Su Yan slowly chewed and swallowed the fruit. The sweet and sour flavor seeped from his mouth into his heart. Zhu Helin lowered his head, rummaging through the plate to find the kumquat flavor—he didn’t like it himself, found it too sour, but Su Yan liked it.
Su Yan watched Zhu Helin and thought: ten years from now, twenty years from now, even if this passionate, sincere young man becomes a deep, cold emperor, even if the day comes when everything and everyone has changed, he would still clearly remember this moment—remember the tears shining in Zhu Helin’s eyes when he knelt before the ancestral tablets in the imperial temple, swearing: “In this life, I will never betray you, I will never leave you until our hair turns white.”
Don’t ask whether it’s worth it, just ask if you’re willing.
Without question, he was willing. Toward Zhu Helin, he had a kind of instinctive trust built from knowing his past life’s history, and a heartfelt fondness and affection.
He wanted to clear the path for this young man, to turn the tide, to dedicate his life to pushing him onto the pedestal of a wise and virtuous ruler, to help him gain the glory that should have always been his.
Zhu Helin handed over another piece of preserved fruit. Su Yan caught his hand and pushed it aside. He said, “I’m going to impeach the Wei family.”
Zhu Helin didn’t look surprised. He only frowned. That expression, appearing on his usually carefree face, suddenly gave him a touch of maturity. But with maturity came more responsibilities, more choices, and more worries.
“When?” he asked.
Su Yan answered, “The first court session after the Longevity Festival.”
Zhu Helin asked again, “What’s the chance of success?”
Su Yan smiled but didn’t reply.
Zhu Helin’s frown deepened. The preserved fruit slipped from his fingertips into his palm, and he clenched his fist tightly. He said, “I don’t think this is a good time.”
“Why not?” Su Yan countered.
Zhu Helin was silent for a while, then awkwardly answered, “Royal Father’s… favor toward me isn’t what it used to be.”
In his earlier conversation with Fu Bao, Su Yan had caught a hint of this too. He gently held Zhu Helin’s hand, comforting him: “You’ve forgotten what I told you before? His Majesty knows a young eagle can’t always stay in the nest.”
Zhu Helin shook his head: “It’s not the same. A father and son are connected. This time I can clearly feel it—Royal Father’s heart is drifting farther and farther from me. It started… ever since the Kunning Palace caught fire.”
A vivid image surfaced in Su Yan’s mind—towering flames lighting up the night sky, blood pooling across the square in front of the palace, the cries of the palace staff and the Crown Prince’s furious roars echoing amid the blaze.
“Some mistakes,” Zhu Helin whispered painfully, “once committed, can they never be undone? Can they never be forgiven? I must have disappointed Royal Father to the extreme. This past month, he’s barely stepped into the Eastern Palace. He no longer summons me to Yangxin Hall at night to study state affairs. Even when I go pay my respects daily, he often refuses to see me. And even if we do meet, he only asks about my lessons and the disaster relief, nothing more.”
Su Yan didn’t think it was that bad. Emperor Jinglong had spoiled the Crown Prince for fifteen years, tolerating countless acts of mischief—how could he sever their bond just because the Crown Prince, in a fit of rage after losing his Royal mother’s keepsake, killed someone?
Not that murder wasn’t serious, but in this feudal era, within this cultural tradition, palace staff were merely royal servants—no emperor would punish the Crown Prince over the death of a servant. At most, he might be dissatisfied with his son’s temperament. Besides, the Crown Prince had knelt in the imperial temple for more than half a month, copying blood scriptures to pray for the late Empress. Even if His Majesty had been furious, it should’ve subsided by now.
Su Yan voiced his thoughts. But Zhu Helin said, “Royal Father isn’t angry with me. He’s just… emotionally distant now. His attention has shifted elsewhere.”
“The Second Prince?” Su Yan asked.
Zhu Helin drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to look unconcerned, though the corners of his mouth tightened against his will. “In this past month, Royal Father has gone to Yongning Palace ten times, each visit closer and closer together. In the end, he even stayed there three nights in a row. I’ve heard the palace attendants whisper that Second Brother’s features are opening up, that he looks more and more like Royal Father. They say he speaks and walks with unusual cleverness for a child his age, that he’s marked by the stars, born with divine wisdom.”
