The water was so icy that when he plunged in, he nearly believed he had already died. Yet very quickly, the instinct to survive urged him to endure the searing pain and struggle upward. The moment his fingers just barely broke the water’s surface, he felt someone behind him grab his arm.

Before he could even glance back to see who it was, a blow to his shoulder and neck plunged him completely into unconsciousness.

When he next came to his senses, Song Ling found himself staring into an expanse of hollow black.

The darkness was so absolute it nearly convinced him he had gone blind. He tried to rise, only to discover that his hands and feet were so weighted down they were almost immovable. Reaching out to feel, he touched the cold surface of iron chains.

The wound at his shoulder and neck seemed to have been bandaged. All around him he could detect a faint, lingering medicinal smell. Yet the sense of irregular heartbeat and full-body weakness that had come with the poisoning was still present. He only needed to shake those heavy iron fetters and he felt dizzy, nearly fainting.

What place was this? How had he come to be here?

No one answered.

After an indeterminate length of time, a thread of light leaked down from somewhere above his head.

Having been in darkness so long, the sudden appearance of that light stabbed his eyes with sharp pain that nearly drew tears — but still he stubbornly kept his eyes open and watched the unhurried figure descending, candle in hand.

The figure wore a python-embroidered robe and jade crown, of still-slight stature, with a ring of green jade on the hand that held the lamp.

What a familiar ring, he thought in a daze.

Then the candlelight moved upward, and he saw a pair of round, cat-like eyes.

Those eyes had shed their former furtive timidity and retained only an indifferent, casual blankness.

His breath stopped for a few seconds. Song Ling instinctively dug his fingernails into his own palm, and only after confirming who stood before him did he feel his blood run cold, a wave of trembling crawling up his spine.

In all this time, he had imagined countless possibilities — yet this person was the one he had never once imagined.

And his always humble and obedient sixth younger brother stepped forward, gripped his jaw, and without ceremony poured a bowl of ginseng broth down his throat.

Song Ling choked, coughing until his face flushed crimson: “You…”

Song Lan set down the bowl and candlestick, then knelt before him, as if nothing at all had ever happened, and called to him with a smile: “Elder Brother.”

Not waiting for him to speak, Song Lan continued: “I know what you want to ask. I’ll tell you slowly. But Elder Brother must take care of yourself — Father was heartbroken over your assassination and passed away last night. If you cannot hold on, he will not rest easy in the afterlife.”

Song Ling did not immediately understand what he was saying. A moment later, he was engulfed by a great and terrible grief. He seized Song Lan’s wrist, his voice hoarse: “Father — Father, he…”

He tightened his grip in fury: “It was you!”

“It wasn’t me,” Song Lan frowned, one by one prying open his powerless fingers, “Or rather… it wasn’t entirely me.”

He tilted his head slightly and smiled: “The one who devised the strategy for me was the Chancellor you respected. In truth, many years ago in the Zishantang, he had already become my man. The one who stabbed you was your trusted subordinate — you cared for him, yet you certainly didn’t know that the greatest wish of his life was to be a rogue and a scoundrel. I covered for him all these years, and at last put that sharp blade to use.”

“And the poison you were given… was placed directly in your mouth by your beloved betrothed herself, Elder Brother. Do you know — she wrote the note while I was right beside her. Inside and outside this imperial city, you would only consume without a second thought what she gave you, isn’t that so? Do you know that she had long since resolved to help me?”

Song Ling had been listening with a pounding heart — yet at that last sentence, he let out a long, slow breath.

He knew she would never do such a thing. This was a crude and clumsy attempt to sow discord.

Song Lan studied his expression with great care. Seeing the crease in his brow relax, Song Lan instead raised an eyebrow. He picked up the candlestick and rose to his feet, turned and walked away — then after a few steps, murmured as if to himself: “So this is where your weak point lies…”

He glanced back, smiling to reveal a pair of dimples: “Elder Brother, I’ll come see you again tomorrow.”

Song Lan reached the foot of the steps and stood quietly for a moment, as if waiting for him to say something.

The ginseng broth that had just been poured down was still scalding. Song Ling pressed his throat, and after a long time at last forced out one agonized question: “Why did you…”

Song Lan walked up the steps and blew out the candle in his hand: “Let Elder Brother guess.”

After some time, someone came down and brought him plain rice and clear water.

A long while later, Song Lan appeared again. In the pitch-dark dungeon, he heard the sound of jade ornaments on the imperial crown clanking against one another.

