A Thousand-Mile Exile, An Encounter with an Old Friend - Chapter 13

Though he had spoken of running, Zhu Qinghou did not intend to flee immediately. He needed to wait not only for Zhu Xueting to establish contact with his family but also to see how Li Zhen would react to his provocations.

With Lou Changqing rising to his new post and the other Zhu protégés managing to stabilize their footings in Yongzhou, Zhu Qinghou knew these pieces would eventually be useful. However, he couldn’t simply sit idly by and wait for them to act.

“Xianpu,” Zhu Qinghou said, having taken the long way around to the outer hall where Li Zhen slept. He had finally caught the man returning late from his duties. “I want to enter your study.”

It was an audacious, almost reckless request.

The Prince’s study was the most heavily guarded location in the entire manor. Imperial edicts, internal records, and secret dossiers were all housed there.

The attendants following behind Li Zhen nearly doubted their own ears; they lowered their heads, not daring to listen further.

To the side, Uncle Cui’s lip twitched. He clearly hadn’t expected Zhu Qinghou to be so bold.

Only a few days ago, Zhu Xueting had been punished by the Prince just for being spotted near the study. Thinking back on that “punishment,” Uncle Cui felt a strange mix of emotions. He couldn’t help but feel that it wasn’t the Prince punishing Zhu Qinghou, but rather Zhu Qinghou shamelessly flirting with the Prince.

Li Zhen said nothing. He simply bypassed Zhu Qinghou, leaning on his cold, black staff, choosing to ignore him entirely.

Zhu Qinghou felt a spark of irritation. In the past, he could stroll into the Emperor’s private chambers if he wished; what was so special about a mere Prince’s study?

“And what if I go anyway?” Zhu Qinghou stepped in front of Li Zhen, grabbing the staff to prevent him from moving forward.

“And if I do not let you, what then?” Li Zhen finally spoke. His voice was flat, as if waiting to see what trick Zhu Qinghou would pull next.

“Then I’ll leave. I’ll go far, far away from you,” Zhu Qinghou replied airily, his tone so casual it sounded like a passing thought.

Li Zhen halted. He lowered his head slightly, seemingly “looking” at him through the white silk. A ghost of a cold smile touched his lips. “The Child parasite is still in your body. How do you plan to leave? By dying?”

The tone was calm, but the words were laced with a dark, underlying malice.

At this, everyone present fell into a stunned silence. Even Uncle Cui, who rarely showed emotion, knit his brows and cast a warning glance at Zhu Qinghou, silently pleading with him to stop seeking his own destruction.

If he pushed any further, he truly might end up dead.

The atmosphere grew taut, like a bowstring pulled to its breaking point.

Zhu Qinghou let out a sudden, light laugh. He did not release his grip on Li Zhen’s staff; instead, he held on with a subtle, unyielding strength. His voice was barely a whisper: “Fine then. I’ll go and die.”

It sounded like a joke, yet it carried the weight of a serious vow.

Li Zhen stood rooted to the spot, silent. He faced Zhu Qinghou in a cold standoff for a long moment. Then, one by one, he pried Zhu Qinghou’s fingers off his staff and continued walking forward.

Zhu Qinghou turned around to watch him go. The smile remained on his face as he raised an eyebrow. He didn’t believe for a second that Li Zhen would actually let him die.

Conversely, Li Zhen didn’t believe Zhu Qinghou would actually throw his life away.

A man so obsessed with luxury and glory—how could he possibly abandon his own life?

Uncle Cui, witnessing the scene, shared this sentiment. Zhu Qinghou was young, arrogant, and full of life; he wouldn’t waste it. How could he possibly mean to threaten the Prince with his own death? And even if he did, surely the Prince wouldn’t succumb to such a threat?

In the days that followed, everything seemed to return to normal.

After making that declaration, Zhu Qinghou showed no signs of being suicidal. He slept in as usual, and upon waking, he returned to drawing turtles, stroke by stroke, using his damaged hands to practice his calligraphy with painful awkwardness.

“I’ve contacted them. When do we leave?” Zhu Xueting gestured. When he reached the word “leave,” he mimicked Zhu Qinghou’s previous sign—two fingers walking like a little person.

His “little person” moved cautiously, turning its head and looking around as if scouting for danger, which made Zhu Qinghou chuckle.

“Anytime,” Zhu Qinghou replied breezily. There wasn’t a hint of the tension one might expect from a fugitive. It was as if he weren’t planning a midnight escape, but rather a spontaneous moonlit excursion.

Zhu Xueting watched him, feeling an inexplicable sense of dread. The Prince’s manor was a fortress; how could they hope to escape so easily? If they were caught, he couldn’t imagine what horrors the Prince would inflict upon Zhu Qinghou.

He remembered the day the Prince had forced the parasite down Zhu Qinghou’s throat while he himself stood by, suppressed and helpless.

Thinking of this, Zhu Xueting wished he could climb to a position of power somewhere high enough to rival the Prince and protect the “fragile” Zhu Qinghou.

Zhu Qinghou noticed the grave look on the boy’s face and wondered what he was overthinking this time. Perhaps all poets are just naturally melancholic, he reasoned.

He patted Zhu Xueting’s shoulder in a gesture of understanding.

Zhu Xueting stiffened again. Remembering something, he pointed to Zhu Qinghou’s heart and mouthed a single word: Parasite.

He was terrified that the creature would truly take Zhu Qinghou’s life, just as Li Zhen had warned.

Zhu Qinghou followed the gesture down to his own chest, looking entirely unconcerned. “That? It’s nothing,” he said, casually reassuring the boy. “It doesn’t even hurt right now.” He’d worry about the pain when it actually arrived.

