Shen Xi seized a horse from the palace gate guards during the morning hours and rode all the way toward Zhaojue Temple.

Each military guard had its own arrangements. His actions were truly against protocol, but though several guards at the Chengtian Gate chased after him shouting for quite some time, he acted as if he hadn’t heard.

Later, two administrative officials from the Ministry of Finance came running out. After hearing the guards explain the situation, they shook their heads: “Just now, somehow, Lord Shen seemed to think of something and suddenly went mad.”

This was during the New Year period before court sessions had resumed. Each governmental office only arranged for one or two people on duty in case of urgent official business.

Earlier, these two Ministry of Finance officials had been sitting in the public hall casually chatting. When they saw Shen Xi arrive, they poured him a cup of freshly brewed tea. One of them asked: “Lord Shen, have you heard about Minister Qian’s retirement?”

Shen Xi gave a perfunctory “Mm.”

The other official said: “Why did Minister Qian retire? When winter began, he said that when the Emperor made his southern tour after the new year, he wanted to request permission to accompany the procession and personally inspect the wheat and grain harvest in southern Zhejiang.”

Hearing these words, Shen Xi froze.

He suddenly understood something—the Emperor’s poor health wasn’t new, yet when winter began, when the incident at the palace front hall occurred, no one thought he would abdicate.

It could be said that Zhu Jingyuan’s idea to abdicate arose almost on impulse after Su Jin impeached Zhu Jiyou, just before the New Year.

Yesterday, Shen Xi had been thinking that Zhu Zhaowei had orchestrated Qian Yu’s death to make Qian Zhihuan become disheartened and retire to his hometown, so that after Zhu Minda ascended the throne, he couldn’t use Qian Zhihuan to expose his embezzlement, allowing him to return to Fengyang to reorganize his troops without worry.

But now it seemed Qian Yu’s death couldn’t possibly have been designed by Zhu Zhaowei, because he didn’t know then that Zhu Minda would soon ascend the throne. Why would he, secure in his position, needlessly break the Minister of Finance’s heart and cut off his own arm?

Therefore, the purpose of Qian Yu’s death wasn’t to force Qian Zhihuan into retirement.

Then it could only be about the Feathered Forest Guards.

Using the death of Qian Yu, the deputy commander of the Feathered Forest Guards who had connections to the Seventh Prince, to make Zhu Minda trust this military guard that had followed him for nearly ten years—Su Shiyu had already guessed this when she wrote “everything is false” in the snow.

But they, because of the Feathered Forest Guards’ loyal protection of their master during the winter hunt, because of the immediately following retirement of Qian Zhihuan, had placed their attention on the latter.

Who made Qian Zhihuan retire at this particular moment? Who had so cunningly clouded his vision?

Shen Xi couldn’t figure it out, nor did he have time to think deeply.

He only knew that since this person had given him only one day to contemplate, the Feathered Forest Guards would probably make their move within this day.

He suddenly stood up. On his way to the Eastern Palace, he kept hoping he’d made a mistake, hoping that his wet nurse’s dying words were nothing but a joke.

It was lamentable that Shen Qingyue, who had always thought a hundred steps ahead with perfect strategies, had begun to harbor false hopes at this critical moment.

Before he reached the Eastern Palace, he saw Eunuch You, a senior palace manager, hurrying toward him with panic on his face: “Young Lord Shen, the Eastern Palace may be in trouble.”

Shen Xi stared at him blankly. After a long moment, he heard his own somewhat drifting voice: “What happened? Tell me.”

“After the winter hunt, the Feathered Forest Guards captured two living assassins who had attempted to kill His Highness the Crown Prince. His Highness originally had the Feathered Forest Guards confine them in a dark room for detailed interrogation, but when this humble servant went to deliver food this morning, those two prisoners were already dead—their, their throats had been cut.” Eunuch You paused, saying somewhat frantically: “This humble servant has already inquired. This morning, only two Feathered Forest Guards sent by General Wu, Wu Yusheng, went to interrogate those two prisoners. No one else entered the dark room.”

The tall palace pavilions blocked the light, casting slanting shadows across the long corridor.

When he finished speaking, he saw Shen Xi stagger back a step as if unable to stand steady.

He slowly nodded his head, his whole person seeming to have lost his senses, retreating step by step into the deep shadows of the corridor. Then he suddenly turned and ran madly toward the palace gates as if he no longer cared for his life.

His earlier false hopes and self-deception were ground to powder in this moment.

The Feathered Forest Guards definitely harbored treacherous intentions—otherwise they wouldn’t have killed those two shadow guards. They must have feared someone would extract information from them.

And since they dared to brazenly kill these two shadow guards today, it meant they no longer feared Zhu Minda’s authority. It meant they would definitely make their move today.

