The last rays of the setting sun faded, and the twilight washed clean over everything; the eaves of the palace let fall their resplendent robes one by one.
Shen Zheng, carrying a parcel of jujube cakes wrapped in oiled paper, made his way through the night to the Wen residence.
To avoid suspicion, Wen Zhuo had taken a sedan chair ahead, and his young servant had been instructed beforehand to leave the gate ajar, slipping Shen Zheng a crack of entry.
Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü were not at the residence—having received Wen Zhuo's orders, they were out playing tour guides for visitors and had not yet returned.
This was only Shen Zheng's second visit to the Wen estate: once to the flower hall, once to the study. In truth, he was not familiar with the place, so his curiosity bubbled over—he wished even to inspect the patterns of the cobblestones lining the path.
"What are you gawking at?"
From beneath the main hall's eaves emerged a tall, slender silhouette. Wen Zhuo stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his official robe casting a quiet sheen in the darkness. A faint crease formed between his brows—he had already grown a little impatient from waiting.
Shen Zheng: "I was in a rush before and never got to admire your residence properly. Now I see it—the aesthetics are sublime. Did you hire a famous designer?"
Wen Zhuo lifted his chin slightly: "This hall master designed it personally."
"Really?" Shen Zheng was astonished.
Even landscaping and garden design, he mastered—were all court officials in ancient times polymaths?
Back in university, he had already come to a deep understanding of the saying "there is always a greater man beyond the great," but stretching that perspective across the millennia and looking at figures in their twenties throughout history, one realized what it truly meant that the world's talent is as numerous as silver carp crossing a river.
Wen Zhuo found his amazement puzzling—surely this was merely an ordinary matter.
"When I first arrived in the capital, I was short on coin, so naturally I did everything myself."
Shen Zheng loved the sight of him tilting his neck slightly, revealing that stretch of pale, luminous skin, with the faint protrusion of his Adam's apple—if one were to trace a hand from his chin down to his chest, feeling that cartilage slide beneath the touch, it would surely make for an excellent sensation.
Perhaps his gaze had grown too bold—Wen Zhuo pressed his lips together: "Why are you still standing there doing nothing?"
Shen Zheng reined in his stare and chuckled lightly: "Teacher is truly remarkable. If I were to write your biography, I'd surely say: 'He investigated every school of thought with exhaustive rigor, and the four seas lay in his palm as if points on a map.'"
Rather than the line from the Qian Shi: "He dipped his brush in venom, lanced tumors and drained ulcers."
In his three years in Bozhou, Wen Zhuo had introduced the pine-lo bonsai tea, improving the common folk's livelihood to the point of total transformation, and had taken not a single advantage for himself—a man like this clashed so violently with the reputation of a treacherous minister.
Shen Zheng had never been able to figure out: during the three years before Emperor Shunyuan's death, what on earth had driven Wen Zhuo to change so dramatically in temperament?
Wen Zhuo remained utterly unmoved, casting him a cool glance before turning and entering the hall.
"Fobbing off Ban Gu and Zhang Hua's praises on me—how convenient you are. Quick now, let the jujube cakes inside!"
Shen Zheng had thought his own memorization skills were formidable; now he had to admit defeat. He hurried to present the noble jujube cakes to his esteemed Hall Master Wen.
With Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü absent, Wen Zhuo needed no servants attending him. He had eaten nearly nothing all day and was truly famished.
Yet even hollow-bellied, he ate with reserved grace—each bite slow and deliberate, without the slightest hint of wolfing down his food.
Shen Zheng propped his chin on his hand, watching him, occasionally topping up the tea in Wen Zhuo's cup with warm water.
"Ask what you wish to ask," Wen Zhuo said, lowering his eyes to finish the last of his water, having long seen through the curiosity lurking in Shen Zheng's gaze.
Shen Zheng didn't beat around the bush, asking bluntly: "Xie Qian, Shi Qingjiu, and Helian Qiao—were they truly bought off by Nanping? Why wouldn't they reveal a flaw in the middle of the game, feigning a loss? Why fix the moves in advance and leave such a huge liability?"
