Wen Zhuo had been clinging to a sliver of hope. Xie Langyang might not dare mention the matter of rebirth.
No matter whom he told, others would only think he had gone mad—that he had lost all reason in his efforts to frame Wen Zhuo.
Xie Langyang would not lightly do something that pushed him into an even more perilous position.
When Wen Zhuo learned that Shen Zheng had returned to the capital to preside over the case, he had felt tense for a moment. Yet during the trial, Xie Langyang’s reaction confirmed his guess: Xie Langyang did not want to be regarded as completely insane.
But Wen Zhuo had never expected Shen Zheng to come personally to the prison and carry him out. Even less had he expected that this sight would drive Xie Langyang completely out of his mind, compelling him to reveal everything about his rebirth.
Xie Langyang had spoken. Shen Zheng had believed him. And yet Shen Zheng did not care in the slightest.
The situation had gone entirely beyond Wen Zhuo’s expectations. Even after Shen Zheng carried him all the way out of the Dali Temple prison and the tip of his nose caught the fresh, wintry air outside, he had no time to lift his head and glimpse the daylight he had not seen in so long. His heart was filled only with panic.
Earlier, he had rejected the conclusion that Shen Zheng had been reborn, believing instead that his soul had merely returned to his body. But now it seemed there had to be more to it. Otherwise, Shen Zheng could not have known the contents of that stack of confessions.
Yet with the little strength he had left, he was in no condition to investigate Shen Zheng’s origins. He was too busy trembling with unease.
The side of him he had tried to conceal had been exposed. His plan to deceive heaven and cross the sea had utterly failed.
What was more, he had just lied to Shen Zheng, even though Shen Zheng had clearly guessed everything.
The heart that had sunk into icy water slowly floated back to the surface, only to pound wildly against it, beating without rhythm.
Wen Zhuo hung his head and remained silent. He did not dare look at Shen Zheng, burying his face instead in the warmth of his robes.
Shen Zheng remained silent as well. Wen Zhuo could hear only the steady, powerful beat of his heart and the breath drifting before his eyes, faintly carrying the chill of snow.
Wen Zhuo slowly curled his fingers, tightening them until the abrasions around his wrists, not yet healed, pulled taut. A sharp, unceasing pain spread through them.
His hair was caught beneath Shen Zheng’s arm. Holding his head so low made his scalp ache faintly. After more than twenty days in prison, his hair seemed to have grown even longer, falling past his waist. But at a time like this, how could he possibly care?
From this day forward, he could no longer be the refined and upright Director Wen. He was still the treacherous minister who had committed every evil under the sun.
A treacherous minister who had once harmed Shen Zheng.
He ought to explain something—such as the fact that, back then, he had only imprisoned Shen Zheng in Fengyang Terrace, and that Shen Zheng’s fall from the tower had not been his doing.
But whenever the words reached his lips, they seemed absurd.
Harm did not cease to be harm simply because it had not gone all the way. Wen Zhuo had never been someone who defended himself.
Shen Zheng carried him into a small red-lacquered sedan and lowered the curtain, enclosing them in a cramped, secluded space.
He did not set Wen Zhuo down. Wen Zhuo remained seated on Shen Zheng’s lap, leaning limply against him. As the sedan swayed, he occasionally bumped softly against Shen Zheng.
The curtains on either side fluttered in the wind, and now and then a thread of cold air slipped inside to brush against his neck.
The wind was biting, but he could not be bothered to care. His heart held nothing but a dull, aching bitterness.
Shen Zheng’s attitude toward Xie Langyang had left Wen Zhuo’s heart burning, but that was no reason for him to take comfort in the situation.
This was the most impossible problem of his life to resolve. Wen Zhuo even thought that if Shen Zheng wished to take revenge, he would not resist. Whether it meant being imprisoned again or subjected to torture, he would accept it willingly.
It was only fair. He had treated Xie Langyang the same way.
The sky had already grown bright. More pedestrians filled the streets, and when the sedan reached an intersection, it was blocked by the crowd and could not move. The attendants kept calling for people to make way, but the mass of people barely shifted.
The silence inside the sedan was suffocating. At last, Wen Zhuo could not bear it any longer. With difficulty, he forced the words from his throat.
“The scheme at the Spring Terrace Chess Gathering… was indeed arranged by me in my previous life. But I never took your life. If Your Highness wishes to punish me or take revenge, I will accept it all willingly.”
After saying this, Wen Zhuo cautiously angled his eyes upward, secretly observing Shen Zheng’s expression.
What he saw left him horrified.
