Inside the archives room, several oil lamps lit up a desk and rows of bookshelves.
Crown Prince Zhu Helin sat alone at the desk, untying bundles of case files and reading through them carefully. By his side was a tall stack of files and ledgers he had already reviewed.
Outside the tightly shut windows and doors, thunder and rain clashed. Within the room, though, there was no wind. The lamp flames flickered violently, then gradually turned into a strange, ghostly green…
Plop.
Plop, plop…
It sounded like raindrops falling onto wooden floorboards—yet the noise rang out inside this sealed and silent room.
Zhu Helin’s heart tightened. He glanced around: wooden chests piled against the corners, bookshelves looming in the dark, the room utterly empty.
Plop!
This one was especially close, right beside him. He turned his head—and saw on the floor by his chair, a pool of dark red, viscous blood had appeared at some unknown moment.
He snapped his head upward. The beams above were bare—then where had the blood come from?
“Who’s putting on this ghostly act? Show yourself!” Zhu Helin sprang up, his sword flashing from its scabbard.
His movement stirred a draft, making the flames shudder more violently.
Then—thump! A sound like muffled thunder rang by his ear, followed by the crashing of water and frantic splashing, as though someone were thrashing about in a river.
But this was a sealed chamber—why such strange noises, such illusions? Zhu Helin’s breath came quick. He bellowed: “Guards!”
Several Eastern Palace guards were stationed just outside the archives. By reason, at his call they should have burst in at once. Yet after his shout—there was no response at all.
“…Injustice! The Crown Prince forced me to my death, I died unjustly…” A man’s wailing, ghostlike voice floated faintly through the room, mingled with ever more violent splashing and bubbling sounds.
Zhu Helin suddenly thought of the officer from the Disaster Relief Bureau who had thrown himself into a well.
So now even his ghost lingered, clinging to him? Strangely, Zhu Helin grew calm. He had been fearless since youth. Toward ghosts and spirits, he felt neither the common man’s dread, nor Yu Wang’s utter scorn. His attitude was more: Come if you will—this young master will deal with you all the same, a ferocious courage born of blood.
He tapped the sword tip twice on the floor, his voice deep: “Either show yourself and speak clearly—or I’ll cut you to ash, leave you not even a chance to reincarnate. Your choice.”
As soon as his words fell, silence swallowed the room. Utter stillness. Not a sound.
Coward! Zhu Helin muttered under his breath—when suddenly the flames went out. Darkness, thick as ink, surged forth. Out of it floated pairs upon pairs of eyes, blood-red as if dripping.
—
When Su Yan reached the archive storeroom, the guards outside were already sprawled all over the ground.
Commander Wei, who had followed, cried out in shock: “Something’s wrong—protect His Highness!”
A squad of Eastern Palace guards, weapons drawn, kicked the door open and rushed inside.
Su Yan tried to follow, but was blocked by Yu Wang’s guards. One said, “Wangye has ordered us to ensure Lord Su’s safety. The situation inside is unclear. Please remain here. The Eastern Palace guards will handle His Highness’s protection.”
Su Yan, anxious and worried, shoved away the man’s hand. “The Crown Prince’s safety matters more than mine! Don’t just guard me—get inside and help!”
But the guard insisted, “Yu Wang’s order is a military command. A military command is as immovable as a mountain. I beg your understanding.”
Su Yan stamped his foot in frustration. “Then split your men! Half protect me, half go in and help. That will do, won’t it?”
As he spoke, Commander Wei’s shout burst from within: “Assassins! Seize them—protect the young master!”
“Go, quickly!” Su Yan pressed. “If anything happens to the Crown Prince, Yu Wang will be blamed for dereliction of duty—he won’t be able to bear it!”
That struck home. The leader of the Yu Wang guards hesitated, then obeyed Su Yan, sending half his men inside.
The rest tried to pull Su Yan back to safety, but he refused to leave, clutching his cloak tight with nervous fingers as the clash of steel clanged from within.
Suddenly—crash! The window shattered. Several figures flew out, tumbling across the mud before leaping up to continue their fight.