This, too, was what Shen Zheng couldn't work out.
They'd left an enormous liability, and Wu Kan had even flaunted a paper copy of the game records, bringing it right into the guest residence, where Gu Weizhi just happened to catch it red-handed?
Wen Zhuo paused slightly, his fingertips that pressed against the cup tightening for an instant. But his voice remained level: "On Guantai Terrace, masters convene in numbers. A sudden blunder in the heat of play is all too easily detected. Only by devising a meticulously plotted game of equal caliber in advance could they conceal their handiwork."
Shen Zheng frowned: "Then why was it that only you received word, while no one in the court knew? Do you have spies planted in Nanping too?"
Wen Zhuo set down his cup and met his gaze directly: "I once made the acquaintance of a merchant from Nanping back in Bozhou. This matter came to me by mere happenstance—otherwise, how could I have memorized the game records in advance?"
"I see," Shen Zheng murmured, no longer dwelling on that point.
Wen Zhuo's face betrayed not the slightest crack, and he ate his jujube cakes with complete ease.
In this game, both Shen Zheng and Gu Weizhi were participants, but Shen Zheng stood on the first floor, Gu Weizhi on the second, while only Wen Zhuo hid the deepest.
Shen Zheng did not know that Gu Weizhi's paper game records had not been seized from Wu Kan's room.
And Gu Weizhi did not know that Xie Qian, Shi Qingjiu, and Helian Qiao had never thrown a single fake move—nor that those three game records were memories from Wen Zhuo's previous life.
Shen Zheng said: "Why didn't you stop me today? Do I get to come to your residence openly from now on?"
Wen Zhuo had overlooked this point. Now that Shen Zheng had turned danger into safety, Shen Chen and Xie Langyang would certainly guess that Wen Zhuo had made his move, and would understand that he had chosen Shen Zheng. There was no further point in concealing it.
But he could not say this to Shen Zheng directly.
"His Majesty's side is hardly lacking in informants. Your actions in the Hall of Mental Cultivation will spread sooner or later, and Gu Weizhi's conduct in the East Tower is even more conspicuous. Sooner or later others will draw a link between you and me—though—"
"Though what?"
"At present, most still take it for coincidence. The later they realize you harbor ambitions for the succession, the better—especially His Majesty. He hopes both for his princes to keep still and for me to remain an isolated official. So you still must not come frequently. I plan to have a tunnel secretly excavated. Where do you think it best to lead?"
Wen Zhuo deftly patched the hole in the argument, and used a matter of greater urgency to sweep Shen Zheng's thoughts off course.
Sure enough, Shen Zheng began to ponder over the matter of the tunnel.
"I have no title, no mansion of my own yet, and I still reside in the palace. We can't exactly dig a passage through the Forbidden City itself... How about Yongning Marquis Manor? Look how close your residence is to my maternal grandfather's. It's entirely above board for me to leave the palace to visit my grandfather."
Wen Zhuo had already figured that out. He had even rummaged through his stash of private savings beneath his bed, and was awaiting the arrival of artisans to begin construction.
It seemed that Shen Zheng, after his rebirth, had become rather sharp indeed—thinking along the very same lines as Wen Zhuo.
"Very well, though we must find the right opportunity to inform the Marquis of Yongning. In the days ahead, those idle persons of the household—foster daughters, adopted grandsons, and the like—should no longer come and go, lest they stumble upon our secret."
The jujube cakes were finished, and the main hall fell into a stretch of silence.
Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü had yet to return. In the sprawling Wen estate, only the two of them sat facing each other.
Wen Zhuo's lashes trembled gently: "I'm finished eating."
"Mm?"
"What are you still doing here?"
"..."
"I've been very busy these past few days, and I need to drop by the Dali Temple tonight. If you've nothing else to do, return to the palace. I'll rest a while."
Shen Zheng couldn't help but laugh out loud.
