No one knew how Qiu Zui had escaped from the dark, secret dungeon under such tight security. It was said that when Cai Tian discovered it, only two broken iron chains remained in the cell, snapped at their weakest joints.

Had Wenren Lin deliberately let him go? Zhao Yān fell into deep thought.

Two days later, Zhao Yuan’yu’s corpse was escorted back to the city.

They said that when Prince Yong went to the Court of Judicial Review to claim the body, Zhao Yuan’yu’s corpse had been gnawed beyond recognition by wild beasts. Except for his face, which was barely identifiable, there was hardly a complete body.

Prince Su’s explanation to the Emperor was that Prince Yong’s heir had committed serious crimes and fled, then died from falling off a cliff during his escape, with his corpse damaged by wild animals.

It wasn’t that Wenren Lin was covering up for her; rather, the Emperor had always relied on the Shenguang Religion to fool the people, so he certainly wouldn’t make the truth public and slap his face. Only by firmly placing the blame on Zhao Yuan’yu could the situation be stabilized.

Zhao Yān had anticipated such an outcome. When the court could not be trusted, one could only place hope in private punishment. She never regretted personally making Zhao Yuan’yu pay with his life.

The mountain mists and rain lingered, and Zhao Yān’s first illness since she could remember had fully recovered.

She pinched her little finger as she sat by the half-open window for fresh air. There seemed to still be a tingling trace of Wenren Lin’s warning bite.

Gu Xing stood in the outer room, dutifully reporting: “Prince Su is still in the palace handling the aftermath of Prince Yong’s heir case and has not yet appeared.”

…

…

Zhao Yān’s hand paused as she rubbed her little finger, her slightly furrowed brow gradually relaxing. She rose and said: “Please invite Liu Bai… Liu Ji. I want to return to the capital with him.”

Zhao Yān first followed the address provided by Gu Xing to visit Cheng Jixing’s home near the East Gate of the outer city.

Deep along a moss-covered path, amid crumbling brick walls, a dilapidated courtyard covered with reed mats for rain protection was barely visible.

“Cheng Jixing was truly from a humble family. His father died early, leaving only his widowed mother, who supported his studies by washing clothes.”

The old path was in disrepair, full of potholes. Liu Baiwei, whose foot injury had not fully healed, walked with difficulty wearing a veiled hat, saying, “Cheng Jixing was the pillar that emerged from the Cheng family’s ancestral graves. He was highly appreciated by Master Linjiang, which was why he was specially admitted to Mingde Academy. In both the provincial and imperial examinations, he ranked at the top…”

And now, this young man who had just turned twenty had become an inconspicuous small mound in the ancestral graves.

Zhao Yān paid her respects to Cheng’s mother as a fellow student and friend, ordering Gu Xing behind her to present a heavy sum of consolation money.

She told this woman, whose eyes had almost no light left: her son had once harbored great aspirations and hidden principles in his heart, daring to challenge the chaos of the world with the body of an ant, without regret even in death.

After speaking, Zhao Yān removed her cloak hood, stepped back, and on behalf of the deceased Zhao Yǎn and all humble families, bowed deeply to Cheng’s mother—a belated salute that was a year overdue.

Cheng’s mother insisted on not accepting Zhao Yān’s money. This woman with frost-white temples, wearing old clothes washed until they turned white, told Zhao Yān with turbid but firm eyes:

Though she couldn’t understand those grand talks of country and world that the nobles spoke of, she knew that the poor should not have short ambitions. Her son had died for a great cause, and as his mother, she would not dishonor his character.

Before Zhao Yān bid farewell and got into her carriage, Cheng’s mother remembered something and said in unfamiliar official speech: “When claiming Ah Ji’s body, this old woman smelled a faint, unusual fragrance on his clothes. Because the officials were pressing, and there were indeed no signs of external injury or poisoning, this old woman did not suspect anything at first. But now, hearing Your Excellency explain the situation, I feel something is not right.”

Zhao Yān understood and nodded solemnly, saying: “Rest assured, I will do my utmost to uncover the truth and clear your son’s name.”

Cheng’s mother’s eyes reddened as she insisted on kneeling to perform a deep bow.

The carriage turned onto Da’an Street, carrying them to Shen Jingming’s residence.

Compared to the winter banquet last year, Secretary Shen’s face had grown much thinner and more weathered.

He first respectfully welcomed the “Crown Prince” who had come in plain clothes, but as soon as the cause of his son’s death was mentioned, Secretary Shen immediately darkened his expression and bitterly scolded: “My unworthy son was stubborn and dissolute. He must have drunk too much wine while carousing with prostitutes and drowned.”

The Shen family was known for its strict and upright family discipline, yet Shen Jingming had been arrogant about his talents and rebellious against the constraints of propriety.