In the lightning’s glare, Su Yan caught sight of one black-clad man. Above the black scarf covering his face, his eyes glowed a blood-red scarlet. Su Yan shouted a warning: “They’re Blood-Eye Assassins of the Seven Kill Camp! Don’t meet their gaze—beware their soul-bewitching arts!”
The leader of the Yu Wang guards rushed from the room, calling to Su Yan: “Why are you still here, my lord? Get out quickly!”
Su Yan grabbed him, demanding, “What of the young master?”
The man answered, “When I entered, the Eastern Palace guards were already locked in combat with the assassins. The young master himself was fighting, sword in hand. But… something was wrong. He couldn’t tell friend from foe—he was slashing at everyone, wounded several of his own men. He seemed possessed, like a madman.”
Su Yan was horrified. “He’s fallen under the Blood-Eye assassins’ nightmare enchantment spell—his mind trapped in illusion. He’s in grave danger. Not only might he hurt others—he could harm himself. You must… knock him out. Yes, knock him out, then bind him.”
“I’ll try!”
The guard was just turning back inside when a blade of light cleaved through the doorway, shattering all four lattice panels into flying splinters.
Su Yan shielded his face with his sleeve, stumbling back a few steps—his foot slipped on the stair edge and he nearly fell, crying out in alarm.
The guards behind him grabbed him quickly, keeping him from tumbling down.
Before the ruined door stood Zhu Helin, a bloodstained sword in hand, his face twisted with rage. At Su Yan’s startled cry, his expression wavered—his eyes turned blank, wandering in Su Yan’s direction.
Su Yan steadied himself by gripping the guard’s arm, caught his breath, and called out: “Young master!”
Zhu Helin opened his mouth as if to respond, but no sound came.
—
“Young master, ah. Things are already settled—why must you resist the decree and provoke His Majesty’s wrath?”
Zhu Helin slowly raised his drooping head, forcing open his heavy eyelids. What came into view were a eunuch’s black leather boots and the cloud-dragon embroidery at the hem of his robe.
“Chief Eunuch…” His cracked lips moved, the chains on either side of the torture frame rattling sharply as he pulled, “I can’t accept it, I truly can’t accept it…”
Lan Xi flicked his horsetail whisk. “What does it matter whether you accept it or not? Between ruler and minister, between father and son, the ruler stands before the father, the minister before the son. Young master, heed this servant’s advice: bow your head to His Majesty, admit your guilt, then present a generous congratulatory gift—on such a joyous day, His Majesty will surely, for Consort Su’s sake, pardon your offense.”
Zhu Helin jerked his head up, glaring fiercely. “He is no Consort Su! He is Su Yan—Su Qinghe! A man of letters, an official of the court. How can he be dressed as a woman, forced into the harem, living among coquettish concubines vying for favor? Absurd! Utterly absurd! Is Royal Father truly senile, or does he mean to follow in the path of Xia Jie and King Zhou of Shang, becoming a tyrant infamous for all eternity?!”
Lan Xi stomped his foot in fury. “Young master, such obstinacy will bring you nothing but harm! His Majesty has already said: better no son than an unfilial son. Will you truly resist to the end, throwing away both your life and the heir’s seat? Besides—Consort Su may not even share your sentiments.”
Zhu Helin froze. “He… he agreed? No, impossible! I don’t believe it!”
“Believe it or not, you’ll only know when you see it yourself. But in your current state, so long as His Majesty’s anger hasn’t cooled, you’ll never see the light of day—how could you ever see him?” Lan Xi sighed. “The late empress was merciful and once bestowed grace on this servant. For her sake, I came in person to persuade you one last time. If you remain stubborn, then there’s nothing more I can do. In the future—who lives, who dies, who prospers, who falls, who takes the Eastern Palace—none of it will concern you.”
Zhu Helin clenched his fists, chains rattling, iron filling his mouth as he bit down hard. “No. I cannot spend my life rotting in this dungeon…” he muttered. “I must get out…”
Not only to get out—but to take back everything that was his.
“Zhu Helin, you have no right to choose now, no road to retreat. Some words cannot be spoken—not until you stand at the mountain peak, looking down on all beneath. Do you understand?!”
—The warning once given by Qinghe echoed in his ears, and Zhu Helin let out a roar of anguish.