Before the eating, he urged him to come promptly; after the eating, he drove him out—such a cruel heart.
"I won't disturb your rest, teacher. It took me quite the journey to get here—let me look around and appreciate the grounds a little."
Wen Zhuo considered it for a moment, and concluded there was nothing secret on the estate, so he gave a nod of approval: "Suit yourself then. Just don't disturb my things."
Wen Zhuo indeed needed to rest while he could. His nerves had been wound taut this past month, and in a little while he would need to summon fresh spirit—to pierce Xie Langyang's heart.
When Wen Zhuo returned to his room, the capital had already entered the blue hour, the sky a deep, somber sea, like oil paint splashed across a canvas, white waves rolling, and everything veiled in a profound beauty.
Shen Zheng had browsed the grounds meticulously, parting the leaves of every pear tree to peer beneath them, very much like an architecture alumnus conducting a field survey of an ancient official's residence.
Walking into the second courtyard, he suddenly noticed a couplet inked in bold strokes upon a round pillar, the calligraphy vigorous and forceful.
"When there is moonlight, ascend the terrace; when there is wind, take a seat."
What a free-spirited, unrestrained line.
Shen Zheng could almost picture it: Wen Zhuo, only twenty years old, returning to the capital from Bozhou, so dashing and full of youthful vigor despite his official rank.
He had already been a fifth-rank prefect by then, his bearing and mannerisms should have been steady and proper, but his youth was unmistakable, and it must have been hard to hide that boyish spirit.
Shen Zheng leaned down, wet his fingers in the pond water, and began tracing the characters of the couplet in the air.
Though he had studied regular script with a fountain pen, compared to Wen Zhuo's writing, his was like something off an assembly line, completely devoid of spirit.
Others were already stunned by Wen Zhuo's calligraphy, and on top of that, the man liked men—every day uncovering new little surprises about this treacherous cat. It was truly driving him mad.
At this rate, he'd be plotting something improper.
Wandering on, he found himself outside Wen Zhuo's bedchamber without realizing it.
In ancient times, even the inner quarters of a first-rank official in the capital were not spacious or bright. Cramped wooden furniture took up most of the space, leaving little room, and the bed pressed against the wall was only wide enough for one person to sleep soundly—far less comfortable than a modern villa.
The window lattice let in little light, and the room held a chill. Shen Zheng quietly slid the door open and stepped inside.
He knew it wasn't polite to do so, but he couldn't suppress his curiosity.
Wen Zhuo was already asleep.
He was wrapped in a cotton quilt, his body curled into a tight ball, knees drawn up to his chest, half his face buried in the bedding, his back pressed close against the wall.
His unbound dark hair lay scattered across the pillow like a stream cascading down his pale, striking nape.
Shen Zheng had taken a mental health course once, so he knew how to recognize the signs of trauma. He could tell from Wen Zhuo's sleeping posture that it was a defensive position, typical of someone who had endured tremendous pressure or pain.
Only Wen Zhuo's right hand had slipped out from under the blanket, his slender, pale wrist hanging over the edge of the bed, fingers gently curved, already cold to the touch.
This little traitor of a cat was full of contradictions, Shen Zheng thought.
He crouched down slowly, gently cupped that icy hand in his own, lifted the corner of the quilt, and tucked the warmth of his palm along with that delicate hand back inside.
He stood by the bedside for a while longer, gazing at Wen Zhuo, before he quietly withdrew and returned to the palace.
As soon as he was gone, Wen Zhuo's eyelashes fluttered almost imperceptibly.
He brought his hand to his chest and clung tightly to the corner of the quilt.
Late into the night, Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü finally returned. Just as they had lit the lamp, Wen Zhuo woke up.
