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Faced with his demeanor, Luo Wei suddenly felt a sense of nervousness she hadn’t experienced in a long time.
Over the years since becoming Empress Dowager, she had encountered all sorts of officials in court—ambitious ones, those who hid daggers behind smiles, and ruthless schemers. She maneuvered among them, learning from each encounter to win hearts, gather loyal followers, and wield power effortlessly. At some point, she had transformed herself into someone unfazed by praise or blame.
As long as she could discern their thoughts and desires, even when confronting Yu Qiushi or Song Lan, she never felt at a disadvantage.
But him…
From the moment he appeared at Xiuying Temple—or perhaps earlier, when he knelt before the begonia in Qionghua Hall and accurately guessed every calculation she had made regarding the Western Garden murder case—
Luo Wei clearly understood that one day, this man would become a formidable adversary she couldn’t ignore.
Yet, instead of fear, this realization filled her with an exhilarating thrill. That day, when she laughed aloud on the corridor, it was precisely this feeling driving her.
Even Luo Wei herself didn’t fully comprehend whether this was the joy of meeting an equal opponent or the madness of seizing an opportunity despite the risk of mutual destruction.
Growing up, her personality bore traces of her mother’s innocence and kindness, her father’s broad-minded elegance, and Song Ling’s upright integrity. Each person who shaped her left an indelible mark.
The deepest, most painful scar, however, came from losing him .
Luo Wei reflected repeatedly. In the past, she would have despised this loss of control. But now, she relished it, even finding perverse satisfaction in the disruption of old orders. Perhaps it was because she had spent too long alone within the confines of the world; only the perilous edge of danger made her feel alive.
So what if Ye Tingyan was dangerous?
What did it matter if they crossed boundaries and became entangled in this twisted, ambiguous relationship?
For now, he aided her fight against overwhelming forces, providing her with weapons and supplies for her solitary war.
That was enough… Whether he would kill her one day or she would kill him were questions for the future.
Luo Wei raised her head again, looking down at Ye Tingyan kneeling before her.
For some reason, after clarifying these thoughts, she suddenly found him easier to understand.
Whether it was their impolite first meeting on the road, his bold invitation at Gaoyang Terrace, or their encounters at Xiuying Temple and Mount Luyun—Ye Tingyan wasn’t incapable of hiding his emotions flawlessly. He simply chose not to bother.
Previously, tense and convinced that such a calculating individual couldn’t harbor lingering feelings for her, she had misjudged him.
Now, with sudden clarity, Luo Wei realized that for Ye Tingyan, “harboring old feelings” and “acting pragmatically” weren’t mutually exclusive. His decision to ally with her was based on careful consideration of benefits. Why should he conceal emotions that were harmless and advantageous?
After all, he wasn’t some virtuous Confucian gentleman bound by principles. If he desired something, he pursued it openly.
Seeking power and indulging in pleasures were universal desires among men. He was no exception.
And so, Luo Wei smiled faintly.
Leaning down, she deliberately whispered near his ear, “Lord Ye, how shall I show you my sincerity?”
Ye Tingyan’s grip on her hand tightened slightly.
Luo Wei extended a finger, teasingly brushing away a few strands of hair from his forehead. Seeing his reaction confirmed her suspicions, and the more she thought about it, the more amused she became.
Perhaps the people she dealt with before were too upright. She had almost forgotten that beauty could also be a weapon.
Having seen through him, she regained control over their dynamic.
Before the final life-or-death struggle, any trace of fragile affection would be a weakness. Whoever possessed it would lose the upper hand.
Ye Tingyan didn’t grasp her sudden shift. In a low voice, he asked, “What does Your Highness think?”
Luo Wei gently tightened her grip, reclaiming Ye Tingyan’s hand while her other hand trailed down his temple to caress his cheek.
Her gaze remained fixed on him, unwilling to miss even the slightest change in his expression. Her tone softened, almost a whisper, “Lord Ye will see my sincerity. But before that, I have two questions.”
Holding his breath, Ye Tingyan listened as she continued, “First, tell me honestly—why do you repeatedly meet with me despite the risks? Is it truly because of our past connection?”
She no longer called him “Lord Ye” or referred to herself as “this palace.”
This time, Ye Tingyan didn’t falter. Almost indulgently, he leaned into her touch, half-jokingly declaring, “If Your Highness seeks honesty, then it’s not just the past. From the moment I glimpsed you during the ceremony marking the end of mourning, I was… smitten at first sight, captivated by your beauty.”
She knew this wasn’t entirely truthful, but it aligned perfectly with her expectations.
