Reborn Nine Times, the Tyrant Always Wants to Imprison Me - Chapter 18

The Empress never laid a finger on her directly, yet she always managed to meticulously strip away every bit of vibrant color and convenience around her. Through these indirect means, she reminded her who truly ruled the inner palace, and how fleeting the Emperor’s favor could be—even capable of bringing unforeseen disaster upon those close to her.

This sense of powerlessness and invisible bondage, knowing others suffered because of her, sometimes felt more suffocating than direct persecution.

And now, Zhou Ling had personally ordered her to be handed over to the Empress for “guidance”? This was clearly giving the Empress a perfect, legitimate excuse to manipulate and torment her more brazenly!

This time, who would suffer because of her?

However, the anticipated storm never arrived.

Just like in her first life, she was sent to the Yilan Palace. Here, the pavilions and towers were exquisitely crafted, the interior furnishings luxurious, with provisions even surpassing those of high-ranking consorts.

The Empress did visit daily, but she never raised her voice or administered punishments. Instead, she wore a complex expression, tinged with unconcealed apprehension. Each time, she merely went through the motions—asking about daily routines, reciting a few insignificant palace rules—before hurriedly departing as if completing a task.

Later, Fangru learned the details of her first night in the palace from a young maid named Lingzi.

Lingzi imitated the scene vividly, lowering her voice:

“Miss, you should’ve seen it! That night, His Majesty went to the Empress’s palace without any announcement and walked right in. They say the Empress was removing her makeup before the mirror and was so startled she dropped her hairpin!”

“And His Majesty? He acted like he was entering his own study—sat down directly and even asked for tea from the Empress’s own stock. He sipped it slowly, then looked up at the Empress as if remembering something, saying…” Lingzi cleared her throat, imitating that detached yet intimidating tone, “‘That Shen girl has a wild temperament. I find it amusing and am personally taming her—haven’t had enough yet.'”

“His Majesty also said: ‘I have this flaw—I can torment my own possessions however I please, but if anyone else dares lay a finger on them, or…’—here His Majesty tapped his teacup, not loudly, but it scared everyone breathless—’if they diminish that spark of vitality in her, I would be very, very displeased.'”

“Finally, His Majesty even praised the Empress, saying: ‘You’re virtuous and understanding, Empress, no one knows the palace rules better than you. You must grasp the appropriate measure of “careful guidance” perfectly, right?’ After saying this, His Majesty left without finishing his tea. The Empress was left alone, her face turning pale then green, then green then pale—they say she didn’t sleep all night!”

After learning this, the oppressive feeling of being trapped in the palace strangely found an outlet for Fangru.

So this seemingly lofty Empress, who always used rules to suppress others, could also tremble before Zhou Ling like a paper tiger.

A subtle, somewhat mischievous pleasure quietly sprouted within her.

Since that tyrant insisted on cloaking her with the mantle of “favor,” wouldn’t she be wasting his “generosity” if she didn’t take advantage to swagger like a fox borrowing the tiger’s might?

Therefore, when the Empress once again assumed her dignified and composed demeanor to deliver her routine admonitions, Fangru abandoned her previous silent restraint. A careless yet provocative glint now danced in her eyes.

The Empress had just stiffened her expression and begun her customary opening: “A woman should prioritize chastity and tranquility—walking without turning her head, smiling without revealing teeth—to embody the grace of a noble lady…”

Fangru, however, lounged lazily on the brocade-covered chaise longue, not even bothering to rise and curtsey. Her delicate fingers idly picked up the mutton-fat white jade ruyi scepter—bestowed by Zhou Ling just the day before, warm to the touch—and toyed with it intermittently, directly interrupting the Empress:

“Your Majesty’s guidance is most appreciated. However…” she drawled, her gaze sweeping over with a teasing half-smile, “when His Majesty rested here yesterday, he praised this humble consort for being more lively and amusing, saying he detests those lifeless, puppet-like beauties the most. Ah, what is one to do? His Majesty’s golden words cannot be disobeyed, yet Your Majesty’s precious advice must not be neglected either. Truly, I am caught in a dilemma. Might Your Majesty enlighten me?”

