◎ Trailing Vines ◎

“Repeatedly flattered his sovereign, coveted beauty, wealth, and power… Once, the Luo woman held undue influence at court, and officials submitted memorials against her; Zhou Tan refused to speak plainly, an act of treacherous flattery. Later, Chancellor Su listed him among the Ten Great Evils, to the satisfaction of all…”

“—In his youth a dissolute young master, indulgent in tea and citrus, obsessed with poetry and books, laboring through half a life only to see it all dissolve into illusion… What remains is a broken bed, a cracked table, a shattered cauldron, an ailing zither—truly as though from another age.”

Before Qu You had spoken earlier, she had, in truth, still harbored one final thought of trying to persuade him otherwise—

Though she knew everything Zhou Tan had done had reasons that made it unavoidable, and she had no grounds to stop him, she was his wife, and even less able to weigh things in terms of “worth it” or “right and proper.”

She wanted to tell him that after everything he had done, the world had still failed him.

If he had truly done any of those things attributed to him—even just one.

If he had truly harbored any base or shameful thought—even just once.

She would never have felt this wronged on his behalf.

But Zhou Tan was stubbornly, purely himself—cold and desolate as frost, yet upright and proper all his days, a truly noble gentleman through and through.

How could he possibly be such a purely good man?

It was the world that had wronged him.

Only, the moment he’d recited that verse she’d once dimly recalled while imprisoned in Song Shiyan’s dungeon, she understood everything completely.

There was nothing more to say.

Zhou Tan, it seemed, had already anticipated exactly how the history books would portray him from the very moment he decided to do all this.

He had asked Song Shixuan, asked Su Chaoci, listened to Yan Fu and Bai Shating—yet showed no curiosity about himself at all. Not because he lacked curiosity—but because, a thousand years ago, Zhou Tan himself had already decided how the historians’ pen would render its final verdict on him.

The commentary she’d written in the margins of that book hadn’t truly been written by her at all—it had been Zhou Tan himself, guiding her hand, stroke by stroke, from somewhere beyond time.

Just as that day on the boat, when Zhou Tan had held her hand and, to build himself a scandalous reputation, had written the line “Held the beauty in my arms, reading beneath the curtain”—absurd, ridiculous—yet he had embraced it willingly.

They stood so close together now that she could hear his breathing, his heartbeat, and that eternal, moving scent of still water that always clung to him.

“You…”

Before she could finish, her voice trembling, Zhou Tan turned to face her and cut in softly. “Since you’d already seen all that, why did you back then still…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but Qu You understood exactly what he meant.

—You’d already seen the shameful things history would say of me. Why, when we first met, were you still willing to save me?

Even she herself didn’t know how to answer that. Perhaps from the very first moment she’d laid eyes on him in this lifetime, some faint voice deep within her had already known—that even if every one of their lifetimes together ended in heartbreak and sorrow, never reaching a happy conclusion, the mere sight of him made everything that came before feel meaningful after all.

“I remember you once told me that your one lifelong wish was to see the truth of history laid bare.” Zhou Tan’s voice was very soft, as though speaking to her, and yet also as though speaking only to himself. “…So this is what that meant. I’m sorry—glimpsing the truth may not always be a good thing after all.”

The history books cast a shadow over everything—why bother probing the dark, painful undercurrents hidden beneath them?

He reached out and touched her face; his eyelashes trembled, and tears slid down his cheeks, yet his expression remained utterly calm, the corner of his mouth even holding a faint smile. “…Let me go. You have your own wish, and I have mine. Once, I too hoped to grow old together with you, side by side. But heaven was unjust, and that one wish has already slipped beyond reach. I can’t afford to lose the other one as well.”

“Then simply go—why ask for my permission at all?” Qu You raised a hand and wiped away the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “You’d already thought everything through so carefully—why bother seeking my consent now? If I refused, would you truly give it up?”

“You are my wife. From the day you saved my life, it stopped being mine alone… You and I share this body, this flesh and blood, these seven emotions and six desires—and now they must inevitably move toward their end. I only wanted you to know that you matter to me just as much as the fate of this nation does. Making this choice doesn’t mean choosing the nation over you—it’s only… I have no other way left, and this sacrifice carries meaning.”

