Fengyang Terrace was not within the Imperial City, but near the imperial mausoleums in the outskirts of the capital. It occupied roughly twelve mu of land and was laid out in the shape of the character “回.”
At its very center stood a nine-tiered tower, facing the imperial mausoleums from afar. On each level, imperial relatives of various ranks lived in secluded confinement.
The tower was enclosed by two layers of walls. Thorns and shards of porcelain had been set along the tops, while a bronze bell hung every five zhang. Whenever the wind stirred the bells, they rang out to prevent anyone from climbing over. The foundations of the walls extended three chi underground and were reinforced with granite slabs, making it impossible to escape by digging a tunnel.
There were sixty-eight guards stationed there. None was subordinate to another, ensuring strict checks and balances. Moreover, none of the sixty-eight guards was permitted to converse privately with those under confinement or to discuss affairs of state.
Those who survived in Fengyang Terrace might retain their dignity, but they had no freedom whatsoever. Their food and drink, clothing, and daily routines were all subject to strict regulations. Though they could stroll within their own courtyards and read or write, they were forbidden to speak face-to-face with any of the other confined residents.
The entire compound was usually devoid of noise. Only at dusk, when the clappers sounded, could one hear the guards reciting the *Scripture of Reflection upon One’s Faults*.
How could Shen Zheng not know that the Crown Prince would never be able to open the window and meet Huang Ting outside the walls?
More curious still was the way Shen Zheng had mentioned Fengyang Terrace just now. His tone had been casual, his expression unruffled—nothing like someone who had personally endured the torments of hell.
Wen Zhuo’s heart jolted.
Could it be that Shen Zheng had never been reborn at all?
On the surface, Wen Zhuo appeared stunned, but his thoughts were already racing like streaks of light.
When had he decided that Shen Zheng was reborn?
Most likely, it had been at their first meeting. Shen Zheng had spoken the word “humiliation” before he did, causing him to instinctively assume that Shen Zheng, too, knew what was about to happen.
Besides, Wen Zhuo himself had been reborn. It was only natural that he would project his own experience onto another.
But what if Shen Zheng had merely said it offhandedly, without knowing anything about the events of his previous life?
If that were the case, how was one to explain Shen Zheng’s dramatic change in temperament over the past several months, his far-reaching considerations, and his sudden leap in learning?
The thought sent a chill rushing to the crown of Wen Zhuo’s head.
A child who had left home at the age of eight and vanished without a trace for ten years—if he had been replaced long ago, would his family have noticed?
“What is it?” Shen Zheng asked, sensing that something was off.
Wen Zhuo suppressed the storm raging in his heart and smiled lightly. “Nothing.”
If he truly wished to hide something from another person, he would never allow them to catch him in a slip.
Shen Zheng remained at the Wen residence for another half an hour, discussing with Wen Zhuo a passage from the *Zizhi Tongjian* concerning the Sweet Dew Incident. Wen Zhuo offered his assessment of the disasters caused by eunuch dominance, his bearing as stern and imposing as that of an academy head.
Shen Zheng admired not only the insight of his opinions, but also the clarity and intelligence behind them.
It was not until the palace gates were nearly locked for the night that Shen Zheng had no choice but to hurry back on horseback.
The following day was the regular court assembly. An autumn rain fell in a fine, unceasing drizzle, clinging like silk. The broad leaves that had gathered in the streets and alleys had been soaked through by the rain and were already giving off a foul, rotting stench.
With his back to the curtain of rain beyond the hall, Wen Zhuo instructed Ge Wei, “Go to Noble Consort Liang’s palace and ask her on my behalf whether His Highness has any birthmarks. Tell her that they need to be checked against the auspicious signs for the year-end temple rites. Do not mention my name.”
The last time he had sent Ge Wei to deliver a note to Noble Consort Liang, she had responded to him. She should therefore have a certain degree of trust in Ge Wei.
Under the pretext of preparing for the temple rites—and with Ge Wei making the inquiry personally—Noble Consort Liang, as it turned out, had not been suspicious in the slightest.
The next day, Ge Wei came to report back to Wen Zhuo, positively beaming, a damp chill from the rain clinging to her clothes. “Director, I found out! Her Highness said that when His Highness was born, he had a small red mark near his pubic bone!”
