At the end of the month, a late cold snap struck, and Jinling was even dusted with a light snow.

That morning, just as Cheng Chang got up, a gust of cold air slipped in through the gap in the window, forcing him to pull his robe tighter.

He hadn’t been feeling well these past few days, plagued by a kind of fatigue and weakness. He’d had the Imperial Physician look him over, but was only told it was from overexertion, and given a calming tonic that didn’t do much good.

Cheng Chang took care to rest his body. Since the case of the Marquis Zhongyong had already been settled, he hadn’t gone to the yamen, spending his days recuperating in the princely mansion instead—until last night, when Wei Jie suddenly sent someone with a message saying there had been a breakthrough in the Mingyin Temple case, and asking him to come to the Imperial City Guard.

After Cheng Chang finished his breakfast, Sun Haiping waited on him as he took his medicine, then noticed the snow outside still hadn’t stopped and brought out a black-green velvet cloak to drape over him. Seeing how deathly pale Cheng Chang’s face was, he couldn’t help but say, “Young Prince, why not rest another day before you go?”

Cheng Chang shook his head. He didn’t like to put things off, and besides, the bloody case at Mingyin Temple concerned his very life. “Let’s go find out what’s happened first.”

The Imperial City Guard was outside the west gate of the Sui Palace, some distance from Prince Cong’s mansion. It took a full hour’s carriage ride to get there, and by the time they arrived at the yamen, it was already past noon.

Cheng Chang had his guards wait outside the yamen while he went in alone, holding an umbrella.

Wei Jie sat in the outer office with his long legs propped up on a tall table, pillowing his head on his arms as he waited.

The moment he saw Cheng Chang, he let out an “oh” and said, “Why do you look so pale? Did that little lass from the Yun family leave, and now you’re lovesick?”

Cheng Chang ignored his teasing.

Wei Jie didn’t press the matter either, and led Cheng Chang toward the inner office. Once they’d passed through the corridor, he said, “The old fox doesn’t trust me—these past two days he’s had Xuan Zhi in charge of swapping personnel between the Imperial City Guard and the Palace Guard Command. There’s hardly anyone left in the outer office I can trust. It’s maddening.”

Cheng Chang said, “Didn’t you take the chance to plant your own people in the Palace Guard Command?”

Wei Jie startled, glancing around hastily, putting on a show of alarm. “You even thought of that? Impressive. Careful, don’t let the old fox’s people hear.”

Then he changed the subject, sighing deeply. “Let me tell you, I might have committed a grave taboo.”

Cheng Chang asked, “What taboo?”

“Didn’t you have me follow the thread of the Fang family a few days ago, to look into the bloody case at Mingyin Temple back then? So I went and looked into the few members of the Fang family still alive, and that young lady from the Fang household, Yun Luo’s widow—she’s no simple woman.”

“Fang Furan?”

“Right. After Fang Yuanshan was executed, the rest of the Fang household were either conscripted or exiled. Guess why this Fang Shi managed to stay in Jinling?”

“I heard General Xuanwei returned to court and used his military merits to beg the emperor for a pardon for her.”

“That was later. What I’m asking is—when the Fang household was punished at the time, the whole family left Jinling. Why didn’t this Fang Shi go with them?” Wei Jie said.

Before Cheng Chang could answer, he continued, “When Fang Yuanshan was executed, the Fang family scattered—some fled, some fell apart. Madam Fang hanged herself the very next day. When the court’s punishment decree came down, only Fang Shi remained in the household. The Ministry of Justice figured she was just a woman, so they only sent two constables to arrest her. Guess what happened? Those two constables died suddenly that very night—word is they bled to death from all seven orifices, right there in the Fang mansion.”

Cheng Chang was startled. “Something that big—why haven’t I heard of it before?”

“Someone cleaned up after it, obviously.” Wei Jie said. “Who exactly did the cleaning up, I haven’t had the chance to find out yet. Anyway, those two constables died, Fang Shi never left, and that’s how she got the chance to go into the palace and beg the Imperial Noble Consort for mercy.”

Cheng Chang stopped in his tracks. “Look into Prince Ling.”

“You suspect him?” Wei Jie blinked. “Wasn’t it the fourth prince who’s tried to kill you the last few times?”

Cheng Chang didn’t answer.

Even though all the evidence at present pointed to Prince Yun, he’d always had an inexplicable feeling about Prince Ling.

