Zhao Yān recalled a small detail.

Priest Shen Guang was skilled in refining golden elixirs, which earned him the Emperor’s deep trust. Yet before being silenced, he never personally admitted to being the “Master.” He only said, “The poison was made on someone else’s orders.”

This “someone else” was quite intriguing.

Priest Shen Guang was dead, and Wei Yan executed, yet the pills in the red lacquer box hadn’t disappeared.

Zhao Yān had once thought someone else under Wenren Lin was making the antidote for him. But after seeing the medicine box in Taiji Palace today, she suddenly realized that her initial assumption had been wrong.

Priest Shen Guang was perhaps just a distraction; the real “Master” who concocted the medicine was someone else.

From Eunuch Feng’s words, her father must know about these antidote pills. So was he saving Wenren Lin, or…

A sharp pain shot through her head. Zhao Yān supported her head, pressing her fingertips against her temples.

At that moment, the hall doors opened. The wind diluted the warm fragrance, adding a piercing coldness to the air.

The lamplight flickered. Zhao Yān looked up to see Wenren Lin arriving cloaked in the night, casually raising his hand to brush off the snow particles from his ink-colored cape.

The palace attendants bowed, offering warmed wine and food, then quietly withdrew, closing the doors.

Wenren Lin removed his cape and draped it casually over his arm. His dark everyday clothes made him appear even more straight and sword-like.

“What difficult problem are you pondering now?”

He strolled to Zhao Yān’s side, placing one palm on the desk as he bent down to look at the chaotically inked paper in front of her.

They were extremely close; Zhao Yān could even sense the cold snow scent clinging to him, crisp and chilly.

Seeing that the paper had nothing but ink blots—clearly made during Zhao Yān’s absent-minded state—Wenren Lin slightly narrowed his eyes and said with a smile: “Your Highness has become increasingly demanding lately, summoning this Prince as casually as one would summon a male companion.”

Zhao Yān gazed at his jade-cold profile, her lips moving slightly as she said hoarsely: “Yet you still came.”

Wenren Lin laughed coldly. Just as he was about to rise and leave, a slender white hand grasped his sleeve.

He turned back, following that hand with whitened fingertips, and saw the small Highness’s trembling long eyelashes.

Zhao Yān said: “Today at Taiji Palace, I saw pills presented to Father by Eunuch Feng. The medicine box and scent were identical to the antidote you take monthly.”

Wenren Lin listened quietly.

Of course, he knew Zhao Yān had encountered the Hangu poison antidote in Eunuch Feng’s hands. There were no secrets from him within or outside the palace. Naturally, he paid even closer attention to the young Highness’s whereabouts.

“You said the poison was personally administered by General Wenren, but why… is the antidote in Father’s possession?”

Zhao Yān swallowed, her throat dry. “I want to know. I want to hear it from you.”

Wenren Lin lowered his gaze to look at her and spoke of something seemingly unrelated: “Does Your Highness remember the story of ‘Yang Jin Suspects His Servant’?”

Zhao Yān certainly remembered.

It was a story Wenren Lin had told her in the hot spring bath at Yuquan Palace after killing Zhao Yuan’yu in the secret dungeon: General Yang Jin was defeated and fled, only to encounter pursuit. He suspected the only servant who had followed him of betrayal and tortured him severely. The loyal servant, unable to prove his innocence despite numerous explanations, took a knife to cut open his abdomen and dig out his heart for inspection.

At that time, Wenren Lin had told her: to prove one’s innocence requires cutting open one’s abdomen to examine the heart.

“Does Your Highness know what happened afterward?” Wenren Lin interrupted her recollection.

“Afterward?”

Zhao Yān had read the “Comprehensive Records of Chengde,” and the tale of “Yang Jin Suspects His Servant” had no sequel. She asked, “Didn’t the Yang family’s loyal servant die after digging out his heart?”

“Yes, he had to die.”

Wenren Lin spoke calmly, allowing Zhao Yān to clutch his sleeve as he casually pulled a chair over to sit down, leaning back. “But what if he hadn’t died? How would Yang Jin have dealt with him?”

What if that loyal servant who cut out his heart had lived?

Zhao Yān considered this from a human perspective and said thoughtfully: “If the loyal servant hadn’t died, Yang Jin would surely have been overwhelmed with guilt and compensated him generously. But being naturally suspicious, he would always harbor misgivings… because he had wounded the heart of his most loyal person. He would likely live in constant anxiety, fearing the servant would bear a grudge and eventually retaliate against him…”

As she said this, Zhao Yān felt a sudden jolt in her heart.

