Chapter 15#
A Game of Chess#
Shen Liyuan had said he would offer up the qilin horn with both hands — and he had meant it literally.
He held out a small jade box to Yin Yuheng. Inside lay a qilin horn three cun in length, milky white throughout, like stone or fine jade.
“Qilin horn is soft and easily broken — Your Highness must handle it with care.” Shen Liyuan’s wide brocade sleeves shifted in the breeze, carrying with them a certain effortless elegance befitting a young master of a great house.
Yin Yuheng accepted the horn, his expression warm with gratitude. “Many thanks, Young Master Shen.”
“Your Highness is welcome to stay a few days in Junzhou,” Shen Liyuan said gently. “Liyuan would be glad to make arrangements…”
Yin Yuheng shook his head. “I’m grateful for the kind offer, but I have things weighing on my mind and need to return to the capital.”
Shen Liyuan smiled with quiet understanding, his gaze deep. “National Preceptor Li’s birthday is soon — of course you should go back. I won’t keep you.”
He raised one hand, and a young attendant wheeled his chair back to the carriage.
In the last instant before the curtain fell, Shen Liyuan turned and looked back sharply. Yin Yuheng was still watching him — standing amid the mountain’s spring wind, his smile easy and warm.
Their eyes met briefly. Then the curtain dropped, and the carriage turned and moved away.
“…Orchid and jade tree. A celestial exile walking among mortals. Nothing less.”
With no one left to observe him, Shen Liyuan’s voice dropped into a rough rasp. His breathing grew heavy. He gripped the sides of his wheelchair with both hands, white-knuckled, and bowed his head, struggling to contain the feverish obsession in his eyes.
There was no trace left of the composed elegance from a moment before.
His attendant had served him for years and was long accustomed to this — yet still felt a chill. Shen Liyuan in this state, unmoored from reason, was the most dangerous version of him. Anyone who crossed him in these moments could be tortured slowly to death.
Shen Liyuan trembled as he raised the hand Yin Yuheng had just touched, and brought it to his lips. He bit down hard.
Blood welled up and slid down his pale fingers, flooding his mouth with iron and copper.
The pain and the taste of blood cleared his mind a little. His breathing steadied.
Shen Liyuan released the bite and slowly licked the blood from his wrist.
The attendant let out a quiet breath of relief, knowing the worst of it had passed. He understood this was the moment to say something.
“Why did Young Master not press the Crown Prince to stay longer in Junzhou?”
Shen Liyuan savored the taste of blood, his features slowly easing. He gave a low, hoarse laugh. “There’s no hurry… I’ve waited this many years already. A little longer makes no difference.”
“Besides — however much I pressed, he wouldn’t have stayed.”
“He’s always been this way… I’ve never existed in his eyes. I’ve already done everything I can…”
Done everything to appear normal. Done everything to learn how to smile the way Yin Yuheng did. He had succeeded well enough — everyone called him the most brilliant talent of his generation, a dashing and accomplished young lord. But Shen Liyuan knew what lived at his core: madness, darkness, the color of blood.
Yin Yuheng was true moonlight. He himself was only a deep black pool, reaching vainly for the moon’s reflection.
Shen Liyuan stared at his blood-wet wrist.
“But it won’t be long now. Soon he’ll be mine.”
The attendant smiled. “It seems Young Master is finally about to have his wish.”
Shen Liyuan didn’t answer. After a long silence, he let out a soft laugh.
“…Do you know? Three years ago, when Yin Yuheng enacted the Immortal Exile Decree and shook the foundations of the great houses — setting off a full siege by the aristocratic clans — I deliberately invited him to share tea and play a game of chess. He accepted willingly.”
“In truth, that was a critical moment in his struggle against the great houses. Every faction was in motion, everything was in flux. I invited him in order to draw him away — to create an opening for the great houses to strike, and destroy the Immortal Exile Decree once and for all.”
“He came to the appointment. He must not have seen through my scheme. I was quite pleased with myself at the time — I thought, if he loses to me, perhaps he’ll finally deign to look at me differently.”
“The conversation flowed easily that day. We even played weiqi under the peach blossom trees. Three games.”
Here, Shen Liyuan paused slightly.
The attendant supplied, on cue: “Who won?”
“I won all three games,” Shen Liyuan said with a low, odd laugh. “He lost each one.”
“Yin Yuheng laughed and set down his pieces without any fuss. He conceded readily and said his weiqi was poor — he asked me not to laugh at him.”
“I was so pleased with myself I’d lost all composure. I was still floating when I saw him off.”
“But a single incense stick’s time after he left, word came from my people — the operation to dismantle the Immortal Exile Decree had failed. Catastrophically.”
“That was when I finally understood: before Yin Yuheng had even arrived for our appointment, he had already arranged everything. It wasn’t only my trap for him. It was his trap for the great houses.”
The attendant stood speechless.
Shen Liyuan continued: “On the board, I won. Off the board, I was completely annihilated. His weiqi was never poor — he simply—”
Shen Liyuan’s voice dropped suddenly: “—never considered me worth his attention.”
The attendant broke into a cold sweat and dropped to his knees.
