Reborn Nine Times, the Tyrant Always Wants to Imprison Me - Chapter 5

Yet the bead curtain swayed gently, the dragon throne already stood empty. Only the cup of tea on the desk that hadn’t yet cooled proved the emperor had been here moments before.

“Young miss?” Qingxing reminded softly, “It’s time to change…”

Fangru withdrew her gaze and returned to the chamber. She walked straight toward the clothing chest: “No, fetch that lake-blue set instead.”

Qingxing’s hands holding the moon-white ruqun paused: “But the master instructed…”

“Go retrieve the storybooks from the carriage.” Fangru’s voice trembled slightly from suppressed emotions, her fingertips gently brushing over the Amethyst Rosary on her wrist – this was what she hadn’t had time to give Gu Zhou in her previous life.

The lights of the Xuanji Banquet came into view again, Fangru now completely transformed.

The lake-blue wide-sleeved liuxian dress flowed like water with her every movement.

The moment she stepped into the hall, she clearly felt the gazes directed at her were completely different from her previous life – more curious than jealous, more admiring than hostile.

“Oh, Miss Shen has changed her temperament today.” Zhao Minglan indeed blocked her path just as in her previous life, the wine glass in her hand tilting dangerously, “But blue doesn’t suit you…”

Just as the wine was about to spill, Fangru suddenly sidestepped while lightly flicking her fingers within her sleeve.

Somehow Zhao Minglan’s feet slipped, the entire glass of wine splashing all over her own apricot-yellow skirt, looking exactly like she had wet herself.

“Be careful, Miss Zhao.” Fangru supported her wrist, a fragrant pellet hidden between her fingertips rolling into the other’s sleeve, “There’s fruit stain on the floor.”

Zhao Minglan’s face flushed red, about to erupt in anger when she suddenly smelled a foul odor emanating from herself.

The noble ladies around covered their noses and stepped back, even her personal maid couldn’t help but frown.

Fangru elegantly stepped away, the corner of her lips slightly raised.

That fragrant pellet was her specially made “Seven Mile Stench” that dissolved upon contact with wine, enough to make Zhao Minglan “fragrant” throughout the entire evening.

“Miss Shen moves quite skillfully.” Su Wanqing approached while waving her round fan, her gaze resting on Fangru’s composed demeanor, “Miss Zhao will be regretting this for quite some time.”

Fangru smiled faintly: “Sister Su jests, it was merely Miss Zhao’s own carelessness.” Her eyes swept toward the corridor direction, “Though it seems Miss Lin has prepared a special performance.”

Before her words faded, Lin Yueyao’s ostentatious laughter already came from the corridor.

Fangru narrowed her eyes, watching that madder-red silk dress burning eyes like flame. In her previous life, it was this cup of “Drunken Hibiscus” that allowed Lin Yueyao to enter the royal flower appreciation banquet, ultimately leading to her death.

“…His Majesty loves peonies most, I specially added to this wine…”

Fangru walked straight over, interrupting softly at Lin Yueyao’s most triumphant moment: “Sister Lin is mistaken. His Majesty detests peonies – the Southern Border Princess Luo, who came for political marriage, died in the peony garden.”

The entire hall erupted in murmurs.

Lin Yueyao’s hand trembled, the glass nearly slipping from her grasp: “What nonsense are you speaking!”

Fangru calmly drew an exquisitely bound booklet from her sleeve, its cover flamboyantly inscribed “The Peony Pavilion.”

“If sister doesn’t believe me, you might look at this.” She casually opened to a page, her fingertip pointing at a certain passage, “It’s written clearly here.”

Lin Yueyao suspiciously leaned closer, seeing the paper clearly stated: “The sovereign covers his nose at the sight of peonies, calling them an omen of fallen kingdoms…”

Just as she was about to erupt, Fangru had already closed the booklet, lightly laughing: “Oh dear, I brought the wrong one. This is the storybook I was reading the other day.”

She feigned surprise, blinking deliberately. “But if Sister thinks carefully, aren’t all the stories from those chapbooks originally circulated from the palace?”

