Chapter 87#
Before Wen Zhuo could react, his wrists had already been pressed together and firmly locked in Shen Zheng’s grasp.
Shen Zheng rode often, so his palms were covered in a thin layer of calluses—rough and warm to the touch, holding him securely.
His palms were sweating.
“Your Highness… Your Highness!” His voice trembled with panic.
“Mm, His Highness is listening.” Shen Zheng’s tone bore a hint of laughter, responding readily to his whispers as if he already knew there would be countless more in the moments to come.
“Let me go.” Wen Zhuo’s lips were pressed tight.
“I’d rather not,” Shen Zheng answered without hesitation.
“I won’t… won’t be made happy just by having my ear kissed,” Wen Zhuo gritted out, as if fighting against something.
“That’s precisely why I need to hold your hands—so that when you want to resist, you can’t move; when you want to dodge, you can’t get away. You’ll have no choice but to endure wave after wave of stimulation, clearly knowing how out of control you are.”
Shen Zheng gently squeezed his reddened ear, his words impossibly tender, but his eyes burned like candle flames, blazing with deep, unbridled desire in the dead of winter—direct, unapologetic, as if foretelling the day when his urges would break free and the person before him would suffer such loss of control.
“Don’t worry,” Shen Zheng murmured, his fingers sliding down to the nape of his neck, caressing lightly. “I’ll keep touching you the whole time, so you’ll feel safe enough.”
Wen Zhuo was still wondering: Where’s the safety in this?
Then Shen Zheng lowered his head and took his earlobe into his mouth. A jolt of numbness ran from behind his ear straight to the small of his back, tightening his throat and forcing him to tilt his head back involuntarily.
Since childhood, he had immersed himself in the Confucian classics, never daring to slack. It wasn’t until he served as an official in Bozhou that he found a few erotic novels about same-sex love to read.
The Great Qian dynasty had conservative customs; overly risqué books couldn’t circulate openly. And because of his prickly nature, unwilling to voice his desires, his subordinates assumed he lived an ascetic life and had no idea what to offer him.
Thus, the only material Wen Zhuo could access was subtle, restrained, and aesthetically hazy. In those books, two men understood each other’s hearts, stopped at a certain point—the curtain would fall, the red candle would be snuffed, and everything was left to metaphor.
For a long time, he was perfectly satisfied just reading about clasped hands and men in undergarments leaning together, his heart racing, face flushed, completely content.
Later, when he returned to the capital and entered the Hanlin Academy, working right under the emperor’s nose, he couldn’t even find such Bozhou novels anymore.
To avoid matchmaking attempts, he frequented the singing quarters, spending all night in revelry with courtesans.
But it was only music, chess, poetry, and conversation. Thanks to his stunning looks, the courtesans assumed they were simply not attractive enough to catch his eye, never suspecting his true preferences.
The singing quarters also housed some erotic paintings of men and women, even pleasure toys so bold they made one blush. But Wen Zhuo had no interest in women. He flipped through a few pages out of idle curiosity, then set them aside, never to touch again.
After that, all his thoughts were consumed by the struggle for the throne, pushing those hidden desires into the furthest corner of his heart.
So Shen Zheng’s words completely shattered his understanding, assaulting his reason.
He wanted to shrink away from the overwhelming sensitivity, yet he was gradually sinking into an inescapable pleasure.
How long passed, he didn’t know. Suddenly, wind rose outside the secret passage, howling as it slammed against the heavy door with a deafening bang.
The sound echoed abruptly through the quiet stone corridor, drilling into Wen Zhuo’s ears. His heart tightened violently, and he struggled in a frenzy, panic washing over him—but he was also seized by emotions deeper than panic.
His undergarments were soaked with sweat, clinging to his skin, both hot and cold, making him shiver uncontrollably.
He wished he could bury himself, like a plant’s roots, never to emerge again.
But there was only Shen Zheng here, only Shen Zheng.
Damn you, Shen Zheng! Damn you!
Furious, Wen Zhuo jerked his head away, dodging Shen Zheng’s approaching lips. Tears streamed down uncontrollably, sliding along his cheek and dripping into Shen Zheng’s collarbone.
He had become so shameless, so licentious, utterly devoid of dignity—like the bronze bell at Tanzhe Temple, vibrating and trembling.
