A Thousand-Mile Exile, An Encounter with an Old Friend - Chapter 8

The officials of Yongzhou were astonished to discover that Prince Su had abruptly abandoned his former austere and noble detachment. Instead, he began to host lavish banquets filled with music, dancing, and excess.

Most of those invited to these gatherings were commissioned officials sent by the Imperial Court.

While the sounds of silk and bamboo instruments echoed through the front courtyard, Zhu Qinghou and Zhu Xueting remained in the inner quarters.

Back in the capital city of Yejing, Zhu Qinghou had been accustomed to the most refined melodies and elegant music. Having been deprived of such sounds for the past six months, hearing them again felt like greeting an old friend. He reclined lazily on a rattan chair, humming a light tune and tapping out the rhythm with careless ease.

Zhu Xueting did not share this leisurely mood. He stood to the side, gazing up at the Milky Way and the bright moon, his mind lost in unknown thoughts.

“Uncle Cui,” Zhu Qinghou called out with a beaming smile. “You’ve settled Xueting’s family, haven’t you? I truly appreciate your trouble.” He added, “I’ll mention it to Xianpu later so he remembers your kindness.”

Once something hidden in the shadows is dragged into the light, it is no longer a threat.

Uncle Cui stepped out from under the corridor, his face grim. He couldn’t fathom why he had ever thought Zhu Qinghou was a cute child.

The man was a scourge a pure menace sent specifically to ruin the Prince and the Cui family. Now, he was ruining Uncle Cui’s peace of mind, too.

Expressionless, Uncle Cui thought to himself that he really ought to take better care of his aging bones, lest he be provoked to death by this scoundrel.

Watching the old man’s face, Zhu Qinghou wanted to laugh but managed to suppress it. He turned his gaze to Zhu Xueting. The young man, who had recently come of age, showed no signs of joy. Zhu Qinghou beckoned him over. “Xueting, I have a task of utmost importance for you.”

Zhu Xueting blinked, a flicker of spirit finally returning to his face. His eyes held a trace of grim determination, as if he would go through fire and water at a single word from Zhu Qinghou.

“I want you to write poems and essays for me. Every day, you shall write…” Zhu Qinghou paused to consider, holding up his fingers. “Three hundred? Or maybe thirty? Whatever suits your mood.”

He spoke as if his whimsical request were perfectly reasonable, growing even bolder with his demands. “Write about anything, though poems praising me would be best. Say that I am enduring great humiliation for a heavy burden, that I am hardworking and brilliant—a star from the heavens descending to the mortal realm to undergo trials.”

Zhu Xueting was stunned at first, but his expression grew even more resolute. He seemed to have reached a conclusion: Zhu Qinghou wanted him to soothe the people’s grievances and win over their hearts. This was indeed a vital matter.

He nodded subtly, his brow furrowed with gravity.

This time, it was Zhu Qinghou’s turn to be taken aback. He wondered where the boy’s thoughts had wandered. He simply didn’t want to see Zhu Xueting sitting around idle and depressed all day; he figured having the boy write praises would be a nice ego boost for himself.

Before he could clarify, the music in the outer courtyard gradually died down. In its place came the sound of footsteps—steady, orderly, and imbued with a silent solemnity.

Li Zhen was back.

Zhu Qinghou rose to meet him. Seeing the fox-fur cloak on Li Zhen’s shoulders dusted with wind and snow, his mind momentarily blurred. He reached out and took the cloak before the attendants could react. The moment it was in his hands, he realized something was amiss.

Why had he been so quick to take Li Zhen’s cloak? Was it because he had worn the garment himself so many times?

He didn’t bother overthinking it; there was no harm in a little intimacy. He walked into the inner hall alongside Li Zhen. “Did you drink? Why didn’t you bring a cup back for me?”

Li Zhen’s reply was terse: “Tea.”

…Tea?

Who hosts a banquet and serves tea to their guests?

In Yejing, the literati might drink tea at their elegant gatherings, but here at the border, surrounded by hardened officials and fierce generals, drinking tea and engaging in “pure conversation” with military men was almost laughable.

