# 103: The Forest Dweller (IV)

◎Vines and Rattan◎

“Repeatedly flattering the sovereign, indulging in beauty, wealth, and power... In the past, Lady Luo monopolized authority, and all court officials submitted memorials, but Tan refused to speak out—this was his treachery. Later, Chancellor Su classified him among the ten heinous crimes, which brought great satisfaction to the people...”

“—In his youth, he was a spoiled son of privilege, addicted to tea and oranges, obsessed with books and poetry, laboring through half his life only for it all to become a dream... All that remains are broken beds, shattered tables, cracked tripods, and ailing zithers, as if from another lifetime.”

Before Qu You spoke just now, she still harbored one last thought of trying to persuade him—

Although she knew that everything Zhou Tan had done was necessary and unavoidable, and she had no reason to stop him, as his wife, she couldn’t measure his actions by whether they were “worth it” or “right.”

She wanted to tell him that despite all he had done, the world had betrayed him.

If he had truly committed even one of those acts...

If he had harbored even a single base thought...

She wouldn’t feel so deeply aggrieved for him.

But Zhou Tan was neither entangled nor corrupt—he was an upright gentleman, resilient yet tragic, like frost on a bleak winter day.

How could he be such a purely good person?

It was the world that had wronged him.

But when Zhou Tan recited the poem she had vaguely remembered during her time in Song Shiyu’s prison, she understood everything.

There was no point in saying more.

Zhou Tan had already foreseen how history would judge him when he decided to do these things.

He asked Song Shixuan, asked Su Chaoci, listened to Yan Fu and Bai Shating, but showed no curiosity about himself—not because he lacked curiosity, but because a thousand years ago, Zhou Tan himself had determined how history would inscribe his final verdict.

The annotations she wrote in the margins of those books weren’t hers at all—they were written stroke by stroke under Zhou Tan’s invisible guidance.

Just as on that day on the boat, when Zhou Tan held her hand to craft some frivolous reputation for himself, writing solemnly, “Holding Lifu while reading accounts,” absurd as it was, he embraced it willingly.

They were so close that she could hear his breaths, his heartbeat, and the ever-present, haunting scent of his calm presence.

“You...”

Before she could finish tremblingly, Zhou Tan turned his head and softly interrupted her: “Since you’ve read those things about me, why did you...?”

He didn’t finish, but Qu You understood what he left unsaid.

—After seeing those disgraceful things about me in the annals, why did you still save me when we first met?

How could she answer such a question? Perhaps from the moment she saw him in this life, there was a faint voice in her heart. Even though their fates in every lifetime were broken and sorrowful, never reaching a happy ending, just seeing him once made everything that came before meaningful.

“I remember you once told me that your lifelong wish was to see the truth in history,” Zhou Tan’s voice was soft, as if speaking to her or muttering to himself. “...So it seems, I’m sorry. Seeing the truth isn’t always a good thing.”

When history casts its shadow over the heavens, why bother probing the painful undercurrents beneath?

He reached out to caress her face, and as his eyelashes fluttered, tears slid down her cheeks, but his expression remained serene, even with a faint smile on his lips: “...Let me go. You have your wishes, and I have mine. Once, I hoped to grow old with you, but fate has been unfair. That wish is already lost—I cannot lose another.”

“You can go without asking me,” Qu You raised her hand to wipe away the tears at the corners of her eyes. “You’ve already thought everything through. Why bother seeking my consent? If I said no, would you give up?”

“You are my wife. The day you saved my life, it ceased to belong solely to me... We share this body, these bones, this blood, these emotions. Now they must decay—I just want you to know that you and the nation are equally important to me. This choice isn’t abandoning you for the country; it’s just... I have no other way. And this sacrifice is meaningful.”

“But why does it have to be you?” Qu You avoided his gaze, staring blankly. A moment later, she seemed to recall something and exclaimed urgently, “What if I told you—the Great Yan will eventually fall to the factional strife you sought so hard to suppress. Your sacrifice will buy barely a century of peace... Life is short. Even if Physician Bai says your days are numbered, it isn’t certain...”

Zhou Tan stood up, leaning on the pillar, not startled by her mention of “destruction,” but calmly countered: “Is a hundred years really so short?”

Qu You was momentarily stunned.

“Empires will always fade, and a hundred years... Compared to a thousand, it passes in the blink of an eye. But compared to us, to the people here, it is incredibly long. Long enough for all the citizens of Bianjing to live peaceful lives, free from war, conflict, and injustice, dying happily surrounded by their descendants instead of perishing from famine, warfare, or being used as tools or pawns for power.” Zhou Tan couldn’t bear to look at her. “Isn’t this the life we desire? If we can’t achieve it for ourselves, we must try to grant it to others. A century of peace... It’s already more than enough. I’ve done my best.”

With that, he stepped into the puddles of rainwater in front of the pavilion and walked away slowly but resolutely. Behind him, Qu You let out a choked laugh, her voice trembling: “Troubles begin with knowledge. You don’t know how much I wish I were an ignorant, vulgar woman who only knows how to throw tantrums to make her husband obey... You talk about fulfilling wishes, so will you fulfill mine? After you die, I swear...”

She paused mid-sentence, then shifted her tone, adding a touch of petulance: “You’d better take care of yourself. If you die, I’ll remarry someone else and forget you completely.”

Zhou Tan clearly knew she was lying—she was such a clever woman. Her words now were merely a way to cope with the fact that they both understood his choice couldn’t be stopped. She couldn’t forgive herself for not uttering a single word of objection, so she stubbornly resisted him.

