# 125: Doppelgänger

[06·Moonlit Night]

When Zhou Tan awoke, it was already dusk.

He turned over groggily, only to realize he was in an entirely unfamiliar place—neither his residence, the palace, the imperial prison, nor any home of someone he knew.

On the pear-wood bed frame hung his white jade scholar’s sword, which hadn’t been unsheathed in ages. Someone had tied a red ribbon around it, forming a playful bow at the hilt.

The room was dimly lit, with incense burning, blending the scents of still water and apricot blossoms.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stared blankly for a moment before reaching for the robe draped nearby. However, as soon as he stood, a woman’s peach-colored silk undergarment slipped off his body.

This startled him greatly. Instinctively stepping back, he didn’t dare pick up the robe, instead feeling around the table and finding hairpins and jewelry casually placed there.

The flower-patterned window was open, allowing petals to drift gently into the room. In the fading light of dusk, he finally realized this was unmistakably a young woman’s chamber.

Zhou Tan felt a wave of absurdity wash over him but forced himself to calm down. He sat at the table beside the bed and poured himself a cup of tea.

The tea was cold, but upon tasting it, he froze—plum blossom dew mixed with snow, brewed with spring water. This was the method his teacher had personally taught him. He was accustomed to sprinkling dried osmanthus flowers into the boiling tea, infusing it with a subtle sweetness after steeping.

Was the tea here, in this strange place, brewed by him?

Or… had his teacher not died? Was this his teacher’s home? But his teacher had no female relatives.

Zhou Tan’s head throbbed painfully as he tucked stray strands of hair behind his ear, his thoughts in disarray.

His memories were still stuck in that snowy night in the imperial prison. After being tortured, he knelt on the ground, hearing Song Shixuan ask before him, “Teacher, when you delayed coming to Fengqi Pavilion all those years ago, was it truly unrelated to this?”

He tried to lift his head, but it felt frozen, too heavy to move. So he shrank on the ground, trembling from the cold—whether from inadequate clothing or the words spoken before him.

Song Shixuan squatted down, removing his crane-feather cloak and draping it over Zhou Tan. The scent of dragon’s saliva incense enveloped him, yet inexplicably, he felt no warmth.

“Ziqian...” Zhou Tan clutched the hand fastening his robe, finally finding his voice. “Your Majesty...”

Pale from blood loss, Zhou Tan’s lips were ashen. Song Shixuan glanced at him briefly before turning away, unable to bear looking further. “Teacher, don’t speak... I’ll send someone to take you home to rest.”

“Your Majesty!” Zhou Tan gripped his wrist tightly, coughing heavily. The howling wind outside drowned out the anguish in his voice. “Does Your Majesty truly believe... that this lowly servant... has always treated you thus? Is this truly how Your Majesty views me?”

He referred to himself as “this servant,” no longer calling himself “Ziqian.”

Song Shixuan lowered his eyes, recalling the days he’d waited for Zhou Tan at Fengqi Pavilion.

From the time he had memory, he had been constantly fleeing—through the forests of Lin’an, the bustling streets of Bianjing. Though born of noble lineage, he lived without dignity until the day Gu Zhiyan secretly found him.

Several soldiers blindfolded him and took him from the dilapidated temple where he had been staying. He felt as if he were falling into an icy abyss, believing his long escape had finally ended in capture. But when the blindfold was removed, he saw a spirited, thin-faced elder.

“Your humble servant... greets the royal grandson.” Gu Zhiyan stepped back, trembling as he bowed.

His student quickly moved forward to support him.

________________________________________

Zhou Tan sat in the dim room, his mind racing. Before him lay a puzzle—a woman’s chamber, familiar tea, and traces of his past mingled with uncertainty about the present.

He reached for the red ribbon tied around the sword hilt, running his fingers over the knot. It felt oddly intimate, as though someone close to him had done this. Yet nothing about this place made sense.

Suddenly, the door creaked open. A soft voice called out hesitantly, “Is anyone here?”

Startled, Zhou Tan turned toward the sound. Standing in the doorway was a young woman clad in a pale green gown, her hair adorned with simple silver pins. She held a lantern, its flickering light casting shadows across her delicate features.

Her gaze met his, wide with surprise. For a moment, neither spoke.