The mention of wine reminded Zhu Qinghou of a significant event from the past. When Li Zhen was a youth, he didn’t drink either except for one single time when he broke his rule.

It was also that one time when he lost his sight.

Zhu Qinghou didn’t dare press the issue further. He took Li Zhen’s hand, his own fingertips warmed by the brazier meeting the other man’s cold skin. He offered some casual advice: “Drinking tea is one thing. But the most important thing is that you must have a ‘craving.'”

In the world of politics, whether it is a craving for wealth, lust, or fame, having a desire means having a weakness. Only when a man has a weakness can others feel at ease around him.

“And what should I crave?”

The white silk covering Li Zhen’s eyes was slightly damp from the snow, clinging enough to reveal the sharp outline of his features. It felt as though those phoenix-like eyes were staring right at him.

Zhu Qinghou replied nonchalantly, “Crave power, wealth, fame, or beauty.” Weren’t these the things everyone dreamed of?

Zhu Qinghou was different, however. He wanted them all.

Li Zhen was silent for a breath, seemingly pondering the words. “And what do you crave?”

Zhu Qinghou usually spoke the truth, saving his lies only for critical moments. He smiled and revealed his desires without reservation: “Fame, merit, wealth, and the highest rank in court.”

He had been born into a life of glittering glory and power. Yejing was not his true home; the pursuit of status was his real homeland. How could he ever leave it behind?

After listening quietly to these greedy aspirations, Li Zhen said softly, “I see.”

Zhu Qinghou raised an eyebrow, about to ask what exactly he had “seen”—perhaps Li Zhen had been inspired to start chasing fame and fortune himself? But Li Zhen had already walked straight toward the bathhouse.

Zhu Qinghou had always been curious. Since Li Zhen couldn’t see and always bathed alone without calling for servants, how did he manage?

Curious as he was, he had never approached before.

After a moment, he heard the sound of splashing water suddenly stop. Silence followed. He worried that Li Zhen might have drowned and was about to call someone to check when a sharp pain suddenly struck his chest. It felt like a tiny sting, tugging him toward the bathhouse.

Zhu Qinghou frowned, clutching his chest. He whispered a warning to the “child” parasite to behave, then slowly made his way toward the room.

The sliding doors were closed tight. Zhu Qinghou gave them a light push, and they opened easily; they weren’t locked from either side.

A wave of cold mist hit him. It was freezing enough outside, but it was even colder in here. Holding his breath, Zhu Qinghou walked in, still clutching the fox-fur cloak.

He came upon a folding screen. Through the translucent surface, he could faintly see a figure in the bath barrel, submerged in the water and perfectly still. The curve of the man’s back revealed a lean layer of muscle over prominent vertebrae, looking like a cold, jagged sculpture of jade.

The “sculpture” had its back to him, head bowed as if oblivious. Yet, the very moment Zhu Qinghou stepped into the room, a cold voice barked, “Get out.”

Li Zhen had been alone in Yongzhou for years, facing enemies from without and treacherous officials from within. Had he developed some secret illness or lingering injury from the strain?

If Li Zhen were to drop dead right now, given how much the Qinghe Cui clan hated him, wouldn’t he be forced to follow Li Zhen to the grave in a “martyrdom of love”?

Ignoring the command and no longer hiding his presence, Zhu Qinghou walked toward him openly. “Li Zhen, are you dying?”

His voice was usually honeyed and sweet; it was rare for him to be so blunt.

Li Zhen said calmly, “Someone drugged the tea.”

What kind of drug? Zhu Qinghou was stunned for a second, but the realization hit him in the next. Instead of retreating, he took a few steps forward and whispered, “Have someone change this to hot water. I’m sensitive to the cold.”

As he spoke, he stepped around the screen. From just a few paces away, he saw the young man submerged in the freezing water. His black hair was loose, and the white silk had been removed, leaving his hollow, lightless eyes to “look” at him.

They looked very similar to the eyes in his memory, yet they were different.

He clearly remembered that Li Zhen’s eyes used to be as deep as ink, clear and bright, with a youthful elegance.

Then, Zhu Qinghou remembered that after Li Zhen went blind, he had closed his doors to all guests and left for his fief shortly after.