Luo Wei’s smile deepened. “Second, when you were in Youzhou, you presented His Majesty with a painting titled Shattering the Vermilion Sky . What was your intention?”
Ye Tingyan hadn’t anticipated this question. After a brief pause, he countered, “Does Your Highness know its meaning?”
Luo Wei’s response was vague. “I merely wish to understand why you were so certain this act would please His Majesty.”
Suddenly, Ye Tingyan felt her hand grow cold, sending a shiver through him.
He turned his face slightly, withdrawing from her touch. “Your Highness must know that I have several brothers in my family.”
Luo Wei replied calmly, “Of course I know.”
“Since childhood, my parents favored my elder brother, always taking him along on campaigns while leaving me behind. They claimed impartial love, but I’ve always known that only what is cherished is kept close.” Ye Tingyan paused. “My elder brother perished in the Battle of Youyun River. I grieved deeply, but secretly, there was a strange sense of satisfaction mixed with my sorrow. Fate is fair—it took away my affection and compensated with his life. If I feel this way, what of His Majesty, who grew up as an overlooked prince?”
He spoke candidly, exposing the darkest corners of his mind without hesitation.
Listening to him, Luo Wei felt a wave of nausea, her spine chilling.
She recalled Song Lan proudly telling her how Ye Tingyan had anticipated someone using his past ties with Shen Sui against him and preemptively composed a scathing denunciation.
No wonder… No wonder he had won Song Lan’s complete trust in just a few days in Youzhou.
It wasn’t that he had unraveled Song Lan’s thoughts—it was that they were too alike, understanding each other’s hidden darkness better than anyone else.
She struggled to maintain her composure, forcing a neutral expression as Ye Tingyan continued speaking. Each word fell like venomous snakes, cold and chaotic.
“I know His Majesty cherished the care of his older brother, but I also know no one willingly remains forever in the role of the cared-for, especially not an emperor. My gift of the painting was a gamble, and it paid off. A ruler who understands his minister and vice versa is a tale worth telling. As His Majesty’s wife, shouldn’t you empathize with his unspoken suffering?”
By the time he finished, his tongue felt numb.
To Luo Wei, this confession was merely routine. To Ye Tingyan himself, it felt like self-inflicted torture. He knew their relationship was devoid of sentiment, yet he still hoped to see a flicker of disgust cross her face at his words.
Daringly, absurdly, he wondered if their years of connection might elicit a single word of indignation for the late crown prince from her—even just one.
His fantasy shattered completely.
Luo Wei listened without a trace of emotion, her face blank and lifeless.
After a moment of silence, she even reached out to touch his cheek again, murmuring ambiguously, “Good. Very good.”
In that instant, Ye Tingyan stared at her delicate neck, feeling an overwhelming urge to kill her.
For the first twenty years of his life, immersed in the teachings of sages, he had never harbored violent thoughts. But now, facing her, he increasingly believed that one day, he might abandon all notions of “integrity,” “principle,” and “Confucian morality” to entangle her in a mutual destruction.
For now, though, neither feared transgression—he unafraid of lusting after the Empress, she unbothered by betrayal of imperial favor.
Both pure yet unguarded, their minds restless and morals unanchored—perhaps this shared descent into chaos was another kind of convergence.
With her eyes closed, Luo Wei finally understood where Ye Tingyan resembled Song Ling.
Setting appearances aside, if Song Ling was the moon at mid-heaven and Song Lan the depth of night, Ye Tingyan was pitch-black yet deliberately sought a sliver of moonlight to mask his true nature.
Previously, misunderstanding him, she had thought that beneath his cunning lay an inexplicable purity—a jade-like spirit, perhaps concealing unexpected depths.
It was her longing that deceived her. Comparing him to Song Ling was itself an insult to the latter.
Why yearn for elegance or lament lost hopes?
She sneered, opening her eyes just as a forceful tug pulled her off her seat and straight into Ye Tingyan’s arms.
He dragged her into his embrace. Originally kneeling at her feet, he shifted to kneel properly, watching her startled expression with a flicker of satisfaction. “Your Highness, are you done asking?”
Anger flared briefly in Luo Wei, but she quickly composed herself. His mocking smile irritated her, compounded by the jasmine and sandalwood scent surrounding him. Closing her eyes, she could almost mistake him for someone else.
Did he think these repeated audacious acts gave him control over her?
She didn’t care. This wasn’t confinement.
Abruptly, Luo Wei wrenched her hand free, then cupped Ye Tingyan’s face with both hands, planting a fleeting kiss near his lips.
“—Do you see my sincerity now?”