Lin Yueyao’s hand froze mid-air, the wine in her cup rippling faintly. The noble ladies around them had begun whispering among themselves, some even subtly stepping half a pace back.

Fangru tucked the chapbook back into her sleeve, her tone lighthearted. “At any rate, it’s all written in books. Sister should just treat it as an amusing anecdote. This ‘Drunken Hibiscus’…” She cast a meaningful glance at the crimson liquor. “…should be kept for your own enjoyment.”

Lin Yueyao’s face turned deathly pale. Though her father served as Minister of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, she had never heard of such secrets. If she truly offended taboo before the Emperor…

Fangru’s gaze remained calm as still water, yet it sent an inexplicable palpitation through Lin Yueyao’s heart.

“Sister, did you know,” Fangru’s voice softened like a passing breeze, “that Consort Luo of Nanjiang, during her lifetime, loved wearing rose-red silk dresses most, and often adorned her hair with the golden buyao hairpin of nine phoenixes facing the sun.”

Lin Yueyao’s hand jerked violently, the golden phoenix hairpin at her fingertips suddenly feeling scalding hot.

She recalled seeing a portrait of Consort Luo at last year’s palace banquet – the attire of the painted figure bore seven or eight similarities to what she wore today.

“After Consort Luo’s death, His Majesty ordered all her portraits collected and stored away.” Fangru continued, her fingertip lightly tracing the rim of the crystal cup. “They say… it’s because he loathes the sight of them each time he sees one.”

The night wind suddenly turned chilly, sending a cold shiver down Lin Yueyao’s back.

She remembered her father had indeed warned her never to mention anything about Consort Luo in the Emperor’s presence.

Observing Lin Yueyao’s increasingly ashen complexion, Fangru sighed softly. “Sister looks beautiful in this attire today, only…” She glanced meaningfully at the golden phoenix buyao. “…it too easily reminds people of unpleasant matters.”

The surrounding noble ladies watched curiously, but couldn’t overhear their private conversation.

The crystal cup in Lin Yueyao’s hand fell to the ground with a sharp “crack,” shattering into pieces.

She grabbed Fangru’s wrist and pulled her into the shadows behind a corridor pillar. “Shen Fangru, what exactly are you trying to say?”

Fangru allowed herself to be held, speaking softly. “Does Sister know why Consort Luo was ordered to die?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “Because she always enjoyed speaking ill of others before His Majesty, until finally…”

“Enough!” Lin Yueyao released her hand abruptly, her chest heaving. Suddenly remembering the mocking words she had been about to direct at Fangru, cold sweat broke out on her back.

Fangru smoothed the crumpled sleeve of her dress. “If Sister doesn’t believe me, by all means, proceed.” She lifted her eyes to the glittering golden buyao in Lin Yueyao’s hair. “It’s just that I truly can’t bear to watch Sister follow in Consort Luo’s footsteps.”

Lin Yueyao’s hand unconsciously rose to touch the golden phoenix buyao in her hair, her fingertips trembling slightly. She suddenly recalled her father’s vague reminder that the Emperor detested nothing more than palace women stirring up trouble…

Distant music began to play, signaling the imminent start of the dance competition. Fangru gave her one last look and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Lin Yueyao called out suddenly, her voice tinged with panic. “Why… are you telling me this?”

In her previous life, Lin Yueyao had been ordered to die by Zhou Ling over the phrase “serving through charm.” In this life, she didn’t want to witness it again.

Though Lin Yueyao had once mocked her, she didn’t deserve death. Fangru said quietly, “Because some mistakes, once made, leave no path for return.”

She could only do this much; the rest depended on Lin Yueyao’s own choice.

Lin Yueyao stood frozen in place, watching Fangru’s retreating figure, then suddenly reached up and pulled out the golden phoenix hairpin, hurling it fiercely into the lotus pond.