As she spoke, she even let out an exaggerated sigh, as if genuinely troubled by the matter. Her entire demeanor radiated an air of “confident audacity.”

The Empress felt a suffocating rage clog her chest, unable to rise or fall. Her meticulously maintained face flushed crimson, then paled to a ghastly hue as she suppressed her fury. The knuckles of her hands, clutching a handkerchief, turned white, yet she could not muster a single word of rebuttal. How could she publicly declare the Emperor’s preferences wrong?

Fangru, however, was not finished. Her eyes “accidentally” drifted to the embroidery frame held by the matron behind the Empress, stretched with an exceptionally magnificent broat.

Suddenly, she exclaimed, “Oh my!” as if discovering something novel, her tone both surprised and feigning innocence:

“This fabric of Your Majesty’s… looks so familiar. This sheen and pattern—could it be the ‘Floating Light Brocade’ tribute from Siam last year? His Majesty actually gifted this humble consort several bolts of it the other day. He said the colors were too vibrant and flamboyant, and few in the palace could carry it off—only this consort might barely manage to look presentable in it. He told me to casually tailor it for fun or even give it to palace maids to make handkerchiefs.”

She paused, fixing the Empress with an unbearably smug, concerned look: “Oh? Why is Your Majesty’s piece still in its full bolt? Haven’t you decided how to use it yet? Are the palace embroiderers’ skills not to your liking? Would you… like this consort to lend you the bolts His Majesty gifted me for the time being?”

These words were nothing short of adding insult to injury!

The Empress had repeatedly requested this Floating Light Brocade from Zhou Ling, both openly and covertly, only to be rejected each time with the excuse that it was “too extravagant and unbefitting the central palace’s status!” And now this vixen dared to casually mention “tailoring it for fun” and “giving it to palace maids for handkerchiefs”!

The Empress felt darkness cloud her vision, her blood boiling. Her carefully crafted mask of composure nearly shattered entirely. Only by digging her nails deep into her palms did she barely maintain her posture without losing control.

Her chest heaved violently several times before she finally forced out words through gritted teeth, her voice parched and strained: “No… need… for… your… concern… sister. You… bask in such imperial favor… what… excellent… fortune!”

Watching the Empress’s expression—seething with the desire to tear her apart yet forced to maintain a strained smile, even having to “praise” her—Fangru finally felt the pent-up resentment in her heart dissipate with satisfaction.

She could even respond with a smile even more radiant and dazzling, a perfect example of a “seductive consort”: “Thanks to the blessings of His Majesty and Your Majesty.”

This feeling of leveraging the tyrant’s influence to turn the tables on him, while watching the usually aloof Empress suffer helplessly… was indeed somewhat intriguing.

Though this “power” was as illusory as flowers in a mirror or the moon reflected in water, its foundation entirely reliant on Zhou Ling’s whims, and not something she desired, occasionally using it to provoke others served as a sharp spice in her cage-like existence.

Yet, after this fleeting satisfaction, the yearning for true freedom in her heart only burned more fiercely, like dry grass ignited by a spark.

…

Zhou Ling came almost every day, his “visits” becoming the most unpredictable scenery in the Yilan Palace.

Sometimes, he would review memorials late into the night, when all was silent except for the chirping of insects.

On a sudden whim, he would dismiss all the palace attendants and arrive alone under the cold, clear moonlight.

The gates of Yilan Palace were never barred to him.

He often entered without announcement, appearing as silently as a predator in the dark.

He loved to lean against the doorframe of the inner chamber, his dark casual robes blending almost entirely with the shadows, save for his profound eyes, which shone startlingly bright in the dim candlelight.

Lazily propped there, he would leisurely admire the “scene” inside the chamber.

Fangru would either be lost in thought under a solitary lamp, her long eyelashes casting fragile shadows beneath her eyes, or she would feign sleep on the soft couch, her body tense and her eyelashes trembling slightly from nervousness, her pretense full of flaws.

He never exposed her, waiting with immense patience, his gaze tangible as it swept over her deliberately calm profile, until she felt as if needles were pricking her back, growing utterly uncomfortable.

Only when she could bear it no longer and abruptly turned her head or snapped her eyes open would she meet his deep, bottomless gaze, which had long been waiting for her.

Their eyes locked in silence.