“I know you don’t believe what I told you — but think, Elder Brother: if she weren’t helping me, how could I have had the confidence to take such a great risk? Wouldn’t I, with one careless move, be doing all the work for someone else’s gain?”

“She stood before Mingguang Gate and struck down a military officer who had shown me disrespect.”

On other matters, Song Ling still had the strength to ask a question or two — about when Song Lan had begun planning, when he had harbored this intent, what people he had drawn in. Song Lan answered in full detail, concealing nothing — except for that “why.” But whenever Luowei was mentioned, Song Ling always fell silent.

Song Lan accompanied him patiently in conversation. Having just ascended the throne, he was extremely busy; it seemed he always came late at night. One day, Song Ling even heard the sound of the night wind blowing through the opening above.

Since Song Lan could come daily, this place must be somewhere within the forbidden palace. And since there was wind sound above — this was not indoors. It was a subterranean chamber beneath an open structure.

Day after day of imprisonment had left him extremely weak. The poison within him showed no sign of dispersing. Song Ling lay on the straw spread across the floor, biting his lips raw, thinking with some desperation: even if he figured out where this place was, could his people outside believe he was alive and force their way into the forbidden palace to rescue him?

Moreover, Song Lan had been lurking submissively at his side for all these years, harboring ambitions of usurpation from early on. He was keeping him alive now only for amusement. One day, when he grew tired of his game, he would quietly kill him here and leave no trace.

Either way, it was a dead end.

Song Lan always came alone — his guards all remained at the opening above, and only occasionally came down to relay words of urging. When he spoke with him, he drew very close, with no fear at all that he might lunge forward and strangle him. After all, Song Ling was now so weak that even lifting a finger was a luxury — he had no capacity to kill anyone.

Song Lan would ramble on about current court affairs and gauge the expressions on his face to identify his hidden loyalists. Once he realized this intent, Song Ling began a long silence, refusing to say a single word to him.

Yet Song Lan flew into a violent rage at his indifference and even began to torture him.

After the first round of torture, the young Emperor dipped his fingers in Song Ling’s blood and smeared a red mark across his forehead.

“Elder Brother,” he suddenly said, “why, even now, have you not begged me for a single word?”

Song Ling tilted his head back to look at him and began laughing in fits and starts.

He had finally understood why Song Lan was keeping him alive — not only for amusement, not only to find satisfaction in his suffering and degradation. He was actually unwilling to let him die in an unclear, murky conspiracy. He insisted on making him concede defeat with his own mouth, watching him fall into the abyss with a heart turned to dead ash.

That day, Song Lan had people remove the chains from his hands and feet and carried him up from the dungeon.

His vision had already grown rather blurry. Fortunately it was deep in the night with no blinding sunlight. He saw the glowing silhouette of the Candlelit Tower, and then, in a haze, glimpsed a round full moon hanging in the sky above.

An entire month had already passed — it was full moon again.

“Does Elder Brother still remember — many years ago, also beneath a moon like this,” Song Lan reminisced quietly at his side, “you and I shared a drink, and drank rather too much. The fifth brother, feigning intoxication, danced with a sword and sliced off my hair crown. When the sword point turned to you, though deeply drunk, you still drew your sword by instinct and deflected his teasing. And so the fifth brother, clutching my broken hairpin, burst into great laughter and said you were forever a first-rate heroic figure — while I… at most, was the shadow that carried the hero’s sword.”

He grabbed him by the shoulders, the first hint of composure slipping: “Did you hear those words? Why did you not refute them? In all your eyes, I was forever the pitiable one who needed a hero’s protection! With the sun shining, who can ever see the glittering stars?”

“But no matter,” Song Lan released his grip, and the expression on his face gradually settled into calm, even gently smoothing the wrinkles on his shoulder, “The one who shot down the sun was precisely the insignificant figure in his eyes. I know you have a fire burning in your heart — you cannot accept losing to me. But today I have suddenly made my peace with it. You have already lost. Everything that remains no longer matters.”

“Look at the moon once more — this lifetime, you will likely never see it again,” he tilted his head back and sighed with an apparent air of pity, “Whether living or dead, you will never be able to leave the darkness again. I am also quite curious — can a sun buried in the mire still emit light?”

The next day, he brought him a sheaf of letters.