If reinforcements had arrived just one month earlier back then, perhaps the eighty thousand soldiers in the isolated fortress of Yanluoguan wouldn’t have perished.

How did her father view Wenren Lin, who had crawled out from the pile of corpses?

Upon seeing the only survivor, the Wenren family orphan who escorted the coffins back to the capital, would he, like Yang Jin in the story, feel guilt followed by constant unease?

The monthly antidote both saved Wenren Lin, fulfilling the Emperor’s benevolent heart, and served as a bargaining chip for his self-protection.

So this was why her father could trust Wenren Lin so much, allowing him to wield boundless power and ascend to the throne above ten thousand people, in the name of “treating the orphans of heroes well.”

Wenren Lin couldn’t possibly fail to see through these imperial tactics.

Zhao Yān suddenly seemed to understand where his terrifying thoughts came from. It wasn’t that he had betrayed The Great Xuan; The Great Xuan had long betrayed him.

Did Wenren Lin want to take over?

No, Zhao Yān quickly dismissed this suspicion.

If Wenren Lin intended to change dynasties, he would have cultivated benevolence to win people’s hearts. But his world-destroying, world-disdaining, isolated way of living—how could that be the behavior of someone seeking to take over?

Wind and snow swept past, leaving shadows on the window paper. The hall was quiet, with only the occasional crackling of charcoal.

Zhao Yān’s lips parted, her fingertips tightened as she said: “I’m a person who dislikes trouble. I’ve always only cared about the snow three feet from my door, not the frost on others’ tiles. Even disguising myself as the Crown Prince in the Eastern Palace was only to investigate why Zhao Yǎn died…”

Wenren Lin raised an eyebrow, pressing his fingertips against his temple: “What is Your Highness trying to say with this confession? You might as well be direct.”

The slender white fingers gripping his ink-colored sleeve tightened, then released, moving down along his sleeve. Her fingertips traced the distinct tendons on the back of his hand before gently holding his knuckles.

Their five fingers interlocked, slightly startling Wenren Lin.

“Not only do I dislike trouble, but I’m also petty and hold grudges. When I was young, Zhao Yǎn once told me, ‘Don’t advise others to be kind until you’ve experienced their suffering.’ If I had gone through what you have, I would only be more miserable, more extreme. So I have no right to forgive this world on your behalf, but…”

Zhao Yān paused, raising her clear, bright eyes to earnestly look back at Wenren Lin: “But can I ask the Grand Tutor to give me a chance? Perhaps this realm can still be saved.”

The interlocked fingers were slender yet held tightly, as if fearing he would disappear the moment she let go.

A ripple passed through Wenren Lin’s eyes, followed by a light laugh.

“Saved?”

He repeated, turning his palm to take control, his elbow resting on his knee as he leaned forward to ask: “Soldiers guarded the city, saving people from disaster—what fate awaited them? The Crown Prince reformed, propping up a collapsing dynasty—what awaited him? With northern barbarians pressing the borders and rebellions frequent, tell me, Your Highness, what does today’s Great Xuan have left to save itself?”

His voice was soft, like a murmured whisper, as gentle and cold as the steadily falling snow outside.

Zhao Yān pressed her lips together, the pressure turning them white.

Wenren Lin squeezed her fingers, making her release her tightly bitten lower lip. His voice was deep: “This Prince revealed his poison attacks to Your Highness, and now has even disclosed his purpose completely. Having shown such tolerance to Your Highness, what more do you want? You know this Prince cannot retreat any further.”

“I know. I’ve said that no one has the right to forgive this world on your behalf. I don’t ask you to let go, nor will I stop you from seeking justice for those tragically dead soldiers. I only ask that you give this weary, wounded country a chance, and also give those people who still have conscience and passion a chance.”

She blinked, her voice somewhat hoarse. “Look, even someone as trouble-averse as me is now learning from Zhao Yǎn to be a moth flying into the flame. Can the Grand Tutor let me try?”

Wenren Lin’s gaze deepened: “Knowing it’s like a moth flying into flames, why even try?”

“But over eighty thousand people have already died at Yanluoguan. We can’t let personal grudges implicate more innocent people.”

Zhao Yān stood up, her voice growing increasingly clear and firm. “I can help you, but I only ask the Grand Tutor to give me one year.”

As she stood, Wenren Lin shifted from looking down to looking up, gazing at her bright eyes: “One year is too long.”

“Then half a year…”

Seeing Wenren Lin remain silent, Zhao Yān bit her lip. “By next year’s Lantern Festival, if the world is still in darkness without daylight, I…”

“You what?”