Shen Liyuan’s breathing grew labored. He bowed his head and fought it down — a long moment passed before he recovered.
He said, quietly: “Last time, I lost. But this time, I’ve found his weakness — truly found it.”
Shen Liyuan’s lips curved. “It’s Li Guanghan.”
“Someone as proud and brilliant as him, brought low by feeling — isn’t that laughable? But precisely because of that, this time I can make him feel what it’s like to have his heart cut to pieces and be left with nothing.”
“I want him on his knees before me. Weeping. Begging.”
…
On Chuyue Mountain, Yin Yuheng looked at the qilin horn in his hand with an expression that was not quite a smile.
“A gift-bearing boy wonder — not bad. One point to Shen Liyuan.” Yin Yuheng said to Xiao Bai in a light tone.
Xiao Bai: “…Three years ago, you lost three games of weiqi to him and called him a complete idiot under your breath.”
“We don’t need to bring up the weiqi,” Yin Yuheng said defensively. “He definitely couldn’t beat me at Gomoku.”
Xiao Bai: “…”
“And I wasn’t calling him an idiot because I lost,” Yin Yuheng smiled. “Didn’t he deserve it?”
The original novel of this world was an NP angst romance with four worthless gong. Shen Liyuan was one of them — and a particularly unhinged one at that.
Yin Yuheng counted: he had now encountered three of the four. Li Guanghan, Shen Liyuan, Lu Yan.
Zhu Anning was the vicious male supporting character — not one of the gong.
“One more insufferable than the last,” Yin Yuheng muttered coldly, then caught a glimpse of Lu Yan standing nearby. “…At least one of them has some redeeming qualities.”
Lu Yan had said nothing since Shen Liyuan stepped back into his carriage — the picture of a dutiful and conscientious bystander. Shen Liyuan’s eyes had been fixed entirely on Yin Yuheng; he hadn’t spared Lu Yan a second glance.
Now, though, Lu Yan’s brow was furrowed. He seemed to be holding something back.
“What is it?” Yin Yuheng asked pleasantly.
Lu Yan said, lowering his voice: “That Young Master Shen just now… something about him made me deeply uneasy.”
Yin Yuheng raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I don’t think he’s a good person,” Lu Yan said, hesitantly.
During Yin Yuheng’s conversation with Shen Liyuan, Lu Yan had held himself back repeatedly from stepping in to interrupt.
But he hadn’t felt he had the standing to.
Now the words had come out anyway.
Yin Yuheng looked at him for a moment, then laughed. “You think I’m a good person, but not him?”
Lu Yan nodded, entirely serious.
Yin Yuheng’s expression shifted into something faintly peculiar, and he changed the subject. “So this is qilin horn.”
Lu Yan followed his gaze and nodded. “It’s beautiful.”
Yin Yuheng blinked. “You don’t want it? You’re the one who needs it.”
“It’s a gift you’re giving to your teacher,” Lu Yan said. “How could I take it?”
Yin Yuheng studied Lu Yan for a moment, as if trying to determine whether he was being completely sincere. Then he smiled, drew his sword, and ran the tip lightly across the qilin horn.
It split cleanly into two pieces — one longer, one small.
Yin Yuheng took the longer piece, packed it into a separate box, and pressed it into Lu Yan’s arms. In the sunlight, his expression was bright and lively. “Take it.”
Giving the whole thing to Li Guanghan would be a waste anyway. A token gesture is more than enough.
Should count as completing the plot point.
Lu Yan blinked, startled. “You—”
Yin Yuheng waved off any further protest, and said privately to Xiao Bai, amused: “You know, I think the most convincing performance I’ve ever given is being in love with Li Guanghan.”
“Everyone believed it.”
“Lu Yan believed it. Shen Liyuan believed it. Zhu Anning believed it. Li Guanghan himself has probably come to believe it too.”
“When I think about that…” Yin Yuheng’s brow arched. “Entertaining.”
…
Finding the qilin horn had gone remarkably smoothly. Yin Yuheng was back in Chaoge before long.
On the road back, he suddenly coughed up blood.
He hunched in the carriage, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth onto the white silk beneath him. He still had the presence of mind to reassure a pale and panicking Lu Yan: “It’s fine — the qilin horn’s aura is probably too forceful and jarred my spiritual veins. I cough up blood all the time. Could you brew me some blood-replenishing broth when we’re back?”
“How can you joke at a time like this?” Lu Yan’s voice was strained. “What is actually going on with your body?”
“Not joking — make a lot of it.” Yin Yuheng wiped the blood from his lip. “I’ll be needing it quite often.”
The moment they arrived in Chaoge, Yin Yuheng ignored Lu Yan’s expression and headed straight to the Guoshi Manor with the qilin horn.
Having just coughed up blood, he looked ghastly white and dizzy on his feet.
Perfect, he thought. This is exactly the look I need — it pairs wonderfully with what’s about to happen.
The moment he stepped through the manor gates, he saw that everyone inside was moving with quiet urgency.
A young novice spotted him and hurried over, speaking low: “Your Highness — Young Master Zhu has fallen suddenly ill. He’s been vomiting blood without stopping. The National Preceptor is with him now.”