No. How could he, so depraved, defile a sacred Buddhist site?
Shen Zheng tightened his arms, pulling him close, his heart filled with an indescribable satisfaction.
He carefully used a strand of his own hair to cover Wen Zhuo’s reddened, damp ear, then chuckled softly in mock pity: “So aggrieved, hmm?”
Wen Zhuo, humiliated and enraged, opened his mouth and bit down on Shen Zheng’s shoulder, exerting force silently to vent his anger.
Shen Zheng let him bite, gently patting his back as he spoke to himself: “Do you know how I felt just now?”
Wen Zhuo loosened his teeth slightly, ears perking up.
Shen Zheng lowered his head and pressed a kiss to his hair: “The moon fell into the water, then hung onto me, all wet. I decided to hide him away, make him my private possession alone.”
Wen Zhuo’s eyelashes fluttered, refusing to admit his pleasure, but he pulled back his teeth in satisfaction.
Shen Zheng unfastened his outer robe, wrapped Wen Zhuo tightly in it—even covering his ears securely—then lifted him effortlessly into his arms and carried him out.
New Year’s Eve was approaching. The Three Judicial Authorities had reached a verdict: Prince Xian Shen Bi had indeed used tributes as a pretext for personal gain—irrefutable evidence. Bu Zhangyi and Tang Guangzhi, colluding with him to exploit the people, were also beyond redemption.
The case implicated even more people than the Cao faction. Luo Mingpu, following the clues, arrested every male member of the Liu family involved in disposing of stolen goods.
When the case files reached Emperor Shunyuan, he ordered the confiscation of all Liu family assets for the imperial treasury. Prince Xian was stripped of his title, exiled to Zhangzhou, forbidden from ever returning to the capital. Bu Zhangyi and Tang Guangzhi were stripped of rank, beaten one hundred strokes, sentenced to three years of hard labor, and permanently barred from office.
On the day Prince Xian left the capital, dawn was just breaking. He deliberately detoured to the imperial mausoleum to pay his respects.
This was his last time setting foot in this royal burial ground. Dressed in plain clothes, he stood on the frost-laden sacred path, gazing into the distance at the mottled, yellowing Phoenix Terrace.
Shen Zhen had been imprisoned at Phoenix Terrace for nearly half a year—deprived of freedom but still guarding this familiar patch of the capital. As for him, Shen Bi, reduced to a commoner and heading to distant Zhangzhou, though not confined to a small space, would never return.
They had fought for years, each trying to destroy the other, gradually losing themselves in the pursuit of power. Now, he wondered whose fate was better.
The bell tower rang again. The Imperial Guard reported that Prince Xian had left the mausoleum and was heading toward Zhangzhou.
Upon hearing this, Emperor Shunyuan refused to see any consort, rejected all petitions, and locked himself in the Hall of Mental Cultivation for an entire day.
Inside, the incense smoke curled—aloeswood—but it could not fill the loneliness of the room.
When Shen Bi was no longer a threat, no longer worth fearing, the emperor finally dimly recalled that worthless fatherly love.
But his soul had long been shattered; he could not love anyone. From beginning to end, he was merely a tool to perpetuate imperial power.
The next day, the weather was clear.
The Astronomical Bureau hurried into the palace, kneeling to request an audience: “Your subject observes the North Star, dwelling to the left of the Imperial Star. Its light shines brilliantly, illuminating the region of Dipper and Ox, signifying the orderly succession of the altars of state and the longevity of the sacred reign.”
According to the Astronomical Records, the North Star, also known as the Crown Prince Star, shines bright when the heir is virtuous and the nation’s foundation secure.
Emperor Shunyuan knew that Heaven was again hinting that he should appoint an heir.
In the past, he would either evade or rage at such matters. But this time, he simply closed his eyes and said after a long while: “I understand.”
He had limited sons; could he really drive every single one away?
The emperor drank his medicinal soup, dismissed the others, and fixed his gaze on Liu Quan, who stood attending at his side: “I have only five sons left by my side now. Tell me, whom should I choose as heir?”
Hearing this, Liu Quan hurriedly put down his teacup, dropped to his knees with a thud, and lowered his head as far as possible: “Under a sage father, how can there be ordinary sons? Your Majesty’s offspring all possess the bearing of unicorns and phoenixes, each outstanding and unparalleled. This slave’s eyes are dim, my knowledge shallow—how could I discern anything?”