Wen Zhuo had been looking down at the waist-level viewfinder in his hands. At those words, his entire body jerked, and he nearly crushed it between his fingers.
His expression turned exceedingly unnatural. “You… you said his pubic bone?”
Ge Wei remained completely oblivious, her eyes still curved with a smile. “That’s right. The midwife initially thought it was merely birth blood and wiped at it again and again, but the mark wouldn’t come off. Later, the imperial physician examined him and said it wouldn’t affect his health, so Her Highness finally put her mind at ease.”
Wen Zhuo felt a wave of heat rush straight to his face. In an instant, his cheeks were burning red. He hurriedly shut his eyes, his fingers twisting his sleeve until it was misshapen.
Why did it have to be that particular place?!
He was the esteemed Director of the Hanlin Academy. How was he supposed to examine such a private part of His Highness’s body?
That night, the candlelight in the inner chamber of the Wen residence flickered dimly. Wrapped in quilts and leaning against the couch, Wen Zhuo tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep.
He racked his brains for a long while. Now and then, he tapped the viewfinder beside his pillow; at other times, he knocked on the fan blade resting by the side of the bed.
Outside the window, threads of rain pattered against the lattice. A chill seeped up through the floor tiles, but fortunately, a brazier in the corner of the room gave off a steady warmth.
Watching the sparks dance in the fire, Wen Zhuo’s thoughts turned this way and that. In the end, he decided that he could simply pretend not to know. The prince he knew now was brilliant, wise, and broad-minded—more than satisfactory in every respect.
But then he reproached himself. The legitimacy of the imperial line was the foundation of the nation; how could there be room for even the slightest negligence?
Then he could only… take the risk and try.
The following morning at court, Shen Zheng suddenly noticed that Wen Zhuo was ill.
During the morning assembly, Wen Zhuo could not help coughing softly. Eventually, even the faint sound reached Emperor Shunyuan on the throne, who reminded him to take care of his health.
When court was dismissed, Gu Weizhi, Mo Shu, and Xue Chongnian all hurried over to surround him, each showing the utmost concern. Shen Zheng was left squeezed behind them, unable to get a word in.
So, after taking a turn through the imperial city, he immediately spurred his horse toward the Director’s residence, not even bothering to make the detour through the Yongning Marquis’s manor.
When he entered Wen Zhuo’s bedchamber, Wen Zhuo was sitting on the bed, wrapped in a thick brocade quilt. Every so often, he gave a soft cough, though his eyes kept stealing glances at Shen Zheng’s expression in between.
Shen Zheng was indeed worried. He reached out at once to feel Wen Zhuo’s forehead. “You’ve been taking such good care of yourself lately. How did you suddenly fall ill again?”
Wen Zhuo took advantage of the opportunity to cough a few more times, and this time his throat genuinely began to ache.
He answered vaguely, “Perhaps I kicked off the quilt last night and caught a chill.”
“Teacher kicks off his quilt?” Shen Zheng raised an eyebrow.
He remembered that when Wen Zhuo slept, he always curled himself into a tiny ball with his back against the wall, perfectly still.
“Sometimes I startle awake in my sleep, too…” Before Wen Zhuo could finish, he suddenly coughed three times in a row, each cough so forceful that the skin around his eyes flushed red.
Shen Zheng withdrew his hand and muttered to himself, “No fever. It really is just a cold.”
Wen Zhuo had long since grown accustomed to the strange terms Shen Zheng used from the southern lands. He merely continued coughing and waved a hand with calm indifference. “It’s nothing. Just an old ailment that comes around in autumn and winter.”
Shen Zheng was just about to send for a physician. “This coughing can’t go on. We should—”
“Your Highness!” Liu Qiying swept in at just the right moment, cutting him off. After exchanging a knowing glance with Wen Zhuo, she immediately put on a deeply worried expression and said to Shen Zheng, “Actually, we already had a physician examine him last night. He said that the hot spring baths at Chunlai House are the best remedy for driving out cold and dampness. A good soak should greatly improve his condition. But A-Man and I are both women, so it would be rather inconvenient for us. Would Your Highness be willing to take our lord there?”
Shen Zheng was even more puzzled. “Isn’t Teacher uncomfortable with having others attend to him while he bathes and changes?”
