In the study, Zhao Yān showed Gu Xing the wrist guard designed like a hidden sleeve dagger.

“I’ve already examined it, and it is indeed a sleeve arrow with no issues inside or out. However…”

Gu Xing returned the hidden sleeve dagger and continued as Zhao Yān looked at him, puzzled, “However, this item is quite small, likely designed for a woman’s self-defense.”

Seeing Zhao Yān’s furrowed brow, Gu Xing lowered his head and quickly added, “Or perhaps for a young boy’s use.”

The intricate and elegant openwork cattail pattern on the wrist guard was indeed a style favored by women. Besides, young boys grow quickly, their bone structure changing daily—who would commission such an expensive weapon that would be outgrown in mere months?

Was this meant to mock the Crown Prince for being effeminate, or was it a suspicion of something else…?

Zhao Yān dared not continue her speculation, finding the object before her increasingly irritating to look at.

She grabbed the hidden sleeve dagger, intending to throw it out the door, but her hand froze mid-air before slowly drawing back.

Now bearing Zhao Yǎn’s identity, she needed to forget her original name and preferences. Zhao Yǎn was a person of such kindness that it bordered on foolishness; he would never harbor misgivings or show panic over a sleeve arrow possibly designed for a woman’s use.

Zhao Yān decided to remain unchanged amid the changes. She wanted to see what intentions truly lay beneath Wenren Lin’s seemingly harmless facade.

…

…

Having calmed herself in just a moment, Zhao Yān resumed the Crown Prince’s characteristic gentleness and kindness, holding the deadly hidden sleeve dagger as she asked, “By the way, have you found any trace of those two acquaintances of mine?”

After the Winter Festival, Zhao Yān had secretly ordered Gu Xing to go to Mingde Academy to find Wang Yu and Cheng Jixing, who had corresponded with the late Crown Prince.

She had many questions for these two. Now that half a month had passed, there should have been results by now.

After a moment of silence, he reported truthfully, “Your Highness, the tribute student surnamed Cheng suddenly fell ill in mid-July and died in his dormitory. His widowed mother from the countryside claimed his body without raising any questions, and he was buried within days.”

Zhao Yān was surprised and quickly asked, “What disease caused his death?”

Gu Xing replied, “It seems he stayed up all night studying, which triggered a heart condition.”

Two tribute students from Mingde Academy died within a month, both Shen Jingming and Cheng Jixing, who had connections with Zhao Yǎn, dying one after another—could such coincidences truly exist in this world?

After some thought, she asked, “Did you check Cheng Jixing’s medical history? Are you certain he died from a sudden heart attack?”

Gu Xing understood his master’s meaning and nodded, “I claimed to be from the same hometown as Cheng and inquired among his classmates. Strangely, they all said he had always been in good health, excelled in riding and archery, and rarely caught even minor colds. Looking through the Mingde Academy attendance records for this year, Cheng had perfect attendance.”

“This indicates he never once took sick leave all year.”

Zhao Yān understood—this hardly seemed like the behavior of someone suffering from a heart condition.

Zhao Yān placed her hopes on the last person.

“Shortly after Cheng’s death, this person thanked his teachers and left to wander, with no word of him since.”

Gu Xing bowed, “Your Highness, please rest assured that I am making every effort to track him down.”

So many scholars viewed the imperial examinations as their ladder to heaven, hoping to rise like a fish leaping through the dragon gate. This Wang Yu had already achieved tribute student status, just one step away from the final palace examination. Why would he choose to resign and travel at precisely this moment?

With growing suspicions in her heart, Zhao Yān felt she needed to speak with Liu Ji again.

Just as she reached the entrance of Cheng’en Palace, she heard the sound of things being scattered and thrown about inside.

Liu Ying was bringing fresh pastries, but before she could speak, Zhao Yān cut her off, “Mother Empress only forbade her from leaving her quarters, not me from visiting her, correct?”

With that, she took the tray of pastries and pushed open the door.

One boot had barely stepped into the hall when it landed on an old book lying face-up on the floor tiles. Further in, papers, brushes, and scrolls were scattered everywhere, leaving barely any place to step.

Liu Ji sat awkwardly by the window with her legs sprawled out, idly tossing Go stones out of boredom.

A white stone bounced near Zhao Yān’s boot, which she picked up and placed on the board where there was a gap.

“Hah! It’s not even the Qingming Festival yet, so why has Your Highness suddenly remembered to visit me?”

