Song Changsheng finished conveying the imperial decree and was escorted away. Pu Zhu collected herself and looked at the Guo couple, whose smiles now appeared even more forced than before. She understood perfectly.

The Guo family certainly had no wish to see her become the Crown Prince’s consort, but they must have wished even less to see her become the consort of Prince Qin.

Who was Prince Qin? A man of delicate political standing — a singular figure whose future could be upended at any moment.

Why had he reached this age without yet taking a princess consort? Because not a single family of suitable standing in the capital dared to tie their future to his.

The Guo couple had brought her back into their household with obvious intentions — to exploit her once more, whether for the prestige she could bring or for an advantageous marriage alliance. They had never imagined it would end like this.

No wonder they could not smile. From this day forward, the greatest wish of Grand Tutor Guo Lang would likely be that Prince Qin remain safe and sound, blessed with good fortune, and free from any calamity — for if trouble came, he would immediately become the target of the envious political enemies circling like wolves. Even if each took only a single bite, it would be more than enough to undo him.

But compared to the Guo family’s distress, the shock that struck Pu Zhu and the turmoil that rose within her were truly like a crashing wave.

She lay alone face-down on her pillow, tears rolling from her eyes from time to time, her heart in utter chaos. The tears fell for A’mu’s strange departure without a word of farewell, and for this imperial marriage decree that had descended upon her without the slightest warning.

Once an imperial decree is issued, no matter how many thousands of times one refuses to accept it, it is utterly futile. No one can change this fact.

She must marry Li Xuandu. She must become the Consort of Prince Qin.

Why had such an absurd decree been issued?

With the decree now standing, what path lay ahead for her?

Li Xuandu left the city and rode along the road back toward Ziyang Temple.

In the distance, the mountain moon was hazy, the cloud cover thick. A flock of night crows beat their wings and swept across the clouds.

He rode along the road, and halfway through the journey, he suddenly yanked fiercely on the reins. His mount bolted into a wild gallop, swiftly leaving Ye Xiao and the others far behind, until his figure vanished into the darkness of the night. Ye Xiao and the rest gave chase with all their strength, pursuing him to Ziyang Temple, where they found Prince Qin’s horse standing outside the mountain gate, its neck and shoulders drenched in sweat — but the man himself was nowhere to be seen.

Ye Xiao searched urgently, combing through the pine grove where the prince often went, finding no one. He searched until nearly midnight before finally spotting a figure lying on its back atop a great boulder on the summit of the rear mountain.

The moonlight overhead was obscured by dark clouds. Mountain winds surged from all directions, and Ye Xiao sensed a wave of damp air — rain was coming.

He approached carefully and said in a low voice: “My lord, it is time to return.”

The figure lying upon the rock did not stir in the slightest, as though asleep, only the hem of his robe snapping in the wind.

“Your Highness, rain is coming. It is time to return.”

Ye Xiao drew closer and bent down to call to him once more.

Li Xuandu lay with his eyes closed. Amid the howling mountain wind in his ears, he seemed to drift back to that night many years ago when he had kept vigil at the imperial tombs. He saw his eighteen-year-old self leaving Wanshou Temple, climbing to the top of the plateau — just as in this moment, cut off from heaven and earth, utterly alone. He had lain on a great boulder through an entire night and only returned at dawn.

In his ears, the last words his imperial grandmother Jiang had spoken before he departed this evening seemed to sound again.

She had said: if you are unwilling, even though the decree has been issued, your imperial grandmother can still decide for you.

Your imperial grandmother has already wronged you once. This time, your imperial grandmother can protect you.

Your imperial grandmother does not favor the Pu family. And this — even the Emperor himself cannot defy.

Every word Jiang had spoken fell with weight and conviction. She wished to protect him — but did he, Li Xuandu, truly have a choice?

He did not fear the iron-fisted retribution that might come from the Emperor for refusing the marriage. Whatever he did or did not do, his very existence was itself a crime. Retribution would come sooner or later — he understood this better than anyone.

He did not care. What joy was there in life? What terror in death? These years of cultivating the Dao had not enabled him to shed the mortal body and cleanse the six senses, yet the Daoist acceptance of life and death — that, at least, he had achieved to some degree.

But was it worth it — to cause a rift between the aged Jiang, who should have been enjoying her twilight years in peace, and the Emperor, on his account? And to drag the kingdom of Que, linked to him through his mother’s bloodline, into the consequences?

He was no longer the reckless, unruly young man of those earlier days.

It was nothing more than gaining a princess consort. Whatever the Emperor’s purpose — a show of favor, or something else — he would simply accept it.

Yet the burning sensation in his chest could not be suppressed. No matter how he tried to press it down, it would not yield. Inch by inch, the searing pain seemed to spread through his entire body — through his limbs, his very bones — leaving not a single part untouched.

“Your Highness, you should return…”

When the urging voice reached his ears once more, Li Xuandu was suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of violent agitation, no longer able to contain himself. He snapped his eyes open and roared “Get out!” With a swing of his arm, he lashed out with the horsewhip wound around his wrist, striking it hard across the cheek and neck of the person beside him, leaving a deep welt.

