From that day onward, Xiao Han swiftly acclimated to his new, undeniably impressive identity.
Had he never been an emperor before? It didn’t matter—there was the script.
Did he not know how to review throne memorials? It didn’t matter—there was the script.
Was he unfamiliar with governing a country, navigating political intrigues, expanding territory, or balancing the powers within the imperial court? None of that mattered! As long as he knew how to fall in love, everything else would fall into place.

As students, everyone had fantasized about having their own Doraemon (NT: a Japanese manga series featuring a robotic cat that travels through time) and using its futuristic gadgets to cram all sorts of knowledge directly into their brains. Xiao Han was no exception. Yet, even though he now seemed to have partially fulfilled that childhood dream, he couldn’t bring himself to feel joy about it.

As a result, in the eyes of the ministers, eunuchs, and concubines, the Qing Emperor’s temperament grew increasingly unpredictable, and he became more intimidating than ever.

Time passed, and snow began to fall, blanketing the palace in a shimmering layer of silver.
Xian Fu hurried over, holding a lantern. He paused in front of the Evergreen Palace, straightened his robes, and then stepped inside. The tall, red-lacquered wooden doors shielded the interior from the biting wind and snow.

Upon entering, he bowed and observed the Qing Emperor lying on a pear-wood couch, draped in a warm, thick white tiger pelt. Beside him, the stove burned brightly, filling the room with warmth. On the incense altar, a celadon vase held a few stalks of plum blossoms, sent the previous day by Deputy Minister Zhuo of the Ministry of Rites.

Hearing the sound of footsteps, the Qing Emperor slowly opened his eyes. Xian Fu quickly approached with a cup of hot tea. While discreetly studying His Majesty’s expression, he said in a soft voice, “The snow is falling heavily outside. Your Majesty should take care not to catch a chill while resting like this.”

The Qing Emperor rose lazily from the couch. His fox-fur coat slipped from his shoulders, revealing a sleek black robe adorned with intricate gold embroidery. His broad shoulders and narrow waist accentuated his tall, commanding figure, making him appear even more striking.

“Is it snowing again?” Xiao Han asked, though his gaze didn’t shift toward the window. Instead, his eyes lingered on the plum blossoms in the vase. Despite having been placed there only a day ago, the flowers were already beginning to wilt.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Xian Fu replied, noticing the emperor’s focus. He added quickly, “This humble servant happened to meet Assistant Minister Zhuo earlier. He mentioned that if the plum blossoms were to wither, he would be happy to pick fresh ones for Your Majesty to enjoy.”

Not long ago, Zhuo Fan had been appointed Assistant Minister of Rites. While no one in the court dared to voice their opinions openly, rumors had begun to swirl throughout the palace. In hushed tones, everyone whispered about how Zhuo Fan’s rapid rise to power must have been due to his intimate relationship with the emperor.

Though the rumors were crude, they expressed the truth.
Zhuo Fan was naturally reserved and aloof. His swift ascent through the ranks, fueled by the emperor’s favor, had earned him the envy and disdain of his peers, leaving him isolated among the court officials. Aside from the sycophants who flattered anyone in the emperor’s good graces, the only person who maintained any semblance of closeness with him was Shao Ze, who had taken the imperial examinations alongside Zhuo Fan and had ranked third.

On one hand, Zhuo Fan disdained associating with those who sought to curry favor. On the other hand, despite their shared history as classmates, Shao Ze openly disapproved of Zhuo Fan’s ambiguous relationship with the Qing Emperor. He frequently advised Zhuo Fan to sever ties with the emperor, warning him of the dangers of such an affair.

Naturally, such remarks irritated Zhuo Fan, who grew increasingly reluctant to engage with Shao Ze. As a result, Zhuo Fan remained isolated at court, day after day.

Not long ago, however, things began to shift. Wen Muyan, the son and heir of Prince Wen, returned to the capital to receive formal titles and blessings from the Qing Emperor.

Thinking back to those events, Xiao Han let out a cold laugh, though his eyes softened ever so slightly. He brushed his fingertips over the delicate red petals of the plum blossoms, as if caressing a lover’s cheek. “How could such a frail and thin body withstand such heavy snow? Bring him to the hall.”