Emperor Shunyuan stared at him, then shook his head and gave a faint smile: “Must you speak so formally to me?”
Liu Quan looked up, a well-measured smile on his face: “This slave does not mean to be distant. Your Majesty is divinely intelligent, overseeing myriad matters, yet even you find this difficult. How much more could this humble one see?”
The emperor knew he was putting Liu Quan in a difficult spot. His smile gradually faded, and his gaze drifted toward the hall’s entrance, desolate. “Only you know the full truth of what happened back then. If Consort Chen had given me a son, the heir’s position would surely be his now… but alas—”
Liu Quan slowly lowered his eyes.
“It will be New Year’s Eve soon,” the emperor said, rubbing his brow, fatigue in his voice. “I feel very tired. I won’t hold a grand banquet this year. Instruct the imperial kitchen to bestow eight dishes upon each official. Let Consort Zhen and Consort Liang decide on the menu together.”
“As you command,” Liu Quan said, his face gaining a hint of holiday cheer. He had just turned to leave the Hall of Mental Cultivation when—
“Wait.” The emperor closed his eyes, his voice so soft it was almost drowned out by the crackling charcoal fire. “Give the Fifth Prince an extra dish of pea cake.”
Liu Quan’s eyelids twitched: “This slave obeys.”
On the last day of the twelfth lunar month, snow fell—fine, fluffy flakes blanketing the streets and alleys.
Though the year had suffered locust plagues, making life tight for the common people, they gritted their teeth and endured. The day before New Year’s Eve, every household still followed tradition: red lanterns hung under the eaves, wine jars buried in cellars were unearthed, and the half-year-brewed Tusu wine was placed on the table, in hopes that a cup would ward off evil and bring a smooth new year.
Wen Zhuo’s birthday happened to coincide with New Year’s Eve. His household was small—only two female housekeepers and two carriage drivers—but luckily, the residence exuded a rare warmth every year at this time.
Liu Qiying, together with Jiang Man, had stayed up all night. Layers upon layers of steamers were stacked on the stove, filled with food for the New Year’s vigil and the first day of the year.
She also retrieved the New Year couplets she had written earlier, stood on a stool, and pasted them everywhere in the residence. On the main gate, she respectfully affixed the fierce faces of Qin Qiong and Yuchi Gong. Finally, she found two red silk ribbons and tied them around the necks of the pair of stone bixi (mythical creatures) at the door.
By the hour of the Ox (around 1–3 a.m.), Wen Zhuo had already gone to bed, but candlelight still flickered in the kitchen of the rear courtyard.
Liu Qiying and Jiang Man were wrapping dumplings around the chopping board. The two styles were easy to tell apart: Liu Qiying’s hands were nimble, producing delicate, beautiful dumplings with even pleats; Jiang Man, rough and careless, made each one round and plump—many of them had burst, the filling oozing out.
Jiang Man, pinching a broken dumpling, set it on the board and craned her neck to look toward Wen Zhuo’s room, muttering: “The master went to bed so early tonight.”
Liu Qiying, without stopping, rolled out another round wrapper and said casually: “Let him sleep. He catches cold too easily, his body is like glass—breaks at a touch. Where would we find an old doctor during the New Year?”
Jiang Man oh-ed, then suddenly remembered something: “Tomorrow is the master’s birthday! What a pity His Highness has to stay in the palace with the emperor and the consort and can’t come. If His Highness were here, our residence would definitely be livelier.”
Liu Qiying’s rolling pin paused momentarily, then she lowered her eyes and said blandly: “It’s been like this every year. In the past, when it was the master’s birthday, Vice Minister Xie never came either, did he?”
“Why bring up Vice Minister Xie all of a sudden?” Jiang Man scratched her head; the flour on the back of her hand had gotten on her forehead without her noticing, making her look ridiculous.
Liu Qiying looked at her and couldn’t help bursting into laughter. She crouched down, clutching her stomach, and only straightened up after a while: “What I mean is, New Year’s Eve—everyone has to gather with their own family. Vice Minister Xie’s home is in his own residence, His Highness’s home is in the palace. Ultimately, they can’t control it.”
