Wen Zhuo himself wasn't sure what had come over him.
He had already returned to the twenty-third year of Shunyuan in one piece, having completely escaped that quagmire.
He hadn't lost anything now—he hadn't even been caught in that rain outside the Cooling Hall.
He had been scheming how to take revenge on Shen Chen and Xie Langyang, those two names rolling around in his heart for days until the blood boiled hot.
He had also slept soundly for several nights, his dreams full of nothing but peace and endless darkness.
His residence—the three-courtyard estate he'd built with his own hands—was blooming with pear blossoms, crowding every branch.
So why did that month of nightmares in the Dali Temple prison still crawl up from the underworld like a ghost, clinging to him?
He could even smell the damp of straw mats rotting in melted snow, and the foul stench of old blood coagulated on his ochre prisoner's garb.
It was as if his soul had never truly escaped—these peaceful days were nothing but a sweet dream to distract him from the pain.
That had been the coldest winter he'd ever endured. Day after day of interrogation wore at him like a dull blade slicing flesh. By the end, the mere sound of footsteps made his fingertips tremble, fear seeping from the marrow of his bones.
He had been afraid, truly. The pain of splitting skin and breaking bone blurred even Gong Zhiyuan's face before him, until it seemed only a wavering illusion—heaven's punishment for all the guilt he carried in this life.
It wasn't as if he'd never thought of death. But when he was dragged onto the long avenue before the imperial hall and saw the coarse white burial cloth spread on the ground like snow, terror seized him, and all that filled his mind was a single thought: I want to live.
He tried to flee from that visceral pain, but his heart pounded madly in his chest, slamming against his eardrums, as though the torture had nailed him to the past and he couldn't move an inch.
Shen Zheng immediately released the hand that had been pressing down on him.
Wen Zhuo's left hand clutched tight over his heart, knuckles turning a strained blue-white. A face of such jade-like elegance was twisted in agony; his eyes, usually so full of charm and allure, now swam with bloodshot veins, and tears spilled unbidden, rolling down his lashes to fall on lips bitten bloody.
Within moments, the porcelain-smooth column of his neck was sheened with sweat. His breathing came fast and ragged, as if something were strangling him, half a breath caught in his throat, neither rising nor falling.
Shen Zheng shifted his gaze to the window.
The white smoke from the firecrackers had already drifted past the fifth floor. From the streets came the clamorous curses of the Great Qian chess players, while that servant boy banged his golden gong again, shouting and calling along the Chess-Viewing Street.
Wen Zhuo had been perfectly fine before—it was that burst of firecrackers that had turned him into this.
Triggered by a certain sound, suddenly struck, emotions cresting in an instant—these were classic symptoms of PTSD.
But Wen Zhuo at this time was young and celebrated, his official career riding high, wielding power and basking in glory. Where in the world could his trauma have come from?
Regardless, Shen Zheng's actions just now had been far too hasty.
He shouldn't have pressed down on Wen Zhuo, shouldn't have asked what was wrong, luring him back into thoughts of old wounds.
Shen Zheng edged closer, deliberately placing both hands where Wen Zhuo could see them, then slowly, very slowly, wrapped them around Wen Zhuo's shoulders, pressing his chest against the barely trembling back.
With a touch so faint it was nearly imperceptible, Shen Zheng brushed the ink-black hair. "You're safe now. It's only you and me here."
Wen Zhuo didn't pull away, only furrowed his brows, as if a weight sat heavy on his chest—but the more frantic he grew, the harder it was to breathe.
Shen Zheng's voice grew steadier. Still stroking gently, he brought his other hand around to the front and asked, "Take a look—what's laid out in front of you?"
Wen Zhuo's gaze fell on the objects before him. He loosened his bitten lips and let out a low sound: "...A chess board."
"Good." Shen Zheng pressed a little firmer with his palm, letting Wen Zhuo feel the touch clearly, and asked softly, "And what's on the chess board?"
"...Stones." Wen Zhuo's murmur sounded almost like sleep-talk.
"Where did you place the stones?"
"Star points... komoku... the 3–3 point."
Shen Zheng raised his hand with excruciating slowness, his palm first meeting the chill of Wen Zhuo's wrist before gently closing over the left hand pressed to his heart.