Shen Zheng sat perfectly still, but his eyes were red. Tears ran down through the untrimmed stubble on his face, falling one by one onto the fur at his collar.
He was crying.
Why?
Wen Zhuo hurriedly straightened and reached out in a panic to touch Shen Zheng’s face. He paid no mind to the stubble scratching his palm, determined to wipe away his tears.
He hardened his heart and said, “If Your Highness is upset, then punish me more harshly—”
Before he could finish, Shen Zheng suddenly pulled him into a tight embrace. He buried his face in the crook of Wen Zhuo’s neck, his chest heaving as he choked out, “God… how much pain you must have been in. How much pain…”
As a modern man, he could never truly comprehend how despairing it was to be pierced by ten thousand arrows, nor how helpless the person enduring it must have felt.
He had recited the confession of crimes before Xie Langyang only as a test.
He had guessed that Wen Zhuo had been reborn, but he had not been certain when Wen Zhuo’s rebirth had taken place. Since they both knew of that confession, Wen Zhuo must have endured everything he had been fated to endure.
The ending he had exhausted himself trying to rewrite had, as it turned out, been the starting point of it all.
From then on, every word in the history books had become a vivid torment he could no longer bear to look at.
Wen Zhuo was stunned for a moment before suddenly understanding what Shen Zheng meant. He raised his chafed wrists and tremblingly returned the embrace.
How could such a thing be possible?
Shen Zheng did not hate him. Instead, he was suffering because of Wen Zhuo’s death.
He lied against his own heart. “It wasn’t that painful. I’ve… forgotten it all.”
Shen Zheng was tall, with broad, solid shoulders. Buried in the crook of Wen Zhuo’s neck, he looked somewhat awkward. With tears in his eyes, he gave a bitter laugh.
“You’re lying to me again.”
Wen Zhuo did his utmost to hold Shen Zheng even tighter, letting him sob quietly against his neck.
“Your Highness is crying for me. How am I supposed to—”
“Don’t say it!”
Shen Zheng suddenly began kissing him. His palm clasped the back of Wen Zhuo’s neck as he forcefully took Wen Zhuo’s lips into his mouth, the coarse stubble on his face scraping across Wen Zhuo’s cheek and leaving behind a faint flush.
The kiss was desperate. Broken, incoherent words spilled from Shen Zheng’s throat.
“I hate that Heaven brought me here so late…”
“That it left you with no choice but to serve Shen Chen, and let you meet Xie Langyang…”
“It was deliberately setting itself against me. I can’t even touch those wounds, can’t do anything to soothe them…”
“It’s making me suffer so much…”
“Mmm…”
Wen Zhuo’s dark hair spilled loose around him. His body relaxed completely, allowing Shen Zheng’s forceful kiss and letting his pale lips be kissed until they flushed red and swollen.
He had longed for this embrace as well. He craved this familiar scent. The days in prison had been unbearable; every moment, he had missed Shen Zheng.
He parted his teeth slightly and lifted his slender, jade-pale neck, allowing Shen Zheng’s lips and tongue to enter freely and ravage his mouth.
A mere kiss could not calm the emotions surging through Shen Zheng. Supporting Wen Zhuo by the shoulders, he gently tilted him backward. His burning lips left Wen Zhuo’s mouth and traveled down to the delicate side of his neck, and a thin sheen of sweat immediately broke across Wen Zhuo’s back.
Shen Zheng’s nose brushed against his neck, drinking in every trace of his scent. He lingered at the place where Wen Zhuo’s pulse beat, rubbing against it again and again.
Fortunately, although Wen Zhuo’s body was weakened, his pulse remained steady and strong. Shen Zheng caught the skin at the side of his neck lightly between his teeth, then immediately soothed it tenderly with the tip of his tongue, leaving his mark upon that small expanse of porcelain-white skin.
Still unsatisfied, he used his callused fingers to gently pull open Wen Zhuo’s collar, revealing his delicate, exquisite collarbone.
Wen Zhuo panted, the corners of his eyes tinged red.
Only after their long kiss did Shen Zheng reluctantly release him. Wen Zhuo’s entire body was limp, and he coughed weakly a few times. One arm still rested over Shen Zheng’s shoulder, the bloodstains on his wrist brushing inadvertently against the back of Shen Zheng’s collar.
“Two months apart, and you’ve managed to reduce yourself to this,” Shen Zheng said. His palm supported Wen Zhuo’s back with unwavering steadiness. Even through the soft cloak, he could clearly feel the sharp bones beneath.