That day he’d taken Xuetuan’er to the banks of the Qinhuai to look for clues, and in the end the cat had run straight to Fang Furan.

Though Fang Furan had explained that she was familiar with Xuetuan’er because she’d once seen the cat at the Imperial Noble Consort’s palace, Cheng Chang had never quite believed her—could the cat really recognize her out of all the passersby along the Qinhuai after meeting her only a few times?

Still, Fang Furan’s words had inadvertently given Cheng Chang something to think about.

Xuetuan’er had once been the Imperial Noble Consort’s own cat. And wasn’t Prince Ling the Imperial Noble Consort’s son?

Cheng Chang didn’t explain much further to Wei Jie. He picked up the earlier thread instead, and asked, “You just looked into Fang Furan a little—what’s there to call a taboo about that?”

“The taboo I meant isn’t about that.” Wei Jie said. “The truth behind Fang Yuanshan’s execution is hard to dig into, so I turned to look for clues among the rest of the Fang family instead, and stumbling onto Fang Furan was just a coincidence.”

“The Mingyin Temple bloodbath is the old fox’s own private secret. I went around asking everyone connected to Mingyin Temple back then—including you, by the way—and all I managed to learn was that a woman died in the temple when the massacre happened, without turning up so much as a spider’s thread of a clue. Then last night, Zhou Caiying suddenly came looking for me—you know, the fifth young master of the Zhou family you were close with as a kid—and said he actually knew who that dead woman was.”

“Who?”

“Consort Wan.” Wei Jie said. He glanced around, then lowered his voice to add, “I hear the two of them got together back when the old fox was still crown prince.”

Cheng Chang found this a bit puzzling. “Around here, isn’t it perfectly normal for a man to have multiple wives and concubines?”

What was wrong with getting together with a consort? Emperor Zhaoyuan was the emperor, after all—did he need anyone’s permission for who he liked?

Wei Jie, absorbed in the fact he was about to reveal, didn’t notice what Cheng Chang meant by “around here.” He said, “Let me put it this way. This Consort Wan shouldn’t even be called Consort Wan—she was eight years older than the old fox, and used to be the Late Emperor’s favored consort. She ought to be called Grand Consort Wan.”

Cheng Chang: “…”

Right, well, the moral order among the imperial family in ancient times was rather tangled. Things like this happened in every dynasty. He could understand it.

Wei Jie said, “Honestly, the reason I’ve been chasing the Mingyin Temple case is just to find the missing fifth prince sooner. After all, with the third and fourth princes being such worthless sorts, if either of them inherited the throne, it’d be the end—the whole state would go to ruin. Who knew that digging into it would lead straight back to the old fox himself. No wonder the old fox only told me to find the person, and never told me what actually happened at Mingyin Temple back then.”

“I’m telling you, the old fox has ears everywhere. Sooner or later he’ll find out I’ve dug up his dirty secret. When he summons me to the throne hall to answer for it, you’d better save me.”

Cheng Chang said, “I know.”

As the two of them talked, they arrived in front of Wei Jie’s office in the inner yamen. The guard stationed outside cupped his hands and bowed. “Your Highness, Lord Wei.”

Wei Jie asked, “Has he been behaving?”

The guard said, “He’s stayed inside the whole time, no trouble.”

Wei Jie nodded and pushed open the door to the office.

Standing inside was a fair-skinned, fine-featured young man, looking to be barely past his coming-of-age ceremony, about the same age as Cheng Chang.

Yet the moment he saw Cheng Chang, he froze, then abruptly averted his gaze, looking to the side.

Cheng Chang had never met this man before, but he could guess who he was—the fifth young master of the Zhou family he’d been close to as a child, Zhou Caiying.

It seemed that after Zhou Caiying had come to the Imperial City Guard the night before, Wei Jie, worried he might slip up questioning him alone, had taken it upon himself to detain Zhou Caiying here, then sent someone to the mansion overnight to summon Cheng Chang.

Cheng Chang had always worried that someone might use his “amnesia” against him, setting a trap to harm him. So from the very start, aside from revealing a little of the truth to Yun Xi and Wei Jie, he’d kept his secret carefully hidden. Now, seeing Zhou Caiying—a childhood friend, no less—he couldn’t very well pretend not to know him. He poured a cup of tea and handed it over, saying, “Go on. What really happened at Mingyin Temple back then?”