Unprepared for her action, Ye Tingyan froze, his voice hoarse. “Your Highness…”
But Luo Wei interrupted, “Don’t speak.”
She closed her eyes, appearing focused on the kiss. Yet the moment he obeyed her command and fell silent, she immediately sensed her own detachment.
Who was she thinking of as she kissed him?
If she could behave this way with him—an outsider—what treatment had others received within the palace?
In the end, as Pei Xi had said, Ye Tingyan was not the only one.
With growing irritation, Ye Tingyan reached for the nape of her neck, reversing their positions and pressing her down forcefully.
Luo Wei clenched her teeth, refusing to yield. Ye Tingyan lightly bit her lower lip, taking advantage of her momentary distraction to deepen the kiss.
In the bedchamber, Luo Wei detested Song Lan’s kisses, rarely allowing such intimacy. But Ye Tingyan was no emperor dependent on her favor. He tore off his gentlemanly facade without hesitation, acting recklessly.
This time, he wasn’t flustered by her audacity. Luo Wei couldn’t understand where these fervent emotions came from.
Ye Tingyan kissed her as if parched for water, yet a wave of sorrow spread through his heart.
He remembered their first kiss—it happened in the spring of their tenth year of acquaintance.
Su Zhoudu was gravely ill, and he frequently accompanied the emperor out of the palace to visit her. The young girl, dressed in plain clothes, sat by the wooden window under the begonia tree, lost in thought.
He knew that Emperor Gao and Su Zhoudu intended to arrange their marriage. The Ministry of Rites had already begun drafting the edict to appoint her as Crown Princess.
Luo Wei looked up and saw him approaching through the falling blossoms. She smiled. “Prince Brother.”
After being named Crown Prince, she had changed how she addressed him.
He asked dryly, “I recently acquired a piece of raw jade. I want to carve it and gift it to you. What design would you like?”
“Anything is fine.”
Luo Wei sat under the tree, her eyes red. He stood silently before her. Petals fell onto their shoulders, but neither brushed them away.
Finally, he mustered his resolve and spoke softly, “Weiwei, the Ministry of Rites has already drafted the edict, but I still want to ask you—”
“Will you marry me, move into the Eastern Palace, and become my wife?”
They had spent so many years together, their understanding unspoken. Yet this direct confession was a first.
Even knowing her affection, he couldn’t help feeling nervous.
Luo Wei didn’t respond. His tongue tasted bitterness as he forced himself to continue, “If you don’t wish to be confined within the imperial city, or… if there’s someone else in your heart, tell me honestly. Master entrusted you to me. Whatever you desire, I will take care of you.”
Silence stretched on, making his heart race. He almost didn’t dare look up.
Suddenly, she snapped out of her daze, jumped down from the window, and ran into his arms, standing on tiptoe to give him an awkward kiss.
Surprised and delighted, he held her tightly, hearing her murmur angrily, “Song Lingye, you’re an idiot!”
In the blink of an eye, past memories scattered like clouds.
Ye Tingyan opened his eyes slightly, seeing Luo Wei with her brows furrowed, clearly uncomfortable. His chest tightened further, and he kissed her more fiercely.
Initially, Luo Wei merely wanted to see Ye Tingyan falter as he had last time. Though he didn’t deserve it, she kissed him while imagining him as someone else, feeling a twisted sense of humiliation.
Now, caught by him, it seemed she had walked straight into a trap, unable to justify herself.
Annoyed, Luo Wei tried to push him away but found her wrist seized and repeatedly caressed by his calloused fingers—callouses not just from holding a pen but also from wielding a blade.
Her initial kiss brought calm, but as he deepened it, her tension spiked, her heart pounding wildly. Unaware, Ye Tingyan’s overwhelming presence made her feel as if even breathing depended on his mercy.
Dizzy, Luo Wei finally found an opening and pushed him away with all her strength.
The movement was faster than thought.
“—Slap.”
Ye Tingyan’s head jerked to the side from her forceful slap, a red mark instantly appearing on his pale cheek.
Startled, he touched his cheek, not angry but laughing. He even turned the other cheek toward her. “Did Your Highness enjoy that? A slap for a kiss—I think it’s a fair trade. Perhaps another slap, Your Highness?”
Luo Wei took several deep breaths to steady herself, feeling the pain in her lips and the palm she’d used to strike him. At a loss for words, she snapped, “Has Lord Ye finally extracted enough sincerity? I’m rather tired. Shall we discuss business now?”
Still half-embracing her waist, Ye Tingyan laughed loudly. “As Your Highness commands.”