This person before him was too precious, too fragile, always giving Shen Zheng the uneasy feeling that there was nowhere safe to place his hands.
And the more fragile Wen Zhuo seemed, the more Shen Zheng wanted to claim him completely and keep him safe in secret.
Wen Zhuo moistened his dry throat and lightly tapped Shen Zheng’s Adam’s apple with his fingertip. “Your Highness isn’t angry with me?”
Shen Zheng looked at him, a profound meaning hidden in his eyes. After considering his words for a moment, he replied with utmost precision, “I am not angry over matters from our previous life.”
At last, the crowd parted enough to open a narrow passage, allowing the sedan chair through. Hooves clopped against the ground, pulling the wheels forward with a rattling rumble, and the sedan began to sway gently once more.
There was no way Wen Zhuo could decipher the deeper meaning hidden in that carefully worded answer. At last, he let out a sigh of relief and rested his head against Shen Zheng’s shoulder.
“…Then how did Your Highness learn of that self-indictment?”
“Even if I didn’t tell you, you’ve probably already guessed.” Shen Zheng tightened his arms around him and gently stroked his back. “That self-playing chess game, the Monte Carlo tree algorithm, the leg exoskeleton I designed for the Emperor, the waist-level viewfinder, fan, and hand warmers I gave you, as well as cream cakes, marshmallows, my analysis of the locust plague’s range, and potatoes—all of them came from the place where I once lived. But that place was not Nanping.”
“I am a man from a later age. My real name is also Shen Zheng. By coincidence, I look almost exactly like the Fifth Prince, and even have the same birthmark near my pubic bone. I cannot explain what connection I have with him. I only remember opening my eyes one day to find myself in this body, appearing in your residence.”
“The later age?!” Wen Zhuo abruptly raised his head.
Shen Zheng gently pressed down on his shoulder, making him lean back against him once more, and asked softly, “Does this frighten you, Teacher?”
Though Wen Zhuo was shocked, he felt this was the only explanation. Shen Zheng’s transformation from a fool into a man of intelligence, and his knowledge of so many strange and wondrous things, suddenly all had an answer.
After thinking for a moment, he gave a slight shake of his head. “What I have experienced is astonishing enough in its own right.”
Shen Zheng answered honestly, “I can often empathize with what happened to the Fifth Prince. Perhaps my arrival here was fated as well.”
Wen Zhuo’s voice was weak, but he asked again, “In Your Highness’s later age, is it still Da Qian?”
“No.”
Just as he thought.
A faint regret stirred in Wen Zhuo’s heart, though the answer was also within his expectations. Da Qian, like the dynasties before it, would eventually decline from its height and vanish into history.
“…Then what is the name of the nation in the later age?” He was utterly exhausted, yet unwilling to close his eyes. Clinging to the last of his strength, he asked with curiosity.
“By the later age, there are no longer emperors and ministers in the old sense. A country no longer belongs to a particular surname or family. It belongs to everyone under heaven.” Shen Zheng spoke slowly, as though telling him a story. “It is more civilized there, and people live with greater freedom and dignity. Of course, it isn’t without problems, but it is far beyond anything Da Qian can compare with. When I told you before that ‘no person is born high or low, noble or base; everyone possesses their own integrity,’ those were lessons the later age taught me. There, you and I can love each other without fearing accusations or punishment, and we certainly wouldn’t be exiled. Not everyone can understand people like us, of course, but they can only respect us—and must respect us.”
It sounded like a dream. Wen Zhuo found the world Shen Zheng described so unreal that he could not imagine it at all.
His eyelids drooped several times before he managed to force them open. “I can’t picture it.”
Shen Zheng lowered his head and gently kissed his brow. “If I ever have the chance, I’ll take you there to see it with your own eyes. Sleep for a while.”
Wen Zhuo slightly raised his face to receive the kiss. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, tears gathering in them and dampening the tips of his lashes, yet there was still one matter he cared about deeply. “Then… what do the histories say about me?”
Shen Zheng raised his brows, then continued with a perfectly composed expression, spinning his tale smoothly. “The histories say that although your background was obscure, your talents were exceptional, a rarity in a hundred years. Your beauty was peerless, and everyone who saw you was stunned. In Bozhou, you repaired dikes and built dams, introduced tea cultivation, and achieved remarkable results. As Director Wen in the capital, you made further contributions and earned widespread praise. However, your fame was too great, and you inevitably aroused envy, so you made many enemies at court. Later generations judged that your merits and faults balanced one another, and that your views were fair and moderate. They compared you to Huo Guang of the Western Han and Wang Anshi of the Northern Song. You possessed the ability to benefit the realm and its people, though there were also criticisms that could not be avoided.”