Zhou Caiying, seeing that Cheng Chang was actually willing to speak with him, froze for a moment.

Seeing his reaction, Cheng Chang froze too.

Had he done something wrong?

But before he could think it over further, Zhou Caiying had already taken the teacup from his hand, holding it up with a bow, and said, “Reporting to Your Highness, this humble one doesn’t remember the details too clearly. I only recall that before the massacre, two people of unknown identity had been living at Mingyin Temple—a woman and a child, mother and son.”

In this dynasty there was no custom of consorts being buried with the deceased emperor. After the Late Emperor’s passing, most of the dowager consorts and concubines had remained living within the Sui Palace, with only a few choosing to move to the imperial temple to devote themselves to Buddhism, all residing together in the Eastern Que Hall of Mingyin Temple.

“Mingyin Temple is enormous—it takes up almost half of Pingnan Mountain. But this mother and son didn’t live in the Eastern Que Hall. They lived in a hidden spot halfway up the mountain, and rarely came out. Their daily needs were seen to by an old eunuch at the temple and his young apprentice.”

Cheng Chang asked, “If where this mother and son lived was so hidden, how did you come to know about them?”

Zhou Caiying paused slightly. “Wasn’t it Your Highness who brought us to see them?”

He explained, “Once, when the Grand Empress Dowager took us up to the temple, Your Highness said you wanted to sneak off to hunt rabbits. You ran too far and got hurt, but luckily you ran into that child, who not only helped stop your bleeding but carried you back on his back. The next time we went to Mingyin Temple, you said you wanted to repay the debt of gratitude, and secretly took me and Sister Ling’er to go find that child.”

Cheng Chang took a sip of tea and said flatly, “It’s been too long. I’ve forgotten.”

Zhou Caiying nodded. “We were young then. Sister Ling’er and I only went with you to see that mother and son twice, and she’s forgotten it all since. The reason I remember is because my father was serving in the Ministry of Rites at the time, and when the Mingyin Temple massacre happened, I happened to be at the temple with him. Many people died there that day, including some monks and eunuch officials who lived there permanently.”

“I remember when the woman’s body was carried out, His Majesty had just arrived. He was very grieved, and called the woman ‘Qiangqiang.’ He also sent the Imperial Guards to search for the child, saying the boy’s name was ‘Xu’er.’ But Xu’er had disappeared—no one ever found him.”

“Truthfully, I didn’t pay much attention at the time to who exactly ‘Qiangqiang’ or ‘Xu’er’ were—I was too young. It was only later, after my family was sent away from Jinling, that I overheard my father and mother talking, and learned that ‘Qiangqiang’ was in fact the childhood name of Consort Wan, the Late Emperor’s favored consort, and that Xu’er was the missing fifth prince, Cheng Xu.”

“My father said he actually hadn’t made any mistake in his duties—it was because he’d learned His Majesty’s secret that he was sent away from Jinling. Because back when the Late Emperor was gravely ill, Consort Wan had ‘fallen ill and died’ even before the Late Emperor’s own passing.”

So this “falling ill and dying” had all along been a scheme to slip away unnoticed. It seemed Consort Wan had feigned “illness” because she was pregnant, and after her “death,” she’d secretly moved into Mingyin Temple and given birth to Cheng Xu for Emperor Zhaoyuan.

Cheng Chang said, “By your account, if His Majesty valued Consort Wan and the fifth prince so much, why didn’t he bring them back into the palace sooner? Could it be that before the massacre at Mingyin Temple, His Majesty didn’t even know the two of them were alive?”

“That, this humble one doesn’t know,” Zhou Caiying said. “Your Highness could ask the monks at Mingyin Temple, or other officials who served there back then.”

Cheng Chang nodded. He suddenly remembered that Fang Yuanshan had also been stationed at Mingyin Temple for a long time, and was about to ask about the Fang family when someone suddenly knocked at the door.

The guard stationed outside cupped his hands toward Wei Jie and bowed. “My lord, Eunuch Wu, who serves at His Majesty’s side, has come. He asks you to go to Wende Hall for an audience.”

Wei Jie, who had been sprawled out on a small bamboo couch listening to Cheng Chang’s questioning, sat up at once upon hearing this and asked, “Wu Mao came in person? Did he say what it’s about?”