Blood seeped slowly from the welt.

Ye Xiao’s voice cut off abruptly.

Having taken a lash without warning, he stared in shock as Prince Qin rose from the rock with a dark expression, then flipped himself to the ground and strode down the mountain without a backward glance.

The sudden rain that began in the second half of the night had stopped. The sky was brightening toward dawn. Ye Xiao lingered outside the door of the quiet chamber for a moment before finally entering. He rounded the blue screen and peered inside.

Prince Qin’s robes were disheveled. He held a jug of grape wine in hand, his body slouched against the cloud-couch by the window, eyes fixed on the drops of accumulated rainwater falling one by one from the eaves tiles of the veranda outside.

“Your Highness, young Miss Pu has come and wishes to see you. And Lord Han, the prince consort, has also come and wishes to see you as well.”

He said in a low, steady voice.

Li Xuandu did not turn his head. In a hoarse, cold voice he said: “Tell them both to get out. From now on, let no one come here again.”

Ye Xiao asked no further questions and turned to withdraw — but heard his name called once more, and stopped, bowing respectfully: “Does Your Highness have further instructions?”

Li Xuandu slowly turned his face.

His eyes were laced with a faint web of red, his expression weary. His gaze settled on the livid bruise left by last night’s lash across Ye Xiao’s cheek and neck, and he said quietly: “It was my fault. Do not hold it against me.”

A warmth seemed to surge through Ye Xiao’s heart — yet the wound from the lash throbbed with a sharp, stinging pain. He smiled and said: “As long as Your Highness is well, one lash means nothing to me.”

Li Xuandu smiled faintly, with a hint of exhaustion, and waved his hand to send him off to dismiss the visitors.

Ye Xiao accepted his orders, turned, and walked a few steps toward the hall entrance — then heard the prince call out again, and stopped once more: “Does Your Highness have further instructions?”

“Your father — he died an innocent death because of my crimes, long ago. Why is it that you bear me no hatred?”

Li Xuandu fixed his gaze upon him and asked slowly.

Ye Xiao was startled. He paused, then said: “My father and I received orders from the late Emperor to become household retainers of the Prince Qin’s estate. As household retainers, our lives belong to Prince Qin.”

He finished speaking, bowed deeply to the disheveled man reclining on the cloud-couch, then turned and walked out.

Pu Zhu had not slept a wink the night before. That very morning, the moment the city gates opened, she had left the city and come here.

She wanted to confront Li Xuandu — to demand to know why the Emperor had issued such a marriage decree. Beneath this absurd arrangement, what role exactly had Li Xuandu played? Could he truly have known nothing about it?

Unlike Pu Zhu, who was filled with resentment and fury, Han Rongchang had heard the news of the decree early that morning and felt he had rendered a great service. Since becoming a prince consort, it was the first time he had ever felt such a tremendous sense of accomplishment. He rushed over first thing in the morning, eager to claim credit before Li Xuandu — and by coincidence, the two arrived together. They waited outside the Yuqing Hall for a moment, then saw Ye Xiao emerge and stepped forward to meet him.

Ye Xiao said apologetically: “Prince Qin is in the midst of religious cultivation and must continue his retreat for several days without receiving visitors. Please forgive us, young miss and Lord Han.”

Pu Zhu looked at the closed door and, in her fury, made to force her way in. Ye Xiao raised his sword crosswise to block the entrance. Though the sword remained sheathed, his tone grew several degrees colder: “Young miss, Prince Qin is in cultivation and cannot see anyone. Please return.”

Pu Zhu glanced at the welt marks on Ye Xiao’s cheek and neck, sensing that he was showing her no quarter today, quite unlike his usual manner — she knew she would not get through, and stopped in her tracks.

Han Rongchang had arrived early in high spirits, only to be turned away at the door. He had not expected Li Xuandu, all for the sake of his Daoist cultivation, to refuse even to show his face — and could not help feeling greatly deflated.

But still — it was one thing to turn him away, but to refuse to see even the young miss of the Pu family, whom the Emperor had just decreed to marry him, without fear of offending her? Han Rongchang, equal parts astonished and admiring, grew all the more curious about what kind of cultivation Li Xuandu was actually engaged in. While Pu Zhu and Ye Xiao were speaking, he had been mulling it over ceaselessly, and suddenly recalled that Daoist practice reportedly included inner cultivation methods of a dual-cultivation nature, which not only replenished the essence and nourished the brain, but also extended one’s lifespan. With the wedding imminent, could it be that this was precisely what Li Xuandu was practicing — which was why he could not show his face?

Han Rongchang had been lost in his fanciful speculations when he noticed the standoff and snapped back to attention. Thinking that he might need to deal frequently with the future princess consort, he hastily stepped in to smooth things over: “Young miss, since Prince Qin is not receiving visitors, he must have his reasons. Why not return for now — I’ll escort you back to the city on his behalf.”

Pu Zhu suppressed the rage in her heart, said not a word, and turned to leave.