremonial robe was wide and heavy. Fang Linyuan was tangled up in the half-removed, complicated garment, revealing a pair of dark, gleaming eyes as he looked eagerly at Zhao Chu standing at the door.

Zhao Chu’s face was expressionless; it was unclear what he was thinking.

Fang Linyuan’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, but he said nothing.

He just stared as Zhao Chu closed the door and walked in.

Zhao Chu didn’t light the lamp. Only the cold, pale moonlight from the window cast a faint glow. He stepped into the room on that silvered light, walked to Fang Linyuan, and stopped.

Fang Linyuan’s lips moved slightly—then he heard Zhao Chu ask, “Is it easy to take off?”

Fang Linyuan was stunned for a moment before he realized that Zhao Chu was asking whether he needed help removing his outer robe.

He shook his head hurriedly and, under Zhao Chu’s gaze, struggled out of the heavy garment.

When he finally poked his head out again, his face was already slightly flushed from being squeezed.

He watched Zhao Chu take his robe, give it a neat shake, and hang it on the wooden rack beside them.

Then, he saw Zhao Chu turn back around and return to stand in front of him.

Perhaps sensing the pressure his stance was exerting, Zhao Chu paused in silence for a moment, then crouched down, raising his head to look up at him.

Under the glimmering jewels and brocade, Fang Linyuan met Zhao Chu’s calm and deep gaze.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he heard Zhao Chu say.

“I do want an answer from you, but it doesn’t have to be today.”

Fang Linyuan looked at him, lips parting slightly, but no sound came out.

He couldn’t find any words. His mind was in utter disarray, and he didn’t know how to respond to Zhao Chu, nor did he know what he wanted himself. The only thing he was sure of, crystal clear, was this one thing:

He did like Zhao Chu. He really did.

Then, he saw Zhao Chu’s hand gently rest on his knee. “Don’t be afraid.”

He heard Zhao Chu say this. “As long as you refuse—at any time—I will never force you again. So don’t be afraid of me.”

He was earnest and resolute. In those deep-set eyes of his, a pool of moonlight quietly settled.

Fang Linyuan’s hand twitched slightly, then uncontrollably rested atop the back of Zhao Chu’s hand.

“I’m not…” he murmured unconsciously.

Zhao Chu looked at him in silence, patiently waiting for what came next.

But the quieter it was, the louder Fang Linyuan’s heartbeat thudded in his ears.

“I just don’t know… what you feel, about me, about us…” Fang Linyuan listened to his own racing heart, and for a moment, couldn’t find the words to express it clearly.

So, after a long while, he met Zhao Chu’s eyes and simply asked the question that even he himself hadn’t fully figured out.

“Do you know clearly?” he asked Zhao Chu. “What kind of feelings do you have… for me?”

Zhao Chu’s gaze paused slightly as he looked into his eyes.

Then, Fang Linyuan saw him smile.

He looked especially handsome when he smiled. It was just a pity that, though he often smiled, he didn’t truly like to smile. Every time he did, it was cold and detached—his lips would move, but his eyes remained frozen with sarcastic mockery.

But this time, his gaze softened, as if the icy surface of a spring thawed into water.

The few remaining shards of ice became glimmering fragments flickering within the ripples.

In the next moment, Zhao Chu turned his hand over, held it, and brought it to his lips.

A light and tender kiss, beneath his quiet and reverent gaze, landed gently on the back of Fang Linyuan’s hand, carried on his breath—treasured, delicate.

 

--

Author's Note:

Zhao Chu: It’s fine if you didn’t bring a pen. The correct answer—I slipped it into your book.

PS. Regarding the storyline of Empress Jiang “stealing heaven and swapping day” (i.e., the baby swap), it corresponds with the events in chapter 20. It was deliberately timed to happen when the palace was in chaos and Emperor Hongyou was being held in check by Zhao Chu :D

 

Translator : DarNan