“Eunuch Wu didn’t say, only that His Majesty wants you to come at once.”

Wei Jie thought it over, then nodded. “Fine.” He stood and headed for the door.

Cheng Chang suddenly felt something was off, and said to Wei Jie, “I’ll go with you.”

“No need,” Wei Jie said. “It’s probably nothing major.” He tilted his chin toward Zhou Caiying. “This fellow only came to the Imperial City Guard in the middle of the night. Even if the old fox has ears everywhere, he’s not clairvoyant—it’s most likely he wants to ask me about the reshuffling of guards between the Imperial City Guard and the Palace Guard Command. If you come with me, the old fox might just think we’re forming a faction.”

With that, he strode off carelessly.

After Wei Jie left, Cheng Chang couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. The Imperial City Guard was quite far from Wende Hall, and Wu Mao, being Emperor Zhaoyuan’s own attending eunuch in charge of the imperial brush, wouldn’t come in person for just anything—so what exactly was going on?

With that thought, he pushed open the door and said to the guard waiting outside, “Send someone to find out why His Majesty has summoned Lord Wei.”

“Yes.” The guard accepted the order and went at once to gather information.

Cheng Chang returned to the office and paced back and forth a few steps. His gaze happened to meet Zhou Caiying’s, and something occurred to him. He asked, “I recall Wei Jie asked you about the Mingyin Temple massacre a while back, and you brushed him off, saying you knew nothing. Why did you suddenly change your mind last night and decide to tell him everything?”

“Reporting to Your Highness, this humble one said nothing at first because this matter concerns His Majesty’s private affairs, and I didn’t dare mention it carelessly to anyone. But Lord Wei is His Majesty’s own guard, after all, the Commander of the Imperial City Guard. I thought that his inquiries about the Mingyin Temple massacre might be for the sake of finding the missing fifth prince, perhaps with His Majesty’s tacit approval. I was afraid of delaying His Majesty’s important business, so I hurried to the Imperial City Guard to tell the truth.”

Cheng Chang made a sound of acknowledgment, then asked, “How much do you know about the Fang family, back then?”

“Your Highness means the Fang family of Fang Yuanshan?” Zhou Caiying asked. “I don’t know much about the Fang family itself. I only remember that Fang Yuanshan also served at Mingyin Temple, and after the massacre there, he was promoted into the Ministry of Rites, taking over the very post my father had vacated.”

Cheng Chang nodded. Noticing Zhou Caiying’s teacup was empty, he casually picked up the teapot to refill it, only for Zhou Caiying to startle and step back at the gesture, staring at him blankly for a long moment before realizing Cheng Chang simply meant to pour him tea. He hastily set down the cup and bowed with his hands clasped in his sleeves, saying in a panic, “This humble one can pour it himself—I, I wouldn’t dare trouble Your Highness.”

Seeing him behave this way, doubts began piling up in Cheng Chang’s mind.

By rights, he and Yu Ling and Zhou Caiying had been close as children—even grown up, they shouldn’t be this distant. So why did Zhou Caiying keep referring to himself as “this humble one” in front of him?

Cheng Chang suddenly recalled that all this time, whether it was Prince Cong, the Princess Consort, or the mansion’s retainers and servants, whenever they mentioned things from his childhood, at most they’d casually bring up Yu Ling. Aside from the Grand Empress Dowager, not a single person had ever mentioned Zhou Caiying.

Something felt off. He was about to ask further when the guard who’d gone to gather information came hurrying back.

His face full of urgency, he didn’t even bother with proper etiquette, blurting out at once, “Your Highness, His Majesty found out that Lord Wei traced the Mingyin Temple massacre back to Consort Wan, and he’s furious at Wende Hall right now—he says he’ll strip Lord Wei of his post and have him punished! Please hurry to Wende Hall to save him!”

Cheng Chang shot to his feet at these words.

Wei Jie had already lost Emperor Zhaoyuan’s trust, and had been ready to give up on the Mingyin Temple case entirely. If Cheng Chang hadn’t urged him to look into the connection between Fang Yuanshan’s promotion and the Mingyin Temple massacre, Wei Jie never would have traced things back to Consort Wan.

In the end, if Wei Jie was going to be punished, it was all because of him.

Cheng Chang had no time to think further. He simply said to Zhou Caiying, “Come with me to Wende Hall for an audience,” and strode out of the office.