The corners of Wen Zhuo’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly.
His Highness really was skilled at lying. If that self-indictment had already been passed down to the later age, how could there possibly be any chance for his reputation to be restored?
But Wen Zhuo did not expose him. He only murmured, “Then I can rest easy…”
After saying this, he could no longer force out another word. His throat was so dry it seemed to be burning, and his eyelids had grown too heavy to lift. His consciousness gradually sank into darkness.
They finally arrived at the Wen residence. Shen Zheng jumped down from the sedan with Wen Zhuo in his arms. The moment he had barely knocked on the gate, it was yanked open from within by Jiang Mannü. Liu Qiying followed close behind and rushed out, crying in alarm, “My lord!”
When she saw Wen Zhuo, pale and dazed in Shen Zheng’s arms, Liu Qiying’s eyes instantly reddened. Her teeth clenched with a sharp grind, but she had no idea whom to direct her fury toward. All she could do was hurry to say, “The old physician has already been waiting inside. Your Highness, please take my lord to his bedchamber.”
“He should have a fever. Go prepare a basin of warm water and some clean cloths.” Shen Zheng strode inside with practiced ease, issuing instructions in a low voice.
Jiang Mannü caught sight of the faint red marks on Wen Zhuo’s neck and collarbone. With a loud wail, she wiped her face with her filthy sleeve and cried out indignantly, “My lord! Why is your neck red? Did they torture you?!”
Wen Zhuo was already too hoarse to speak. Even so, he summoned the last of his strength, tugged the cloak tightly around himself to cover the marks at his neck, then buried his head in Shen Zheng’s chest and completely pretended to be unconscious.
Shen Zheng looked down at him, a trace of amusement flashing through his eyes. Then he said to Jiang Mannü, “Bring two more charcoal braziers as well. Let him sweat out the chill. His cold affliction has probably flared up again during this time.”
Jiang Mannü hurriedly replied, “We’ve already set up four braziers. The old physician is practically suffering heatstroke!”
Shen Zheng nodded, reassured.
Jiang Mannü’s heart filled with the joy of having survived a catastrophe. She followed behind him and asked, “Your Highness, thank goodness you came back in time. Otherwise, our lord truly might not have made it through! But how did you think to return so suddenly?”
Shen Zheng gently laid Wen Zhuo on the bed and glanced sideways at Jiang Mannü without answering.
He then carefully removed Wen Zhuo’s shoes and socks, undid his wrinkled robes, and wrapped him in thick quilts.
Only after making certain that Wen Zhuo was lying comfortably did he reluctantly step away, allowing the old physician, who was already sweating profusely, to come forward and examine him.
The old physician sat beside the bed and carefully felt Wen Zhuo’s pulse. After a long while, he stroked his beard and said, “His cold affliction has been acting up for several days, and he went without treatment. The cold evil has lodged itself in his joints. Fortunately, he is young and full of vitality, and his organs have not been damaged, so there is no immediate danger. However, his vital energy has already been depleted, and he cannot withstand any more such torment. This time, his weakened body has produced a fever, with cold and heat mingling within him. I estimate that he will need to rest and regulate his breathing for quite some time before he can recover.”
Shen Zheng’s heart ached terribly, yet there was nothing he could do. He could only leave everything to the old physician.
Wen Zhuo was so exhausted that he had passed out completely. Even when the old physician inserted the needles, he showed no reaction whatsoever.
After treating him for a full hour, the old physician finally slung his medicine chest over his shoulder, wiped the sweat from his brow, and took his leave.
Shen Zheng sat by the bed and gently tucked the covers around Wen Zhuo. When he saw that Wen Zhuo’s breathing had gradually steadied, the worry weighing on his heart finally eased.
With his back to Jiang Mannü and Liu Qiying, who were standing nearby, he said calmly, “Bring me the letter your lord left behind in advance.”
Jiang Mannü’s eyes flew open, her face filled with disbelief.
Liu Qiying reacted swiftly and feigned confusion at once. “What letter? We’ve never seen one.”
Shen Zheng turned around and regarded them with an amused yet knowing smile. “You send me one every five days. Are you saying you don’t know which letter I mean?”
Jiang Mannü was utterly baffled and blurted out, “There wasn’t a single flaw in this matter! How did Your Highness find out?”
Shen Zheng did not answer. He merely gave Jiang Mannü a meaningful reminder: “Remember to have your lord settle accounts with you when the time comes.”