Finally, she stepped inside, her voice trembling slightly. “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?”

Zhou Tan opened his mouth to respond but found no words. How could he explain? He barely understood the situation himself.

Instead, he gestured vaguely to the surroundings. “I... I woke up here. I don’t know how I got here or why.”

The woman frowned, clearly skeptical. She set the lantern down and approached cautiously. “You’re dressed in men’s robes, but...” Her eyes darted to the fallen peach silk garment on the floor. “Are you... impersonating someone?”

Impersonating? Zhou Tan shook his head vehemently. “No, I assure you, I’m not pretending to be anyone. I just... woke up here.”

She studied him closely, then sighed. “You look familiar, somehow. Have we met before?”

Familiar? Zhou Tan’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be possible? He scrutinized her face, searching for any resemblance to someone he knew. But her features were entirely foreign, yet hauntingly reminiscent of... something.

“I don’t think so,” he replied slowly. “But perhaps... in another life?”

The woman chuckled nervously. “Another life? You must have hit your head harder than I thought.”

Despite her skepticism, she didn’t seem hostile. She picked up the fallen garment and folded it neatly, placing it on a nearby chest. Then she turned back to him, her expression softening.

“If you truly don’t remember how you got here, maybe you should rest. You look exhausted.”

Exhausted? Zhou Tan couldn’t deny that. His body ached, his mind was foggy, and the weight of confusion pressed heavily on him. But resting wouldn’t solve anything.

“I can’t,” he said firmly. “There’s too much I need to figure out.”

She tilted her head, curiosity replacing suspicion. “Like what?”

“Like...” He hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “Like who I am. And why I’m here.”

Her brow furrowed. “You don’t even know your own name?”

Zhou Tan paused, considering. Did he dare admit the truth? Finally, he nodded. “Not anymore.”

To his surprise, she smiled faintly. “Well, whoever you are, you’re welcome to stay here tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll see if your memory returns.”

Stay? Zhou Tan hesitated. Something about her offer felt comforting, yet unsettling. Still, he had nowhere else to go.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

As she left the room to fetch him fresh bedding, Zhou Tan sank back onto the bed, his thoughts swirling. Who was this woman? Why did her presence feel so familiar, yet so distant?

And most importantly—why did he feel as though he’d been waiting for her all along?

________________________________________

Hours later, Zhou Tan lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Sleep eluded him, his mind plagued by fragmented memories and unanswered questions.

The woman—whose name he still didn’t know—had retired to another part of the house, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Yet the faint scent of apricot blossoms lingered in the air, a reminder of her presence.

He closed his eyes, trying to piece together the events leading to this moment. But every attempt only deepened the mystery.

Then, just as dawn began to break, he heard a faint rustling sound. Opening his eyes, he saw a butterfly fluttering near the window, its wings shimmering in the early light.

It landed on the table beside him, its movements graceful and deliberate. Watching it, Zhou Tan felt a strange sense of calm wash over him.

Could this butterfly hold the answers he sought? Or was it merely a fleeting visitor, like everything else in this enigmatic place?

As sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the room, Zhou Tan resolved to uncover the truth—no matter where it led him.

Zhou Tan’s mind reeled as he tried to piece together the fragments of his past. The tea in his hand trembled, its familiar taste evoking memories both cherished and painful. Who could have brought him here? And who was the mysterious figure behind this haven?

He rose unsteadily, pulling on the robe draped over the chair. Facing the copper mirror, he adjusted his disheveled appearance. His hair, once neatly tied, now hung loose, framing a face that mirrored his own—yet somehow felt foreign.

Securing his hair with a white jade pin, Zhou Tan pushed open the door. Outside, the courtyard bloomed with apricot trees, their delicate blossoms swaying gently in the breeze. A moss-covered stone path stretched ahead, leading to an unlocked gate—an unusual sight for someone accustomed to the guarded walls of Bianjing.

As he hesitated at the threshold, two figures approached from the left. One carried a child on his back, their demeanor carefree and unruly.

“Your mother will kill you if she finds out!” one laughed.

“Exactly,” the other replied. “Second Mistress forbids you from playing with us. If she knew...”