Outside, the light snow had stopped, and dusk was drawing near. The spring sun, just breaking free from the clouds, seemed to treasure this last moment before setting, blazing with all its strength, bathing the earth in dazzling light.

Cheng Chang walked briskly down the corridor connecting the inner and outer offices, when a sense of unease suddenly struck him.

He came to an abrupt halt and asked the guard beside him, “How did you manage to find out Lord Wei was being punished so quickly?”

“This subordinate’s man hadn’t even reached Wende Hall yet—a young eunuch familiar with the Imperial City Guard ran over and told him.”

Just a young eunuch?

But the affair between Emperor Zhaoyuan and Consort Wan was the most closely guarded secret imaginable—how could a mere young eunuch possibly know about it?

Besides, Zhou Caiying had only come to the Imperial City Guard to confess to Wei Jie the night before. The entire inner yamen was staffed with Wei Jie’s own people. Wei Jie himself had said that Emperor Zhaoyuan wasn’t clairvoyant—so how could he possibly know what Zhou Caiying had come to tell him?

Unless… someone had already known in advance that Zhou Caiying would come to the Imperial City Guard to talk about Consort Wan, and had sent word to His Majesty beforehand.

Unless this had all been planned from the start.

At this thought, the doubts Cheng Chang hadn’t yet resolved surged back to mind—if he and Zhou Caiying had truly been childhood playmates, why had no one, in this entire past year, aside from the Grand Empress Dowager, ever mentioned Zhou Caiying in front of him, including Prince Cong and the Princess Consort?

He turned to look at Zhou Caiying and asked, “Do you and I have some kind of feud?”

At these words, Zhou Caiying’s face went deathly pale. He asked warily, “You—what do you mean?”

A terrible premonition rose in Cheng Chang’s chest. He took a step closer, about to press further, but this single motion was enough to frighten Zhou Caiying out of his wits. He threw up his hands to cover his head and cried out in a panic, “The eldest young master’s death had nothing to do with me! He caught that filthy disease all on his own—I just went with him to the pleasure boats, that’s all! You can’t blame me for it!”

The eldest young master?

Cheng Chang froze. “Prince Cong’s eldest son?”

His own long-deceased older brother.

Though he’d only crossed over into this body a year ago, Cheng Chang knew that the original Young Prince hadn’t been born wicked—by all accounts he’d been sensible and well-behaved as a child, and had only gradually gone astray after his elder brother’s death.

People often said that when the eldest young master died, the one most grief-stricken hadn’t been Prince Cong or the Princess Consort, but the third young master of the Prince Cong household, who had always looked up to his elder brother above all else.

No wonder, after all this time, no one but the Grand Empress Dowager had ever mentioned Zhou Caiying in front of him.

Zhou Caiying was a relative of the Grand Empress Dowager’s own family. Being elderly, she naturally hoped the two of them could reconcile and be as close as before.

But if the original Young Prince had been convinced his brother’s death was somehow connected to Zhou Caiying, then anyone who knew the truth and brought up Zhou Caiying in front of him would only be reopening an old wound.

Wei Jie had only taken his post at the Imperial City Guard in recent years, so it made sense he wouldn’t know about the rift between him and Zhou Caiying.

But there was one person who couldn’t possibly not know.

Cheng Chang suddenly remembered that day at the Ministry of Finance, when Prince Ling had brought up the Lantern Festival night, laughing that he himself hadn’t been there, and that it was Zhou Caiying who’d helped light the lanterns for him.

He’d also said he remembered that Cheng Chang and Zhou Caiying had been the closest of friends as children.

But the real Young Prince had believed Zhou Caiying was responsible for his brother’s death.

How could the two of them possibly have been the closest of friends?

Cheng Chang thought he now understood why Prince Ling had deliberately brought up Zhou Caiying in front of him.

He’d been testing whether Cheng Chang had really lost his memory.

And in this entire world, the person most desperate to know whether he’d lost his memory was one and only one—the “distinguished guest.”

Cheng Chang looked at Zhou Caiying. “Was it Prince Ling who sent you to the Imperial City Guard to tell Wei Jie about Consort Wan? You wanted to use the chance, while my guards were away, to have His Majesty come down hard on Wei Jie, drawing me out of the inner yamen of the Imperial City Guard, and then, somewhere isolated—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

Cheng Chang looked around. Wasn’t the place he now stood exactly that isolated corridor connecting the inner and outer offices, cut off from everywhere?