The beautiful woman’s first words carried barbs. She made no mention of her grievances, yet every word hinted at the extreme boredom of being confined to these quarters.

“Earning Mother Empress’s trust takes time. Besides, haven’t I been waiting for you to think things through and give me an answer?”

Zhao Yān smiled at her jest and placed the tray of exquisite pastries on the table. She then sat properly across from her, “Liu Ying mentioned you enjoy sweets, so I had the kitchen prepare extra.”

Liu Ji wrinkled her nose, but after a moment, couldn’t resist taking a piece of honey bean cake and stuffing it in her mouth, grumbling, “I have no answer for you. Now that we’ve confirmed Zhao Yǎn is gone, what does the truth matter anymore?”

“If you truly believed that, you wouldn’t have risked returning to the palace.”

Without wasting words, Zhao Yān took out the list of people who had corresponded with Zhao Yǎn, “Do you know these three people?”

Liu Ji’s gaze swept quickly over the paper, and she answered without hesitation, “I don’t know them.”

“Shen Jingming and Cheng Jixing are dead, and Wang Yu is missing,”

Zhao Yān said, “They died a month before the incident with the Crown Prince.”

Hearing this, Liu Ji’s carefree eyes trembled almost imperceptibly before quickly regaining their nonchalant expression as she picked up another sweet cake.

Liu Ji was lying, almost determinedly keeping her silence.

Zhao Yān understood this clearly and tactfully retreated, taking another note from her sleeve and smoothing it out before Liu Ji—

It was a note found in the book *Ancient and Modern Notes* that Shen Jingming had given to the Crown Prince.

“Then let me ask a different question: What does ‘Moth to Flame’ mean?”

This time, Liu Ji’s gaze lingered on the deeply inked note for a long while, her expression changing several times.

Zhao Yān froze, then slowly furrowed her brow, “I am not joking with you.”

“Neither am I joking with you. Haven’t you read that book *Ancient and Modern Notes* carefully?”

Liu Ji was impatient now, swallowing her cake as she said, “‘The moth excels at disturbing lamps, also called fire flower, also called light seeker.’ ‘Moth to Flame’ simply refers to moths, commonly called fluttering moths.”

She hadn’t expected that what she considered an important clue, something she had struggled to investigate, was merely Shen Jingming’s casual note about an insect’s alternate name.

Liu Ji, holding her cake, watched as Zhao Yān slowly lowered her eyelids, the light in her eyes noticeably dimming.

Memories surfaced in her mind, and the figure before her became blurred and mottled, replaced by another youth who resembled him.

Once upon a time, Liu Ji and Zhao Yǎn had also played Go here, laughing and joking.

“Zhao Yǎn, why are you like a wooden block, without a single beautiful lady-in-waiting to serve you?”

She sat cross-legged without restraint, complaining incessantly, “I’m forced to look at your pale face day after day, how utterly boring.”

Zhao Yǎn loosely draped his outer robe over his thin shoulders, speaking gently, “I don’t have beautiful ladies, but I do have a twin sister who is quite lovely and charming.”

“How charming?” Liu Ji’s eyes lit up.

Zhao Yǎn rested his hand against his chin, pondering for a long time before slowly saying, “Hmm… like me.”

Liu Ji made a gesture to strike him, but Zhao Yǎn happily shrugged and chuckled, laughing until he coughed terribly.

Liu Ji finally relented, and the hand suspended in mid-air came down gently, changing to pat his back and help him catch his breath.

“If you love her so much, why not keep her by your side?” she asked.

Zhao Yǎn shook his head, still gasping for breath.

“I am weak and incompetent, often making her angry and disgusted. Besides, the Eastern Palace is not safe, and I don’t want to… drag her into this quagmire.”

“She despises you? Yet you still care for her so much?”

Zhao Yǎn just shook his head and smiled: “I know Yan’er’s harsh words are said in anger, because when she feels insecure, she likes to respond with fierce questions. Like ‘Who wants your things?’ or ‘Who’s worried about you?’… After saying such things, she’ll hide alone and regret it. That stubborn yet soft-hearted manner is somewhat similar to yours.”

His eyes were full of a brother’s broad-minded tenderness as he promised, “Next time there’s an opportunity, I’ll certainly introduce you to each other.”

Liu Ji never got to witness his “introduction,” but she remembered the little girl Zhao Yǎn had described, who would reflexively ask questions when feeling insecure.