Panting like a beast, he turned to the startled Lan Xi who was edging away. “Chief Eunuch, trouble yourself to give Royal Father a message: tell him I’ve thought it through…”
“…Earlier, in defying Royal Father, I was unfilial. I lost my head for a moment. Now I deeply repent, and I beg His Majesty’s forgiveness. I ask for a chance to atone.”
Kneeling prostrate before the throne, forehead pressed to the floor again and again until blood welled in his palms from clenched nails, yet his words were submissive, his tone and expression flawless.
At last, his father’s voice came from above: “Enough. You’ve been proud and unruly since childhood. Take this as your lesson, and do not repeat it. Do not forget—I have more than one son. If your virtue does not match your station, then the seat belongs to another who is worthy.”
The words were harsher than harsh, teetering on the edge of rejection. Zhu Helin swallowed the blood in his throat and answered humbly: “Your son accepts Royal Father’s teaching with gratitude. I will take this as a warning, and never err again.”
“Since you repent, your punishment will be lightened—but punishment there must be. On the day of my consort’s investiture, you will kneel outside the palace gates through the night, and reflect well.”
Outside, lanterns and silks blazed in celebration. Inside, candles burned red, and from the cracks in the door came shameful sounds. Zhu Helin’s face was blank as he knelt from night until dawn, unmoving.
At daybreak, Fu Bao came to lift him up and gasped. “Young master, your temples—your hair has turned white!”
Zhu Helin touched it, indifferent. “Dye it black with galls. Nothing to fuss over.”
Day by day, Fu Bao felt that the young master was no longer the man he had known—
The young master now obeyed His Majesty in all things, more meek and humble than any minister.
He treated the newly invested Consort Su as if invisible. Even when face to face, he no longer saw the ever-thinner figure, the pallor, the sharp, pained eyes—only nodded and walked past.
He buried himself in studies and affairs of state, yet before His Majesty never uttered a word of ambition, only displayed a devotion of extreme filial piety.
He even recommended Taoists and alchemists he once despised, to refine pills for His Majesty.
When the young princes died one by one of illness and accident, His Majesty had no time to grieve. Enraged at the weakening effect of the pills, he lashed out at Zhu Helin. Zhu Helin took the scolding quietly—and introduced even greater “immortals.” Fu Bao glimpsed the curve of his lips as he bowed, and could not help but shiver.
…In the end, the young master ascended the throne, becoming the new emperor.
The late emperor’s concubines—those without children followed to the grave, those with were sent to temples. Only one remained: Consort Su, most favored of all, kept still in his palace.
The court buzzed, memorials pouring in, urging the new sovereign to deal properly with him—death or exile.
Zhu Helin tore those memorials to shreds with his own hands.
He went to the harem, now home to only one, and embraced the late emperor’s widow tightly. “…I will restore your name and your office, return you to court.”
Consort Su’s face was deathly pale, his figure nearly wasted to bone. “I have waited too long for this day—so long my heart has turned to ash. Even if you return me to court, where is there a place for me to stand? It will only invite ridicule. Young master… no, Your Majesty—if you still remember the past, then grant me this: let me lay down the hairpin, shed these women’s robes, and leave the palace to live as a common man.”
Zhu Helin’s fingers clutched tightly onto Su Yan’s shoulder, consumed by the terror of losing him completely.
In that moment, he suddenly understood his royal father—understood him only after he himself possessed supreme power.
Life and death, gain and loss—at a single thought. With a whole realm and countless lives in his grasp, why was it that he could not hold on to the one person in his arms?
Bound for life in a gilded cage, burdened with a crushing duty, why was it that he still could not have his heart’s desire? Why must he restrain himself, wrong himself, cut away a piece of his very flesh just to exchange it for a name in history?
Why could others harbor selfish desires, yet only he could not? Wise ruler or foolish one, he cared not—he only wanted this one person.
“What nonsense are you saying?” Zhu Helin said softly. “Years ago, I already told you—you are the one meant to stand at my side.”
The last bit of light in Consort Su’s eyes extinguished. After a moment’s silence, he asked, “Then may I at least change my clothes?”
“Of course. However you wish to dress, dress so. Whether you wish to return to court or remain in the harem, it is entirely up to you.”