Born in a dark age, being too clear-minded was a form of suffering. And when suffering was externalized, it became eccentricity.

Shen Jingming often sought solace in nature and mingled with courtesans in brothels. Thus, in his father’s eyes, this son, apart from having some talent, was utterly worthless!

To comfort Secretary Shen’s knotted heart, money and treasures would certainly not work.

So Zhao Yān took out Shen Jingming’s letter to the Crown Prince and handed the “Taxation Thesis” from the letter to Secretary Shen.

She could not openly reveal that world-shocking scroll, but she could at least let this grieving official understand why his son had died.

Secretary Shen eagerly unfolded the thick letter, his expression changing from initial stern solemnity to final disbelief. He examined the signature on the policy thesis several times, as if confirming that this magnificent document, which dared to oppose half the court, was truly written by his cynical son.

“‘No matter what position I hold, I am willing to fulfill this pledge even at the cost of my life.'”

Zhao Yān recited, each word clear: “Jingming used his blood as ink and his bones as a knife; he was by no means the incorrigible person the Secretary described.”

Secretary Shen’s hands began to shake violently, turbid tears overflowing from his eyes, falling one by one onto the paper.

Just as they reached the courtyard, Secretary Shen, supported by his servants, followed them out with faltering steps.

He seemed to have made up his mind as he held his son’s ink-filled policy thesis, slowly kneeling, cupping his hands toward Zhao Yān and choking: “If Your Highness does not despise this old official, whatever you need, this official will not refuse even at the cost of his life!”

Bowing deeply, the courtyard’s accumulated rain soaked his indigo sleeves, his back protruding, his form emaciated.

Leaving Secretary Shen’s residence, the light rain had just stopped, and a faint slant of sunlight spilled from the horizon, illuminating the puddles on the ground.

Once in the carriage, Gu Xing asked if they should return to Jade Spring Palace.

Zhao Yān pondered for a moment, then looked up and said: “Go to Mingde Academy.”

It was mid-May, during the field vacation①, and twilight was falling. Not many scholars remained at Mingde Academy.

Liu Baiwei, holding up his troublesome skirt, got out of the carriage first, habitually offering his hand to help Zhao Yān, blowing open the veil of his hat and saying: “At such a time, Your Highness’s identity should not be advertised. I know a secret path through the back door.”

Zhao Yān looked at the sleek fingers supporting her through her sleeve and paused slightly.

Liu Baiwei noticed this and frankly asked: “Why has Your Highness suddenly become so distant? Before, when we traveled and talked together, we were as close as sisters. Now that you know my identity, you seem to dislike me.”

Zhao Yān withdrew her hand and smiled faintly: “It’s not dislike; it’s just that now I know you’re a man… I’m still not quite used to it.”

The wind blew, and accumulated raindrops shook from the trees.

Liu Baiwei raised his sleeve to shield her head from the rain, revealing a young person’s pure, bold smile: “It doesn’t matter. After seeing me a few more times, you’ll get used to it.”

At the roadside, a carriage with dark patterned curtains was parked under the green shade of a locust tree.

The breeze lifted the carriage curtain slightly, and through the gap, one could see the young princess in male attire and Liu Baiwei in female attire entering the back door of Mingde Academy shoulder to shoulder.

Wenren Lin observed for a moment, then placed the cold teacup on the table.

The tea splashed, making a clear, crisp sound.

Inside Mingde Academy, the scent of books was thick, with pine, cypress, and bamboo visible everywhere, creating an elegant and tranquil atmosphere.

Jinjian Tower stood before them, with a small pavilion visible on top of the five-story building. The upturned eaves reflected the dim twilight, black without a hint of light.

Upon arriving, Zhao Yān found she didn’t feel the expected nostalgia, only the deep darkness and calm after a great wave.

The wooden staircase spiraled upward, extending into the darkness where the top was not visible. She placed her hand on the door and ordered: “Bring me a lantern, a bright one.”

Liu Baiwei’s spirit stirred slightly, as if understanding something, and he stepped forward unsteadily.

Zhao Yān knew he had been hurrying with her all day, and his injured ankle must be at its limit. She said to him, “I want to go up and be alone for a while. Your leg is still injured; you don’t need to follow.”

Liu Baiwei opened his mouth to insist, but his ankle was indeed hurting badly. He reluctantly gave up and limped to the corridor, finding a place to sit and rest.

Gu Xing led people to inspect the empty Jinjian Tower from top to bottom, ensuring there were no hidden dangers, before confidently presenting the hexagonal lantern to Zhao Yān.

The lantern cast a circle of warm orange light at her feet. Zhao Yān raised her hand to brush away cobwebs from her head and slowly climbed the creaking old stairs.