Shen Xi knew that beneath these floating, sinking appearances, there must be calculations darker than night, truths deeper than the sea, but he couldn’t contemplate further.

It was as if someone had seized his thoughts, leaving his heart clean and empty, filled only with desolation.

He thought: if only he’d persisted a bit more this morning, persisted just a little, even if it meant blocking the imperial carriage with his body, even if the carriage rolled over him.

He had calculated it all, he’d thought of it long ago, yet somehow, someone had clouded his vision at this crucial moment!

The urgent horse galloped along the western city’s desolate road, still five li from Zhaojue Temple.

From the distant ancient temple suddenly came the sorrowful tolling of a bell.

Shen Xi abruptly pulled the reins. Perhaps because the movement was too sudden, the horse lost its footing on the slope. Shen Xi tumbled from the horse onto the mountain path. The hard stones beside the road struck his elbow painfully, but he couldn’t attend to the pain.

He stared blankly toward Zhaojue Temple, counting the bell tolls one by one.

Twelve bell tolls—the sound of national mourning.

When Zhu Nanxian and Su Jin arrived at Zhaojue Temple, the entire temple was already silent. Someone had gone on a killing spree—monks’ corpses lay everywhere.

Zhu Nanxian steadied himself at the temple gate, quietly observed for a moment, then walked wordlessly toward Zhaojue Hall, stepping around the bodies.

For one instant, Zhu Nanxian and the estate troops following him made no sound.

This once-thriving temple, as if striving to maintain its compassionate bearing, dissolved this scene of sin with endless grace, yet couldn’t disperse the overly thick scent of blood.

When Zhu Nanxian reached the sutra-reciting Buddhist hall, he saw them.

Zhu Minda was pinned upright by three long spears. Though standing, his head hung low, already without breath.

Shen Jing lay beside him, crimson blood staining her entire dress. She lay there quietly, like a flower that had bloomed alongside him and withered alongside him.

Shen Xi had arrived one moment earlier.

He sat collapsed beside Shen Jing, his entire person at a loss. Only when he heard Zhu Nanxian’s footsteps did he turn his head blankly to glance at him, then looked back at Shen Jing, saying lowly and hoarsely: “Someone clouded my vision…”

The midday sun shone bright above, the spring light incomparably magnificent, yet this intense sunlight couldn’t illuminate Zhu Nanxian’s eyes.

His eyes had never been as dim as this moment. His Adam’s apple moved before he asked: “Where is Lin’er?”

Shen Xi’s body shook violently.

Zhu Nanxian lowered his gaze and called: “Personal Guard.”

“Present, my lord.”

He raised his head, gazing straight ahead, his eyes somewhat unfocused, not knowing what he was looking at: “Find Zhu Lin. Even if you must turn the entire temple upside down, this prince must see him alive or see his corpse.”

“Yes.”

The Personal Guard instantly divided into several columns, scattering in all directions.

Zhu Nanxian’s unfocused gaze slowly, slowly refocused on Zhu Minda. He quietly walked before him, raised his hand to grip the long spear that had pierced his chest, and yanked it out forcefully.

The spear clanged to the ground. Zhu Minda’s body, losing its support, fell forward. Zhu Nanxian reached out to catch him, letting his head rest on his shoulder, then raised his hand to pull out the two spears embedded in his back.

In Zhu Nanxian’s eyes, his eldest imperial brother had always been outstanding and exceptional, imposing and dignified. His solid figure had always held up a piece of sky for him, allowing him to grow up carefree in this deep palace.

He had never imagined that one day his eldest imperial brother would collapse so weakly and powerlessly into his arms, as if depending on him completely.

Zhu Nanxian gently laid Zhu Minda down, letting him lie flat on the ground. Then he came to Shen Jing’s side, about to pull out the dagger still embedded in her chest.

Shen Xi seemed startled, suddenly looking up at him: “What are you doing?”

Zhu Nanxian kept his gaze lowered, only saying quietly: “Move aside.”

He reached to grip the dagger, but Shen Xi struck his hand away. His eyes were full of bloodshot veins, even his voice hoarse: “If you pull out the dagger, Elder Sister can’t be saved!”

Seeing Shen Xi still trying to protect Shen Jing’s wound, Zhu Nanxian suddenly blazed with fury.

He reached out and roughly shoved Shen Xi aside, gripping the dagger handle with his left hand and pulling it out in one motion.

No blood splattered out—in this cold early spring, the blood had long since congealed completely.

Zhu Nanxian looked up at Shen Xi, saying lowly and hoarsely: “Look clearly. She’s already dead.”

After saying this, he unfastened the water pouch at his waist and handed it to Su Jin, who stood quietly watching him, saying softly: “I trouble you.”