Consort Su calmly thanked him for his grace, then turned to the inner chamber to wash and change.
Zhu Helin sat patiently on the chair, waiting—for his scholar in plain robes to once again stand before him, just as on the day they first met.
What returned to him was a corpse, its throat slit open by a sharpened half-piece of a tablet. Alongside it lay a letter, with only two blood-drenched characters:
Never betray.
“I truly wished the best for you. I wanted to see you grow, to see you mature, refine yourself, ascend the throne, guard the land and the people, usher in a flourishing age, nations paying tribute.”
“Since I chose to board the ship of His Highness the Crown Prince, I was bound to use my meager strength to carve the waves for you. Of course, I also sought the shelter of this ship, so I would not suffer the storms, the thunder, the lightning.”
“Qinghe, let us make this vow here and now: never betray one another!”
In an instant, memories of youth came crashing back, pressing him beneath a tidal wave so heavy he could not move. Zhu Helin screamed, agonized, despairing: “I was wrong! Qinghe, Qinghe! I was wrong—please forgive me!”
He shook the corpse in his arms. “Get up and scold me! Take a ruler and beat me! I’ll change, I really will… It’s not the first time I’ve erred, and before, you always persuaded me, scolded me—why not this time? Is it because I became emperor? Then I won’t be emperor! Just get up, tell me again—‘Do what must be done!’ Say it!”
But no one would ever say those words to him again.
Zhu Helin could not understand—why did it turn out like this? Between people, at the start it was always hot, always close, eager to bare one’s heart to prove sincerity and devotion. But after so many twists and turns, heat became cold, closeness became distance, sincerity became empty words, devotion became weighed by gain and loss. Did time truly change everything?
“Let’s go back,” he whispered to the icy body in his arms. “Back to our youth—I’ll call you ‘Qinghe,’ and you call me ‘Young Master’ once more…”
The dead flow on without ceasing day or night—how could one ever return? His gaze fell on the sharpened half-tablet clenched in Su Yan’s hand.
—
“—Young Master!”
Like thunder exploding at his ear, the violent impact made Zhu Helin stumble back several steps, the hand gripping his sword seized by another.
It was as if he had been yanked out of a suffocating, crushing nightmare. He opened his eyes, drenched in sweat, breath coming hard and fast.
Before him was Su Yan’s rain-soaked face, youthful, vivid.
Without thinking, Zhu Helin cried out: “Qinghe, I was wrong, I truly was wrong! Scold me, beat me if you must, just—don’t take your own life! From now on I’ll listen to you in everything, believe me!” Afraid of being cut off, of being refused, he poured everything out in a rush until his voice was hoarse.
Su Yan: “…”
Was this child an idiot?
The surrounding guards: “…”
We saw nothing. We heard nothing.
Su Yan gave a dry cough. “Young Master, are you all right?”
Zhu Helin stared blankly for a moment. “…What’s wrong with me?”
Su Yan touched his forehead with the back of his hand, carefully examined his expression, and seeing his gaze gradually clear, let out a breath. “It’s all right now. Just now you must have fallen into a Nightmare Enchantment—a soul-trapping illusion. In the illusion everything is strange and twisted, as if living another warped life. If one’s mind sinks too deep, one harms others and oneself.”
“Nightmare… Enchantment?”
Su Yan nodded. “No one else can help. Only by breaking through it yourself can your mind escape.”
Zhu Helin looked dazed, frowned in thought, then declared firmly: “It was Qinghe who pulled me out.”
Su Yan replied, “It doesn’t matter who—it’s enough that Young Master is safe.”
Zhu Helin tossed aside his sword and, in front of the guards, pulled him into a fierce embrace.
The guards: “…”
We didn’t see a thing.
Lightning once again split the rainy night, illuminating the clash between black-clad assassins and the guards. Zhu Helin’s gaze skimmed past Su Yan’s temple and saw, atop the wall, a figure in a red robe and mask.
He murmured into Su Yan’s ear: “I saw the commander of the Seven Kill Battalion.”
Su Yan gripped his arm tight, drawing in a sharp breath. “That man’s martial skill is formidable—even Ah Zhui cannot best him. I fear all the guards here combined are no match.”