Another “heavenly star,” another “innate gift of brilliance.” The pattern was all too familiar. Su Yan gave a light “heh” in response. With his other hand, he patted Zhu Helin’s arm. “Don’t worry. Even if the Second Prince were born looking like Maitreya himself, the ancestral law of our dynasty—‘the heir must be legitimate and eldest; legitimacy before seniority’—will not be changed.”
Zhu Helin nodded, then added: “I’m not so concerned whether Second Brother poses a threat to the position of Crown Prince. It’s just that whenever I think of Royal Father… my heart feels so sour.”
Like a child born to favor suddenly realizing his parents’ love is waning. Su Yan could fully understand the restless anxiety, but he could not allow him to sink into despair.
“In that case,” Su Yan said coolly, “be a dutiful son who fulfills your father’s wishes. Double your kindness toward your brother. If one day His Majesty truly harbors thoughts of changing the heir, then you can hand over the Eastern Palace with both hands and live as a carefree prince, like your Fourth Uncle.”
“No!” Zhu Helin’s voice rose sharply, eyes blazing. “I am the rightful Crown Prince! I will be a good emperor, a wise ruler of a flourishing age. That ambition was set from the moment I first understood the world—how could I possibly abandon it now? If today I yield the Eastern Palace, then tomorrow I may well have to yield my very life!”
Su Yan sneered. “On that point, you see things clearly enough.” Back in the Eastern Gardens last year, when they had spoken openly of sharing fortune and hardship, Su Yan had already believed Zhu Helin possessed foresight and caution. He had not been disappointed.
Zhu Helin went on: “I’m not like Fourth Uncle. He was the second legitimate son, unqualified to inherit the throne from the start. And with command of the military, rebellion was too easy a temptation. These years, Royal Father has kept him confined, granting him everything except freedom—that was Royal Father’s mercy.
“But Second Brother stands behind the wolfish ambitions of the Wei clan. If he were to seize a higher place, as long as I live, my very existence as the eldest legitimate son would be proof that his claim is illegitimate. Do you think they would ever tolerate me? Only if I ascend as emperor can we avoid a bloody tragedy between kin.”
Su Yan countered, “Since you understand all this, do you think His Majesty does not?”
Zhu Helin froze, murmuring, “You’re right… I shouldn’t have doubted Royal Father.”
“And you shouldn’t belittle yourself, either,” Su Yan said sternly. “Otherwise, wouldn’t that mean I, Su Qinghe, was blind and chose the wrong man?”
A trace of shame flashed in Zhu Helin’s eyes. Then he broke into a smile, regaining his old vigor. His gaze shone bright, his voice firm: “Whether Royal Father loves me, or loves Zhu Hezhao more, I must fulfill my duty as Crown Prince. I will cultivate myself, study governance, and shoulder responsibility. When it is time to contend, I will fight with courage and strategy; when it is not to be yielded, I will not give way by even half a step!”
“Good!” Su Yan praised loudly. “That is exactly what I wished to say to you. To topple the Wei clan—perhaps now is not the most mature time, but it is the best chance I can calculate and prepare for. Even if we fail once, as long as I still draw breath, I will follow the example of the censorate elders.”
“In past dynasties, when treacherous ministers usurped power, the imperial censors rose in resistance, submitting memorials, impeaching again and again, their words fierce and unyielding. For twenty years they never ceased. Though they paid heavy prices—some killed, some beaten and exiled—their protests did not stop, until the treacherous minister met the fate he deserved.”
“That is the true backbone of a censor! Since I wear this robe embroidered with the mythical beast xiezhi, I must bear the responsibility it signifies.”
“Qinghe!” Zhu Helin could not help but lean forward to embrace him. The candied fruit he had been holding slipped from his palm and rolled onto the bedding. “Meeting you is the greatest fortune of my life. Promise me—you will never leave my side, you will always support me, assist me, and share with me a flourishing realm.”
Su Yan smiled. “Did I not already kneel before the spirit tablets of the late Emperor and Empress, knock my head, and swear an oath?”