Xian Fu left the room immediately upon receiving the order.

Once the doors closed, Xiao Han waved his sleeves, scattering the red flowers across the floor. Only a few petals remained clinging to the branches, looking lonely and pitiful.

Zhuo Fan arrived quickly.

In truth, ever since that infamous night, he had been appointed Deputy Minister of Rites. Freshly promoted, he had been filled with pride and hope. But as time passed, the Qing Emperor’s interest in him seemed to wane. The nights of favor grew fewer and farther between. Though Zhuo Fan still received occasional tokens of affection, he had been reduced to little more than a kitten or puppy at the emperor’s feet—petted or glanced at when it pleased His Majesty, then ignored the moment his attention shifted elsewhere.

It’s said that lovers lose all sense of reason. Anyone could see that Zhuo Fan was falling from grace, yet he clung to a fragile hope. A burning anxiety and deep uncertainty tormented him day after day. But as the Qing Emperor called for him less frequently and new beauties began to appear in the palace, Zhuo Fan realized he was on the verge of becoming just another forgotten lover. Unable to contain his frustration any longer, he finally sought an audience.

“This humble subject presents his respectful greetings to Your Majesty. Long live Your Majesty.”

Xiao Han turned and cast a calm, indifferent glance at the Deputy Minister of Rites kneeling before him. Today, Zhuo Fan hadn’t even bothered to wear a coat. His shoulders were dusted with snow, and his face was pale, his cheeks flushed from the cold. His eyes, filled with sadness and despair, seemed to plead for something. His long black hair cascaded freely down his back like a silken stream, adding to his fragile, almost pitiful appearance.

“Get up,” Xiao Han said coolly, his voice devoid of warmth. He frowned slightly, a hint of mockery playing on his lips. He truly didn’t understand the script’s peculiar preferences. Despite being portrayed as a pillar of the empire, this man spent his days indulging in self-pity, obsessed over the growing number of people who enjoyed the emperor’s favor. What was so appealing about such a wimp??

Are you thinking of auditioning for ‘The Empresses of the Palace’? Xiao Han thought wryly.

“Your Majesty, these plum trees…” Zhuo Fan held a few branches of freshly picked plum blossoms in his arms. But when he looked up, he saw that the celadon vase now held a few stems of blooming orchids.

Following his gaze, Xiao Han glanced at the orchids and offered a mysterious smile. “These flowers were sent by Mo Lan earlier. I noticed the plum blossoms had wilted and asked for them to be replaced. It’s tiresome to have petals scattered all over the floor.”

At the mention of Mo Lan’s name, Zhuo Fan’s heart clenched. Wasn’t this the man who had arrived at the palace just two days ago? Had he truly won the Qing Emperor’s favor in such a short time?

“So, Your Majesty no longer favors plum blossoms. It seems this humble subject has done something useless…” Zhuo Fan hugged the branches tightly to his chest, his burning heart slowly cooling. He hoped the Qing Emperor would say something more, but the latter remained silent.

So… so, he had been a fool from the very beginning, deluding himself absurdly…

Xiao Han, for his part, remained unmoved by Zhuo Fan’s devastated expression. Though he had no intention of hurting him, he also had no intention of loving him.

In a detached tone, he recited the lines from the script: “Does my dear subject have anything else to report? If not, you may withdraw.”

Zhuo Fan opened his mouth, as if to speak, but was interrupted by Xian Fu’s voice from the other side of the door: “Your Majesty, Mo Lan is outside and requests an audience.”

“Bring him in,” Xiao Han said, clearly tired of Zhuo Fan. He returned to the soft sofa and closed his eyes.

Drained of all energy, Zhuo Fan stood frozen in place. Reason told him to leave the cold palace immediately, but the sound of the doors opening and Mo Lan’s light footsteps seemed to root him to the ground. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Mo Lan entered, a handsome youth with a refined appearance and graceful demeanor. He turned his head and offered Zhuo Fan a bright smile—one that was brimming with mockery.

