Cheng Chang hadn’t asked this out of nowhere.

The Luo family were the type to fawn over the powerful and abandon the fallen—ever since the Marquis of Zhongyong’s household had declined, the two families had had little contact. Earlier this year, with the cases of the old Marquis and Yun Luo still unresolved, people at the time, fearful of provoking His Majesty’s displeasure, had steered well clear of the Yun family. How could Luo Fuyou, a man who so loved currying favor with the powerful, possibly have allowed Luo Shu to grow close to Yun Luo’s widow?

Hearing Cheng Chang’s question, Luo Shu seemed momentarily dazed.

After a long pause, she said quietly, “Not entirely, no.”

“Early this spring, I heard my father mention that the old Marquis of Zhongyong had actually been wronged in the battle at the northern frontier all those years ago—that once Brother Pei returned to the capital and His Majesty reopened the Zhaoyuan case, the Yun family wouldn’t be treated unkindly. Otherwise… I wouldn’t have dared grow so close to Sister Fulan.”

Cheng Chang was struck still.

In the better part of a year since he’d crossed over into this world, he hadn’t been entirely deaf to the goings-on of the capital.

The Marquis of Zhongyong’s household had fallen into decline because, years ago, when barbarian invaders had encroached upon the Targ Grasslands, the late Crown Prince had recommended the old Marquis to lead the campaign against them. Though the battle had been won, it had been a costly victory, and the old Marquis himself had died fighting off the enemy.

Afterward, dissenting voices had arisen at court, accusing Yun Shuguang of reckless pursuit of merit, claiming he had not only failed to fully repel the enemy but had also cost tens of thousands of soldiers their lives.

Zhaoyuan’s campaign had come after this—one might even say that His Majesty’s decision to appoint Zhaoyuan as commander for the Targ Grasslands campaign had really been meant to clean up the mess Yun Shuguang had left behind.

And yet, to everyone’s misfortune, Zhaoyuan had betrayed them, Yun Luo had died as a result, and the campaign at Targ Grasslands had ended in utter defeat.

But the case of the old Marquis and the case of Zhaoyuan, though connected in origin, ought to be judged separately. The old Marquis had merely been reckless in his pursuit of merit in the earlier campaign, but he had remained loyal to Great Sui throughout. Zhaoyuan, on the other hand, had committed outright treason.

After Pei Lan returned to the capital, His Majesty had indeed reopened the Zhaoyuan case, and had posthumously cleared Yun Luo’s name, who had died a victim of that treachery.

The token of that exoneration had even been delivered to the court by Cheng Chang himself, on Yun Xi’s behalf. But at the time, Emperor Zhaoyuan hadn’t said a single word about the old Marquis.

The old Marquis’s case remained unresolved to this day.

“Are you certain what you heard your father say was that the old Marquis of Zhongyong was wronged all those years ago in the battle at the northern frontier—not that General Yun Luo was wronged?”

Luo Shu nodded. “I’m certain.” Seeming not to understand why Cheng Chang would ask such a question, she added, “My father specifically said ‘the Marquis of Zhongyong.’ Brother Yun Luo never inherited the title—the Marquis wasn’t him.”

Cheng Chang fell silent.

By Luo Shu’s account, then, not only had Yun Luo been wronged, but Yun Shuguang as well?

Which would mean that when Yun Shuguang had set out on campaign at the Crown Prince’s recommendation all those years ago, he hadn’t actually been reckless in pursuit of merit at all—that his death, and the deaths of those tens of thousands of soldiers alongside him, had happened for some entirely different reason?

But if even Yun Xi didn’t know this, if the court didn’t know this, if even His Majesty himself didn’t know this—how could Luo Fuyou, a mere Direct Academician of the Privy Council, possibly know it?

At this thought, something clicked in Cheng Chang’s mind.

Of course—the Privy Council.

The Privy Council held authority over all military affairs in the realm, and Luo Fuyou’s position oversaw the council’s military documents and correspondence. He had only just been promoted to this post earlier in the year—could it be that he’d uncovered some clue buried within those documents?

If the old Marquis hadn’t been reckless in his pursuit of merit, hadn’t died in that costly victory, then the Crown Prince would never have fallen gravely ill, and His Majesty would never have taken his anger out on Yun Luo, sending him to serve as Zhaoyuan’s deputy commander on that campaign.

In other words, if it could be proven that the old Marquis had been wrongly accused, then the entire Yun family could finally be fully exonerated.

Caught up in this train of thought, Cheng Chang momentarily forgot to plan for his own sake, forgot that the real reason he’d come to the prison was to pry the identity of the “Noble One” out of Luo Shu.

He pressed on. “How did your father come to know the old Marquis was wronged? Does he have some kind of proof?”