Though he understood the reasoning behind her words, they still pierced him with sharp, lingering pain. It was so real that he stopped in his tracks, clutching his chest and standing still for a while before snapping out of the icy abyss he felt. He noticed a rain-drenched lily of the valley by the roadside.

“After I die, you forget me... Isn’t that also my greatest wish?”

And so he smiled, striving to keep his voice steady, even knowing she wouldn’t believe him. But he had to act convincingly.

“In that case... it’s fine.”

He left the Linfeng Pavilion in the garden, leaving Qu You alone in the pavilion. She watched his figure disappear into the depths of the night, hugging the pillar tightly, closing her eyes. The residual chill of the night rain crept up her spine, spreading coldness throughout her body.

“You have your wishes, and I have mine...” she repeated dazedly. “After a night of lies, at least one sentence was true. Seeing the truth isn’t painful—it’s too important to me. Since that’s the case, then... let me go.”

After Zhou Tan was dismissed as chancellor, Emperor Ming delayed appointing a new one.

No officials dared to urge him, as after the argument with Zhou Tan in the Imperial Study, the emperor had fallen ill from the shock and wind exposure, canceling morning court for three days.

Zhou Tan closed his doors to visitors, Su Chaoci remained neutral, the empress was weak, and only Luo Jiangting attended closely to the young emperor. She lowered her eyes as she washed the young emperor’s hands, then gripped his feverish fingers tightly.

Through layers of curtains, she heard Song Shixuan ask: “A’Luo, are you happy?”

Luo Jiangting didn’t know about A’Luo, only that Song Shixuan had once deeply loved a cat named A’Luo and mourned its death for a long time. At first, she thought his calling her “A’Luo” was merely treating her as a plaything, but later, seeing his deep, melancholy, affectionate gaze, she realized the name was simply a term of endearment.

How could such a pure and passionate person be suited to be emperor?

Luo Jiangting knelt on the thick carpet, pressing her face against his palm.

She closed her eyes, recalling the first day they met. She had pretended to be panicked and desperate, blocking his carriage.

The young man lifted the curtain and glanced at her.

She hadn’t expected it to be so easy—just one glance.

A wave of bittersweet guilt surged within her, but it vanished quickly. She obediently replied: “Your Majesty, being able to stay by your side is the happiest and most satisfying thing for me.”

Recently, Bai Ying had been invited by Su Chaoci, and the imperial physicians had visited several times. The young emperor’s fever wasn’t as severe as before. Before leaving, the physician specially instructed that after taking the last dose of medicine, he should rest well, and he would likely improve by tomorrow.

Perhaps due to the medicine, Song Shixuan was drowsy and somewhat incoherent. Even by his side, Luo Jiangting couldn’t tell if he was speaking to her or murmuring in delirium: “Is that so? But I always feel... I’ve wronged you. Back then... you had nothing, and I had nothing, yet I thought it was wonderful. If only we could live like ordinary couples...”

His words were jumbled and vague. Luo Jiangting knelt by the bed, listening in a daze, when suddenly a tear slipped down her cheek.

Startled by her own tears, she quickly wiped them away, forcing herself to calm down. Clearing her throat, she said: “Your Majesty, the physician said your illness stems from emotional distress. Could it be that you were truly upset by the former chancellor before the study? I know you once shared deep affection with him, but someone so consumed by schemes... How could he...”

She stopped there, and Song Shixuan remained silent for a long time before simply saying: “...Yes.”

Luo Jiangting felt slightly relieved and ventured: “Does Your Majesty want to forgive him?”

Song Shixuan whispered: “I... don’t know what he’s thinking.”

Luo Jiangting quickly suggested: “Your Majesty is so troubled, and I am deeply concerned. Why don’t I invite Madam Zhou to the palace tomorrow to inquire about her?”

Song Shixuan agreed: “Alright.”

Before they finished speaking, a palace attendant came to report that the empress had arrived.

With the empress here, Luo Jiangting couldn’t stay long. Rising to bid farewell, she bowed her back and took a few steps backward. She heard Song Shixuan call her softly from behind: “A’Luo...”

His voice was tender and lingering, tinged with a trace of reluctant tears.

She didn’t dare turn around, merely responding: “Your Majesty?”

The young emperor’s voice was slightly hoarse from behind the curtains: “It’s windy. Wear my outer robe before you go.”

As the empress entered the hall, she only glimpsed Luo Jiangting, wrapped in a gilded cloak, her eyes red, rushing out of the chamber. She seemed somewhat out of control, disregarding her usual etiquette, hastily lowering her head and leaving in a fluster.

When the empress entered the hall, the heavy doors were promptly shut by the attendants.

Taking a few steps forward, she lifted her eyes to see the young emperor lifting the gauze curtains, sitting on the bed with a detached expression. Apart from his slightly flushed cheeks, there was no sign of serious illness.

The empress lowered her eyes and approached: “Your Majesty, the wind is cold. You shouldn’t get up.”

Song Shixuan gently took her hand and said warmly: “I know. You’ve grown thinner these past few days from chanting scriptures and praying for blessings. Sit down and talk with me.”

The empress glanced back, noticing no one else in the hall, and smiled at him, shedding her usual reserve and deference in public. She seemed quite familiar with him: “As Your Majesty commanded, I dutifully went to the Candlelight Tower and knelt for three days. How will you reward me?”