“Miss Yan, I only saw him three times and spoke with him no more than ten sentences total.”

Tang Jianxi: “But just those three brief encounters told me this person was not wicked. He couldn’t do something like using witchcraft to curse his own father to death.”

“Because he was the disciple your teacher cultivated his entire life.”

“Yes! If only he could have been more ruthless, it wouldn’t have come to this.”

Tang Jianxi: “Chu Yanting once spoke to me about him. He said the man lived up to his name—the courtesy name our teacher bestowed perfectly captured who he was. He could be tolerant of people and forbearing of circumstances, truly embodying benevolence.”

“Then…”

Yan Sanhe: “What’s your view on the witchcraft curse case?”

“Previously I couldn’t see through it. So many things seemed veiled in gauze, shrouded in mist. Year after year passed, the gauze was blown away by wind, the mist scattered by sunlight…”

Tang Jianxi laughed coldly.

“Even without you telling me about Zhu Xuanjiu’s affairs, without Yanting’s manuscripts, I could still work out the pattern. Nothing more than eight characters: inside-outside coordination, forcing him to rebel.”

Inside-outside coordination, forcing him to rebel—exactly the same as Young Master Pei’s analysis.

But manuscripts?

“Tang Jianxi.”

Yan Sanhe suppressed her excitement and asked, “Where are Chu Yanting’s manuscripts? May I see them?”

Tang Jianxi rose from the ground, walked to the pile of books, bent down and untied the rope, then carefully extracted several sheets of paper from between the pages of a book.

“Buyan, bring the lamp closer.”

Li Buyan took the oil lamp down from the wall and placed it beside Yan Sanhe.

Yan Sanhe accepted the papers but didn’t look right away. Instead, she looked up at Tang Jianxi. “You’ve kept these things—aren’t you afraid that one day…”

“Afraid!”

“Then why keep them?”

“The same reason Miss Yan must resolve this heart demon.”

Knowing it cannot be done, yet must be done.

Looking at Tang Jianxi’s resolute gaze, an indescribable emotion slowly rose in Yan Sanhe’s heart. She remained silent for quite a while before bending her head to read by lamplight—

Thirtieth year of Yuanfeng;

Seventh month, twelfth day;

When I rose this morning, my right eyelid kept twitching. Left eye twitches for wealth, right eye for disaster. Thinking of last night’s dream, I went to the Buddhist hall and lit three sticks of incense.

The dream was about Lin Bi.

Since her suicide, she’d never entered my dreams—this was the first time.

In the dream, she wore a sky-blue gauze skirt, her features serene and refined, holding flowers in her right hand and smiling, just as she’d been nine years ago.

But I had grown old.

In Rongyu’s study, there was also a small Buddhist hall in the side room.

He said that with his position, exposing his innermost thoughts to anyone was lethal. Only telling the Buddha was safe.

I established this Buddhist hall following his example. When my heart is troubled, I come here to sit.

The hall enshrines Guanyin Bodhisattva. Vajras glare in fury, Bodhisattvas lower their brows—people say the Bodhisattva can see all the suffering in the mortal world.

If so, she should be able to see me, see Rongyu.

After our teacher passed, I entered the Chancellery Office, assisting Rongyu.

I spoke little, smiled less.

Rongyu spoke even less than I, his face rarely showing smiles. He would often summon me late at night—ruler and minister sharing a pot of wine, both wordless, slowly drinking until it was finished, then dispersing.

This was a silent, taciturn Rongyu only I could see. To outsiders, he remained His Majesty’s beloved Crown Prince, the spirited heir apparent.

One below one, above ten thousand ten thousands.

He still treated people with the same courtesy as before, only his actions carried more decisiveness and ruthlessness. Reportedly, aside from the Crown Princess, everyone in the Eastern Palace feared him.

After the spring examination incident, he began investigating the backgrounds and ambitions of his several imperial brothers.

His Majesty had many sons, quite a few with ambitions.

Even ordinary families fight over family property—this paramount position under heaven, this overwhelming power, would move anyone’s heart.

This was Rongyu’s first difficulty—too many watching with hungry eyes, both openly and covertly, all staring fixedly at that piece of meat.

Rongyu’s second difficulty lay in His Majesty’s iron fist and suspicion.

Iron fist governance, suspicious control of people.

His Majesty’s iron fist had already made princes, nobles, and civil and military officials live in constant fear, terrified that one wrong word would cost them their heads.

And “suspicion” applied to one’s own son—whether as ruler and minister or father and son—would only drive them further apart.

Now His Majesty grew increasingly aged. As people age, their ears soften, listening to everyone except Rongyu.

Rongyu said that one day when His Majesty caught a cold, he attended at the bedside with medicine. His Majesty delayed opening his mouth until he personally tasted it first—He doesn’t trust me!

I told him: He doesn’t distrust you; he trusts no one.

I also told him: Your Highness, endure a while longer, and all will be well.

Yes, endure a while longer. News from the Imperial Medical Bureau indicated only century-old ginseng still had any effect on him now.

Old ginseng sustains the dying—it works.

He wouldn’t live much longer.

The character for “endure” has a blade over the heart. These years, Rongyu had endured bitterly. His knees, from prolonged kneeling, ached dully on overcast and rainy days.

Rongyu once told me: His greatest mistake was being born too early.

When the father is healthy and long-lived, the son’s wings grow full—two tigers contending, one must be injured.

If he’d been born a few years later, it wouldn’t be so difficult.

I smiled and consoled him: To wear the crown, one must bear its weight. Born a few years later, it wouldn’t be your turn to be Crown Prince.

After a long silence, Rongyu suddenly said: “No one ever asked if I wanted to be Crown Prince.”

Three sticks of incense burned halfway when one suddenly went out.

My heart pounded—I felt great foreboding. Just then, attendant Liang Qian rushed in saying the Imperial Guards had surrounded the Eastern Palace.

I was so frightened my soul flew away. I quickly donned official robes and rushed to the Chancellery Office to gather information.

Arriving at the Chancellery, half my colleagues had already arrived, all anxious about why Imperial Guards would surround the Eastern Palace.

The Chancellery Office was entirely Crown Prince faction. If something happened to the Crown Prince, none could escape implication.

To survive, everyone employed every method at their disposal, sending people everywhere to investigate what had actually happened at the Eastern Palace.

By evening, news finally emerged—they said witchcraft dolls had been dug up from the Eastern Palace, bearing not only the Emperor’s birth characters but seven steel needles piercing them.

Hearing this, I felt as though struck by lightning.

Cursing the Son of Heaven equals treason.

Someone wanted to destroy the Crown Prince utterly.

More coincidentally, His Majesty’s dragon body had been unwell these past days. He hadn’t held court for two days—clearly someone had calculated everything in advance.

Not one person in the Chancellery believed the Crown Prince could be so foolish.

Left Chancellor Han Ming also served as Vice Minister of Rites. Han Ming had been the Crown Prince’s study companion since childhood, growing up together—their bond was extraordinary.

Han Ming was first to recover composure.

He commanded everyone to contact various forces to submit memorials tomorrow pleading the Crown Prince’s innocence, while he himself would go to Empress Xiaoxian’s natal family to seek support.

None dared slack off. At such life-or-death moments, naturally all prospered together or fell together.

—