A Thousand-Mile Exile, An Encounter with an Old Friend - Chapter 14

“What are you all staring at?” Zhu Qinghou asked from his spot on the ground. Still draped in Zhu Xueting’s outer robe, he glanced toward the person frozen on the carriage. “He’s the one you’re looking for.”

There was a soft thud.

As if waking from a dream, the driver scrambled down from the carriage and bowed respectfully toward Li Zhen. He looked at Zhu Qinghou, then at Zhu Xueting, and spoke with extreme caution: “Your Highness, this humble official was ordered to find the poet who composed the Song of Light Taxation. I hope Your Highness might show some leniency.”

The anonymous Song of Light Taxation had spread throughout the Jin Dynasty, and many refined nobles were eager to discover the identity of the poet.

He was a government official acting on orders from above. A few days prior, he had received word that the poet would reveal himself at the hour of the Rat outside Prince Su’s manor.

Little did he expect to stumble upon such a high-stakes confrontation.

Zhu Xueting, who had been walking toward the soldiers expecting death, was stunned. He hadn’t realized that the “backup” Zhu Qinghou mentioned was actually a plan specifically designed to protect him.

Zhu Qinghou had arranged his escape route long ago.

But as the thought settled, a wave of icy dread washed over him. What about Zhu Qinghou? Given the Prince’s obvious fury, what if he took Zhu Qinghou back inside to torture him in secret?

Zhu Xueting stood his ground, pointing at Zhu Qinghou and then back at himself. His resolve was unmistakable: if Zhu Qinghou wasn’t leaving, he wouldn’t leave either.

The official’s face paled with difficulty. Even if he hadn’t seen the man before, he could recognize Zhu Qinghou instantly—that face, the brilliant purple silk visible beneath the coarse robe, and the vivid red brand on his brow.

This was the “young traitor” officially condemned by the Emperor as “the son who takes after his father,” the lifelong nemesis of Prince Su. Even if he had ten heads to lose, he wouldn’t dare suggest taking Zhu Qinghou away in front of the Prince.

The scene fell into a stalemate, all three parties silent.

Seated on the ground, Zhu Qinghou let out a soft sigh. “Xueting, be good,” he said quietly. He detested disobedience. Xueting seemed so sensitive and introverted, yet he was stubborn to the bone, unable to see the reality of the situation and acting as if he wanted to live and die together.

That temperament was practically carved from the same mold as the young Li Zhen.

I’m the one who suggested the escape, and now he’s the one dragging his feet. How troublesome.

Zhu Xueting’s eyes grew red. He hated his own helplessness—his inability to take Zhu Qinghou with him.

The minor official watching the scene didn’t dare breathe. To him, the two looked like a pair of tragic lovers being torn apart by the Prince in the middle of the night.

Nearby, Li Zhen listened in silence.

The Song of Light Taxation praised the Emperor, and with an official present, any move against Zhu Xueting would immediately spark rumors. Even Emperor Shun in Yejing would grow suspicious.

Of course, Li Zhen thought. Zhu Qinghou has always been brilliant; if he wants to protect someone, he never fails.

Li Zhen let out a sudden, low chuckle. Leaning on his staff, he stepped back, allowing Zhu Xueting to follow the official. Zhu Xueting climbed slowly onto the carriage, his gaze fixed on Zhu Qinghou.

On the white stone slabs where the frost hadn’t yet melted, the young man in purple sat wrapped in the robe, his face pale and his lips red a scene like an elegant, faded painting. He looked up and gave a small smile, mouthing something. It was too far to see clearly.

Zhu Xueting wanted to gesture back but feared the distance was too great. His lips trembled, and for the first time in six months, his damaged throat produced a sound: “…I will come back to save you.”

The voice was dry and raspy, yet every word was clear.

Zhu Qinghou was genuinely surprised; he hadn’t expected the boy to find his voice at a time like this. Regardless, it was a good thing. Before he could offer any congratulations, the driver cracked his whip, fleeing as if for his life, terrified that the Prince might change his mind.

The wall of soldiers opened a brief gap, and the carriage rattled through, rolling over the thin snow until it vanished at the end of the long street.

The black wall of soldiers closed once more.

Silence returned to the street, heavy and absolute.

The surrounding candlelight flickered over Zhu Qinghou’s pale features. His dark hair was tied loosely with purple silk, falling over his shoulders like a mist.

He was surrounded, alone and with nowhere left to run.

“You planned an escape for him,” Li Zhen finally spoke, his voice unnervingly calm and cold. “Why didn’t you plan one for yourself?”

Under the gaze of the crowd, Zhu Qinghou slowly stood up. The ground was too cold; he pulled the robe tighter, shivering involuntarily. His blood churned, and he instinctively covered his mouth, saying nothing.

His rare silence gave off a strange, unsettling feeling.

Several soldiers stepped forward and easily restrained him. They dragged him before the Prince and let go. Zhu Qinghou knelt unevenly at Li Zhen’s feet, his hair disheveled. He looked up, parted his lips, and smiled.

Suddenly, the scent of blood filled the air—metallic, thick, and sweet.

Li Zhen stiffened. He leaned down, reaching out until his hand clamped onto Zhu Qinghou’s jaw. His palm pressed against the soft lips, meeting a warm, wet stickiness—he was coughing up blood.