“Your Highness, what’s wrong?” the guard beside him asked, noticing the strange look on his face.

Before Cheng Chang could answer, Zhou Caiying panicked first, stumbling backward, his voice nearly breaking into sobs. “It’s not that I wanted to hurt you—I don’t know anything…”

He truly didn’t know anything. The official named Chai Ping had only instructed him to tell Wei Jie about Consort Wan, nothing more.

Cheng Chang had no patience left for him. He said urgently, “Go!”

He’d hidden his “amnesia” all this time precisely to avoid giving anyone a chance to use it against him. Yet despite every precaution, someone had still found an opening.

But he’d barely taken a few steps when a sudden, sharp pain seized his chest, nearly buckling his knees. He had to bend over, clutching at his chest with one hand.

Cheng Chang couldn’t tell whether this sudden pain came from his own panic, or from some response in his body from the modern world.

Surely that old monk wasn’t summoning his soul back at a time like this.

That would be so damn absurd.

Dusk had fully arrived. The evening glow spread a dark gold across the rain-slicked flagstone path. He wasn’t far from the door leading back to the inner yamen, but with the searing pain in his chest, even with the guard supporting him, he couldn’t move quickly.

Just then, two men suddenly emerged from an office to the right of the corridor.

Seeing Cheng Chang and the guard, they made no move to help—instead they walked straight to the corridor entrance and shut the door leading back to the inner yamen.

As though sealing the only path to survival.

Cheng Chang knew at once these were Prince Ling’s men—Wei Jie had mentioned at noon that these past two days Xuan Zhi had been in charge of swapping personnel between the Imperial City Guard and the Palace Guard Command, leaving hardly anyone trustworthy in the outer office. Though Prince Ling couldn’t touch the inner yamen of the Imperial City Guard, planting a few of his own men in the outer office was well within his reach.

What Cheng Chang couldn’t understand was—if these men clearly meant to kill him, why not strike immediately? What was the meaning of shutting the door first?

The guard beside him had also sensed something was wrong. Seeing the two men close the door, he strode toward them at once, making a swift decision. “Your Highness, run!” He drew his sword and charged forward to meet them.

The clash of blades erupted behind him. Cheng Chang didn’t look back. The pain in his chest had eased somewhat, and he hurried on down the corridor, back toward the outer office.

But he’d barely gone a few steps when he saw a minor clerk from the outer office leading several officials in formal robes toward him.

At the front, in fourth-rank official robes, was none other than Chai Ping, the Investigating Censor who served alongside him in the Censorate.

Behind him, the wounded guard let out a breath of relief even as he fought on, urging Cheng Chang, “Your Highness, hurry to Lord Chai!”

But Cheng Chang, ever more clear-headed in a crisis than most, felt something was deeply off at the sight of Chai Ping. The Imperial City Guard and the Censorate had never had any official business overlapping—why would Chai Ping happen to be here at exactly this moment?

He slowed his steps, glancing around, and noticed several connected offices along the left side of the corridor.

He changed course and fled into one of the offices instead.

At that very moment, a wet, muffled sound came from behind—the minor clerk who’d been leading Chai Ping had been run straight through the chest by one of Chai Ping’s men.

Cheng Chang didn’t look back, moving instead from one connected office to the next, trying to find a way out.

The pain in his chest, though it had eased somewhat, was slowly building again as he ran.

It felt as if ten thousand ants were gnawing at his heart—the agonizing pain began to blur his senses, sounds around him growing indistinct and impossible to make out. Yet somehow, on pure survival instinct alone, he could still sense someone chasing him from behind.

A hazy mist seemed to rise before his eyes. At the end of the offices was a firewood storeroom.

The storeroom’s four walls were bare—aside from one high window, there was no way out.

Cheng Chang’s heart went cold. The desperate flight had left his throat and chest burning as if scorched by fire, but that pain was nothing compared to the tearing agony in his chest.

He felt he could barely breathe, his insides seemingly on fire. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees. Though he forced himself to stay conscious, he watched helplessly as the assassin pursuing him closed in step by step, drawing a dagger, ready to take his life.

“Don’t touch him.” Chai Ping’s voice rang out at that moment.

