CT - 73

At that time, there was no life left in his heart; he never thought he could escape alive.

It was during these conversations with Song Lan that Song Ling finally realized how long Song Lan had been secretly observing him.

When he debated politics with the various masters in Zishan Hall, Song Lan would emulate him, arguing with Yu Qiushi.

When he supervised the military, reformed tax laws, and pacified the rebellion in the southwest, Song Lan would follow by his side, showing concern for the soldiers and seeking out the weaknesses of those around him.

When he selected orphans from the refugees and personally trained the Golden Heaven Guard, Song Lan also gathered support within the Imperial Army, gradually cultivating his own confidantes.

No wonder he said, “Everything I’ve learned, Imperial Brother taught me.”

He disguised himself so well that for all these years, Song Ling hadn’t noticed a single trace.

The Candle-Burning Tower itself had many palace servants. To cover up his actions, Song Lan did not add many guards to the underground palace where he was imprisoned. After all, very few people in the palace knew of the existence of this underground palace; even Song Lan only discovered it by accident. It was said that this place existed before the Candle-Burning Tower was built, and Emperor De had unearthed this underground palace when constructing the tower but did not fill it in.

Song Ling slit his wrist in an attempt to commit suicide. His consciousness was blurry, and he lost a lot of blood. Just as he thought he was at death’s door, he suddenly heard hurried footsteps approaching. Then, someone came to his side and bandaged the wound on his wrist.

He squinted, and dazzling sunlight poured down from above.

It was daytime!

Song Lan never came to see him during the day, so who was this person?

Having been in darkness for too long, just that one glance caused his vision to suddenly black out, plunging him into temporary blindness.

In a daze, he heard a sob near his ear.

Someone was murmuring, “Your Highness, take care.”

Song Ling recognized the voice but couldn’t recall the name. He instinctively tugged at the person’s robe corner, weakly saying, “Don’t...”

But the person calmly pried his hand open and knelt in his blood, saying many things to him.

The voices faded in and out.

“In those years, when eldest brother was wronged, fortunately, Your Highness argued justly, preserving the lives of my entire clan. Over these years, you diligently nurtured and saved me by your grace. I, He, should dedicate my life to Your Highness...”

“Hurry, hurry and leave. If there is a next life, I will thank you again for your kindness and recognition.”

Song Lan did not know that after the Golden Heaven Guard, he also had a group of secret loyalists.

These were organized by Ye He, the third son of the Ye family, who came to the capital to repay Song Ling’s kindness after Song Ling saved the Ye family that year. Although Song Ling rarely used this group of people, they were scattered throughout the imperial city and were very effective assistants to him.

After the Lantana assassination case on the Lantern Festival night, Ye He, not having seen Song Ling’s body, consistently disbelieved the news of his death. He led his men, searching along Tinghua Terrace and out of Bianjing, almost to the confluence of the Bian River and the Great River. There, he met an attendant who had served Song Zhiyu.

Although Song Zhiyu saw nothing that night, she had some vague suspicions. Unable to leave her residence, she sent her trusted attendants out of the capital along the Bian River, instructing them that if they met anyone searching downstream, they could cautiously reveal the vague news after getting to know them.

Song Zhiyu’s attendant first met the Golden Heaven Guard sent by Luo Wei to search, but he dared not trust these people now, so he passed the message to the later arriving Ye He.

Ye He immediately found the loyalists in the imperial city. These loyalists feigned allegiance to Song Lan, investigating near the Candle-Burning Tower for a long time. Finally, they confirmed that Song Ling was not dead but was imprisoned by Song Lan in the underground palace!

How heavily guarded was the imperial city? How could they pull off such a deception and rescue someone?

Ye He rode swiftly to the southwest, asking Bo Senseng to disguise him as Song Ling.

This round trip took nearly a month. After instructing Bo Senseng to rush to Bianjing, and seizing the opportunity presented by scholars and students creating a commotion at the Censorate with the poem “Elegy for Jintian,” Ye He deliberately inflicted wounds upon himself. He then took his loyalists on a desperate gamble, swapping out the dying Song Ling from the underground palace.