“Mo Lan pays homage to Your Majesty. Having heard from Eunuch Xian that Your Majesty was working tirelessly, this humble servant specially prepared snow mushroom porridge for Your Majesty. Please enjoy it.”

Although Mo Lan wasn’t Xiao Han’s type either, he was undeniably sensitive and tactful. Xiao Han gestured to him, and the young man immediately moved nimbly to his side, beginning to serve the porridge. He blew gently on each spoonful before bringing it to the emperor’s lips.

“What does Your Majesty think?” Mo Lan asked, his voice dripping with complacency. He caressed the emperor’s chest, drawing light circles with his fingertips.

“Not bad,” Xiao Han replied flatly.

At this statement, Mo Lan burst into happy laughter, like a pampered dog wagging its tail proudly.

Forgotten and ignored, Zhuo Fan watched the affectionate exchange between the two. He felt as though he had fallen into an icy cave. He didn’t even know how he managed to leave the Evergreen Palace.

Outside, the snow was falling heavily, blanketing the ground in a thick, damp layer. The icy wind bit into Zhuo Fan’s skin, leaving his face as pale as joss paper. Dizzy and disoriented, he leaned against a wall near the window of the Evergreen Palace. From there, he could intermittently hear Mo Lan’s soft laughter and suggestive gasps.

The thought of the Qing Emperor, who had once pampered him, now devoting all his attention to another, tore at Zhuo Fan’s heart like a knife. He wished he could disappear right then and there.

He loved the Qing Emperor so much… How could he be so cruel to him?

However, Xiao Han wasn’t feeling any better, despite playing the role of the doting emperor with a beautiful youth. He felt no interest in the sixteen or seventeen-year-old “child-faced” boy. He merely went through the motions, touching the young man’s clothes to deliver a few perfunctory gestures, but Mo Lan’s reactions—his cries and gasps—sounded more like a cat in heat than anything else.

What truly grated on Xiao Han’s nerves, though, was the porridge.

Mushroom snow porridge? Seriously?!

Holy shit, it was always the same—either ginseng tea or some kind of porridge, osmanthus cake or walnut paste. As an emperor, wasn’t he allowed to eat something substantial, like chicken drumsticks?!

Xiao Han was on the verge of throwing up from all these overly sweet concoctions. He wondered if Mo Lan was some kind of angel who had died from eating too much salt in his past life. Was this his way of making up for it by drowning himself—and everyone else—in sugar?

Suddenly, Xiao Han had a wish. He wanted to one day have a pasture full of donkeys, so he could stand in the yard every day and shout, “Fucking donkeys! Fucking donkeys!”

To be honest, this odd mix of serious drama and scathing inner mockery felt incredibly off. Could it be that all these so-called top scumbags, just like him, had ever-screaming hearts hidden beneath their tolerant and romantic facades?

Xiao Han cleared his throat and darkened his expression, motioning for Mo Lan to take the porridge away. Then, he put on his clothes, walked to the window, and silently lifted a corner of the curtain. From his vantage point, he caught sight of an unsteady figure in the distance.

At this point in the plot, it must have been time for the so-called love interest to make his entrance.

Relegated to the background in the script, the Qing Emperor grabbed a small handful of melon seeds and began nibbling on them, preparing to enjoy the show. Behind him, Mo Lan’s face was a picture of confusion. He was about to step forward and do his best to serve the emperor, but instead, he was unceremoniously kicked out.

What the hell was going on?

The snow had eased, but the rain had grown heavier. Even though Zhuo Fan had taken shelter under the roof, he was quickly soaked. His limbs were frozen, his face bloodless, and his wet black hair clung to his body like a second skin. Yet, no matter how pitiful he looked, Xiao Han didn’t see any of the beautifully tragic imagery described in the script. There was no “wet clothes hugging a slender figure,” no “skin so pale it almost seemed translucent,” and certainly no “lonely figure looking particularly stoic, aloof like a flower on the mountaintop.”

If anything, Zhuo Fan resembled a newborn water ghost more than a tragic romantic lead.