Su Jin nodded slightly, took out a handkerchief dampened with water, and bent down to wash Shen Jing’s face.

Zhu Nanxian stepped into the Buddhist hall, gripped the silk cloth spread on the massive Buddhist altar, and pulled it outward. The offerings of melons and fruits, incense candles, and prayer beads on it crashed to the floor.

Then he stood at the hall entrance, waiting for Su Jin to finish washing the faces of both Zhu Minda and Shen Jing. He bent down, carried them one by one into the Buddhist hall, and placed them on the altar.

Pinching incense and lighting fire, Zhu Nanxian inserted the incense into the incense burner before the altar, then walked out, grasped Shen Xi’s arm, dragged him into the hall, and threw him onto the prayer cushion before the altar.

Then he knelt on the cushion beside him, and facing Zhu Minda and Shen Jing lying side by side on the altar, slowly bent forward and kowtowed deeply.

Shen Xi stared blankly at Zhu Nanxian. After a moment, his expression calmed, and he too faced the altar, prostrating himself in a kowtow alongside him.

First kowtow: Thank you, Imperial Brother and Sister-in-law, for teaching and raising me, treating me as both younger brother and son, shielding me from the palace’s military conflicts and dark struggles, letting me always live in a world of light.

Second kowtow: Thank you, Elder Sister and Brother-in-law, for trusting and accepting me, letting me act willfully from childhood to adulthood, indulging and understanding me, letting me live peacefully and happily until now.

Third kowtow: May you two forever ascend to paradise, accompany each other, for all eternity, never leaving, never separating.

The lingering Buddhist incense came in waves, diluting the hall’s bloody stench. Shen Xi straightened up in this curling green smoke and quietly spoke: “Last night, Elder Sister came to ask me if, after Brother-in-law ascended the throne, when the weather warmed, she could go with me to Beiping to see Third Sister. Second Sister always thought of others first in everything, with only one obsession in her heart—hoping for family reunion. I know she’d been hoping for reunion for so long. Why didn’t I just agree then? At least it would have made her happy that night, at least it would have left her with fewer regrets when she finally departed.”

Zhu Nanxian didn’t speak. He knelt silently and soundlessly. After a long while, he stood up and walked out of the Buddhist hall in silence.

It was approaching the late afternoon hours. Sunlight still blazed, wind continued ceaselessly.

The surging wind lifted the corners of Zhu Nanxian’s robe, sending them flying backward. Su Jin stood at the hall entrance watching him—his always upright figure stood alone on the vast temple platform, appearing unbearably forlorn.

Zhu Nanxian raised his face, and the clear spring light poured down upon him.

He had always lived his life accompanied by sunlight, the brightest like a star, yet at this very instant, he suddenly felt the spring light falling on his eyes was piercingly painful.

He slowly raised his hand, covering his eyes.

Then Su Jin saw tears rolling down one by one from between his fingers, falling to his jaw, then dropping to the ground.

Like a soundless falling rain.

She slowly walked over, raised her hand to gently grasp his hand covering his eyes, calling: “Your Highness.”

That beautiful hand was wet and icy cold, no longer possessing its former warmth, yet he still responded to her with a soft “Mm.”

Faint sounds of troops and horses came from not far away. Zhu Nanxian’s hand moved, slowly lowering. He looked around and suddenly noticed something amiss—why hadn’t a single one of the Personal Guards he’d sent to find Lin’er returned? Why had every trace of them vanished?

This military guard was one he’d selected from the Nanchang Prefecture troops before returning to the capital. They definitely wouldn’t have problems.

Then had something happened to them somewhere?

The usually carefree Zhu Nanxian had matured almost instantly, unusually keenly guessing the cause and effect. He immediately said to Su Jin: “Leave quickly.”

Su Jin also realized, but seeing the unwipéd moisture in Zhu Nanxian’s eyes, she shook her head: “No. Ayu will accompany Your Highness.”

The sounds of troops and horses drew nearer. Zhu Nanxian knew that the people about to arrive were coming to hunt and intercept him—after Zhu Minda’s death, the next legitimate imperial son to become a target.

If he left with them, probably none would escape, but if he stayed, it would likely buy a chance at life for those following him, for her and Shen Qingyue.

Su Jin looked at him, her eyes seemingly filled with warmth, saying softly again: “At worst, Ayu will die together with Your Highness.”

Zhu Nanxian froze. After a moment, he seemed to want to smile at her. His mouth moved but couldn’t produce a smile.

He reached out to pull her into his embrace, bent his face down, and gently kissed her forehead. “You don’t understand,” he said hoarsely. “If I lose you too, I won’t be able to live either.”

Then he pushed her away, as if wanting to reassure her, finally managing to summon a somewhat sorrowful smile, and once again said to her: “Leave quickly.”