After their exchange of sharp words and scheming confessions, they rose, realizing they had lingered longer than intended. Fortunately, Ye Tingyan and Chang Zhao were currently tasked with investigating the case, providing an excuse for their delay.
Having entangled on the cold floor for so long, Luo Wei felt her legs go numb and her back ache as she stood. Ye Tingyan, seemingly unaffected, noticed her stumble and promptly stepped forward to steady her arm.
In an old hall, the most ornate silk was often the first to decay. Privately, she had ordered repairs—first replacing the faded curtains and bed hangings, then repasting the window paper, sweeping away dust, and burning incense in the quiet room.
Ye Tingyan glanced aside, his gaze catching the replaced bed canopy again. Swallowing his intended words of concern, he teased instead, “Did Your Highness have this place repaired? How coincidental—I adore blue and indigo. I’ll change my own canopy to match when I return.”
Detecting the flirtation, Luo Wei shot him a glare. “Oh? And what colors does Lord Ye dislike?”
Feigning thoughtfulness, Ye Tingyan replied, “Hmm, let me consider…”
Impatiently, Luo Wei retorted, “Once you’ve figured it out, don’t forget to inform me. I’ll send someone tomorrow to repaint everything in those colors.”
Ye Tingyan chuckled. “Your Highness’s attention is truly flattering.”
Mimicking his expression, Luo Wei gave a false smile. “Of course. No need to thank me.”
The sunset painted the sky in brilliant hues. When the grand hall doors opened, Ye Tingyan instinctively raised a hand to shield his face, turning away.
This reminded Luo Wei of something. “By the way, last time I had Lady Feng inquire—did you once suffer from an eye ailment?”
After a pause, Ye Tingyan replied nonchalantly, “Your Highness is astute. I… miscalculated years ago and was imprisoned in darkness. When I suddenly saw light again, I went blind for a time. The condition lingers untreated and often recurs. Please forgive my appearance.”
Surprised, Luo Wei studied his eyes again, feeling an inexplicable pang of regret. She didn’t pursue the topic. “Before leaving the palace, Lord Ye should find a way to conceal the bruise on your face.”
Extending his hands politely, Ye Tingyan responded, “I humbly request Your Highness’s generosity.”
Luo Wei glared. “What can I possibly reward you with? A folding fan to hide your face as you walk?”
Innocently, he replied, “If Your Highness bestows it, I won’t mind.”
With no other choice, Luo Wei summoned Yan Luo and instructed her to borrow a common powder compact from a palace maid—one whose origin wouldn’t raise suspicion.
After Yan Luo left, the two waited briefly on Gaoyang Terrace.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky blazed with crimson clouds. Ye Tingyan stood for a moment before pulling a silk blindfold from his sleeve. “Such beauty deserves to be shared. Unfortunately, I cannot look directly. Only through haze can I bear it. May Your Highness tie it for me?”
Knowing he would persist if she refused, Luo Wei decided to save herself the trouble. Without a word, she took the blindfold and tied it around his eyes.
Being taller, he bent slightly.
Through the translucent silk, he faintly saw her close by—the distance where lowering his head could bring their lips together.
Her fingers brushed his hair; her eyelashes lowered.
She was exactly as she had been, her focused demeanor indistinguishable from his dreams.
Ye Tingyan’s heart softened unexpectedly.
He alone remained trapped in the past. Despite his relentless probing, seeking evidence of lingering affection, he always came up empty-handed.
Yet, even as she remained utterly indifferent, he couldn’t extricate himself.
Though he avoided speaking of it, unwilling to admit—even fabricating excuses to deceive himself—this moment left him hopelessly aware. What he truly desired was so simple. So-called sincerity… didn’t require passionate lips or lingering kisses. To quietly, gently watch the same sunset together was already more than enough.
•
That night, Yan Luo carried a candle through courtyard after courtyard until she reached the deepest part of Qionghua Hall. There, she saw Luo Wei writing by lamplight.
The palace attendants had all withdrawn. After placing the candle on its stand, Yan Luo approached Luo Wei.
Peering down, she saw Luo Wei practicing calligraphy, having just written the first line:
“Confucius dreamed of his demise at seventy-two.”
Nowadays, she no longer practiced Lanting or wrote in feibai script, abandoning her former preferences entirely. Her calligraphy style had transformed, becoming unpredictable and inconsistent—a deliberate rejection of past lessons.
Yan Luo glanced once and said, “Your Highness, I’ve prepared a chilled bowl of yogurt for you. Eat before continuing.”
