Chapter 14#
Chapter 14#
Wen Zhuo didn’t quite understand what had come over him.
He had clearly returned to the twenty-third year of Shunyuan intact, completely free of that mire.
He had lost nothing now—he hadn’t even been caught in that downpour outside Qingliang Hall.
He was plotting revenge against Shen Chen and Xie Langyang, those two names churning in his heart for days, his blood boiling.
He had even slept soundly for several nights, his dreams filled only with peace and endless darkness.
His mansion, a three-courtyard compound he had personally overseen, was draped in pear blossoms in full bloom.
But why did the nightmare of that month in the prison of the Court of Judicial Review still claw its way back from the underworld, haunting him like a specter?
He could even smell the damp stench of straw mats rotting in snowmelt, and the foul, stale odor of old blood clotted on his ochre prison robes.
It was as if his soul had never truly escaped—these peaceful days were nothing more than a beautiful dream to evade the pain.
That had been the coldest winter he had ever endured. Interrogations day after day felt like a dull knife slicing through flesh. Later, at the mere sound of footsteps, his fingertips would tremble, a cowardice seeping from the marrow of his bones.
He was, in truth, afraid. The pain of torn skin and broken bones blurred even Gong Zhiyuan’s face before him, making it seem like nothing but a wavering illusion, a punishment from heaven for the guilt of his life.
He had thought of death, but when he was actually dragged onto the long street before the imperial hall and saw the coarse, snow-white shroud on the ground, horror struck him. All that remained in his mind was the desperate desire to live.
He wanted to escape that visceral pain, but his heart hammered wildly in his chest, pounding against his eardrums. It was as if he were nailed to the past by torture, unable to move.
Shen Zheng instantly released the hand pinning him down.
Wen Zhuo’s left hand clutched tightly over his heart, knuckles turning pale blue. His face, so exquisite it seemed carved from jade, twisted in pain. His alluring eyes, usually full of charm, were now streaked with blood vessels. Tears spilled uncontrollably, trailing down his eyelashes and landing on his lip, which he had bitten until it bled.
In moments, his neck, smooth as porcelain above his collar, was beaded with sweat. His breathing grew hurried and urgent, as if something were strangling him, half a breath stuck in his throat, neither rising nor falling.
Shen Zheng shifted his gaze to the window.
The white smoke from firecrackers had already drifted to the fifth floor. From the streets came the clamor of Great Qian’s Go players cursing, while the servant beat the golden gong again, shouting as he walked along Chess-Watching Street.
Wen Zhuo had been fine all along—it was that string of firecrackers that had turned him into this.
Triggered by a certain sound, suddenly erupting, emotions peaking in an instant—this was a classic symptom of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).
But Wen Zhuo, now famous at a young age, his official career smooth sailing, at the height of his power and pride—where could his trauma come from?
Regardless, his actions just now were far too hasty.
He shouldn’t have pinned Wen Zhuo down, shouldn’t have asked what was wrong, leading him to recall past trauma.
Shen Zheng quietly moved closer, deliberately placing both hands in Wen Zhuo’s line of sight. Then, slowly, very slowly, he gently wrapped his arms around Wen Zhuo’s shoulders, pressing his chest against Wen Zhuo’s trembling back.
With barely perceptible force, Shen Zheng covered Wen Zhuo’s ink-black hair: “You’re safe now. It’s just you and me here.”
Wen Zhuo didn’t pull away, but his brow was furrowed, as if a weight pressed on his chest. The more anxious he grew, the harder it was to breathe.
Shen Zheng’s voice steadied further. He continued to stroke lightly, while his other hand moved around to the front. “Look at what’s in front of you.”
Wen Zhuo’s gaze fell upon the objects before him. He released his bitten lip, a low sound escaping his throat. “…A Go board.”
“Good.” Shen Zheng increased the pressure of his palm slightly, letting Wen Zhuo feel the touch clearly, then asked softly, “What’s on the board?”
“…Pieces.” Wen Zhuo murmured as if in a trance.
“Where did you place the pieces?”