“To recover, he’ll just have to make an exception.”
Though the unexpected delight that had fallen from the heavens had left his heart trembling faintly, Shen Zheng remained rational and ruthlessly suppressed his own presumptuous thoughts when he saw Wen Zhuo’s flushed face.
What mattered more to him was whether Wen Zhuo could recover.
“Teacher isn’t fit to ride a horse right now. I’ll accompany him in a sedan chair.”
The Eastern Han scholar Zhang Heng once wrote, “The hot springs flow forth, washing away filth; they dispel afflictions and cleanse away evil, restoring one to balance.” He was referring to the power of hot springs to ease illness and drive away malign influences.
So Shen Zheng had not the slightest doubt.
Originally, he could have taken Wen Zhuo to the imperial hot-spring palace, where the baths were paved with white jade and fed by springs rising from deep beneath the earth—far more grand and luxurious than anything found among the common people.
But in the eyes of outsiders, the two of them clearly should not be so close as to visit a hot spring together. The private bathing courtyard at Chunlai House was therefore much more suitable.
The cultured scholars and refined gentlemen of the capital often came here to bathe together, compose poetry, and create prose. It was said to be an especially quiet and elegant place.
The sedan traveled smoothly, while the late-autumn streets flashed past Wen Zhuo’s eyes. Yet he sat as though on a bed of needles.
Though he had long since made up his mind, anxiety and shame tangled together throughout the journey, leaving him almost unable to breathe.
He liked men. Bathing with another man was, in essence, an immoral indulgence of his own nature.
And what was worse, he truly had developed improper and suggestive feelings toward Shen Zheng.
Before long, the sedan stopped in a side lane off Guoqi Street.
The area was usually packed with people, but fortunately winter had not yet arrived. The weather was not especially cold, and there were still plenty of vacant rooms during the day.
When the two men stepped down from the sedan, a servant bowed and led them onto a narrow path paved with bluestone. They passed through a moon gate and entered an elegant private courtyard.
Several red plum trees grew in the courtyard, though they had yet to bloom. Moisture misted the stone walls, and the gentle murmur of flowing springs reached their ears.
The private courtyard contained a changing pavilion, a hot-spring pavilion, and a washing pavilion, each separated by carved wooden doors for distinguished guests to use in sequence.
The moment Wen Zhuo entered the courtyard, he was enveloped by warm, humid air. He saw that the spring water in the pool was clear, with wisps of steam rising from its surface. A small amount of ginger, mugwort leaves, and flower petals floated upon it, all intended to drive away the chill.
But when his gaze swept over the wooden cabinet in the corner, he was struck as if by a bolt of lightning. He wanted nothing more than to cover his eyes and flee.
The cabinet was displaying, in plain sight, a bronze phallus, Burmese bells, and a long amber spoon!
How could such objects of bedroom amusement be displayed so brazenly?
Shen Zheng naturally saw them as well. It was not that his study of ancient contraptions had reached some lofty pinnacle; rather, the shapes of these objects were simply too unmistakable for him not to understand what they were.
He had once read in a book about an object called “Mr. Horn.” It was said that, once filled with hot water, the thing would bob up and down on its own, providing amusement for ladies in their inner chambers.
Wen Zhuo’s ears were so red he could no longer hide it. He turned to leave. “I suddenly feel much better. I think I’ll skip the hot spring today.”
Shen Zheng reached out and caught him firmly by the crook of the arm, unable to keep from laughing. “We’re both men, Teacher. What are you so embarrassed about? Go and change.”
He was already blushing just from looking. And yet he called himself uninhibited?
Could people of Great Qian truly be this conservative? Was even a shy little kitten considered an outstanding example of open-mindedness here?
Shen Zheng’s grip was firm but measured, and his tone was so straightforward that Wen Zhuo had no way to refuse.
Though his thoughts were in turmoil and his cheeks burned, he had not forgotten the purpose of their visit.
When people of Great Qian soaked in the pools, they would ordinarily remove their outer robes and undergarments and change into a pale silk inner tunic. It reached past the knees and was fastened at the waist with a plain silk sash—elegant and proper…
Some more unruly men would simply bare their upper bodies and wear only a loincloth, which barely covered the tops of their thighs.