This was the first time Zhu Qinghou had seen Li Zhen’s eyes since that night at the Zhu manor.

“…Go away.” Li Zhen understood the implication of his words but refused nonetheless. His voice was steady and icy. “I don’t want you.”

Zhu Qinghou stopped, confused. “You don’t want me?” He pressed his hand against his heart, trying to suppress the restless parasite. He repeated, “You… don’t want me?”

“Get out.”

Li Zhen was exceptionally stubborn. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and the very lines of his muscles were taut with cold rejection. He seemed to loathe Zhu Qinghou—loathe him so much he didn’t want to waste another word.

Enduring the stinging pain in his chest, Zhu Qinghou casually tossed the fox-fur cloak onto the man, splashing the water. Without hesitation, he turned and walked out.

He stopped after a few steps and stood by the door, shouting loudly, “Uncle Cui! Find someone for your Prince!” He thought for a moment and added, “Find someone clean!”

Uncle Cui, who had been preparing for an early night to preserve his health: “…”

Who is calling me?

“Come back.”

Just as Zhu Qinghou finished shouting, a suppressed, hoarse voice came from behind him. He let out a cold snort and slowly paced back.

Before he was halfway there, he heard Li Zhen say, “Come in and close the door.”

Zhu Qinghou: “…”

He turned, shut the door, and clutched his chest with a low curse. Acting like such a refined gentleman.  If you’re so capable, don’t let this damn parasite get so restless.

The parasite didn’t settle down until the middle of the night.

Drenched in a cold sweat, Zhu Qinghou collapsed onto his bed. In his mind, he cursed Li Zhen to high heaven and had several choice words for the ancestors of whoever had drugged the tea.

If they were going to drug him, why didn’t they have the sense to send a beauty along with it?

Wait—who gave them permission to drug him in the first place?!

The culprit was a minor official under the provincial governor. It had been a “well-thought-out” plan: drug the Prince first, then present a beauty to gain his favor. Who would have guessed that Prince Su would leave the banquet so abruptly? The party ended before the “gift” could even be presented.

Afterward, the official was terrified. He expected to be held accountable at any moment—to be torn apart by five horses or executed by a thousand cuts…

And yet, he waited and waited. The Prince’s manor continued its banquets and conversations as if nothing had happened. Not a word was mentioned regarding the tea.

It was strange. In the four years Li Zhen had been in Yongzhou, he rarely held banquets, let alone attended them. He usually lived in seclusion, avoiding all things romantic or frivolous, with only two hobbies: training troops and killing people.

Now, he was taking the initiative to host parties and was accepting all the expensive gifts the guests brought.

To the officials, this was good news. It meant that the Prince, who had always been too upright to join their ranks, was finally starting to crave wealth and profit.

Expensive gifts piled up high. Following each banquet, a steady stream of treasures flowed into the Prince’s manor. The clinking sound of chests being carried in reached Zhu Qinghou’s ears.

He had no interest in gold or jewels. He absentmindedly packed some thin snow into a ball and tossed it onto the ground. It burst into a mist of white, like a silent firework that vanished as soon as it hit.

He looked at the snow, his mind drifting to something else.

Ever since the day Li Zhen was drugged, he hadn’t shared a bed with Zhu Qinghou again. Instead, he slept on a separate couch and stopped touching him altogether.

Was it loathing, or was it fear? Zhu Qinghou couldn’t tell, nor did he particularly care.

While Li Zhen was undeniably handsome—and the sight of him blindfolded and vulnerable held a certain dangerous, forbidden allure—Zhu Qinghou wasn’t about to risk his life for a night of passion. New experiences were fine, but he didn’t want to die in bed.

Bored, Zhu Qinghou shaped another snowball and tossed it.

Thump—

Down the street, the marketplace was thrown into chaos. Thatch-roofed stalls wobbled, and cups and bowls clattered to the ground.

As the mounted soldiers galloped past, a tavern owner picked up his fallen cups, shook his head, and muttered, “Taking the mud from a swallow’s beak, paring the iron from a needle’s tip, scraping the gold leaf from a Buddha’s face.  Such meticulous greed.”

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