“Star plate… small eye… triple three.”
Shen Zheng raised his hand extremely slowly, his palm first touching the cool skin of Wen Zhuo’s wrist before gently clasping the left hand pressed against his heart.
He had almost encircled Wen Zhuo in his arms now, his breath barely touching the tip of the other’s ear.
“Your fingers are cold.” Shen Zheng squeezed them gently, whispering, “Want to feel my palm?”
“…It’s warm.”
Wen Zhuo’s voice was still soft, but his answer seemed smoother.
Shen Zheng took his hand and slowly moved it from his heart, placing it on the oddly shaped stone.
“Feel this. What is it?”
“A stone.”
“It’s called a dumbbell.” Shen Zheng’s thumb brushed over the back of his hand, then guided it further down, pressing it onto his own knee. “And this?”
Wen Zhuo lowered his eyelids, long lashes fluttering downward. His thoughts, led by Shen Zheng, gradually settled back to reality.
Through the smooth, flowing brocade, he could faintly feel the warmth beneath. He paused, then answered, “Your… knee.”
Shen Zheng felt Wen Zhuo’s trembling stop.
What was the next step?
Shen Zheng glanced at the corner. The copper incense burner was still releasing curling wisps of smoke.
He slightly tightened his arm, gesturing. “Do you smell that?”
Wen Zhuo took a breath obediently. Almost without pause, he answered accurately, “Mianzhou’s storax. Incense from my hometown.”
“Correct.” Shen Zheng’s nose gently brushed against the cartilage of his ear. “And now, who is holding you?”
When the words fell, Wen Zhuo’s body, which had just calmed, quivered again. He slowly raised his eyes, meeting Shen Zheng’s deep gaze.
Those eyes held an unexpected tenderness.
He opened his mouth: “Your Highness… Shen Zheng.”
“Good boy.” Shen Zheng smiled, as if in praise, his thumb playing with the soft hair by his temple. “Now take a deep breath. Inhale slowly, hold it, then exhale slowly.”
Wen Zhuo truly did break free from the nightmare of the prison.
The blizzard of deep winter retreated far away, and the light from outside crept onto the windowsill.
He couldn’t help but recall the not-so-famous poem Shen Zheng had recited—
Plum rains in yellow season, every home’s rain… idly tapping the chess piece, the lampwick falls.
Despite the chill of early spring, in this cramped chess room, he felt the warmth of summer creeping in.
After a dazed moment, he suddenly realized he was still in Shen Zheng’s arms.
Both publicly and privately, this was inappropriate. After all, he harbored such base and humble thoughts, like rotting mud in a swamp, unable to see the light.
Wen Zhuo hastily pushed Shen Zheng’s chest away, turning his head aside to avoid his face, his voice hoarse with barely concealed panic: “I’m fine now.”
Shen Zheng didn’t mind being pushed away at all.
He propped his right knee up on the spot, resting his forearm casually on it, and cupped his cheek in his hand. “If you want to talk, I’d be happy to listen. If you don’t want to, that’s okay too. Next time this happens—”
His voice suddenly turned serious. “—do what we did today. Look at objects near you, touch the wall beside you, listen to the sounds around you, smell the scents nearby. In short, use your body to sense things around you, feel the temperature, and then slowly regulate your breathing.”
Wen Zhuo had his back to him, shoulders still, but his fingers quietly curled inside his sleeve. “It won’t happen again.”
Shen Zheng gazed at that thin back and felt a pang of pity.
He hooked a finger and pulled the bell rope from the corner of the table.
He tugged it three times. The thin line made the copper bell in the East Tower’s main hall jingle. Soon, there was a knock at the door, and a waiter’s voice came through: “Honored guest, would you like to order something more?”
Shen Zheng: “When I came in, I saw lots of dish names on the board in the main hall—they all looked delicious. Like that Su Huangdu, Boxia Gong, Wang Lou’s buns, Chengsha balls, Victory meat, Clam and dried rice porridge—give me one of each, I want to try them. And then a pot of tea, any kind, I don’t really know how to appreciate it anyway.”