“…Do you truly wish to die?” Li Zhen’s movements faltered for a second. He let out a cold laugh, released the jaw, and used a blood-stained hand to support the young man’s waist, pulling him gently into his arms.

Zhu Qinghou didn’t struggle. He leaned lazily into the embrace, letting his strength drain away and shifting his entire weight onto Li Zhen. His throat was still filling with blood, making his voice sound soft and slurred: “You told me to.”

In the end, it’s all Li Zhen’s fault. Who told him not to listen to me?

Li Zhen held him tight, pulling him against his heart. He could feel the coarse robe on the young man’s shoulders, still carrying the faint scent of ink—the scent of Zhu Xueting. It was inexplicably nauseating.

Frowning, he handed his staff to an attendant and unfastened his own fox-fur cloak, wrapping it tightly around Zhu Qinghou until he was bundled up like a cocoon.

Zhu Qinghou curled into the fur, his bare feet dangling beneath the hem—white and tinged with red from the cold.

Feeling the chill, he instinctively shifted closer to Li Zhen’s warmth, pulling the cloak tighter. His eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion.

From the start, he never actually intended to run. Run where? To the streets to fight stray dogs for scraps? Only by staying in the Prince’s manor and using Li Zhen could he maximize his resources to overturn his family’s case.

He wasn’t sure if he could rely on the people in Sizhou yet, but he could use this “escape” to test the waters.

As he thought idly, the parasite in his body acted up. He couldn’t help it—he coughed up another mouthful of blood. It stained the fox fur and even flecked Li Zhen’s collar.

Li Zhen’s grip tightened, his fingers turning white as if he were trying to physically hold onto the other man’s life.

“Xianpu,” Zhu Qinghou called out weakly. Li Zhen responded with unusual speed, his voice cold and detached: “Don’t sleep.”

Zhu Qinghou immediately closed his eyes and adjusted his head to find a comfortable spot in the Prince’s arms, preparing to drift off.

The next moment.

He heard Li Zhen’s voice, colder still, from above: “Tomorrow, you may enter the study.”

Zhu Qinghou was unsatisfied. He asked dizzily, “Only tomorrow?”

“Forever.”

This time, Li Zhen answered even faster. He quickened his pace, one arm firmly supporting the frail youth while the other used his staff to navigate toward the inner hall.

Uncle Cui, waiting at the doors, saw the Prince rushing back with a blood-stained Zhu Qinghou. His expression shifted. The Prince went too far; he actually made the boy cough blood out there.

Zhu Qinghou is surely finished now.

“Then… you have to help me clear my name,” the “finished” Zhu Qinghou said, pushing his luck. “If you don’t help, I’ll just sleep.” He’d sleep right now, die right here in Li Zhen’s arms, and leave him with a lifetime of regret and heartbreak.

He imagined Li Zhen waking up at midnight, weeping and wailing with remorse for treating him so poorly. The thought made him want to laugh, his chest trembling with the effort.

Feeling the movement, Li Zhen remained silent. His muscles were taut, veins popping on his fingers as he suppressed the urge to simply strangle the man in his arms. He hurried into the inner hall, nearly stumbling over a screen. His staff slipped and clattered to the floor, but his hands never let go of Zhu Qinghou.

Zhu Qinghou wanted to press him further, but he felt Li Zhen stop and set him down gently. Beneath him was a soft bed—Li Zhen’s own bed, smelling of cold, clean snow.

Li Zhen didn’t stay. As soon as he set him down, he turned to leave.

He knew Zhu Qinghou was laughing at him in his heart—laughing at what a fool he was for retreating without a bottom line.

Once Li Zhen left and the doors closed, the room fell back into darkness.

In the shadows.

Zhu Qinghou let out a weak but triumphant giggle.

He clearly can’t bear to let me die, yet he spends all day acting like a tyrant. All bark and no bite. In the end, he still had to give in.

He felt a surge of satisfaction, like a gambler who had just won a massive bet and watched his opponent fold. The pain didn’t even seem to matter anymore. He sprawled out lazily, pulled Li Zhen’s quilt over himself, and fell asleep instantly.

He was looking forward to tomorrow—to seeing what secrets were hidden in that study.

Ideally, he would sit comfortably in a rattan chair, wrapped in fox fur with a hand warmer, while Li Zhen stood by and read the documents to him.

And when the reading was done, the Prince would humbly ask him what to do. From then on, everything in the manor would be under his command.

The thought made him want to burst into laughter again.

On the other side of the wall, Uncle Cui had been planning to advise the Prince to be gentler for the sake of the parasite. He now stood in silence.

Truly, it could only be Zhu Qinghou. The man is coughing up blood and he’s still laughing that triumphantly.

The Prince stood outside the hall, saying nothing. He listened quietly to the laughter from within—sharp, joyful, and frail.

“His feet were frostbitten,” he said, his voice calm and flat. “Bring the medicine.”

Uncle Cui instinctively asked, “Should I call an attendant to apply it for him?”

The only response was the Prince turning his head slightly, his gaze cold beneath the white silk.

Uncle Cui fell silent. Surely the Prince isn’t going to apply it himself?

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