Luo Shu shook her head. “I don’t know.” She thought for a moment. “I only overheard my father mention it, quite by chance, at Baiyun Temple earlier this year.”

“Baiyun Temple?”

Luo Shu nodded. “When my father was first promoted to Direct Academician of the Privy Council, he went to Baiyun Temple to question a few condemned prisoners, in order to sort through the military documents and fill in the gaps. He stayed there for a while, and our whole family spent this past New Year’s there as well.”

Condemned prisoners…

Of course—since ancient times, certain prisoners too difficult to formally convict, family members of condemned officials, and even consorts of former emperors, when it wasn’t convenient to lock them up in an ordinary prison, were often placed under house arrest at imperial mausoleums or imperial temples instead.

Great Sui’s imperial temple had originally been Mingyin Temple, but after a bloody incident there over a decade ago, it had gradually fallen into disuse. Now that Baiyun Temple served as the imperial temple instead, it made perfect sense that condemned prisoners would be held there.

Cheng Chang was about to press further when he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps outside. Turning around, he saw an Attendant Censor had arrived.

The man had likely come to question a suspect as well, and seeing Cheng Chang there, waited respectfully outside the cell.

Cheng Chang’s purpose here had never been entirely honest to begin with, and with someone else present now, he couldn’t press Luo Shu further. Besides, he thought, Luo Shu had likely already confessed as much as she knew about the old Marquis’s case. He would have someone look carefully into who exactly was being held at Baiyun Temple, and once he arrived there to ask for a safety talisman in a few days, he could bring the matter up then.

As for the “Noble One” who sought to harm him—he would question Luo Shu about that once he returned from Baiyun Temple.

With that thought, Cheng Chang said nothing more and left on his own.

The prison of the Ministry of Justice fell quiet once more.

Not long after Cheng Chang had gone, the Attendant Censor waiting outside the cell made a gesture toward the scribe, who nodded, handed over the document recording Cheng Chang’s questioning, gathered his brush and paper, and withdrew as well.

The Attendant Censor read through the document in his hand, his expression giving nothing away, and asked Luo Shu, “What did the third young master ask you just now?”

At the sight of the Attendant Censor, Luo Shu’s face turned deathly pale, and it took her a long moment to stammer out, “He… he just asked why I grew close to Sister Fulan, why I accompanied her to the pharmacy, and what I did afterward, once we got there.”

“How did you answer?”

“I answered truthfully, all of it.”

She truly couldn’t stand the smell of the pharmacy, and her closeness with Fang Fulan really had been because of Pei Lan.

The Attendant Censor nodded, cross-checking against the document in his hand once more, then asked, “And what Luo Fuyou told you to say?”

“Father told me what to say, and I found the chance to tell the third young master.”

“How did you put it?”

“I said… that the old Marquis of Zhongyong hadn’t been reckless in pursuit of merit during the campaign at the northern frontier all those years ago—that he’d actually, actually been wronged.”

The Attendant Censor gave a soft “Mm,” tucked the document under his arm, and turned to leave.

“My lord.” At this, Luo Shu called out, asking, “A’Ting—no, Yun Xi and her family—were they truly wronged?”

The Attendant Censor’s expression remained cold and composed, his tone perfectly even. “That isn’t something you need to know.”

“But… but when Father was brought in for questioning before, didn’t he say that as long as I told the third young master about the old Marquis’s wrongful case, I could be cleared and allowed to leave here safely?”

The Attendant Censor looked at Luo Shu for a long moment, then smiled. “Yes. You’ve done very well today. Be patient, wait a few more days, and you’ll be able to leave here safely.”

———*—

Past the palace gates, following Vermilion Bird South Street straight ahead, turning left at the second teahouse one came to, there was a rather secluded alley.

It was past noon now, thick clouds obscuring the sky. Though it was still late July, with the summer heat not yet spent, there was already a hint of desolation settling over the streets and alleys.

Leaving the Ministry of Justice’s prison, the Attendant Censor made his way along this route to a carriage parked in the alley, bowed respectfully, and murmured softly, “Your Highness.”

The carriage itself was unremarkable, bearing no lantern marked with any name or title. Had it not been for that single word—”Your Highness”—no ordinary passerby would have guessed that someone of such exalted rank sat within.

After a moment, the person inside the carriage responded, asking, “Has it all been told to him?”

“Yes. Through the fourth young lady of the Luo household, I’ve conveyed word of Yun Shuguang’s wrongful case to the third young master.”

“Wasn’t he trying to investigate me?” The person in the carriage gave a scornful laugh. “How little he knows his own limits.”

Then, “When he first heard the news, did he show any signs of suspicion?”