Half a cup of tea’s time later, she stood in the top-floor pavilion, breathing slightly heavily.

The warm light of the lantern flickered, slightly pushing back the tide-like heavy darkness. The pavilion was so quiet that only her soft breathing could be heard, reflecting the desolate and lonely scene before her eyes.

Zhao Yān raised her hand to touch the half-fallen bookshelf, then the ink marks remaining on the wall, finally stopping at the long table in the middle of the pavilion, covered with dust.

The edge of the table had a prominent and fresh scratch mark, as if someone had carved something there and then scraped it away with a sharp object. The exposed white wood was striking, like flesh cut open to reveal the cold bones of young scholars.

The world seemed to fall silent in an instant. Though it was her first time here, Zhao Yān inexplicably felt a familiar sense of returning to a place she knew.

Was it the telepathy between twins? The inanimate object under her fingertips seemed to have warmth, coming alive in her mind.

Zhao Yān could almost see her brother Zhao Yǎn sitting behind the table in his robes, smiling as he listened to the scholars debating the state of the world. They sat or stood, some holding brushes, others reading scrolls, surrounding the Crown Prince and filling every corner of the pavilion with lively activity…

She had once despised her brother’s gentle weakness and humility, always feeling he was like a glass lamp on a high table, too frail. Now she finally understood what kind of soul burned within that fragile body.

The wind crept in through the window, stirring Zhao Yān’s robes, as if someone were whispering in her ear.

Looking outward, there was no starlight or moonlight, only the night spreading its massive wings over the earth.

The upturned eaves pressed low on the window sashes, and the copper hooks in the beams had rusted. There would be no more bright lamps hanging high to correspond with the torches from Jiafu Tower in the Eastern Palace.

Before returning to the palace, Zhao Yān had thought it would be enough just to uncover the truth about Zhao Yǎn’s death.

But now that she finally knew why Zhao Yǎn had died, knew the ghosts rampant under the night, she no longer dared to stand aside.

She wanted to take one more step forward, even if just a small one…

The copper hook on the window frame was too high. Zhao Yān gently placed the lantern on the ground, then moved the old long table to the window. She removed the hexagonal lamp from its handle and, facing the gentle summer night breeze, stepped onto the table, looking up at the copper hook just above her head.

She held the lamp as if embracing a hot, burning seed of fire. She raised her hand and arm, and the warm orange light fell on her clear eyes, gentle yet determined.

“Put that lamp down for this prince.”

A voice with little inflection suddenly came from behind her, saying deeply, “Come down.”

The table creaked and shook, and Zhao Yān turned back in surprise.

Wenren Lin was embedded in the shadows of the stairway entrance, his dark robes heavy and profound, staring straight at her.

Zhao Yān knew that tracing things to Zhao Yuan’yu was already the limit of how far Wenren Lin would let her intervene. What consequences would come from investigating further, what people would be implicated, even she couldn’t predict.

Lighting this lamp would put Zhao Yān’s attitude out in the open—as long as the fire seed did not die out, the struggle would not cease.

Perhaps she should submit, hiding this lamp in her heart, becoming a tame, obedient kitten.

But this time, she didn’t want to deceive him, nor should she.

Zhao Yān turned and said softly: “It’s too dark. I’m lighting the lamp.”

“Come down!” Wenren Lin remained unmoved, emphasizing his words.

Zhao Yān paused slightly, but finally raised her trembling arm, standing on tiptoe to hang the lamp on the copper hook.

The lamp hung high like a red sun, small but intense.

Wenren Lin’s pitch-black eyes seemed to contain ice shards, churning with heavy darkness. For the first time, he was so angry that he wanted to pull her down and give her a severe beating.

However, with a creak and the cry of wood, the long-neglected table’s joints loosened, and one leg broke with a crack.

Standing on top, Zhao Yān was caught off guard and pitched forward, her abdomen hitting the windowsill hard, the pain almost suffocating.

She hurriedly grasped the window to stabilize herself, but almost simultaneously, her waist was tightly gripped. Her forward-falling form was forcefully pulled backward, crashing into a solid, broad embrace.

Hair flew, sleeves rose and fell.

Wenren Lin held her so tightly that Zhao Yān could hardly breathe. Her back pressed against Wenren Lin’s rapid heartbeat, each beat making her heart numb.

The lamp’s light swayed overhead, falling into Wenren Lin’s eyes, difficult to discern whether bright or dim.

“Perhaps I should just lock Your Highness up,” he gently turned Zhao Yān’s face, examining it.

A swift, sleeve-wind slammed against the window, closing it with a bang.

The tranquil pavilion instantly became a sealed prison.

—

①Note: In ancient China, a field vacation in mid-May was a break given to students and scholars during planting season.