“But why does it have to be you?” Qu You looked away, asking numbly. A moment later, as though remembering something, she said urgently, “Then let me tell you this—do you know that Great Yin will eventually fall regardless, destroyed by the very factional strife you’ve devoted your life to curbing? Your sacrifice, at most, will buy only a century of peace… Life is short. Even if Physician Bo says your days are numbered, that doesn’t necessarily mean…”

Zhou Tan rose, steadying himself against the corridor pillar, showing no shock at all at the word “destroyed.” He only replied calmly, “Is a century really so short?”

Qu You was momentarily stunned into silence.

“Every dynasty eventually passes away. And the century ahead of us… compared to a thousand years, it’s fleeting, gone in an instant. But compared to you, to me, to the people living here now—it’s impossibly long. Long enough for every citizen of this capital to live out their entire lives in peace, free from war, free from strife, free from injustice, dying peacefully in old age surrounded by children and grandchildren, rather than dying of famine or war, or being used as a pawn and bargaining chip by those in power.” Zhou Tan didn’t dare meet her eyes. “Isn’t that exactly the kind of life we’ve always wanted for ourselves? If I can’t achieve it for myself, then I should at least do everything in my power to achieve it for others. A century of peace… is already more than enough. I’ve done what I could.”

With that, he stepped through the pooled rainwater before the pavilion and walked away, slowly but with unwavering resolve. Qu You gave a soft, choked laugh behind him. “The trouble of a person begins the moment they learn to read—you have no idea how much I wish, right now, that I were just some ignorant shrew from the street, who knew nothing but how to throw a tantrum and demand my husband bend to my will… You say you want to let others have their way—will you let me have mine too? After you die, I absolutely won’t…”

She stopped herself abruptly, then, shifting her tone, added with a note of forced petulance, “You’d better take good care of yourself. If you die, I’ll remarry someone else and forget you completely, from this day forward.”

Zhou Tan knew perfectly well she was lying—she was far too intelligent a woman for anything else. Exchanging these words with him now was simply because they both understood, deep down, that his decision could not be stopped, and she couldn’t forgive herself for being unable to say even a single word against it—so instead, she lashed out at him out of sheer helpless frustration.

He had already thought through every cause and consequence with perfect clarity, yet couldn’t help but feel a sharp, dense pain at her words—a pain so real that he stopped in his tracks, pressing a hand to his chest, standing there for a long moment as though plunged into an icy abyss, before finally rousing himself from the sensation, catching sight of a rain-soaked lily-of-the-valley by the path.

“If I die and you forget me… isn’t that my greatest wish too?”

So he laughed, forcing his voice to sound calm, though he knew perfectly well she wouldn’t believe a word of it—still, he had to put on the performance, striving to make it convincing.

“In that case… it’s for the best.”

He left the rear garden’s Linfeng Pavilion, leaving Qu You sitting alone within it, watching his figure vanish into the depths of the night. She wrapped her arms around the corridor pillar and closed her eyes, the lingering chill of the night rain creeping up her spine, spreading, cold and bitter.

“You have your wish, and I have mine…” she repeated dazedly. “I’ve told so many lies tonight—at least there should be one true thing left. Glimpsing the truth was never painful for me—it mattered to me too much. Since that’s so, then you too… let me go.”

After Zhou Tan’s dismissal from office, Emperor Ming took a long time deciding on a replacement Chancellor.

Yet not a single official in the court dared press him on the matter, because after that argument with Zhou Tan in the imperial study, Emperor Ming had caught a chill in the rear garden, and in his shock and fury, had promptly fallen ill—canceling morning court for three days straight.

Zhou Tan shut his doors to visitors. Su Chaoci maintained a neutral silence. The Empress was too meek to intervene, and within the rear palace, only Luo Jiangting remained close enough to attend the young Emperor personally. Eyes lowered, she washed the young sovereign’s hands, then took hold of his fever-warmed fingers.

Through the layered curtains, she heard Song Shixuan ask, “A’Luo, are you happy?”