Liu Qiying gulped down several large cups of water, then, ignoring her exhaustion, pulled out an abacus and began clacking away. "Advisor was spot on, knew my purse would be well fed when we were out—let me tally up Master Gu's expenses today: one candied hawthorn stick from Guanjie Street, 5 wen; one cup of sugarcane juice from the West Market, 5 wen; one roast duck from Siji Fang, 40 wen; entrance fee to watch a cricket fight outside the gate, 5 wen; gave spare change to a falsely pitiable beggar on the road, 5 wen…"
Wen Zhuo abruptly cut her off: "I'm going to the Dali Temple prison. You two come with me."
Jiang Mannü was already yawning with exhaustion, but she still forced herself to say, "Advisor, Ah Liu has been spending and running around all day, she must be worn out. Why don't I accompany you instead?"
Liu Qiying stopped Jiang Mannü and looked at Wen Zhuo, stunned.
What is the Advisor afraid of? Why?
But Liu Qiying didn't ask. She immediately set aside the abacus, threw her robe back on, and said, "I'll go with you too."
Wen Zhuo dressed neatly, picked up a hand warmer, and with Jiang and Liu in tow, took a sedan chair to the Dali Temple prison.
The Dali Temple prison was located west of Taipingmen Street, alongside the Ministry of Justice and the Censorate.
To project the authority of the Three Judicial Offices, the prison walls were several zhang high, built of heavy gray brick, exuding a chilling aura.
The cells were mostly gable-roofed, covered with dark gray tiles, and beneath the eaves were occasional broken windows letting in slivers of sky, but most cells were pitch black, impossible to distinguish day from night.
On either side of the prison grounds stood watchtowers, guarded by the Left Camp Guard, armed with powerful crossbows drawn tight. At the slightest disturbance, arrows would fly and blades would swing.
The usually deathly quiet Dali Temple prison was unusually boisterous that night.
More than eighty court officials were held there, many of them silver-tongued censors, and they were now arguing without end—
"What is this place? Damp and freezing, utterly unbearable!"
"The straw mat is stinking and wet, who knows what's on it, and no one even bothers to clean it?"
"Guard! Where is the guard? I need to relieve myself, could someone be so kind?"
"How dare you treat me like this? I am a third-rank official!"
"Lord Shi, what are you crying about? Shouldn't you be the most familiar with this Dali Temple prison? What kind of quarters have you been keeping your prisoners in?"
"Gentlemen, stop all this fuss. None of you know the truth of this matter anyway, do you? I believe the Emperor already knows in his heart who is guilty and who is innocent."
"The Emperor does hold a grudge against the great families, but they have deep roots built over many years, and they're not to be underestimated. This is nothing more than a slight punishment for some of us. The families won't be uprooted."
"You're so sure of that?"
"You'll all see soon enough. Tomorrow the great families will join forces to submit memorials to the court. The Emperor will have to weigh the pros and cons."
"And you're not afraid that the purists will get their teeth into this and pressure the court as well?"
"Then it's a matter of who has more sway. They can't possibly discipline all eighty-plus officials, can they? And besides, I think many of you don't just have the great families behind you—you have your respective princes as well."
…
While the others clamored and squabbled, Xie Langyang alone remained silent.
The straw mat was damp and biting, and the lingering chill of early spring numbed his limbs. He suddenly thought of Wen Zhuo, who had once spent an entire month in this very prison in the dead of winter. How had Wen Zhuo endured it?
He had thought he already understood Wen Zhuo's suffering, but only now did he realize he had barely scratched the surface.
No wonder Wen Zhuo hated him so much.
Xie Langyang traced the old bloodstains on the rough wall, then looked up at the faded cell door. His heart jolted—this was Cell Number One in the Heaven section, where Wen Zhuo had been held in his past life!
Heaven must have a twisted sense of humor.
Under such wretched conditions, Xie Langyang had no time for further reflection. He was forced to curl up his knees and rub his hands together frantically, trying to stay warm.
His official robes had been stripped, leaving him in thin undergarments. At least they hadn't put him in the rough hemp prison clothes yet, so he kept a shred of dignity.
Just then, he heard a lackey call out loudly—
"A worthy guest arrives!"
The voice cut through the narrow cell block and carried far, startling Xie Langyang in his corner.