“It didn’t seem so,” the Attendant Censor said. “Just as the rumors outside say, ever since the third young master fell into the water, he’s been rather strange—seems to forget things easily. Matters he used to be careless about, he now handles with unusual caution and intelligence. And yet matters he once grasped instantly, especially anything related to the imperial court and the royal family, he now hardly pays any mind to at all.”

“But everything went exactly as Your Highness anticipated. The moment the third young master heard that the old Marquis had been wronged, he became utterly absorbed in it, not even bothering to press Luo Shu further about Your Highness’s identity. Instead, he kept asking about the old Marquis’s case, right up until I arrived outside the cell and he finally left.”

“That’s simply how he is,” the person in the carriage said, laughing again. “Always getting his priorities backwards, unable to tell what truly matters.”

“This works out very well. Since he cares so much about this case, this king can use his hands to blow the truth of the Yun Shuguang case wide open, and let Father Emperor learn exactly why my kind, benevolent Crown Prince brother fell so gravely ill in the first place. Even if I can’t bring him down entirely… at the very least, that man Yao Hangshan can be dealt with once and for all.”

“It was the Privy Council Commissioner’s own doing back then that led to the Marquis’s death in battle, and now that he can no longer be of use to Your Highness, this misfortune is entirely of his own making,” the Attendant Censor said. After a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “That being the case, does Your Highness still intend to move against the third young master?”

“Of course. He knows what he should never have known. He cannot be allowed to live.”

“But… though the third young master isn’t particularly sharp himself, Prince Cong is a formidable man indeed. If Prince Cong learns his son was murdered, he will surely investigate to the very end. Should that investigation lead back to Your Highness, and everything be exposed as a result, I fear His Majesty would never trust Your Highness again.”

“Has Father Emperor ever trusted me, not even for a single day?” the person in the carriage said coldly.

“Besides, do you really think a mere Cheng Mingying is enough on his own to clear the old Marquis’s name? Enough to bring down Yao Hangshan?”

“This case cannot proceed without stirring Prince Cong into action. Only once Mingying is dead, and Prince Cong pursues the wrongful case his son was investigating before his death, will it be brought before Father Emperor, and only then will Father Emperor punish Yao Hangshan.”

“Besides, this king, this uncle of the Emperor’s, may not have the best reputation, but I am deeply trusted by Father Emperor.” The person in the carriage went on, “Do you know why Father Emperor trusts me so much?”

“Because you understand best what needs to be done, and when.”

“Even once Mingying is dead, Prince Cong will, at most, look into the old Marquis’s case—he will never expose those old disgraceful affairs. First, because those matters appear to have nothing to do with Mingying. Second, because these are secrets of the imperial family—exposing them would only bring shame upon Father Emperor’s name. As long as Prince Cong doesn’t uncover those matters, he’ll never suspect that it was this king who orchestrated Mingying’s death.”

“Yes.” The Attendant Censor bowed low. “Your Highness’s foresight surpasses my own considerations by far.”

“Then we proceed as planned—wait until he goes to Baiyun Temple in a few days to pray, and move against the third young master then?”

“Mm,” the person in the carriage assented. “Go. Tell our man planted at Baiyun Temple to leak word to Mingying’s people—tell them that the witness who can prove the old Marquis’s innocence is being held right there, in the Clearwind Court of Baiyun Temple.”

He went on, sounding somewhat baffled. “This cousin of mine really does have the luck of the devil. Last time, at the Flower Festival, he was clearly dead through and through—and yet somehow, he came back to life.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the same,” the Attendant Censor said. “As if his soul returned from the dead itself. But rest assured, Your Highness, this time I’ll see to it personally, with the utmost care, to make sure there’s no room for error.”

“The third young master… has only a few days left to live, after all.”

———*—

Upon returning to the mansion, Cheng Chang wasted no time, immediately sending someone to inquire into the old Marquis’s case. Within three days, word came back from below.

It was said that after the old Marquis had died in battle, most of his former subordinates had remained at the northern frontier. But because certain figures at court had accused the old Marquis of reckless pursuit of merit, several of these men had been secretly brought back to Jinling for questioning. Since His Majesty had never given a clear ruling on the matter, these men couldn’t simply be thrown into an ordinary prison outright, and after much back and forth, they now remained under house arrest at the Clearwind Court of Baiyun Temple.

Cheng Chang hadn’t expected word to come back so quickly, and for a moment found himself uncertain what to do.

He didn’t know the finer details of the old Marquis’s case and had wanted to discuss it with Yun Xi, but she had gone with her troops to the outskirts to suppress the unrest and hadn’t yet returned—and there was no time left to send a letter, since he would be leaving for Baiyun Temple the very next day.

After much deliberation, he decided against it, thinking it would be best to first question the prisoners at Clearwind Court himself, to see whether they truly could prove the old Marquis’s innocence, so as to spare Yun Xi a false hope upon her return.