“Say it again! Say it again, say it again—I want to hear it!”
Su Yan, shaken by his insistence, laughed helplessly. “All right, all right, I’ll say it—‘I swear to His Highness the Crown Prince, never in this life to betray, never in this life to part, to remain until our heads turn white.’”
“Not ‘His Highness the Crown Prince.’ Say Zhu Helin.”
Su Yan, exasperated, repeated the vow with the personal name.
Even after the oath, Zhu Helin would not let go, his chin resting in the hollow of Su Yan’s neck as he murmured: “What should I do, what should I do…”
“What should you do about what?”
“Every time, I think my fondness for you has reached its limit, that it can grow no more. But the next time we meet, there’s always more—more and more. How can one heart hold endless affection? If this keeps on, won’t it split apart? Tell me, what should I do?”
Su Yan was moved by this raw and almost childlike declaration. He embraced Zhu Helin in return, sighing: “See clearly with your heart, and follow its course.”
Zhu Helin’s voice trembled, as though suppressing tears. “If you feel you must go, then go. I will do what I must do as well.”
—
Su Yan did not stay at the Eastern Palace for lunch. The chef’s carefully prepared dishes were wasted. Fubao was somewhat disappointed, but the Crown Prince remained calm, finishing both portions himself.
“Tomorrow is the Longevity Festival. Are all the birthday offerings for Royal Father ready?” he asked.
Cheng Sheng replied, “Yes, Your Highness. Everything was prepared days ago. This old servant has checked several times—everything is perfect.”
The Crown Prince said: “Add one more thing—I want to make a lamp with my own hands. Go and find some of the old palace maids who once served in Kunning Palace, and have them tell me how to craft the green-lotus lamp Mother loved most.”
—
As always, Su Yan left the palace by the East Flower Gate, taking a carriage home.
Jinghong Zhui was waiting outside. As soon as he saw him, he said, “Your subordinate was just about to head to the city gates to await you, my lord.”
“What’s happened?” Su Yan asked as they walked side by side into the residence.
Jinghong Zhui replied, “The Northern Surveillance Bureau’s spies sent word: Lord Zuo of the Ministry of Justice has brought documents—he means to take Wan Xin away.”
“Zuo Guangbi?” Su Yan pondered. “When I formed the special investigation team, the Ministry of Justice insisted that such a major case couldn’t proceed without their involvement. They assigned Zuo Guangbi as the deputy judge. From what I saw, that Zuo Guangbi wasn’t all that interested in uncovering the truth. His eyes were always glued to me, like he was waiting to catch me out. After the public trial, he even left in a huff. Compared to the upright and honorable Censor Chu Qiu, he was clearly lacking—though I heard the two of them are friends? That’s rather strange.”
“Aren’t you going to ask whether Wan Xin was taken away?”
Su Yan chuckled, “If Wan Xin were that easily taken away by the Ministry of Justice, I’d have to go question Qilang and ask if the Embroidered Uniform Guards of the Northern Surveillance Bureau have become useless.”
Seeing how much trust his lord placed in Shen Qi, Jinghong Zhui couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy, though he forced it down and dutifully reported, “Just as you expected, my lord. The Northern Surveillance Bureau firmly refused to hand him over, stating that the Embroidered Uniform Guards only obey imperial orders. They told the Ministry of Justice to come back with an imperial decree if they wanted the prisoner. Zuo Guangbi couldn’t win the argument and left in a fury, even threatening that Lord Wang from the Ministry of Justice would soon file an impeachment against Shen Qi.”
“Wang Shangshu, Wang Tiru of the Ministry of Justice… he is known as a righteous, unyielding man.”
Su Yan thought back to the Ye Donglou case in the Eastern Garden. Back then, he had been framed by Feng Qu’e. Wang Shangshu questioned him without the slightest regard for personal connections, demanding solid evidence, showing no favoritism, and even treated Yu Wang as a suspect. His integrity was undeniable.
A man like that was unlikely to be acting as the Wei family’s pawn. There must be some deeper story Su Yan didn’t yet know.