He couldn't help but look up toward the entrance.
He heard a flurry of chaotic footsteps as the guards scrambled about, followed by the clatter of metal—the sound of swords being sheathed and keys being gathered.
Someone shouted in warning, “Grand Secretary Wen is the specially appointed co-inquisitor by His Majesty, here on imperial orders! Make way at once, and anyone who dares to speak out of turn will not be forgiven!”
“Yes, yes, of course…”
Xie Langyang heard the footsteps growing closer, and they were heading straight in his direction.
His heart rose inch by inch, sour and bitter, drowning in an endless helplessness, on the verge of suffocation.
In the glow of the lanterns, a figure in crimson slowly approached. The lamplight flickered against the walls on either side, a faint breeze stirred, and Wen Zhuo, holding a hand warmer, walked to the cell door, the hem of his robes sweeping across the ground.
Xie Langyang looked up and saw Wen Zhuo gazing down at him from above, a faint, mocking smile curling at his lips.
At this moment, and at that moment, their positions had reversed—people were the same, but everything else had changed.
“Wanshan…” Xie Langyang muttered, wanting to straighten his robes and smooth his hair to appear presentable.
But the moment he stood, the jailer barked sharply, “When Grand Secretary Wen is asking you questions, kneel and answer!”
The man then turned and bowed, his face slick with sycophantic smiles as he addressed Wen Zhuo: “My Lord, the prison is filthy, don’t dirty your boots—if there’s anything you need, just tell this humble one.”
Wen Zhuo smiled at him too, his eyes rippling like water with fire dancing within them.
“Scram far away, lest this Grand Secretary’s mood sours and I skin you alive.”
The jailer trembled all over at that, no longer entranced by Wen Zhuo’s smile. He scurried off in utter fright.
Once no one else was around, Wen Zhuo said airily, “I had Lord Xue arrange this cell for you alone. So, how does it feel to revisit the scene of the crime?”
Xie Langyang’s hands clenched the iron bars tightly, his knuckles white, his heart aching beyond measure: “Wanshan… Is this what you wanted?”
“That’s a strange thing to say—how is this what I wanted? Clearly you brought it on yourself.” Wen Zhuo sneered, no ripple in his heart. “If Grand Secretary Xie had returned and done nothing at all, I’d have had no way to get at you.”
“Now that we’ve both come back once more, can we truly not return to the past? Everything from Mount Qingping—have you forgotten it all, or am I the only one who still cherishes it?” Xie Langyang’s gaze darkened, and he let go of the bars in defeat.
“So you remember Mount Qingping all too well. You married and had children, you impeached and betrayed me, you watched me die pierced by a hundred arrows and be remembered with infamy. That kind of cherishing—I truly cannot bear it.”
“No matter what I do, I am wrong.” Xie Langyang’s voice was hoarse. “Since you cannot forgive me, then let me suffer as I deserve. But I have loved you—from the very first time we met until now—that has never changed. Believe it or not, there are many things in this world that cannot follow the heart. If I had been an ordinary student, not from a great clan, perhaps everything would have been different.”
“Suffer as you deserve—well said.” Wen Zhuo smiled softly, gathering his robes and crouching before Xie Langyang. “I’ll remember to give those exact words to Shen Chen as well.”
Xie Langyang suddenly raised his head, a vague suspicion forming in his heart, but he still clung to a foolish shred of hope: “You… this time you chose Shen Zheng, didn’t you? That’s why he was able to escape. No one but you could have helped him.”
Wen Zhuo looked at him with some amusement: “Wrong, I’m afraid. You all should have assumed I couldn’t help Shen Zheng—otherwise, how would you have dared to copy my plan wholesale, without changing a single move?”
Xie Langyang was struck speechless, stripped bare of any excuse, drowning in shame.
He had betrayed his own principles, stained his hands with sin, and yet he had been turned against his own scheme, defeated utterly.
And even now, he still couldn’t figure out how Wen Zhuo had done it.