He stood outside the storeroom with several men, gazing coldly down at Cheng Chang, who knelt half-collapsed on the ground, and gave the order: “Light it.”

“If His Majesty asks, say it was Lord Wei’s negligence.”

Cheng Chang finally understood.

No wonder they hadn’t killed him outright—they’d shut the corridor door first. No wonder they were unwilling to leave a blade wound on his body.

They meant to make his death look like a fire at the Imperial City Guard.

That way, they could force Emperor Zhaoyuan to levy some middling punishment on Wei Jie—best case, stripping him of his post as Commander of the Imperial City Guard entirely.

Two birds with one stone. Quite the clever scheme.

“Yes.” The assassin cupped his hands in acknowledgment.

He struck a fire-striker and lit it, setting it to the dry branches piled in the corner.

This was a firewood storeroom, filled everywhere with kindling and dry wood. The flames spread rapidly, roaring to life, thick choking smoke filling the room, mixing with the strange mist that had risen before Cheng Chang’s eyes from nowhere, blotting out most of his vision.

Once the assassin had lit the fire, he tucked the fire-striker back into his robes and turned to leave the storeroom. But Cheng Chang suddenly lunged forward, tackling the assassin’s legs from behind, tripping him to the ground, then clinging to his legs with every ounce of strength he had left, refusing to let go no matter what.

They wanted him dead. They wanted his life.

Then he would make them pay for it with their own.

Everyone who wanted to harm him—none of them would die well!

If he was going down, he’d drag them down with him. He would make them burn together in this sea of fire!

The flames spread with terrifying speed, tongues of fire already licking at the storeroom door. The assassin struggled with all his might to break free and escape, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t get away unscathed.

He turned to look back at Cheng Chang, and saw beads of sweat covering his forehead, his eyes clearly unfocused, bloodshot, hatred burning plainly in their depths. Though the flames hadn’t yet reached his body, he seemed to be in agonizing pain somewhere—his whole body trembling, coughing violently, again and again, bringing up mouthful after mouthful of fresh blood.

He lay collapsed on the ground like this, the dazzling red at the corner of his lips set against his ghastly, almost sickly pale skin, against his heaven-sent features and the roaring inferno all around him, as though some vengeful ghost had crawled up from the depths of hell itself.

At this sight, terror seized Chai Ping’s heart. Without even sparing a thought for the assassin’s fate, he barked out an order: “Lock it!”

At his words, two guards immediately shut the storeroom door from either side.

The storeroom had become a sea of flame. Seeing his one path to survival about to vanish, the assassin summoned every last bit of strength and finally wrenched himself free of Cheng Chang’s grip, lunging toward the door.

But it was too late. The storeroom door had already been locked.

Panic seized the assassin. He looked around wildly, his gaze landing on the single high window on the west wall, the last rays of the setting sun bleeding through it like blood.

He immediately covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve and, ignoring the raging flames, climbed onto the stove beside him, trying to reach the window and escape.

But at that very moment, something extraordinary happened.

That single ray of light, having drunk in all the world’s sorrow, suddenly gathered up the full brilliance of dusk between heaven and earth, streaming through the high window and pouring its glow onto Cheng Chang, who lay collapsed on the ground, his fate uncertain.

The fire still raged, but this light, arriving so suddenly, wrapped itself slowly and gently around Cheng Chang’s entire body, merging with the strange mist rising from nowhere, somehow keeping the flames from touching him.

At this sight, the assassin was utterly terrified, not even noticing as the flames licked at the hem of his own robe.

The fire raged and roared like a wild beast, tearing and biting at Cheng Chang again and again, but the light enveloping him seemed to fight back against the sea of flame itself—from its most radiant point, golden butterflies rose one after another, wings spread wide, driving the flames back.

Every corner of the storeroom was consumed by fire, except for the spot where Cheng Chang lay, untouched.

The assassin’s body was already more than half aflame. He struggled desperately, screaming, his life ebbing away fast.

Just as he was about to slip into oblivion, a clear, distant voice suddenly reached his ears, each note more resonant than the last.

Like reaching the very edge of this life, only to suddenly glimpse enlightenment.

It was the sound of Buddhist chant—

All good and evil in this world bear their consequences in the end.

O soul,

return.

The raging sea of fire and the vast, radiant glow of the setting sun grappled with each other, contended with each other, and finally collided together as twilight fell.

In that instant, the entire world vanished.