He was to set out before dawn the next day, and with evening approaching, Cheng Chang finished washing up and prepared to sleep.

Having spent the whole day deep in thought, he felt worn out, and fell asleep almost the moment his head touched the pillow.

In his hazy state, he drifted into a dream once more—first a vast expanse of white, and then, slowly, a corridor took shape before him.

He recognized this corridor. It was the hospital he had often visited in his previous life.

In the dream, he seemed to know exactly where he needed to go, his feet carrying him forward of their own accord, until he stopped before a hospital room and pushed the door open.

It was a VIP room. On the bed lay a figure, with two nurses beside it taking notes.

Cheng Chang stepped inside and looked—the person lying on the bed was himself.

Once the nurses finished their notes, they called in an attendant to keep watch, then withdrew from the room to submit their report at the office.

In the office, besides Cheng Chang’s attending physician, another person was waiting—his closest roommate from university.

“How’s it looking?” the roommate asked.

The doctor glanced at the report the nurse had brought and said, “The three-chamber pacemaker is matching well with the heart. Blood pressure, heart rate, everything’s normal. With numbers like these, most people would already be discharged. But him—for some reason, he just won’t wake up.”

“Could the heart attack have damaged his brain?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” the doctor said. “We’ve done X-rays, checked his brain waves—all stable, no issues at all.”

“Ugh.” The roommate sighed. “What is even going on with him.”

“Let’s just wait a bit longer,” the doctor said. “This kind of thing has happened before, clinically. He might wake up any time now.”

“Alright.” The roommate nodded. “I’ve got a company meeting to get back to this afternoon, so I’ll head out. His brother’s coming to watch over him tomorrow.”

The doctor smiled. “You lot taking turns watching over him—just this past week alone, his brother, his college classmates, his high school friends, even his ex-girlfriend, they’ve all taken turns, each staying half a day or so.”

“Ah, well, Dr. Zhang, you know how it is with Cheng Chang—doesn’t have a single blood relative in this world, all alone. Even his ‘brother’ isn’t really his brother—just the old hospital director’s son, a few years older than him. They’ve been close for years, so we all just call him ‘brother.'”

“I know,” the doctor said, nodding. “This illness of his isn’t an easy one. Good thing he has friends like you all.”

With that, he hung his stethoscope back around his neck and walked out of the office alongside the roommate, patting his shoulder. “Alright, go on back to work. No one but the attendant will be in Cheng Chang’s room this afternoon—I’ll try to keep an eye on things when I have a spare moment.”

“Thanks, Dr. Zhang. If he really wakes up, call me right away.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know.”

The roommate nodded, and as he left, passing by Cheng Chang’s room, he muttered toward the door, “Weren’t they saying you’d wake up soon? Come on, Brother Cheng, wake up already.”

Brother Cheng…

Hurry up… and wake up…

“Young Prince! Young Prince!”

Cheng Chang stood frozen in the hospital corridor, watching his roommate’s retreating figure, lost in a daze, when he suddenly heard someone calling to him urgently, close by.

All at once, the world turned upside down—the doors, the fluorescent lights, the long corridor all abruptly faded away, dissolving back into that same vast whiteness from when he’d first arrived.

An endless white, like some great fog obscuring both his past life and this one, impossible to see through.

Cheng Chang’s eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright from the bed.

His inner robe was already soaked through with sweat, beads of it clinging to his brow, and he gripped the bedding tightly with both hands, as though trying to hold onto something, sitting motionless for a long moment.

Sun Haiping, beside him, asked, “Young Prince, what’s wrong? I called out to you just now, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t wake you.”

Cheng Chang looked at him blankly, then let his gaze drift around the room.

The sky hadn’t yet lightened. A single candle flame flickered like a bean in the middle of the room, casting a faint glow over the carved window screens, everything hushed and still.

“Right… what happened to me?” Cheng Chang murmured.

Sun Haiping, not quite catching this, went on, “Young Prince, we’re supposed to leave for Baiyun Temple shortly. Since you’ve broken out in such a sweat, I’ll go draw water for your bath right away.”

With that, he made to rise and leave the room, but paused halfway and turned back. “Young Prince, are you feeling unwell? Should we send word to the prince to excuse you, and skip Baiyun Temple today? A safety talisman is the same no matter where you get it—what matters is the sincerity behind it.”

Cheng Chang, gradually coming back to himself, thought of his real purpose in going to Baiyun Temple—even setting aside the safety talisman, he still needed to help Yun Xi look into the truth behind the Marquis of Zhongyong’s case. So he said, “We’re still going. Hurry and draw the water, so as not to keep Father waiting too long.”