Chapter 51 - 1#

Jingzhe glanced at the dim sky outside. The first pale light of dawn was just beginning — and here he was, out all night again. Anyone else in his position would probably be in a state of collapse by now, knowing what awaited them when they got back.

He had, somehow, become remarkably numb to this.

That was entirely the system’s fault. And Rong Jiu’s.

Every time the wretched buff hit him, it was theoretically possible to find some quiet corner and simply endure it. But every single time, he ran into Rong Jiu instead.

The first time had been genuinely accidental.

After that?

Could so many coincidences all be accidental?

Jingzhe had started to feel strangely unmoored lately, wondering exactly how far Rong Jiu’s scheming reached — and how much of it had been quietly aimed at him all along.

Like right now, for instance. Jingzhe had Rong Jiu pinned down and was straddling him, looking down at him from above with a slight frown.

Rong Jiu’s hands were on his waist, seemingly supportive, but with a quality of restlessness about them.

Jingzhe’s face was drained of color. Some of the earlier panic still lingered in the set of his brow.

One hand pressed over Rong Jiu’s heart.

“Why?”

He genuinely could not understand the desire behind what Rong Jiu had done last night.

He was trying.

“What happened last night — can I interpret it as you… liking that kind of thing?” Jingzhe narrowed his eyes. “That particular… exchange of blood?”

Rong Jiu looked at him in silence.

He said nothing, but Jingzhe reached up and tugged at his own hair anyway, muttering under his breath: “I don’t understand what’s appealing about it.”

Rong Jiu might look expressionless, but Jingzhe could feel his excitement.

That strangely simmering temperature radiating off of him — it was frightening, unambiguously.

“I don’t mind,” Rong Jiu said at last, pulling his gaze toward his own wrist, his tone perfectly flat. “You can take more, whenever you want.”

…You’re the one who forced it on me. Don’t act like I was desperate for it, you absolute—

Jingzhe drove his fist into Rong Jiu’s shoulder.

“I don’t want any.”

He made this very clear.

He had his own blood. Why would he drink someone else’s?

He wasn’t lacking.

Rong Jiu looked with some regret at the line of Jingzhe’s neck. If he had known it would come to this, he would have taken something in return while Jingzhe was lost to it last night.

Jingzhe clamped a hand over Rong Jiu’s eyes.

Rong Jiu blinked. The light, fluttering sensation moved against Jingzhe’s palm in a strange, ticklish way. He didn’t move his hand.

“This face of yours is nothing but trouble,” Jingzhe said, his tone mournful. “I can’t let myself be taken in by it anymore.”

That strange want — now that the buff had lifted, the impulse was completely gone.

After checking himself several times over, Jingzhe finally allowed himself a small measure of relief. The bizarre, unraveling quality of last night had been entirely the system’s doing.

Rong Jiu, on the other hand—

Was dangerous.

In what he said and what he did.

The speed with which he had cut his own wrist last night had frightened Jingzhe. It gave him the impression that Rong Jiu placed very little value on his own life.

…Which might not be an impression at all, but simply the truth.

“You’re the one who didn’t hold yourself together,” Rong Jiu said, sounding innocent.

Jingzhe ground his teeth. “And you have the nerve to say that?”

Rong Jiu tilted his head, presenting a perfect angle of jawline. “It’s right here.”

He did, in fact, have a face for it.

A very beautiful face.

If Jingzhe weren’t giving that face some consideration, he would have aimed the punch directly at it — ideally with enough force to produce matching black eyes on both sides.

Jingzhe rolled off the bed and turned his back.

“I’m leaving.”

If he stayed any longer, it would be full morning, and he’d have absolutely no way to explain what he’d been doing in the guard quarters overnight.

He also had no desire to replay last night.

Rong Jiu’s hunger for him exceeded anything reasonable. Jingzhe couldn’t give him what he wanted — but he could feel it. The restraint.

Because Rong Jiu had the strength to have simply taken what he wanted at any point. He hadn’t.

…Which, given how terrifying those wants were, was the absolute bare minimum.

Jingzhe told himself, firmly, not to soften.

If he kept yielding, kept allowing, Rong Jiu would only grow more hungry. More uncontrolled.

This man looked detached and cold. What he actually was, underneath, was a creature whose appetite couldn’t be filled.

A brief flash of awareness — Jingzhe noticed it then.