“In any case, we absolutely cannot let Wan Xin fall into anyone else’s hands. Even if an edict from the Empress Dowager comes, I will invoke the imperial decree granted to the special task force and argue it to the end.”
Su Yan thought for a moment, still feeling uneasy, and added, “I need to see Qilang.”
Jinghong Zhui stopped him, “It’s almost past noon, my lord. Please eat first. I’ll escort you afterward.”
Reminded by this, Su Yan realized he was starving. He quickly called Xiaobei and Xiaojing to join him for lunch in the hall.
Sensing their lord was preoccupied, the two young attendants dared not play around as they usually did and quietly focused on their meal and chores. After eating, Su Yan went to his room, changed into a light robe, and took a carriage to Shen’s residence.
The journey was long, and a full stomach made one drowsy. Su Yan soon dozed off in the swaying carriage.
Jinghong Zhui let him rest his head on his lap, but internally he was boiling with frustration—he was sending the person he loved to see another man. It was bitter and maddening! But refusing would only delay important matters and potentially cost Su Yan his career or even his life. Sometimes, life’s arrangements felt both absurd and inescapable.
His only comfort was that Shen Qi was still seriously injured and wouldn’t be able to do much even if he wanted to. Su Yan wouldn’t allow him to either. He just sat by the bed, holding his hand as they talked.
After discussing official matters, they wanted to talk about personal things. Jinghong Zhui deliberately stayed nearby, leaning on his sword like the “clothes rack” Shen Qi had once mocked him for.
Su Yan was ultimately thin-skinned. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything too bold in front of both his “lovers.” After sitting for over half an hour, he prepared to leave.
Shen Qi glared at Jinghong Zhui, his eyes full of killing intent.
Jinghong Zhui remembered that they had recently formed an alliance to resist imperial power together, so he felt no guilt at all. With a cold deadpan face, he told Shen Qi, “In the martial world, might makes right. You want to reason with me? Wait until you’re no longer lying in bed.”
Shen Qi was never one to argue reason anyway, nor did he intend to. Stewing in his frustration after the two left, he immediately ordered his steward to purchase the finest medicinal herbs: ginseng, lingzhi, rare meat mushrooms—everything, and the best quality at that. He also told Gao Shuo to retrieve a top-tier qi-guiding and healing manual from the Embroidered Uniform Guards’ vast archives.
Thus, while nourishing his body and diligently cultivating, he managed to cut his one-month recovery period in half, just in time to play a critical role later on—but that’s a story for another time.
Su Yan felt he had done all he could in preparation. Back home in his bedroom, he pulled out the birthday gift he had prepared for the emperor.
Years ago, Emperor Jinglong had explicitly forbidden extravagant spending or the collection of rare treasures for his birthday celebrations. If gifts had to be presented, they should be refined things like paintings, calligraphy, or musical scores. It didn’t need to be a masterpiece; something personally made would better show sincerity.
Su Yan had mulled over this for days and felt that neither his calligraphy nor his paintings were good enough to present. But composing a piece of music? That he could manage.
There were so many classic folk melodies from later generations. He selected one with a graceful and flowing tune, like Spring River Flower Moon Night or Fishing Boats Return at Dusk, both of which he could hum himself. He had a court musician transcribe it using palace music notation and arranged for women’s harmonies to perform it—elegant and fresh, perfect.
After seven or eight days of working on it in between handling his cases, it was finally complete—a pipa and xiao duet version of Spring River Flower Moon Night, which he would present to the emperor.
He placed the box containing the music score on his desk, then pulled out a cylindrical white jade seal from his drawer—it was a personal seal gifted to him by Emperor Jinglong.
Gently rubbing the characters “Jin Tuo” engraved on the top, Su Yan threaded a sturdy red cord through the dragon-carved hole at the base, so it could be worn around his neck.
Wearing an artifact worth billions around his neck, Su Yan, who had spent half his past life as a commoner, suddenly felt a wild surge of pride—”D*mn, I’m rich now.”
Looking at his reflection, the white jade seal resting on his chest, he couldn’t tell whether the jade or his skin was paler. He thought it suited him well, tucked his collar neatly, and went to sleep.