Seeing a big order, the waiter’s voice brimmed with smiles. He answered promptly: “Oh, what a good memory you have! These are all our East Tower’s specialties. Please wait a moment, I’ll run to the kitchen and have them start cooking.”
Wen Zhuo finally turned around, staring at Shen Zheng with disbelief: “What are you doing? Did I call you to East Tower to have a meal?”
Shen Zheng moved the chessboard aside, covering all the pieces so Wen Zhuo couldn’t see them: “You can’t use your brain anymore today. You need to relax.” Then he patted his stomach, his tone half-joking, half-serious: “Besides, I’m really hungry. I haven’t even figured out where the palace cafeteria is. I haven’t eaten a thing since early this morning. Isn’t the teacher hungry?”
Reminded, Wen Zhuo realized he was a bit hungry too, but he also felt it was absurd to come to a chess house specifically for lunch with Shen Zheng.
He was momentarily speechless, simply glaring at Shen Zheng, brows and eyes carrying a hint of reproach, but unable to muster any counterargument.
After a long pause, Wen Zhuo looked down his nose, putting on the airs of a teacher, and said slowly: “Your teacher likes sweets. Get me a serving of honey-grilled kumquats.”
A beautiful person is probably born with talent. Shen Zheng thought his expression was irresistibly vivid. If he had been a young man falling in love for the first time a few years earlier, he would have been utterly bewitched and unable to focus on his college entrance exams.
Shen Zheng suppressed the laughter in his throat: “Alright, I’ll remember that.”
Soon, the food arrived, laid out in a dazzling array across the table. The Go table, originally covered in black and white stones, was now alive with color and aroma.
Celadon bowls held the clam and dried rice porridge, thick and soft, steaming with the freshness of clams.
The Su Huangdu was fried crispy on the outside, soft and glutinous inside, coated with almonds and peanut sauce.
The Victory meat was similar to pan-fried dumplings, the filling rich, with bits of fresh mushrooms and bamboo shoots peeking out brightly.
A small charcoal fire burned beneath the Boxia Gong, the pot bubbling gently.
The whole table was filled with the warmth of home-cooked meals, the air saturated with sweet fragrances.
Shen Zheng poured Wen Zhuo a cup of tea: “Don’t drink wine. It’s not good for your health.”
Wen Zhuo took a small sip, then asked casually, “How did you know how to handle that?” He meant the earlier situation.
Shen Zheng didn’t look up. He ladled out two bowls of the clam porridge for himself and Wen Zhuo: “There’s a famous saying: no knowledge in this world is ever wasted.”
“Did you learn that from Nanping too?”
“You could say that.”
Wen Zhuo thought to himself: Nanping’s customs and traditions are truly strange—both fierce and uniquely delicate. Shen Zheng’s ten years there must have deeply influenced him.
He took a mouthful of the porridge and said between bites, “There are only a little over twenty days until the end of the Spring Terrace Chess Tournament. The Nanping players are arrogant, treating our Great Qian as if it’s nothing. Every moment is precious now. You have no time to waste.”
Shen Zheng casually picked up a piece of Victory meat and placed it in Wen Zhuo’s bowl, speaking with confidence: “I really can’t handle all those intricate, roundabout schemes of yours. But when it comes to rote memorization, I can— ”
He stopped himself. No, saying he could memorize it in half a day might end their East Tower “dates.”
“—half a month, that’s about it,” Shen Zheng finished.
Wen Zhuo: “…”
He had almost been impressed. Half a month versus a little over twenty days—what difference did that make?
Shen Zheng saw his speechless reaction clearly, leaned forward with a smile, and said with anticipation, “Same time tomorrow? You’ll come straight here after court?”
Wen Zhuo thought that since Shen Zheng was inherently deficient in five areas, it would take more time for him to really digest those Go games. He might as well sacrifice his leisure time for now.
“Yes, same time tomorrow.”
Shen Zheng immediately perked up, full of energy, and did twenty more sets with the stone.