However badly the buff had distorted things for the others, Rong Jiu’s response had been sharper, more intense. And the reason was, perhaps, simpler than the buff: he had simply always wanted to do this.

Jingzhe bent to pick up a piece of clothing from the floor, and felt something graze across his backside. He straightened slowly, turned his head, and gave Rong Jiu a suspicious look.

“You just — touched my—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Rong Jiu raised an eyebrow. “Nice texture.”

Jingzhe’s ears turned red immediately. He threw the clothing at him. “Shameless!”

He should have punched him in the face while he had the chance.

The events of the autumn banquet had captured the attention of nearly everyone in the inner palace, which had the convenient effect of making Jingzhe’s overnight absence a fairly minor matter.

Slightly irregular, but not critical.

The palace didn’t conduct room checks. After the gates were locked, the patrol guards verified the palace walkways and main buildings, but anyone who found a quiet, out-of-the-way room and stayed still would simply not be found.

As long as you weren’t caught.

Jingzhe slipped back to the Directorate under cover of the early morning mist and found that only a handful of people — Huiping among them — were even aware he hadn’t come back.

Shi’en had run cover for him. He’d claimed that a few of them had decided to stay up talking, all crowded into Jingzhe’s room — with enough people piled in, the absence of one wasn’t obvious. Anyone who asked was told he’d already fallen asleep in the corner.

Jingzhe came back to find several people distributed at odd angles around his room, and understood immediately. He felt a small rush of warmth.

Huiping stirred at the sound of the door, looked up, and managed a faint smile.

“Good — you’re back.”

Then he lay flat and fell straight back asleep.

He and the others had genuinely stayed up talking until well past midnight, which was why sleep had finally taken them.

Jingzhe smiled, rearranged a few of them into slightly less uncomfortable positions, and left them to it.

They were up within half an hour regardless. With morning duties to attend to, there was no time for anyone to question Jingzhe. It wasn’t until the afternoon, when he returned from the head official’s quarters, that they finally cornered him.

He couldn’t explain the actual reason he hadn’t come back, so he talked around it — mentioned the kitchens, said enough that they assumed he’d been worried about Mingyu and hadn’t had time to get away.

He apologized inwardly for the misdirection. They’d drawn the wrong conclusion themselves; he hadn’t technically said anything false. This was how Rong Jiu did it — stop internalizing it.

“Thank goodness — Mingyu should be fine. It’s the imperial tea service that really got it this time.”

“No kidding. Who put that poison in?”

Gusheng and Shi’en were both indignant. They each had friends in the tea service, which made it personal.

This kind of thing was just pure bad luck for the serving staff. When the masters above suffered, those who served them bore the brunt of it — handled wrong, you didn’t just lose your position, you lost your life. The question of whether it was fair never got to be asked.

Merely being accused of inadequate service could ruin you.

Huiping was thoughtful. “But why didn’t anyone die?” Previous incidents in the inner palace had mostly been targeted — one person, one scheme. This had struck nearly every consort at the autumn banquet, sweeping wide, and yet stopped just short of killing any of them. That was strange.

Jingzhe: “Because if someone had died, this becomes the Emperor’s business. He’d have no choice but to get involved.”

Shi’en looked at him sharply. “Have no choice?”

What did that mean?

The Emperor didn’t often intervene in inner palace matters, but the autumn banquet incident had still brought out Wei Haidong. That showed he wasn’t entirely indifferent.

But Jingzhe’s phrasing had an edge to it.

Jingzhe was quiet for a moment. “Even if the Emperor sends people to investigate, it doesn’t guarantee anything. It could still come up empty.”

“How could it come up empty?” Gusheng said automatically. “It’s the Emperor.”

Jingzhe: “It’s Noble Consort De’s banquet. Once she recovers, she’ll take over the investigation. And it’s always possible she won’t find anything.”

He hadn’t said it plainly, but Shi’en caught what he hadn’t said. If the Emperor truly wanted answers, he would find them. The frightening thing was the possibility that he simply didn’t care enough to look.

The pattern had surfaced in small ways before — in how the inner palace’s various fights had played out over the years. If even the servants had noticed it, the masters certainly had.

Whoever was behind this might have calculated the measure of it deliberately.

Shi’en felt a chill settle over him.

By that afternoon, as Jingzhe had expected, every palace building and household was inspected without exception — including the Directorate of Cleaning. The person overseeing the process was Noble Consort De.