Their words trailed off, too faint to hear clearly. The child, however, spoke loudly and confidently. “Mother’s chatting happily with the mistress upstairs. She sent me to deliver a message. I fell and broke my leg anyway, so what difference does it make if she beats me? Besides, I promised Mother I’d come. Mr. Tailsheng said one must keep promises—even if it means clinging to your neck!”

Before they could finish their banter, the child spotted Zhou Tan standing by the gate. Shouting excitedly, he leapt off the man’s back and ran toward Zhou, wrapping his arms around his legs.

“Teacher!” the child exclaimed, looking up with a bright smile. “I’ve already read the book you told Fusheng to study! What are you doing here?”

Caught off guard, Zhou Tan instinctively stepped back. He glanced at the two men accompanying the child, who awkwardly bowed upon meeting his gaze.

“Greetings, Master Zhou.”

“Master Zhou, how’s your health lately? Haha!”

Seeing Zhou’s pale face, one of them leaned closer, feigning concern. “Is Master Zhou feeling unwell? Shall we fetch the mistress for you?”

Fusheng chimed in, “My mother says she’ll return after dinner. Would Master like to visit our home?”

...Mistress?

The three strangers were entirely unfamiliar, their words incomprehensible. To avoid suspicion, Zhou feigned nonchalance, waving dismissively as he prepared to retreat into the courtyard. But before he could, Fusheng bounded forward, pressing a candy figurine into his hand.

“I brought this specially for you, Teacher!” Fusheng waved cheerfully. “Take care, Teacher. I’ll be going now!”

Zhou Tan stood frozen, staring blankly at the sugary figure in his hand.

________________________________________

Meanwhile, Qu You bid farewell to Second Mistress and returned home just as the sun dipped below the horizon. She had intended to stay longer, but hearing from Fusheng that Zhou Tan appeared unwell troubled her deeply, prompting her early return.

The courtyard lay dark and silent—the lantern usually lit each night was absent. This lamp, typically tended by Zhou Tan when she was away, remained unlit. Had he forgotten? Or had he fallen ill again?

Earlier, Zhou Tan had felt lethargic during midday, so Qu You had left him to rest. According to Fusheng, he had risen but still seemed unwell. Could he have collapsed again, neglecting even to light the lantern?

Unease gripped her heart as she hurried toward the house.

________________________________________

Inside, Zhou Tan sat motionless, his thoughts swirling like storm-tossed waves. Memories of Song Shixuan’s cold gaze haunted him—those eyes, filled with betrayal and accusation, cut deeper than any blade.

“Teacher... you knew all along, didn’t you?”

The realization struck him like lightning. Song Shixuan had known about Bai Ying’s involvement, about the blood-soaked past that bound them. Yet, instead of confronting him directly, Song had let Zhou unravel the truth himself—a cruel, calculated move designed to drive a wedge between them.

Zhou clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. “You thought I would hate you for it. That I couldn’t forgive.”

But forgiveness wasn’t the issue—it was trust. All these years, Zhou had poured his soul into nurturing Song Shixuan, guiding him, protecting him. And now, everything crumbled under the weight of doubt.

He recalled the day he first entered Fengqi Pavilion, a young scholar tasked with tutoring a frightened prince. Back then, Song had called him “Teacher” with such reverence, such gratitude. Over time, Zhou had become more than a mentor—he had become a confidant, a friend.

Or so he thought.

Now, faced with Song’s accusations, Zhou realized how fragile their bond truly was. For all his efforts, he was nothing more than a pawn—a tool to be discarded when no longer useful.

His chest tightened painfully. Was this how Gu Zhiyan felt when he accepted Emperor Xuan’s dying request? Burdened by duty, torn between loyalty and conscience?

Zhou exhaled shakily, his vision blurring with unshed tears. “Perhaps... perhaps I’m not fit to guide anyone.”

He gazed at the poem scrawled on the wall—one final act of defiance against fate. The ink had frozen overnight, its characters jagged yet resolute.

“Little minister offers longevity to the Southern Mountain.”

“May Your Majesty’s name endure through eternity.”

Even in death, he refused to curse the emperor. Instead, he bestowed blessings, leaving behind a legacy of grace.

________________________________________

Outside, Qu You’s footsteps echoed softly as she approached the courtyard. Spotting Zhou Tan’s silhouette through the window, she paused, her heart aching at the sight of his slumped form.