“You and Shen Chen must be dying to know how I pulled it off.” Wen Zhuo was in an almost leisurely mood, prompting the question for him. “The emperor holds no affection for Shen Zheng, and he desperately needed a scapegoat. At that moment, the entire court was united against him, fanning the flames—so why did Shen Zheng still come out unscathed? Why did His Majesty, against all precedent, start defending a son he hadn’t seen in ten years? And I, who was watching chess at Huiyang Gate every single day, never once meeting the emperor privately these past weeks—when exactly did I pull the strings?”
With each sentence he spoke, Xie Langyang’s face grew a shade paler.
They had passed the imperial examinations in the same year, and Xie Langyang had even been the top scholar—how could he be so far behind Wen Zhuo in scheming and strategy? No wonder Shen Chen had resorted to a self-inflicted sacrificial plan just to drag Wen Zhuo into the game.
“I advise Vice Minister Xie to stop wasting his thoughts, and instead consider what you’ll say when the Three Judicial Boards interrogate you severely and ask who it was that proposed framing the Fifth Prince. Otherwise, after trying out the staffs and the leg screws, you’ll confess to things you shouldn’t have, whether you want to or not.”
Having said that, Wen Zhuo had no desire to remain in this place that made him sick with hatred, and he turned to leave.
Xie Langyang scrambled to his feet, staring at that dazzlingly bright and clean red figure, and called out desperately, “Wanshan! Do you truly mean to push me to this edge?!”
Wen Zhuo paused in his steps. “It seems the Vice Minister’s so-called nostalgia is merely nostalgia for the days when I was young and helpless, hitting walls everywhere, needing your charity, your aid, your pity. The moment you feel a sliver of my hardship yourself, you refuse to bear it.”
“I… I didn’t—”
“Didn’t you?” Wen Zhuo turned back and cast him a look of contempt. “What Shen Chen needed—you’re capable of doing it now, aren’t you? So why did all the sins and all the evil deeds before have to fall on me? In the end, you get to stand on your high horse and accuse me of a cold heart and unforgivable crimes. You never once tried to share my burden, to understand my suffering. All you do afterward is offer painless platitudes and a bit of criticism. Do you even deserve to?”
With those words, Wen Zhuo left without looking back.
Emerging from the prison of the Court of Judicial Review, the damp, rotting smell seemed to cling to his nose—the familiar candlelight, the cold walls, the pain that reached deep into his bones—all of it vivid and searing.
Finally, he couldn’t control the shaking anymore. He trembled violently, gasped for breath, pressed his palm hard against his chest, and his face drained of all color.
“My lord!” Jiang Mannü and Liu Qiying’s faces changed instantly, and they rushed forward to support him.
Jiang Mannü gripped Wen Zhuo’s shoulder and urgently patted his back, while Liu Qiying immediately stripped off her outer robe and wrapped it tightly around Wen Zhuo.
Jiang Mannü: “Is it the cold disorder acting up again?! But it hasn’t even rained!”
Liu Qiying could see Wen Zhuo’s eyes were wet, tears falling beyond his control, and she gritted her teeth: “No—get him to a doctor, now!”
In his daze, Wen Zhuo thought of Shen Zheng, thought of the words Shen Zheng had said to him in the East Tower’s elegant chamber.
He clenched his jaw, fixed his gaze on a single point, and forced the words out with difficulty: “In front of me… is a carriage—painted red, and in my hand… is a hand warmer—it’s warm, and the smell… the smell is Liu Qiying’s rouge.”
He adjusted his breathing again and again until, after a long while, the trembling gradually subsided.
The method Shen Zheng had taught him had once again set him free.
Wen Zhuo wiped away the lingering tears and only then noticed that his hand had been wrapped into a blanket. He stared at it for a moment before saying, “I’m fine. Let’s return to the residence.”
The red-painted sedan was just leaving the prison when, from the shadows of an old locust tree at the mouth of the alley, a figure emerged—also in official robes, his face dark as water, having been watching Wen Zhuo for a long while.