In the main hall of Zhongcui Palace, Noble Consort De’s face was very pale. One hand rested on her abdomen; the other held a handkerchief she was using to dab at the corner of her mouth.

The medicine bowl she’d just emptied sat beside her.

A lady official stepped close and murmured in her ear: “Your Highness. Commander Wei has sent over the testimonies.”

Noble Consort De nodded. “I’m not well enough for visitors. Please see him off on my behalf.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

When her head dropped, the agitation and unease on Noble Consort De’s face were finally visible.

She had put so much into this banquet — it was the first major event she’d hosted, and she had wanted it to go flawlessly. The humiliation of what had actually happened, playing out in front of every consort in the inner palace, was infuriating.

This had been aimed at her. Obviously.

Noble Consort De pressed her fingers to her temples and mentally catalogued the consorts ranked below her, laughing coldly inside.

Even if one of them managed to pull her down — did they really think they could rise in her place?

She and Huang Yijie had reached their positions entirely on the strength of the Empress Dowager’s backing. In past years, every promotion within the inner palace had gone through the Empress Dowager.

Now the Huang family had fallen. The Empress Dowager had retreated behind a claimed illness. That had left more of the practical authority in Noble Consort De’s hands — but even Noble Consort De did not have the power to elevate anyone.

Pull her down, and who in the inner palace would have the standing to take up the reins? Did anyone honestly believe the Emperor would care? Would promote anyone?

If the Empress Dowager truly never recovered her position, no one in the inner palace would ever hold real power again — because the Emperor simply did not concern himself with such things.

Noble Consort De was thoroughly tired of it all.

She might once have held some flicker of feeling for the Emperor. After everything that had followed, not just others but she herself had been broken by fear.

Whatever warmth she might have felt for his face was long gone, replaced by a deep and abiding dread.

The severed heads she had seen outside Shòukāng Palace replayed in her dreams. She would startle awake and lie there until morning, unable to sleep again.

That had been a warning. For the Empress Dowager, yes — but also for her. Even if she had only been a bystander.

The threat had been enough to extinguish every last ambition Noble Consort De had ever harbored.

She held the reins of the inner palace now. As long as nothing went wrong, given the Emperor’s temperament, there would probably never be an Empress — no one would threaten her position. That, surely, was enough to be grateful for.

If someone was trying to take even this last shred of authority from her — well. They would find out whether she agreed to that.

A tense stillness had settled over the palace, and the mood stayed low for days.

The imperial kitchens were under constant watch, and every dish that left was inspected before delivery. It was thorough to the point of suffocation.

Jingzhe couldn’t find an opening to go see Mingyu, and turned his attention to the new task.

Everything he knew about Kangman came from Shi’en — and from their one encounter, which had left Jingzhe with a thoroughly unpleasant memory.

He had been covering his face that day. Strange as the whole arrangement looked, his features had been hidden. Kangman didn’t know what he looked like — but he would certainly remember his voice.

Just as Jingzhe didn’t know Kangman’s face, but had heard him clearly that night and recognized him instantly when they met.

If they crossed paths again, Kangman would place his voice.

But Kangman was a senior eunuch in Yongning Palace, and Jingzhe was a second-rank eunuch in the Directorate of Cleaning. Their paths wouldn’t naturally intersect.

From Mingyu, Jingzhe had gathered more details about Kangman, building a clearer picture piece by piece.

A grim personality. Cruel by nature. His climb to his current position had almost certainly involved blood. Despite having come up from the bottom himself, he had no compassion for those beneath him, and wore his authority with an arrogance that was instinctive and complete.

Men like that held grudges.

What Jingzhe had done to him that day would not be forgiven.

He reconsidered his earlier assumption.

Even if Yongning Palace was nowhere near the Directorate, a man with Kangman’s petty vindictiveness would not simply leave it alone.

This kind of person was like a venomous snake hiding in the dark — quiet, patient, and it would strike when you weren’t looking.

To avoid being struck, Jingzhe needed to move first.

Ding Peng was the opening.

The conversation between those two, overheard that night, had been turning in Jingzhe’s mind ever since.

Ding Peng had recruited Kangman into some scheme, and was now trying to pull out — which was what the argument had been about. If he could find out who Ding Peng was, there might be a handle on Kangman.

Two days later, Jingzhe had found out who Ding Peng was.