The poor little princess, like herself, had been stripped of her original identity and name, substituting for someone else on the precarious throne of the Eastern Palace.

“What about you? Why do you care about the cause of the Crown Prince’s death?”

Liu Ji unconsciously softened her voice, “I heard from Zhao Yǎn that you seemed to dislike him quite a bit.”

Those very soft words “dislike” pierced the most vulnerable part of Zhao Yān’s heart like a fine needle.

She curled her fingers, creating wrinkles in the fine fabric.

“Yes, I disliked him,”

She said softly. “I disliked that he carried so much love and hope from others, while I was never acknowledged, no matter how hard I tried. I disliked that he was so fragile he couldn’t even control his own life, yet he was always thinking about taking care of others…”

Just for a moment, her lowered eyelids lifted again, her gaze clear and determined.

“But what does that matter? He was my brother, connected by blood, the only person in this world who cared about me!”

Her gentle voice was as clear and firm as jade falling onto a plate.

Liu Ji parted her lips slightly, speechless for a long time.

Zhao Yān thought today would again be fruitless, and couldn’t help but sigh softly as she rose to leave.

“Wang Yu has property in Cangzhou.”

Liu Ji’s deep voice suddenly came from behind.

Zhao Yān turned back in surprise to see Liu Ji standing up after brushing the crumbs from her fingertips.

“I don’t know much more than Your Highness, but since our goals align, I can cooperate with you.”

Liu Ji glanced around Cheng’en Palace and put forward her condition, “I want freedom of movement. Being confined to these rooms day after day has become tiresome.”

Like the sun breaking through clouds, there was suddenly hope.

Zhao Yān smiled with folded sleeves, saying lightly but solemnly, “Of course.”

Before long, the year’s end arrived, and New Year’s Eve came amid the city’s bustling fireworks.

The Governor of Liang Province returned loaded with hundreds of carts of treasures plundered as rewards, preparing for war. While the court was busy putting out fires, the siege crisis had been resolved for less than half a month, yet the palace was already filled with music and dance.

The Emperor did not attend the New Year’s Eve family banquet.

Zhao Yān was not familiar with the concubines and unmarried princesses, so she found an excuse to return to the Eastern Palace early.

After bathing away the day’s fatigue, Zhao Yān loosely tied her hair with a gentleman’s hair band and wrapped herself in a thick fox fur coat. As she came out, she saw Liu Ji approaching in crimson robes, carrying a small jar of Luofu Spring wine.

“Why has Your Highness returned at this hour?”

Released from her confinement, she had returned to her previous free-spirited ways, coming and going as she pleased. Now, without makeup, her features appeared even more heroic and clear than when painted.

Just thinking about what she had heard at the family banquet made Zhao Yān feel troubled.

“That Shenguang Cult National Preceptor, using the pretense of divining heavenly secrets, urged Father Emperor to hold a grand Spring Soil Sacrifice to seek Heaven’s blessing for favorable weather and national peace in the coming year.”

She said listlessly, “Not only is it wasteful of the people’s resources, but the Spring Soil Sacrifice happens to fall on the Lantern Festival. Now I won’t even get to see the lanterns.”

When not needing to maintain the disguise of “Crown Prince,” she often referred to herself as “I,” as if only during these moments could she be herself again.

Liu Ji narrowed her phoenix eyes, dangling the wine jar between her middle and index fingers, swinging it slightly: “Come drink with me? Luofu Spring wine, it’s sweet.”

Zhao Yān sniffed the faint sweet fragrance in the air, and her stomach, which had barely touched food at the banquet, began to growl. Her eyes twinkled as she nodded with a smile: “Quietly, don’t let Liu Ying know.”

Liu Ji moved to put her arm around her shoulders intimately, but as she raised her arm, she realized that the delicate youth before her was no longer the Zhao Yǎn of before.

She lowered her arm imperceptibly and turned her head away, humming, “Aren’t you afraid I might poison your wine?”

“With this face of mine, could you bring yourself to harm me?”

Zhao Yān subtly teased back, then asked, “What about Cangzhou? Any news of Wang Yu?”

“Not yet.”

The two chatted casually as they walked, appearing to the patrolling palace attendants like a pair of affectionate lovers.

Snow fell from the eaves, and in the distance, beams of red, yellow, blue, and purple light rose, bursting into blossoms in the dark blue night sky.

Only when the fireworks had fully bloomed did the ear-splitting booms follow. Zhao Yān stopped and looked toward the end of the corridor.