This indifferent attitude only made Zhu Xueting’s heart ache more. He wondered how much suffering Zhu Qinghou must have endured in the Imperial prisons to become someone who cared for nothing at all.

Zhu Qinghou realized he was finding it harder and harder to read the boy’s expressions sorrow, indignation, pity, and then a flash of grim resolve.

Who is he pitying?

Surely it can’t be me?

The moment for their escape came in the dead of night.

Zhu Xueting had somehow managed to arrange a meeting point with his family for the hour of the Rat.

As the clock struck midnight.

Zhu Qinghou crept out of bed. His body was weak and prone to fatigue, so to ensure he didn’t sleep through the night, he hadn’t slept at all.

He threw on a light outer robe. To avoid making any noise, he didn’t even put on shoes, walking barefoot toward the exit.

The lights in the outer hall where Li Zhen stayed had long been extinguished. To be more precise, that room rarely had lights on at all.

Since he couldn’t use candlelight to determine if Li Zhen was asleep, Zhu Qinghou didn’t bother trying. He moved silently, sneaking like a ghost past the outer hall.

He had checked the schedules; this was the time the guards rotated. Taking advantage of the gap in the shift, he hurried toward the perimeter.

In the shadows, Zhu Xueting was already waiting in a dark corner. Seeing that Zhu Qinghou was underdressed, he immediately took off his own outer robe and offered it.

Zhu Qinghou didn’t take it, and for a moment, Zhu Xueting looked dejected.

“What are you waiting for?” Zhu Qinghou whispered. He gestured for the boy to drape the robe over his shoulders. Stunned and flattered, Zhu Xueting carefully placed the garment around him.

Zhu Qinghou, accustomed to being served, saw nothing unusual in the exchange.

The two slipped away along a deserted path. For some reason perhaps pure luck, they didn’t encounter a single patrol.

At first, it was fine. But as they put more distance between themselves and the manor, Zhu Qinghou began to feel a pulling sensation in his heart. It felt as if a thin thread were tethering him, dragging against his movement. An undeniable pain began to flare and intensify.

Ignoring it, he kept walking. The invisible thread pulled tighter and tighter, feeling as though it were on the verge of snapping.

The side gate to the outside world was right before them.

Zhu Qinghou walked ahead, gesturing for Zhu Xueting to stay hidden. He placed his fingers on the red door and pushed.

With a soft creak, the gate swung open, revealing the dark, silent street outside. It had been easier than he had ever imagined.

He stepped across the threshold and turned to beckon Zhu Xueting. The boy followed quickly, stepping out of the manor. Looking at the empty street, he couldn’t believe they had actually succeeded.

“Wait a moment longer; someone will be here to meet us,” Zhu Qinghou said slowly. His voice was so weak it was almost inaudible.

They found a dark corner to hide in. Everything was shrouded in gloom.

Zhu Xueting noticed that Zhu Qinghou’s face was deathly pale from his brow to his lips, he looked like he was carved from ice. Only a thin smear of color remained on his lips.

That color was a brilliant, wet red.

It was blood.

A sudden roaring filled Zhu Xueting’s ears. His head throbbed as he reached out tentatively, trying to support the swaying figure in purple.

Zhu Qinghou allowed himself to be held. A tiny smile touched his lips, but he didn’t speak. He simply made a gesture—the little person walking.

In the heavy silence, the sudden, frantic sound of carriage wheels echoed. The wheels rattled over the white stone slabs, heading rapidly toward their position.

The rescue had arrived.

At the same time.

The lanterns in the Prince’s manor began to light up. One by one, from far to near, they flickered to life. The glow approached steadily until it illuminated the swaying shadows of the trees outside the side gate.

The gate swung wide. The heavy, synchronized rhythm of marching boots filled the street. Zhu Qinghou pushed Zhu Xueting away, his voice a mere rasp: “Go. Fast.”

Zhu Xueting didn’t move. He held the man as if he were holding a handful of melting snow. The young boy’s features were remarkably calm.

In that moment, his expression looked a bit like the young Li Zhen—the Li Zhen who had knelt in the snow before Consort Cui’s palace, stubborn and silent, refusing to distance himself from Zhu Qinghou.

Zhu Qinghou could hear his own heart thudding, each beat louder than the last. He let out a low, sighing breath. “If you are this stubborn, neither of us will have a good end.” Gathering what strength he had left, he shoved the boy. “Go!”

“Go where?”

Li Zhen’s cold, detached voice rang out.

Zhu Qinghou looked up.

Across the street stood a carriage and a forest of soldiers as dark as a tide. The young Prince stood in their midst, his eyes covered in white silk, his hand gripping his staff.

They had been caught.

They had been caught from the very beginning.

Faced with the end, Zhu Xueting grew even calmer. He held onto Zhu Qinghou stubbornly, even leaning down to tuck the outer robe more securely around him.

It was a plain, coarse robe belonging to a servant, yet on Zhu Qinghou, it seemed to glow like fine silk.

Facing Li Zhen’s flat interrogation, it took a long while for Zhu Qinghou to answer. His voice was weak, yet his tone remained characteristically lazy: “Didn’t you tell me to go die?”

He had done exactly as Li Zhen said; why was the man blaming him now?

“Are you threatening me?” Li Zhen laughed, though there was no humor in it. “Take him to the Juntal Terrace.”

The soldiers hesitated for a fraction of a second.

Who exactly was the “him” the Prince referred to? Was it Zhu Qinghou, or the young servant holding him? They didn’t know, and they didn’t dare move.

Logically, shouldn’t it have been “them”?

Zhu Xueting slowly stood up. He knew exactly who Li Zhen meant. If it meant saving Zhu Qinghou’s life, he would go gladly.

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