Jiang Man felt it was strange to mention them together, but didn’t think deeper. She just grabbed another lump of filling and stuffed it into a wrapper, continuing to mutter: “That may be, but His Highness and Vice Minister Xie are still different.”
A faint smile curled at the corner of Liu Qiying’s lips as she nodded gently: “Mm, I think so too. They are different.”
That night, Wen Zhuo slept very restlessly.
He fell back into the pitch-black torture chamber of the Dali Temple prison. Bone-piercing cold mixed with numbing pain, seeping thread by thread into his organs, coiling him into a ball too weak even to wish for death.
New Year’s Eve was his birthday, but no one remembered anymore.
Ice dripped from the eaves; distant firecrackers faintly reached him, becoming lashes tormenting his eardrums, making his whole body tremble.
Holding his crippled leg, he whispered a plea from his lips and teeth—that for his birthday, the pain might ease even a little, that he would not be tortured any more.
He had thought this birthday would pass in loneliness and silence.
But Xie Langyang came.
In all the years they had known each other, this was the only time Xie Langyang appeared on his birthday—and he brought that heavy stack of self-incriminating documents.
Seeing those words, he knew how his posthumous reputation would end.
His birthday gift was eternal infamy personally delivered by Xie Langyang.
He spoke many vicious words, put on a contemptuous, indifferent face, but after Xie Langyang left, he couldn’t stop shaking.
That sesame oil lamp had not been taken away, but the oil was nearly gone. He struggled to drag himself closer, watching helplessly as the flame grew smaller, dimmer, and finally extinguished completely.
Endless darkness and cold closed in again.
He was already numb from the cold, and yet it seemed the pain could deepen—as if all the warmth he had ever received was nothing but a delusion before death.
“Ah!”
Wen Zhuo jolted awake from his dream, tears silently streaming down his face. The bedding was soaked through with sweat, now turning chilly.
He gasped for breath. Only after a long while did he slowly claw his way back from terror, recognizing that this was his residence—his room.
The fragrance of steamed cakes lingered at his nose; outside the window, snow rustled. He lifted his head slightly to look out, seeing the sky had begun to pale.
Probably around the hour of the Rabbit (5–7 a.m.). It was already New Year’s Eve.
Suddenly, he yearned desperately to see the sky outside, to see the red lanterns under the eaves, to see the stove burning bright in the kitchen, and those steaming, fragrant dishes.
He pushed aside the covers, fumbled to wrap his fur robe around himself, then slowly slid out of bed.
The moment he opened the door an inch, a blast of cold wind and snow hit his face. He turned his head, squinting, but through the rustling wind he heard a familiar, low voice.
“Don’t wake him. I slipped out of the palace secretly. I have to go back after giving him his birthday gift—palace rules are tedious.”
Wen Zhuo’s heart leaped. He forced his eyes open, peering through the narrow crack, braving the snowy wind, looking out in disbelief.
That tall, jade-like back instantly lit up his eyes.
Snowflakes clung to his lashes, melting into icy droplets that slid down the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t notice.
Shen Zheng had his back to him. His fur robe was covered in snow, his hair ribbon fluttering in the wind, making the hazy dawn sky feel real and dazzling.
Liu Qiying deliberately lowered her voice: “But Your Highness, shouldn’t you be at the Hall of Supreme Harmony at this hour, listening to the ritualists sing praises?”
“Yeah,” Shen Zheng said casually. “Father is unwell, so he didn’t come. I took the chance to slip away.”
Jiang Man was so startled she nearly dropped the hand warmer. Her voice rose a notch, then she quickly covered her mouth: “Ah! If His Majesty finds out, won’t he punish you?”
“Let him punish me. At worst, I’ll copy the Ancestral Instructions a few times and kneel before the ancestors in the Hall of Ancestral Worship. Your master’s birthday comes only once a year—how could I not be here?”
A smile shone in Liu Qiying’s eyes: “So what birthday gift has Your Highness prepared for the master?”
Shen Zheng raised his chin, his tone even more smug: “You’ll know soon enough. Quick, help me melt some candles—I want to give him a surprise when he wakes up.”
Wen Zhuo stood behind the door, listening to the conversation in the courtyard. He lowered his head, wiped his eyes quickly on his sleeve.