Pushing open the door, she stepped inside, her voice gentle. “Zhou... are you alright?”

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the wall. When he finally turned to face her, his expression was unreadable—guarded, weary, yet tinged with something akin to relief.

Qu You hesitated, unsure whether to press further. Instead, she moved to light the lantern, casting a warm glow over the room. As the flame flickered to life, Zhou’s features softened slightly, though shadows lingered in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have stayed out so late,” he murmured, his tone subdued. “It’s dangerous.”

She smiled faintly, brushing aside his concern. “I heard you weren’t feeling well. Is there anything I can do?”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, almost imperceptibly, Zhou shook his head. “No... just stay.”

Qu You nodded, settling beside him. Together, they sat in quiet companionship, the weight of unspoken truths hanging heavy in the air.

Beyond the window, the moon cast its silver light over the apricot blossoms, their petals trembling in the night breeze—a fleeting reminder of beauty amidst sorrow.

Zhou Tan turned to face Su Chaoci, who stood amidst the misty rain. Su wasn’t wearing his official robes but a simple dark blue scholar’s gown, reminiscent of their first meeting. His jade belt was slightly loose—he had grown thin, his eyes bloodshot and weary.

Zhou smiled faintly. “The matter is resolved. Why does Brother Su not rejoice?”

The ferry hadn’t arrived yet, and thick fog blanketed the clear stream before them.

Su stared at the water, lost in thought. After a long moment, he spoke hoarsely, “His Majesty... wished to come and see you off.”

Zhou lowered his gaze, silent for a while.

It was early spring, just a few days after the stream had thawed. Fortunately, the recent sunny weather had melted the ice cleanly, though patches of snow still lingered on the ground.

As they spoke, a light drizzle began to fall.

By the riverside, the wind carried the sounds of flowing water, rustling leaves, and pattering rain. Su opened his umbrella, hearing Zhou say calmly, “Never mind.”

Su closed his eyes in anguish, pressing his temples as if speaking to himself. “I don’t understand what caused such discord between you two… Neither would tell me. Ziqian summoned me to the palace late at night—I haven’t seen him cry like that in years. The next day, we went to fetch you, but you refused to say a word…”

“Enough,” Zhou interrupted softly, attempting a self-deprecating smile that never quite formed.

“But I truly don’t understand!” Su exclaimed.

Zhou steadied Su’s arm, looking at him earnestly. “Chaoci, do you believe... there exists unbreakable loyalty in this world?”

Su hesitated, unable to answer immediately.

“You see? You don’t,” Zhou said with a bittersweet smile. “Few people in this world truly do. Even those who claim to believe are often merely comforting themselves. But I… I genuinely believed. Once someone becomes obsessed, they expect others to share the same obsession, thinking it’s only fair. Now I realize, why should anyone owe me anything? Everything I’ve done stems from my own heart—my thousand vows, my myriad emotions. I gave willingly, seeking fulfillment and peace of mind. No one has wronged me; we owe each other nothing. The grand path of heaven lies open to all, yet I remain trapped—perhaps because I’m too obsessed.”

Su paused, murmuring gently, “This world has no shortage of dreamers… It’s your unwavering hope, even after so much hardship, that keeps disappointing you. Xiaobai, you’re still the idealistic swordsman you were when we first met, while I’ve grown old and weary. Back then, during the Qionglin Night Banquet, the innocent young man was always you alone. I envy you.”

A boat emerged from the white mist.

Su continued, “Every era needs dreamers, those who retain their childlike innocence until death. They sacrifice themselves to pave the way for future generations, sparing them the struggles we endured. Only through their efforts can the sky clear and new green emerge after winter’s frost.”

Zhou glanced at Su, who fingered the five-colored prayer beads at his side, meeting his gaze. In moments, both men’s eyes reddened.

“I remember your Po Xin Shu ,” Zhou said. “‘Knowing your pure-hearted path, melting away in self-pity.’ I am no immortal banished from the eastern seas, nor a lone crane crying under the moon. This path I walked, you have walked too. Our footprints overlap, but whose truth lies within matters little.”

“Ha ha ha ha!”

Both men burst into laughter by the riverbank, unrestrained and free—a rarity since their youth.