But for a scholar, that was decidedly lacking in refinement. Thus, at Spring’s Arrival House, most still chose to wear the inner tunics.
“Your Highness, won’t you change with me as well?” That way, he could see whether there was a birthmark on his pubic bone.
Shen Zheng’s brows lifted slightly, and he hesitated for a moment. It was not that he did not want to—but he was afraid this eighteen-year-old boy’s body might not be able to take it.
If blood ended up spilling into the hot spring, he would never be able to show his face again.
“Go ahead, Teacher. I’ll order some warm tea and pastries.” With that, Shen Zheng opened the wooden door and stepped outside first.
Wen Zhuo bit lightly at his lower lip and entered the changing alcove. He removed his robe, folded it neatly, and placed it on the wooden rack nearby. Then he began untying the cords of his undergarment.
It took six or seven knots before the entire garment finally came loose. The silk slid inch by inch from his shoulders and back, smooth as polished jade, revealing graceful curves like a ravine and a sacred peak.
Before putting on the inner tunic, Wen Zhuo instinctively reached toward the inside of his thigh. Hidden there were two ugly burn scars—an unhealed pain he absolutely refused to let anyone see.
His expression shifted several times before he finally concealed the hatred and chill in his eyes. Calmly, he put on the inner tunic and tightened the silk sash.
As long as he kept his legs pressed together later, no one would discover them.
By the time Shen Zheng returned with warm tea and several plates of pastries, Wen Zhuo had already changed. He was still standing there, waiting for him.
The moment Shen Zheng’s gaze fell upon him, he forgot that he was still holding the tray and simply stared.
The inner tunics worn at the hot springs were generally made of thin fabric, collarless and loose-fitting. As a result, Shen Zheng could not help but see the collarbones Wen Zhuo usually kept hidden beneath the folded collar of his official robes.
At last, his throat and shoulders seemed joined together, as though the final missing piece had been added to a fragmentary landscape painting.
It was difficult to describe just how delicate and beautiful that stretch of skin was. If one were to rub it again and again beneath one’s fingers, how would it flush with layer upon layer of red, and what sort of response would it give?
Perhaps he still felt self-conscious, for Wen Zhuo had not removed his socks. Thus, between the hem of his inner garment and his white silk stockings, only a narrow strip of calf—barely two fingers’ breadth—was exposed. His skin was luminous and pale, making Shen Zheng want to peel the stockings off himself and take a closer look.
Wen Zhuo had already cast aside every shred of dignity, throwing a scholar’s sense of shame to the winds. Looking at Shen Zheng, he said calmly, “Your Highness, get changed. I would like to enter the pool with you.”
At those words alone,
Shen Zheng began to stir.
His Adam’s apple bobbed heavily beneath his skin several times. He swiftly ran through the Great Compassion Mantra in his mind before finally suppressing the restless heat within him.
“Teacher is acting rather strangely today.”
With a smile, Shen Zheng set the tea and pastries in his hand down on the stone table. Just as he was about to undress, he caught a trace of warm medicinal fragrance drifting from Wen Zhuo’s undergarment hanging nearby.
His fingers struggled at the jade belt around his waist, the hard ornament pressing into his palm until it ached. Only after a long while did he manage to steady himself again.
Letting out a long breath, Shen Zheng lifted a hand and swept back the damp, slightly curling ends of his hair. With a crisp, decisive motion, he stripped off his dark-blue robe, revealing a lean, powerful chest.
He had long since lost the frailty he had possessed upon first returning to Great Qian. In its place was the untamed vigor of the northern steppes, something born into his very bones and blood. Chiseled muscles clung tightly to his broad frame; even the old scars scattered across his skin became a temptation dry enough to leave one’s throat parched.
Wen Zhuo had already clenched his inner robe into a wrinkled ball in his palm, yet his gaze remained firmly fixed on Shen Zheng. Shen Zheng paused with his hand at his waistband. Seeing Wen Zhuo’s eyes burn with open intensity, with no intention of turning away, he raised a brow, a glimmer of amusement flashing in his eyes.
Bracing his thumb against the waistband, he slowly tugged it down by an inch—then stopped.
He looked at Wen Zhuo with a faint, teasing smile. “Teacher, what do you want to see? Say it, and I’ll show you.”