It was then that he would slowly speak, the corners of his lips curling into a faint, mocking smile, his voice carrying a hint of hoarseness from staying up late, yet all the more magnetic: “So alert, Miss Shen… It seems my footsteps were too heavy and disturbed your rest?” He paused, the teasing in his tone growing more pronounced. “Or… were you actually awake all along, secretly… hoping for my arrival?”

Fangru was so choked by his words she nearly lost her breath, her irritation at being disturbed and her resentment toward his unpredictable appearances instantly peaking.

She sat up abruptly, abandoning all pretense of sleep, and shot him an exasperated glare. Her voice, feigning the hoarseness of someone just “awakened,” carried undisguised sarcasm:

“Your Majesty, your self-regard is rather inflated, isn’t it?” She pointed at the high-hanging moon outside the window, then at her neatly worn sleeping robes. “Look at the hour, and look at my attire. Does it seem like I was expecting anyone? I merely have light sleep and was startled awake by certain uninvited ‘footsteps’ that seem to enjoy lurking in the shadows to frighten people.”

She deliberately emphasized the words “footsteps,” the disdain in her eyes almost tangible: “Moreover, Your Majesty, don’t you think your habit of ‘leaning against the doorframe’ is a bit… well, peculiar? Does the Yilan Hall lack a chair or a couch? Must you strike such a… misleading pose?”

As she uttered the words “misleading,” her cheeks flushed slightly, but she refused to back down, stubbornly glaring at him.

Zhou Ling, upon hearing this, showed no anger. Instead, the amusement in his eyes deepened.

He straightened up, finally stepping out of the shadows, and slowly approached the couch, looking down at her from above. The candlelight danced across his sharply defined features.

“Oh? Misleading?” He leaned in, bracing his arms on either side of the soft couch, trapping her in the confined space. His warm breath brushed against her cheek. “Fangru, what do you think I’ve come for? Surely not just to listen to your… sharp tongue?”

Fangru, enveloped by his sudden proximity, felt her heart skip a beat, but she refused to yield. She turned her face away slightly and muttered under her breath, ensuring he could still hear: “Who knows? Perhaps you’re just bored and here to pick a fight, or… simply can’t stand others sleeping more soundly than you?”

Zhou Ling let out a low chuckle, his chest vibrating, seemingly thoroughly amused by her bold and prickly retort. He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing her flushed cheek, reddened from her earlier “heated” remarks.

“This mouth of yours…” he said ambiguously, his fingertips burning with heat, “is even sharper than it was during the day. It seems you’ve rested well. Since you have the energy to defy me, why not…”

The rest of his words vanished as his lips abruptly closed in, transforming into a kiss laden with punishment and conquest, effectively silencing any further complaints from Fangru.

Fangru cursed inwardly: …Bastard! Resorting to force when you can’t win an argument! Tyrant! Reckless ruler!

Sometimes, during the noon meal, sunlight filtered through the carved window lattices, casting scattered specks of light onto the exquisite dishes.

Fangru had just picked up her silver chopsticks when the deliberate, raised announcement of a eunuch echoed from outside the hall: “His Majesty has arrived.”

Her brow twitched almost imperceptibly, and she had no choice but to set down her chopsticks and rise.

Before the words had fully faded, Zhou Ling strode in with purposeful steps.

He settled into the main seat as naturally as if he were in his own bedchamber, casually waving a hand. “Bring another set of bowls and chopsticks. Clear these dishes and bring the freshly prepared ones from the imperial kitchen.”

In no time, the light, palatable dishes that had been in front of her were replaced by a table laden with culinary masterpieces—a dazzling array of fragrant delicacies that were, however, filled with exotic ingredients and intense seasonings she had always avoided.

Zhou Ling was in no hurry to eat. Instead, he propped his chin on his hand, leisurely observing her from the side. His deep gaze was like that of someone watching an intriguing play, keenly capturing every trace of resistance and the forced composure on her face.

He particularly enjoyed watching her reaction to the dishes she clearly disliked—the slight furrow of her delicate brows and her unconsciously slowed chewing, as if she were consuming poison rather than delicacies.