At this moment, they had the perfect timing and location. It was when Song Lan was focused on Su Yu and couldn’t be distracted, and also when Song Ling had attempted suicide. Upon learning of his death, Song Lan went to take a cursory look that night, and then sent someone to drag the body to the back of Xiaoshan Mountain in the palace for cremation.

At that time, Song Lan was complacent, believing that Song Ling had given up on life and could never rise again, which made him careless for a moment.

They firmly grasped this fleeting opportunity.

Even the slightest error would have made this perilous plan impossible to succeed.

Song Ling was hidden in a water cart, breathing through a wheat straw, and desperately escaped the palace.

He couldn’t leave Bianjing at that moment. The carriage sped, taking him to Xiuhqing Temple on Mount Ting.

Along the way, as they passed the Censorate at sunset, he leaned against the carriage wall, hearing “calling the soul straight up to the azure sky,” and “gone into the vastness for a thousand years.”

He suddenly wanted to sneer. He had never truly known his docile brother, had never seen his ferocious claws, nor known his intricate schemes. Even his elder brother’s “death” could be used to stage a grand spectacle.

This play was bizarre and off-key.

Three days later, Bo Senseng hurried to Xiuhqing Temple. With him came Zhou Chuyin, who had been living in seclusion in Jiangnan for many years.

Neither of them said much. One treated his wounds, the other took stock of his loyalists, and sternly advised him to temporarily retreat to Youzhou under Ye He’s identity, for future plans.

To ensure foolproof safety, Bo Senseng administered powerful medicine, thoroughly changing his appearance.

Ye He also left a letter at Xiuhqing Temple, stating, “I sacrifice myself without regret,” and his only wish was to one day know what happened to his elder brother.

Song Ling knelt before the Buddha, his forehead bruised.

That was probably the last time he genuinely bowed to the Buddha, praying for the peace of departed souls.

The night before leaving Bianjing, Song Ling sat before the empty Buddha statue and casually shook a divination stick.

At that time, his eyes had just recovered slightly, but his vision was still blurry. He looked for a long time under the bright moonlight, but he couldn’t clearly see what was written on the stick.

Just as he was about to throw the bamboo stick back, the monk Jichen appeared by his side, he didn’t know when, and took it to slowly read for him: “...A person’s life is like a dream on a pillow, a flower on a tree. It flourishes in spring, and when its vigor is exhausted, it withers away. Like bubbles and hibiscus, it should not be cherished too much.”

Without waiting for his question, Jichen explained on his own: “A dream on a pillow refers to the ‘dream of the Huai’an pillow’; a flower on a tree refers to the ‘flowers of late spring.’ The Buddha tells Your Highness that even the best lives bloom freely in glorious spring and wither and vanish when autumn arrives and their vigor is spent. In the end, they are but dawn-born, dusk-dead foam and hibiscus flowers, a brief, fleeting illusion. Why cling to them so much?”

The moon in the sky was hazy, and the late spring night was silent.

After a long silence, Jichen finally heard the other person’s self-mocking voice: “The end of the illusion is pitch black. The Buddha still doesn’t know. If that’s the case, why be born?”

Song Ling looked back. The Buddha statue was half-hidden in the darkness. He laughed loudly at the benevolent golden statue, laughing until he drew his sword and pointed it at it. A sudden gust of wind arose, making the bells on the temple eaves clang wildly.

Jichen watched helplessly as Song Ling’s expression twisted for a moment. Then, petals blew into the courtyard, gently brushing past him.

For some reason, Song Ling’s eyelids trembled slightly, and he slowly returned his sword to its sheath. Then he suddenly asked, “Is the moonlight good tonight?”

Jichen replied, “The moonbeams are like water.”

Song Ling turned, looked up, and closed his eyes.

“That’s right, the moon is always there, always bright. Even if I can’t see clearly now, what does it matter?”