“Sing till tears dry, fame’s pursuits give way to meals! Endless trees drift upon the horizon, half-hidden by rain-laden clouds among the mountains… Ancient sorrows, countless forms! Is joy and sorrow found only in parting? The river’s waves aren’t the cruelest trials; the hardest paths lie elsewhere in life!”

Boarding the boat, Zhou recited this poem before turning to Su. “The road I must walk has reached its end. Whether it becomes a broad avenue depends on how far you’ll go. May it meet our expectations.”

Behind him, Su shouted hoarsely, “I swear to you—the snow will melt someday!”

On the misty deck, Zhou picked up his brush and penned an elegy.

“Yes, the snow will melt someday.”

He watched Su’s figure grow indistinct on the shore, eventually swallowed by the vast fog.

“After the snow melts, perhaps this world will change.”

The boatman, unaware of his identity, approached. “Master… the deck is cold. You should retreat inside soon.”

Zhou smiled faintly. “Alright.”

As he entered the cabin, he mused quietly, “Though Su and I have known each other for years, he remains different from me—as unknowing now as when we first met.”

And yet, he had been fortunate enough to encounter someone who truly understood and loved him.

But she melted away like fresh snow on an old mountain, leaving behind not even a drop of water.

________________________________________

Zhou Tan returned alone to Lin’an, purchasing a small courtyard on the outskirts filled with blooming apricot trees. He adored it deeply.

For a long time, he hadn’t thought about his deceased wife. Sitting beneath the apricot blossoms, he struggled to recall her face and finally unearthed her portrait from a locked chest.

After her death, he had buried the painting deep within, unable to bear looking at it. Each glance brought back the suffocating weight of loss, making all his plans seem futile. Life itself felt meaningless.

In Bianjing, burdened by endless responsibilities, he dared not relax, fearing collapse. Now, with time on his hands, he indulged in gazing at the portrait.

There was only one painting, commissioned shortly after their marriage. Beside it, her handwriting read:

“A wisp of cloud drifts endlessly; sorrow weighs heavy on the maple-lined banks.”

On his first day in the courtyard, Zhou sat at the end of the corridor, staring at the portrait for hours.

As dusk approached, he rose, intending to steady himself against a pillar, when his eyes fell on the familiar white jade sword resting atop the chest where he’d stored the portrait.

His mother’s gift, rarely used since entering politics, lay here now. Was this a sign?

Drawing the blade, its cold gleam caught his eye.

And so, Zhou laughed.

________________________________________

Qu You remembered dreaming of past lives while imprisoned in the Ministry of Justice by Song Shiyan.

In her first life, Zhou Tan died in the imperial prison.

In her second, she was no longer the kneeling palace maid in the snow. Instead, Zhou Tan wore Song Shixuan’s crane-feather cloak, inscribing a line on the jail wall—”May Your Majesty’s name endure through eternity”—before returning alone to Lin’an.

Wishing illness upon himself, he fell ill after his parents’ deaths, grew frail, and ceased practicing martial arts. Thus, in her third life, he succumbed to disease.

What she deliberately overlooked was Zhou Tan’s choice in their shared second life in Lin’an. The memory was too painful.

To this day, Qu You vividly recalled standing beneath the apricot tree as a ghost, watching Zhou draw a short sword and slit his wrist without emotion.

Blood pooled on the ground, mingling with fallen petals. Clutching the white jade ring tightly, he whispered weakly, “Don’t let us meet again… I’ll stay far away from you all…”

Desperately, she lunged forward, trying to stop the bleeding, but her ethereal hands passed through him. Kneeling helplessly, she watched his life slip away.

“It doesn’t count! None of your wishes count!”

Before dying, Zhou dipped his finger in blood, writing a final message on the portrait. With his entire fortune, he entrusted someone to bury him alongside his wife’s ashes beneath the apricot hill behind the courtyard.

Blood stained the sword red, splattering the portrait they once cherished.

________________________________________

“…Mistress!”

Rubbing her temples, Qu You wandered home alone.

It felt like a dream—descending the mountain with Second Mistress, embroidering, drinking tea, brewing wine, buying a potted apricot tree at the market, then forgetting it at Second Mistress’s house—all identical to yesterday’s memories.