Luo Wei looked up, catching sight of her slightly swollen lips in the bronze mirror. With resignation, she set down her brush, took the bowl, and gestured for Yan Luo to inspect her work. “Tell me what you think of this.”
Only then did Yan Luo notice the model wasn’t from Tang calligraphy but written on a sheet of auspicious crane paper. Upon closer inspection, she identified the seal beside it—”Zibai.”
Surprised, she exclaimed, “Is this the Grand Tutor’s work?”
Luo Wei replied, “It’s the Grand Tutor’s copy of Confucius Dreaming of His Demise . I obtained it from someone and am studying it. They say handwriting reflects the person. Perhaps through its structure and spirit, I can glimpse his intentions.”
Yan Luo studied it for a while before saying, “Your Highness revealed little upon returning earlier. After much thought, I still believe relying solely on the trainer’s testimony to overthrow Marquis Fengping is far from certain.”
Luo Wei smiled but didn’t answer directly. “Afei, do you remember a question you once asked me when you first arrived at Qionghua Hall?”
“I remember,” Yan Luo said after a moment’s thought. “At that time, in despair, I asked Your Highness—how could we possibly succeed against the Grand Tutor, who is deeply entrenched in court and colludes with the emperor? It seemed our path was a dead end.”
“It is difficult.”
“You then explained to me that pruning a sick plum tree isn’t about forcibly straightening its trunk but trimming the errant branches one by one. These branches differ in nature, requiring different approaches. In the court, this means dealing with those around the Grand Tutor—those who follow the wind, those bound by mutual interests, and those harboring ulterior motives.”
“For those who waver between sides, what strategy should we employ given the current political climate?”
“In my opinion, conciliation is best.”
“What about those bound by mutual interests?”
Yan Luo hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Severing such ties is challenging. Perhaps… psychological warfare.”
Luo Wei praised her. “Exactly. For someone like Yu Qiushi, who holds high office, the hardest part is managing his subordinates. Ye Tingyan chose to target Marquis Fengping because he is among Yu Qiushi’s closest allies, with the most intertwined interests.”
“Yu Qiushi will certainly exert great effort to protect him. But it doesn’t matter. From the moment Lin Zhao was implicated by the trainer at Muchun Field, this game became a guaranteed win. Whether Lin Zhao survives or not, Marquis Fengping will inevitably be dragged into it. After the spring hunt, when the government reviews the annual accounts, there will be significant deficits.”
Yan Luo’s heart skipped a beat.
Last year’s natural disasters in Jiangnan had reduced tax revenues, and a fire in the Forbidden City had left repairs unfinished. The treasury was severely depleted. If Ye Tingyan mentioned this to Song Lan, wouldn’t he suspect?
Luo Wei didn’t elaborate further, merely remarking, “Regardless, Marquis Fengping will suffer greatly. Whether he survives depends on fate. Either way, discord between Yu Qiushi and Marquis Fengping is inevitable. Imagine—if Marquis Fengping is treated this way, what of others? Once hearts turn cold, thawing becomes nearly impossible.”
Yan Luo ground ink for her, reflecting slowly. Shaking her head, she sighed, “This plan is truly ruthless. Just hearing it makes my heart race.”
Luo Wei continued writing, pausing momentarily as a drop of ink fell. “However, no one can calculate perfectly. Ye Tingyan’s meticulous planning encountered an unforeseen variable—he intended to shoot an arrow during Song Lan’s assassination attempt to gain more trust. Who would have thought his efforts would benefit someone else, riding on his coattails?”
Yan Luo said, “I heard it was a scholar named Chang from Qiong Pavilion.”
“If he’s the Grand Tutor’s man, competing with Ye Tingyan would indeed make for quite the spectacle. Who knows how it will play out?” Luo Wei yawned. “Well, let’s sit back and watch. Even if something goes awry, he should handle it adeptly. If not, he truly disappoints my expectations.”
“If the performance is good, we can always add fuel to the fire.”
Song Lan had planned to visit her today, but she excused herself, claiming shock. Otherwise, she doubted she’d get any rest.
Finishing the copy, Luo Wei picked it up and examined it disdainfully. “The Grand Tutor’s calligraphy must have been fixed early on. It exudes a rigid elegance devoid of personal spirit. The content of the text doesn’t faze him either. Truly, the saying ‘handwriting reflects the person’ proves unreliable.”
Following her gaze, Yan Luo read the latter half of the text—
“No one is born without aging, nor ages without dying.
The body returns to the earth; the spirit returns whence it came. Pain, poison, bitterness, and sorrow—how can one dwell on them?
Good and evil retribution follows like a shadow.
There is no deviation.”
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