Luo Jiangting knew nothing of “A’Luo”—only that Song Shixuan had once dearly loved a cat by that name, and had mourned its death for a long while afterward. At first, she’d assumed he called her “A’Luo” simply because he saw her as a plaything, a trinket. Later, seeing the deep, wistful tenderness in his eyes whenever he looked at her, she realized the name carried genuine affection after all.

How could a man so pure and passionate ever be suited to being an emperor?

Luo Jiangting knelt on the thick, soft carpet, pressing her cheek into his palm.

She closed her eyes, recalling the very first day they’d met—how she’d pretended to be desperate and cornered, stopping his palanquin in the street.

The young man had lifted the curtain and glanced at her once.

She had never imagined it would go so smoothly—needing only that single glance.

A pang of bitter guilt rose in her heart, then faded away just as quickly. She only answered docilely, “Your Majesty, simply being able to stay by your side is already the greatest joy and contentment I could ask for.”

Bo Ying had recently been summoned by Su Chaoci, and the Imperial Academy of Medicine’s physicians had visited several times. The young Emperor’s fever had already lessened considerably compared to before; the attending physician, before leaving just now, had specifically instructed that after drinking this last dose of medicine, he should sleep well, and would likely feel much better by tomorrow.

Perhaps because of the medicine, Song Shixuan drifted in a hazy, semi-conscious state. Even lying right beside him, Luo Jiangting couldn’t tell whether he was speaking to her or simply murmuring in his sleep. “Is that so? But I always feel… that I owe you something… back then… you had nothing, and I had nothing either, and yet I found it wonderful. If only we could have truly been an ordinary couple…”

His words came out disjointed and confused. Luo Jiangting knelt before the couch, listening in a daze, and suddenly a single tear fell.

Startled by her own tears, she quickly reached up to wipe them away, forcing herself to calm down, clearing her throat before speaking. “Your Majesty, the physicians say this illness of yours stems from emotional distress as well. Could it be that what happened before the study the other day truly upset you so much, over the former Chancellor? I know Your Majesty once held him in deep affection and regard, but a man so consumed by scheming and political maneuvering—how could he possibly be…”

She trailed off without finishing. Song Shixuan remained silent for a long while before finally answering simply, “…Yes.”

Luo Jiangting felt somewhat relieved, and asked further, “Does Your Majesty wish to forgive him?”

Song Shixuan said quietly, “I… don’t know what he’s thinking.”

Luo Jiangting said quickly, “Since Your Majesty is so troubled by this, I too find myself worried. Why not let me summon Madam Zhou into the palace tomorrow, and ask her about it myself?”

Song Shixuan said, “Very well.”

Before she could say more, a palace attendant came to report that the Empress had arrived.

With the Empress present, she couldn’t linger any longer. Luo Jiangting rose to take her leave, bowing as she backed away several steps, and heard Song Shixuan call after her: “A’Luo…”

His voice was extraordinarily tender and lingering, carrying what seemed like a trace of reluctant, tearful longing.

She didn’t dare turn back, only answering, “Your Majesty?”

From behind the curtain, the young man’s voice came hoarse. “The wind is strong outside. Wear my outer robe before you go.”

And so, when the Empress entered the hall, all she saw was Luo Jiangting, draped in a gilt-edged cloak, eyes reddened, hurrying out of the chamber. She seemed somewhat out of composure, disregarding her usual careful attention to etiquette, only bowing her head hastily and rushing off in a fluster.

The Empress walked into the hall, and at once the attendants closed the heavy doors behind her.

She took a few steps forward, then raised her eyes to see the young Emperor, having lifted the gauze curtain aside, sitting on the bed with an indifferent expression—aside from slightly flushed cheeks, there was no trace at all of serious illness about him.

The Empress lowered her eyes and stepped closer. “Your Majesty, the wind is cold. You shouldn’t be sitting up.”

Song Shixuan took her hand in response, speaking gently. “I know. You’ve grown thin these past days, chanting sutras and praying for blessings. Come, sit and talk with me for a while.”

The Empress glanced back and, finding the room empty of attendants, smiled at him—entirely free of the reserved, respectful manner she maintained before others, instead speaking with easy familiarity, as though the two of them were quite close indeed. “Just as Your Majesty instructed, I dutifully went and knelt at the Tower of Burning Candles for three whole days. How will Your Majesty thank me for that?”