He had nearly pulled Wen Zhuo fully into his arms; even his breath grazed the tip of Wen Zhuo's ear.
"Your fingers are cold." Shen Zheng gave them a light squeeze, saying in a whisper, "Try my palm?"
"...It's warm."
Wen Zhuo's voice was still faint, but his answers seemed to come more smoothly now.
Shen Zheng guided his hand, drawing it slowly away from his heart and placing it on that oddly shaped stone.
"Feel that—what is it?"
"A stone."
"It's called a dumbbell." Shen Zheng's fingertip grazed along the back of Wen Zhuo's hand, then guided his hand downward, pressing it against his own knee. "And this?"
Wen Zhuo kept his eyes lowered, long lashes fluttering downward. His thoughts were being led by Shen Zheng, gradually settling back into the present.
Through the silk so smooth it flowed like water, he could faintly make out the warmth beneath, and after a pause he answered, "Your... knee."
Shen Zheng felt Wen Zhuo's trembling stop.
What was the next step, now?
Shen Zheng glanced at the corner—the bronze incense burner was still trailing its wispy smoke.
He curled his arm slightly, prompting, "Can you smell it?"
Wen Zhuo took a breath as instructed and, without pausing for even a heartbeat, answered with perfect accuracy, "Mianzhou's styrax incense—from my hometown."
"Correct." Shen Zheng's nose grazed lightly against Wen Zhuo's ear bone. "Now then, who is holding you right now?"
As the words fell, Wen Zhuo's just-settled body trembled faintly once more. He slowly lifted his gaze and met Shen Zheng's deep eyes.
In those eyes was a tenderness he hadn't expected.
He parted his lips. "Your Highness... Shen Zheng."
"Good lad." Shen Zheng smiled, as though offering praise, his fingertip idly toying with the soft hair at Wen Zhuo's temple. "Now take a deep breath. Slowly inhale, hold it—then slowly exhale."
Wen Zhuo truly emerged from the nightmare of the Dali Temple prison.
The fierce winter wind and snow receded far away, and the light beyond the window spilled across the sill.
He couldn't help but think of the little-known poem Shen Zheng had once recited—
In the yellow-plum season, rain falls from house to house... idly tapping chess pieces, watching the lamp ash drop.
The spring chill was still in the air, yet there, in that cramped little chess shop, he felt the creeping warmth of summer.
He started, and only then realized he was still in Shen Zheng's arms.
Both publicly and privately, this was improper—after all, he harbored thoughts so base and low, like rotting mud in a swamp, unfit to see the light.
Wen Zhuo quickly pushed Shen Zheng's chest away, turning his head aside so he wouldn't have to look at his face, his voice hoarse with barely concealed panic: "I'm fine now."
Shen Zheng didn't mind being pushed away in the slightest.
He propped his right knee up in place, rested his forearm on it, and cupped his cheek in his hand. "If you want to talk, I'd be glad to listen. And if you don't want to say anything, that's fine too. Next time something like this happens..."
His tone turned earnest again. "Just do what you did today—look at what's in front of you, touch the wall beside you, listen to the sounds around you, breathe in the scents near you. In short, ground yourself with your body. Feel the temperature, then slowly regulate your breathing."
Wen Zhuo kept his back to him, shoulders motionless, but his fingers quietly curled tightly inside his sleeves. "It won't happen again."
Shen Zheng looked at that thin, solitary back and felt something ache in his chest.
He hooked his fingertip and pulled the bell cord from the corner of the table toward himself.
He tugged the thin cord three times, and the bronze bell hanging from the eastern hall's main beam chimed "ding-ding" in response. Before long, a shop assistant's knock came from outside the door: "Honored guest, what would you like to add to your order?"
Shen Zheng: "When I came in, I saw all those dish names hanging on the board in the main hall—they all sounded delicious: that crispy taro cake called Su Huang Du, the hotpot called Bo Xia Gong, the Wang Lou steamed buns, the Chengsha glutinous rice balls, the Sheng Rou meat pastries, and the clam-and-rice soup—I'll take one of each, just to try. And bring me a pot of tea, any kind will do; I'm not much of a connoisseur anyway."