He took the brush from before the Buddha and added a sentence to the back of the wooden stick he had drawn. Because he couldn’t see clearly, the sentence was written crookedly and illegibly.

Jichen took it and saw that he had written, “The bright moon illuminates the spring night forever.”

Then he smiled and put the wooden stick back into the divination cylinder.

The person under the moon had already left, and the petals danced in the empty air.

When he left Xiuhqing Temple, Song Ling recalled climbing the steps and worshipping Buddha with Luo Wei in his youth. They had climbed Mount Ting, where Xiuhqing Temple was located, and Mount Yan, where Juhua Temple in Xuzhou was located. When the imperial family made sacrifices, the mountain path was always bustling. Now, it was empty, with only the falling blossoms of late spring.

“Once, there were banquets on Mount Ting, now flowers fall and people lament in vain...” He began to recite, showing a smile to Zhou and Bo, “The Third Young Master doesn’t have a courtesy name yet, so I’ll create one for myself.”

Youzhou, three years.

Those old events not only made his eyes unable to bear light but also gave him a heart condition. When it flared up, he would always hear Song Lan’s voice reading letters to him repeatedly from beneath the Candle-Burning Tower. Every word about her caused him unbearable pain.

He had once drawn his sword and hacked at the table, vowing to kill her quickly, but no one knew that in the deepest part of his heart, he never believed Luo Wei had done what Song Lan claimed.

Three years later, he returned to the imperial city and saw her for the first time again, in the shadow of a begonia tree.

But that face was so unfamiliar now.

He repeatedly, genuinely and falsely, probed her, but Luo Wei was no longer the innocent, carefree girl she had once been. Her mask had no cracks, airtight. Every word, every piece of remaining evidence, relentlessly questioned him: What was he still holding on to?

The secret room door opened.

For some reason, Song Lan did not stay overnight today. Luo Wei stood in the dim candlelight, watching Ye Tingyan shrink in place, looking up at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and with a slight tremble, a line of tears fell.

Were these tears of sorrow, or evidence of his eye condition?

Luo Wei’s heart momentarily constricted. She bent down, wanting to help him up. Unexpectedly, Ye Tingyan knelt before her, bowed deeply, and when he raised his head again, all the sorrow on his face had vanished, leaving only indifferent obedience.

He looked up and saw the rose gold hairpin in her hair, shimmering with the colors of blood and gold.

The warmth in his heart congealed into fragments of ice. At such a moment, he felt no pain, only a profound coldness. It was this coldness that prevented him from losing his composure as he had last time at Xiuhqing Temple.

A stubborn selfishness, laced with lives and hatred, refused to be cast aside.

What was he holding on to, after all?

“Your Ladyship,” he revealed a calm smile. The lights here were dim, and Luo Wei did not see the icy shards in his eyes. “Why gamble with yourself to test me? I will naturally choose you.”

________________________________________

Disordered dreams arrived in a rush, then left callously. Ye Tingyan fell into a昏睡 (deep sleep) holding the sickly plum tree. When he awoke, it was already sunset.

Zhou Chuyin knocked twice and pushed the door open. Seeing the room in disarray, he frowned slightly but ultimately did not ask any questions, only saying, “Song Lan wants Yan Lang to return to Youzhou.”

Ye Tingyan pressed his temples, taking a while to recover before asking, “Yan Lang agreed?”

“Yes,” Zhou Chuyin said, “Shkang entered the palace today, seemingly to ask for a favor, a title to leave the capital, and Song Lan agreed.”

“Although he outwardly agreed, he might not let Shkang leave,” Ye Tingyan forced himself to calm down, musing, “There was no opportunity before. This time, when she leaves the capital, we should find a way to meet her. If Song Lan harms her midway, we can rescue her.”

“One more thing,” Zhou Chuyin said after nodding, “The Double Ninth Festival is approaching. The Empress informed the Ministry of Rites today, preparing to hold another hunt then.”

“Another hunt?” Ye Tingyan paused, repeating, “Where?”

Zhou Chuyin replied, “Guyou Mountain.”