Xiao Han was speechless. It wasn’t that he wanted to ridicule Zhuo Fan, but… even though the script seemed to relish torturing the “bottom scum” and casting him as a pathetic victim, it also piled on flowery, poetic descriptions to evoke pity. The script’s preferences were enough to make Xiao Han feel nauseous.

Zhuo Fan, for his part, felt utterly cold—his body was frozen, and his heart was even colder. But his head burned as if it might explode at any moment.

In his dazed state, Zhuo Fan thought he saw someone approaching with an umbrella. Raindrops pattered densely and quickly against the umbrella’s surface. His eyes, which had been staring blankly into the distance for so long, now focused on the figure emerging from the silver haze. He felt a warm coat being draped over his shoulders and an umbrella held above his head, shielding him from the rain and snow.

If only… it were the Qing Emperor.

With that thought, Zhuo Fan fainted.

Naturally, the man who had come to his rescue wasn’t the Qing Emperor. Xiao Han was still hidden behind the window, watching the scene unfold like a spectator at a play.

The man who had appeared was tall and imposing, his face handsome and gentle. His dark, deep eyes radiated warmth, seeming to overflow with endless tenderness and affection.

This was Wen Muyan, who had recently inherited the title of Prince Wen—the only prince in the dynasty whose title was granted by merit rather than blood.

In the snow, Prince Wen held an umbrella in one hand and wrapped his other arm around Zhuo Fan’s shoulders. He glanced down at the man in his arms, his expression soft. The snow and raindrops that the umbrella couldn’t block fell onto his black coat and long hair, creating a scene that, from a distance, resembled a moving and poetic ink painting.

Xiao Han ate the last melon seed and clapped his hands with a smile. The snow shower above Wen Muyan’s head, he guessed, could easily create the illusion of a romance destined to last a lifetime. What a scene.

Mo Lan, standing nearby, didn’t know what the Qing Emperor had seen or why he was laughing. Silently, he brought over a cup of hot tea.

Of course, Xiao Han didn’t care what others thought. His eyes followed Wen Muyan as he attempted to carry Zhuo Fan in his arms. Remembering that the ultimate fate of this “perfect” man was to be cast aside by the bottom, Xiao Han couldn’t help but lament: Why do you subject yourself to such suffering? Why waste your affection like this?

Running his fingers along the edge of the teacup, Xiao Han lowered his head and took a sip. When he looked up again, he saw Wen Muyan stumble, nearly dropping Zhuo Fan from his arms.

Xiao Han was both surprised and amused. Unexpectedly, Prince Wen stopped after a few steps, set Zhuo Fan down for a brief rest, and then picked him up again to continue.

This almost made Xiao Han laugh out loud. Was Zhuo Fan too heavy for Wen Muyan to carry? Hahahaha!

Xiao Han watched as the pair reached the corner of the corridor. Perhaps because Prince Wen wasn’t strong enough, or perhaps because walking in the snowstorm was too difficult, the prince could no longer hold the unconscious man in his arms.

He had no choice but to set Zhuo Fan down on the ground. After glancing left and right to ensure no one was watching, Wen Muyan crouched to catch his breath. He rubbed his palms together, blew on his icy hands, and shook the snow off his cloak. Finally, after circling Zhuo Fan twice, he seemed to come up with a solution—grabbing Zhuo Fan by the hands, Prince Wen began dragging the unconscious man like a sack…

He dragged him further…

Dragged…

Further…

Mo Lan watched in astonishment as the Qing Emperor, who had been solemn and calm just moments ago, spat out his tea. The young man was so frightened that he lost all composure. He dropped to his knees, trembling, and pleaded for forgiveness.

“Your Majesty, was the tea too hot? This humble servant deserves to die! This humble servant deserves to die! Your Majesty, please forgive me!”

“It’s none of your business. Leave,” Xiao Han said, setting the teacup aside and waving his hand dismissively. When he opened the window and looked outside again, the corridor was empty.

He stood quietly in front of the window, listening to the storm for a while, a faint smile playing on his lips. This Wen Muyan seemed a little more interesting than he was in their last life.

 

Translator : DarNan