The assistant, seeing a big order coming, practically had laughter piled in his throat. He responded promptly and politely: "Oh my, what a wonderful memory you have! These are all the signature dishes of the Eastern Hall. Please wait a moment—I'll run to the back kitchen right away and have them start cooking for you."
Wen Zhuo finally turned around, looking at Shen Zheng with utter disbelief: "What are you doing? Did I bring you to the Eastern Hall to eat?"
Shen Zheng moved the go board aside, covering the pieces so he couldn't see them: "You can't be using your brain today. You need to relax." Then he patted his stomach, his tone laced with half-hearted exasperation: "Besides, I'm genuinely starving. I still haven't figured out which direction the palace cafeteria faces, and I haven't eaten a thing since dawn. Aren't you hungry, Teacher?"
Wen Zhuo, reminded by this, did realize he was a bit hungry. But he still found it utterly absurd that he and Shen Zheng had come to a chess pavilion specifically for lunch.
He was momentarily at a loss for words, glaring at Shen Zheng with a hint of reproach in his brows and eyes—but he couldn't come up with a rebuttal.
After a long pause, Wen Zhuo looked down his nose with the full air of a master, and said with deliberate elegance: "Your teacher likes sweets. I'll have a serving of honey-glazed kumquats."
Beauty is simply unfair, Shen Zheng thought. There was no saving that lively expression on his face. If this had been a few years earlier, when Shen Zheng was just starting to understand matters of the heart, he would have been spellbound, unable to focus on anything—ruined, probably, on his college entrance exams.
Suppressing the laughter in his throat, Shen Zheng replied: "Got it. I'll remember that."
Before long, the food arrived, filling the table with a dazzling spread. The same table that had once held black and white go stones was now alive with color and aroma.
A celadon bowl held the clam and rice soup—thick, soft, and simmered to a creamy consistency, steaming with the fresh fragrance of clams. The Su Huang Du came out crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, its golden crust adorned with almonds and peanut sauce. The Sheng Rou, similar to potstickers, was stuffed with a generous filling, with bits of mushroom and fresh bamboo shoots glistening through the wrapper. Beneath the Bo Xia Gong sat a bed of charcoal, and the little pot bubbled softly with fine, rising bubbles.
The whole table steamed with the warmth of a good meal, the very air steeped in sweet aromas.
Shen Zheng poured Wen Zhuo a cup of tea: "Let's skip the wine—it's not good for you."
Wen Zhuo took a small sip and asked, with feigned nonchalance: "How did you know how to handle that?" He meant what had just happened earlier.
Shen Zheng didn't look up, scooping out two bowls of the clam and rice soup, one for each of them: "There's a wise saying: there's no piece of knowledge you learn that turns out to be wasted."
"Is that from Nanping too?"
"Something like that."
Wen Zhuo thought to himself that the customs of Nanping were truly peculiar—fierce and untamed, yet possessing their own brand of fine delicacy. Shen Zheng, after ten years there, must have been deeply shaped by it.
He took a sip of the soup and said, between mouthfuls: "There are barely more than twenty days left until the final round of the Spring Terrace Chess Gathering. The Nanping players are arrogant and overbearing, treating Great Qian as if it were at their mercy. Every second is precious now—you cannot afford to waste time."
Shen Zheng casually picked up a piece of Sheng Rou and placed it on his plate, speaking with full confidence: "Those roundabout strategies of yours, all those intricate setups—I really can't handle those. But when it comes to drilling things into memory, I can do it in half—"
No, wait. If he memorized it all in half a day, what excuse would he have to come to the Eastern Hall with Wen Zhuo?
"—half a month is all I need," Shen Zheng said.
Wen Zhuo: "..."
He had been ready to be impressed, but half a month versus twenty-odd days—what difference did that make at all?
Shen Zheng caught that speechless look all too well. Grinning, he leaned forward slightly and said in a hopeful tone: "Same time tomorrow? You'll come straight from court?"
Wen Zhuo reasoned that since Shen Zheng was fundamentally deficient in those areas, it would take him a while longer to fully absorb those games. He supposed he could spare his leisure time for now.
"Yes. Same time tomorrow."
Shen Zheng's spirits immediately soared. He grabbed a stone and did another twenty sets of lifts.