Liu Ying sat alone in the shadow of the stone steps, gazing up at the bright moon, lost in thought, with the colorful light of fireworks falling on her body.

On New Year’s Eve, amnesty was granted, and the other close attendants had gone to the side rooms for the New Year’s Eve dinner. Zhao Yān had finally convinced Liu Ying to rest for two hours, but unexpectedly found her sitting here alone, her silhouette desolate and lonely.

Zhao Yān thought for a moment, then walked toward Liu Ying.

“Sister Liu Ying, what are you looking at?”

Hearing movement behind her, Liu Ying quickly wiped her eyes before turning around.

As fireworks soared into the sky, their brilliant light revealed the slight redness at the corners of her eyes.

In that instant, Zhao Yān suddenly understood something.

She spread the hem of her fox fur coat on the ground and sat beside Liu Ying.

Liu Ying anxiously tried to stand, saying hoarsely, “The stone steps are cold, Your Highness must not sit here.”

Liu Ji frowned and pressed Liu Ying back down, also sitting beside her. “The Crown Prince” and the “favored concubine” flanked the composed and reserved palace maid.

Now Liu Ying couldn’t move, so she could only sit stiffly.

“You miss him, too, don’t you?”

Zhao Yān cupped her chin, looking at the moon fractured by snow and bare branches.

Liu Ying didn’t speak, her usually calm eyes revealing an almost sorrowful expression.

Liu Ji returned carrying three wine cups, somehow procured from somewhere, and pulled out the wooden stopper of the wine jar to pour one for each of them.

Zhao Yān took a cup first, and after a moment’s hesitation, Liu Ying also took one, cradling it in her hands.

“To the departed,” Zhao Yān raised her cup in a toast.

“To the departed,” Liu Ji echoed.

The three cups clinked gently under the moonlight, then were unanimously poured out onto the steps below, a libation for the lonely soul beneath the earth.

Three streams of wine poured from left to right, and Zhao Yān’s eyes also reddened.

The fireworks reached their peak beneath the moon, and the three huddled in this quiet, deserted corner, gazing at the same bright moon, savoring the same clear wine, commemorating the same gentle youth who had once touched their lives.

The night wind blew, making the city’s lights flicker like a river of stars.

The fireworks continued, but the gates of Prince Su’s mansion remained tightly closed, shutting out the festivities outside.

In the library, only a pair of crane-headed bronze lamps were lit. Wenren Lin sat in the chair closest to the charcoal fire, marking names in a book with a blood-red cinnabar brush.

Right Deputy Commander Cai Tian brought news from outside, aware that his master was experiencing another attack of the bone-chilling poison and was in a foul mood. He spoke with even greater respect and a quieter voice: “The Emperor has scheduled the Lantern Festival sacrifice, and the Crown Prince will also attend.”

Seeing his master remain silent, Cai Tian continued to report: “Our spies inform us that someone appears to be secretly investigating the matter of those Confucian students at Mingde Academy.”

Wenren Lin’s cinnabar brush slowed.

Cai Tian went on: “Recently, many wandering martial artists have slipped into the city. Upon investigation, we’ve discovered these people have had multiple contacts with the advisors of Prince Yong’s heir. With the sacrifice approaching, they may be planning something.”

Sacrifice?

Zhang Cang, standing at attention nearby, immediately tensed up, “Aren’t they after the Crown Prince position? Those dogs, always trying to steal food from our Prince!”

Cai Tian bowed with clasped hands, rolling his eyes to the back of his head.

His colleague was fine in most respects, except for his loose tongue and less-than-brilliant mind.

The not-so-bright Zhang failed to grasp Cai Tian’s hint and rubbed his hands eagerly, “My Prince, shall we intervene this time?”

The firelight from the charcoal basin reflected on Wenren Lin’s face, showing not a trace of warmth.

He looked at the spot of blood-red cinnabar on his pale fingertips, his eyelashes lowering to cast shadows, as if contemplating whether to save a mysterious stray cat.

After a long while, the cinnabar brush in his hand finally fell, mercilessly crossing out the last name.

“I’ve said it before, the Eastern Palace blocks not only my path, but many others. Whether they live a few more days or a few less, what difference does it make?”

Amid the lively New Year’s Eve, his voice, detached from worldly affairs, sounded especially cold.

Giving her that hidden sleeve dagger was already his greatest kindness.

As for whether she ultimately lived or died…

What did it matter to him?