“Elder Brother, I have never spoken a single false word to you,” Song Lan said, still holding that candle, with seeming sincerity. “In truth, you also believe she betrayed you — you simply haven’t worked out the reason yet. You have known each other since so early — do you know what she wanted?”

Reputation, power, prestige.

The Empress’s position, trust, love.

When he was occupied with managing affairs of state and had no time to spare for her — would she have harbored resentment?

When they walked hand in hand through the rice paddies of Xuzhou — would she have harbored ambition?

In the nearly ten years she had been close to Song Lan — would she have come to feel tenderness toward him for his misfortune and timidity?

These questions, which he once could have answered without a second thought, grew hazy within those letters, one after another.

That was her manner of speech — “Zi Lan, my dear younger brother, upon seeing these words it is as if seeing your face.”

Her handwriting — the Orchid Pavilion style and the flying-white script had always been difficult to imitate. He had never seen another person write in that hand.

At last, one day, Song Lan no longer read him the letters.

“Elder Brother, I am to be married.”

For the first and only time, he left that candle behind — letting Song Ling watch helplessly as that point of light died out before his eyes.

“This place is the Candlelit Tower. If you don’t believe me, then listen quietly. We will walk hand in hand along the white jade steps before Qianfang Hall and perform the wedding rites, then proceed to the Candlelit Tower to burn incense and offer sacrifice. You will hear ritual music, blessings, and the sound of fireworks bursting — that day will be even more festive than the Lantern Festival.”

Song Ling reached out and gripped his hem, and after a long silence, forced out a hoarse question.

“Does she… know that I am still alive?”

“She carried my sword to establish my authority, willingly entered the court to confront Yu Qiushi face to face. Though I had calculated everything to the last detail, without her Son of Heaven’s sword, how could I have been certain I could ascend the throne? One misstep would have cost me my life… She and I are the same kind of person. What meaning does your life or death hold?”

Song Lan leaned close to his ear and pressed a brocade box from his sleeve into his hands.

“By the way — she also personally gouged out your fifth brother’s eyes. The civil officials at court wanted to support him for the throne, so she and I discussed framing him for your murder. Elder Brother, he revered you so deeply — when you meet on the road to the underworld, remember to return these eyes to him, as a token of mourning on my behalf.”

A clamor of voices filled his mind, asking what was true and what was false. The towering Buddhist image smiled with compassionate sorrow. He had paid his respects at all thirteen Buddhist temples in the capital, absorbing a body full of the pure fragrance of lotus blossoms. But when he fell into the endless abyss, the gods and Buddhas sat high above, unmoved.

He could no longer recall when Song Lan had departed that day. Song Ling knelt before the remnant candle, hands trembling as he opened the brocade box Song Lan had left behind.

The stench of blood hit him full in the face. He nearly broke apart and let out the first hoarse, strangled cry he had made since arriving in this place.

He stayed like that, cradling the brocade box without moving, sitting in a stupor for a very, very long time — so long that someone brought him water and rice several more times, and seeing that he refused to eat, even force-fed him.

He lay against the wall barely clinging to life, and at last heard the sounds of ritual music and blessings drifting from somewhere that seemed both very far and very close — like a tolling of cursed fate ringing in his ears.

And the sound of fireworks bursting.

When he had fallen from Tinghua Terrace, the very last thing his eyes had taken in was the reflection of fireworks in the sky.

Were they still as beautiful now as they had been that night?

Several days later, Song Lan came to see him. He did not say anything extra — only asked one question.

“Elder Brother, do you believe what I told you now?”

In a show of benevolence, he again left the candle for him.

Song Ling, at the edge of the candlelight, found a sharp gold hairpin that Song Lan had dropped here.

“Everything I have learned was taught to me by Elder Brother. To thank you for your grace, I will certainly not let you die unwilling.”

Song Lan would not be so careless as to simply leave this object behind — its purpose was unmistakably clear.

The lesson he had taught — his student had learned it so very well.

It is easy to kill a person, but hard to destroy a heart.

The candle was nearly extinguished. In the last of the firelight, Song Ling examined that gold hairpin carefully. It had been carved with exquisite artistry into the shape of a rose.

Could this be a hairpin from Luowei’s wedding ornaments?

Before he had even fully come to himself, he had already drawn that gold hairpin across his own right wrist.

It was so sharp. He exerted every last ounce of strength in his body. Blood immediately flowed over his entire hand.

Even so, he still clutched it tightly, tightly in his palm.

Blood-red, golden-bright — cold and beautiful.