“I, along with this realm, will be at your disposal.”

Zhao Yān leaned on the armrest of Wenren Lin’s chair, summoning her courage to move closer: “You know how I cherish my life. You lack nothing—this life is already the most precious sincerity I can offer.”

Wenren Lin’s composed expression gradually grew solemn. No one knew better than he what it meant for the little princess to say such words.

He gazed deeply at Zhao Yān and, after a long while, said: “The little Highness is being somewhat impulsive. It needn’t come to this.”

“It’s not impulsiveness. I’ve been thinking behind closed doors for days. Saving the Grand Tutor is saving The Great Xuan.”

“And if I refuse, would Your Highness kill me?”

Zhao Yān’s eyelashes trembled as she said softly: “…Yes.”

“Very good.”

Wenren Lin nodded with satisfaction. This was the little princess he admired—gentle outside but strong inside, resilient and clear-minded.

“But…”

Zhao Yān endured the cutting pain in her heart, then continued: “But I don’t wish to be your enemy. I don’t know why, but when I think of the day we might face each other with blades drawn, the pain in my heart exceeds what I felt confronting my uncle Wei Yan. I don’t want that day to come, Grand Tutor. Between you and me, besides being adversaries, there can be a second path.”

Her breath trembled slightly as she stubbornly sought to forge a lifeline in a dead end.

Wenren Lin merely examined her tenderly, like a sculpture set in the chair, completely unruffled.

He parted his lips slightly, but before he could say anything, a soft warmth pressed against them, sealing his mouth and giving him no chance to refuse.

She had almost crashed into him, hurting herself without care. Wenren Lin frowned slightly, raising his hand to touch her neck and moving her head back a little. He said in a deep voice: “What is Your Highness doing now? Resorting to physical means when words fail? Where did you learn this?”

Zhao Yān simply sat on his lap, as if trying to tame a gloomy, peculiar warhorse, her arms loosely draped over Wenren Lin’s shoulders.

Her eyes were bright, her breathing fragmented, as she said with a desperate tone: “Think about it carefully. There’s no need to answer me immediately.”

With that, she held her breath and blocked his lips again.

Her kiss was without technique, like a snarling little beast using somewhat clumsy methods to vent its anxiety.

Wenren Lin couldn’t decide whether to push her away or not, momentarily at a loss.

His tongue tasted a faint metallic rust—the taste of fresh blood intertwined with extreme pleasure, addictive.

A beautiful smile rippled in his dark eyes, and a helpless sigh escaped from between his lips.

“All those books read in vain. How did this Prince teach you, hmm?”

Wenren Lin soothingly patted her tense back, his voice low and bewitching as he whispered in Zhao Yān’s ear: “Men take the woman’s lower lip, women take the man’s upper lip.”

With that, he followed his own words and captured her lips. Zhao Yān’s body trembled, her ears instantly burning.

“Suck together for a moment, swallow each other’s nectar, either gently nibble the tongue, or lightly bite the lips.”

Zhao Yān’s breathing became chaotic from his kiss, her cheeks burning hot. Despite the cold winter, she began to sweat, her rigid back gradually softening until she was almost pressed against him.

“Shall we continue?”

His voice was somewhat hoarse, his eyes unfathomably deep, containing subtle ripples.

“Shut up!”

Zhao Yān knelt, sitting with her head lowered. The emotions suppressed for days urgently needed an outlet, and this was undoubtedly the best way.

Her cheeks flushed like lychees as she raised her hand to remove her hairpin, letting her black hair cascade around her face. Panting, she said: “Weren’t you going to drag me down with you? Why not be more thorough in the destruction?”

Wenren Lin’s eyes visibly darkened.

With a ripping sound, the bodice ribbon was undone. He wrapped one arm around her slender waist, one hand protecting the back of her head, and strode forward.

There was a crashing sound as he swept the brushes and ink from the desk, then bent down to press his lips against the person in his arms.

Zhao Yān’s head didn’t hit the desktop but landed in his long, broad palm, her silky black hair seeping through his fingers.

“This Prince will go wash his hands.”

Wenren Lin examined her flushed face in the lamplight, deliberately unhurried, as if examining a blooming lotus.

Zhao Yān held his hand, gazing at him silently.

Wenren Lin was somewhat surprised. He took the opportunity to interlock their hands and press them on the desk. With half-lowered eyelids, he asked: “Not afraid of taking medicine now?”

“…Shut up!”

His answer was a soft, powerless whisper.