After watching for a while, he suddenly chuckled softly. Extending his well-defined hand, he picked up his silver chopsticks, deftly selected a piece of bright red, oil-glazed spicy diced chicken, and unyieldingly placed it into her pristine white jade bowl.

“I recall the imperial chef mentioning these are newly-tribute chili peppers from Sichuan, renowned for their exhilarating flavor,” his intense gaze pinned her instantly stiffened face, tone laced with malicious teasing and indisputable authority. “Try one.”

Fangru stared at the glaringly red chili in her bowl, her stomach already protesting in advance.

She attempted resistance: “Thanking Your Majesty… but this subject has been suffering from weak digestion lately. The imperial physician advised a bland diet…”

“Oh?” Zhou Ling’s eyebrow arched slightly. Instead of retracting his command, he leaned closer, his lowered voice vibrating with magnetic resonance as he cut off her words. “Which carries more weight – the imperial physician’s advice, or Our decree?”

He was so close she could nearly see her own reflection in his eyes, along with the suppressed flames within them.

The curve of his lips deepened, exuding lazy dominance as he deliberately uttered more shocking words:

“Or perhaps…” His gaze fell upon her slightly pursed pink lips, his speech slowing. “Does Fangru find chopsticks troublesome? Would you prefer… We find another way to feed you?”

The implication was too blatant. Fangru’s cheeks flushed crimson instantly, half from anger, half from embarrassment.

This tyrant! Utterly… utterly shameless!

Before the entire hall of stifling laughter and pretending-not-to-hear palace attendants, she found herself trapped between two evils.

Eating would torment her stomach; refusing might provoke even worse behavior from this scoundrel.

She glared at him fiercely, her eyes shooting daggers that seemed almost tangible.

Zhou Ling appeared delighted by her vivid expression, a low, pleased chuckle escaping his throat as he leisurely awaited her choice.

Ultimately, Fangru picked up the spicy chicken with an air of marching to her doom, stuffed it into her mouth, chewed hastily twice before forcing it down. The pungent spice rushed to her head, stinging her eyes red as she involuntarily gasped lightly.

“Well?” Zhou Ling asked knowingly, his fingertips even tapping the table leisurely.

Her tongue numb from the spice, Fangru cursed him a thousand times inwardly while forcing an artificial smile: “Your… Your Majesty’s reward… naturally carries an… ‘excellent’ flavor…” Her voice trembled with choked-back tears from the spiciness.

Watching her disheveled state – eyes watering yet pretending obedience – Zhou Ling leaned back in satisfaction, laughing heartily as if this were the most entertaining game in the world.

Fangru cursed inwardly: Excellent flavor? Excellent my foot! Zhou Ling, just you wait! I’ll remember this spiciness – someday I’ll make you eat chili powder mixed with it! Bastard!

He even commandeered the daybed beneath her Yilan Palace window as his secondary study.

One sunny afternoon, he arrived uninvited with stacks of memorials and books, effortlessly occupying her favorite viewing spot on the daybed. His long legs crossed casually, black robes spilling carelessly as if he owned the place.

Fangru could only sulkily relocate to an embroidery stool nearby, her needlework distracted and stitches uneven.

For a while, only the soft rustling of pages and vermilion brushstrokes filled the hall.

Yet this semblance of tranquility would soon be shattered by him.

He would suddenly lift his gaze from behind the memorials, his eyes precisely capturing her as he posed one tricky question after another:

“Fangru, which do you deem more critical—diverting the Huainan grain transport route or reinforcing the embankments?” His tone was as casual as if inquiring about the day’s weather, as though asking a secluded palace woman about state affairs were the most natural thing in the world.

Fangru’s hand, holding an embroidery needle, stilled. Alarm bells rang in her heart.

No matter how she answered, it could touch upon court disputes. She lowered her eyes and cautiously replied, “Your Majesty, I beg your pardon. On such matters of military and state affairs, I am ignorant and dare not recklessly offer opinions.”

Upon hearing this, he merely cast her a faint, ambiguous smile, his expression seeming to say, “I knew you would answer like this.” Yet he did not press further, instead picking up a copy of Strange Tales from Lingnan beside him and casually flipping it open.

“This book says that among the Li people’s tribal villages, there is a custom called ‘fangliao,’ where men and women match through song—quite intriguing.” His fingertip tapped the page, but his gaze rested on her face, probing and carrying a hint of barely perceptible teasing. “Fangru, you are widely read. Do you know the details? Could it be… the Imperial Library’s collections even include such eclectic studies?”

Fangru’s cheeks warmed. The question seemed elegant on the surface but was cunning in intent! If she claimed ignorance, it would make her earlier modest “ignorance” seem like an evasion. If she claimed knowledge… how could a woman of the inner chambers be intimately familiar with the marital customs of frontier tribes?

Pressing her lips together, she remained silent, attempting to resist with wordlessness.

But he would not let it go. Setting the book aside, he pressed closer step by step: “Hmm? Why so quiet? Weren’t you just professing ignorance? It seems you were being modest.” He rose and walked over to her, his shadow enveloping her. “Or perhaps… Fangru actually knows quite well, but… is unwilling to share with me?”

He stood extremely close, the crisp scent of ambergris from his robes mingling with the aroma of ink and books, carrying an intense pressure.

Provoked repeatedly by him, Fangru’s unyielding spirit finally stirred. Forgetting caution, she lifted her head and blurted out:

“Since Your Majesty knows these are ‘strange tales,’ you should recognize that they are often sensationalized records, not necessarily to be fully believed! It is true that the Li people choose their own spouses through song, but their villages also have strict clan rules—hardly the disgrace outsiders imagine! If Your Majesty is genuinely interested, why not dispatch an imperial inspector to investigate firsthand, rather than interrogating me here?”

Her words came slightly faster, edged with the sharpness of being cornered, her eyes unusually bright from the argument.

Zhou Ling watched her finally baring her claws and arguing with clear reasoning. Instead of anger, his eyes suddenly flashed with a brilliant, appreciative light, as if he had at last glimpsed the radiant core hidden beneath layers of wrapping.

He chuckled low, the sound brimming with immense delight and a sense of “just as expected.”

“Well said—‘not necessarily to be fully believed’! And ‘investigate firsthand’!” He clapped his hands, then abruptly reached out, pulling her up from the embroidery stool and into his embrace.

Caught off guard, Fangru gasped, her hands instinctively pressing against his chest. “Your Majesty!”

“Fangru, your insight is remarkable, your wit sharp, and your rebuttals against me are exceptionally clear…” His arm encircled her waist like an iron band as he leaned in, his warm breath nearly scorching her earlobe, his tone deepening dangerously. “It seems I have… been far too indulgent with you.”

“In that case, ‘punishment’… is unavoidable.”

Before the words had fully left her mouth, he sealed them with a kiss, blocking all her unfinished arguments and protests. Only the ambiguous sound of moist lips and hurried breaths intertwined in the warm afternoon air.

Fangru had thought more than once: Bastard! When you can’t win an argument, you resort to this! Tyrant! Reckless ruler! If you have the guts, let me go and continue the debate! …Mmph!

What startled Fangru most was one afternoon when she was practicing calligraphy by the window, copying a poem lamenting the hardships of common people.

Zhou Ling quietly approached from behind, watched for a moment, then suddenly reached out to grasp her hand holding the brush, his chest nearly pressed against her back.

“Not bad,” his voice was low, betraying no emotion. “But overly compassionate. How could a few poems alleviate the world’s suffering?” Guiding her hand, he started a new line on the paper, writing a decisive character for “resolve” with strokes sharp as blades. “I prefer this one.”

Fangru remained rigid in his embrace, sensing the immense power and a certain obsessive conviction hidden beneath his calm tone.

She suddenly realized that to find this man’s weakness, she must look beyond his violent exterior and penetrate through layers of ice to reach the deepest core.

She was still a butterfly struggling in his web, yet every seemingly helpless dance, every probe in the flicker of her gaze, was a silent contest.

She ground ink for him, observing the slight furrow of his brow while reviewing memorials; she dined with him, noting his preferences for different dishes; she even seized moments when he appeared relaxed to casually mention vague fragments of the past…

The game of hunter and prey continued quietly amid the curling incense smoke, in every exchange of glances and accidental touch of fingertips.

Fangru carefully gathered all these fragments, waiting for the moment that might deliver a fatal blow or grant her freedom.