“Miss Shen.” Su Wanqing’s voice came from behind, tinged with curiosity. “What you mentioned earlier about Consort Luo…”

Fangru snapped back to attention and gave her a faint smile. “Sister Su, for the upcoming dance competition, would you be willing to perform ‘Flowing Clouds and Returning Snow’?”

Su Wanqing widened her eyes in surprise. “That’s a sword dance from the previous dynasty, long lost to time. How could I possibly know it?”

Fangru’s fingertips trembled slightly. She recalled her past life, waiting outside the imperial study, peering through the carved window lattice to see Zhou Ling practicing his sword alone under the moonlight.

Within those fierce sword movements, she had clearly detected the essence of “Flowing Clouds and Returning Snow.” This emperor had actually incorporated the lost sword dance into his own martial arts.

“I’ll teach you,” she said softly, leading Su Wanqing to a corner of the courtyard.

Under the moonlight, she broke off a branch of weeping crabapple, and the flowering branch seemed to come alive in her hand.

“Watch closely.” Fangru flicked her wrist, and the branch cut through the air, stirring up a delicate shower of petals.

Her movements were as graceful as a startled swan, every rise and fall perfectly timed, as if harmonizing with the rhythm of heaven and earth.

These were the essentials she had grasped in her previous life while hiding behind a screen, secretly learning Zhou Ling’s sword techniques.

Su Wanqing held her breath unconsciously.

Fangru moved close behind her, gently supporting her wrist. “Here, you must turn your wrist like this, as if holding a brush to write…” She suddenly paused—this gesture was strikingly similar to Zhou Ling’s posture when reviewing memorials.

“Watch carefully.” Her wrist turned lightly, the flowering branch tracing an elegant arc through the air.

Every spin precisely replicated the dance steps from her memory, honed through countless nights of repeated practice to please Zhou Ling when summoned.

Su Wanqing watched intently, unconsciously mimicking the movements.

Fangru stopped to adjust the angle of her wrist. “After this spin, turn toward the northeast corner. There…” She hesitated, remembering how Zhou Ling always sat in that spot in her past life, “…you’ll find a surprise.”

As Fangru demonstrated, she spoke softly, petals rustling down with her movements. “When turning your wrist, the force must be just right, like…” Her voice suddenly trailed off as an image surfaced in her mind—Zhou Ling’s intense, focused gaze from her previous life.

“How do you know such an exquisite sword dance?” Su Wanqing took the flowering branch, her eyes filled with awe.

Under the moonlight, Fangru’s fingertips gently brushed against a falling petal. “Once… there was someone who loved watching this dance most.” Her voice was so soft it seemed meant for herself. “But in this life, I won’t dance for him again.”

The crabapple branch trembled slightly in Su Wanqing’s hand, a few petals drifting down silently.

Fangru bent to pick one up, crushing it gently between her fingers—just like grinding away those memories that should no longer be recalled.

The music gradually faded, and the banquet hall fell into a temporary hush. A eunuch’s shrill voice pierced the silence: “The dance competition begins.”

Lin Yueyao leaned in a corner, idly fanning herself with a round fan, all her earlier competitive spirit gone.

The other noble daughters exchanged glances, none daring to step forward. Who would dare compete against the carefully trained courtesan from the Drunken Immortal Pavilion?

Amid this delicate silence, Su Wanqing slowly ascended the stage.

The crabapple branch in her hand still glistened with night dew, shimmering under the lantern light. As the music resumed, her wrist turned lightly, the branch cutting through the air in a silvery arc.

Fangru stood at the periphery of the crowd, watching as Su Wanqing’s every twist and turn landed with perfect precision.

The silver bells chimed crisply with her spins, like a clear spring tinkling under moonlight. The dance “Flowing Clouds and Returning Snow,” which she had personally trained, now bloomed with astonishing brilliance.

“The third spin…” Fangru murmured silently.

Sure enough, as Su Wanqing turned, her gaze precisely sought out the northeast corner, where a tall figure was concealed in the shadow of a corridor pillar. The subtle patterns on his dark robe flickered briefly under the lamplight, and Fangru’s heart skipped a beat.

“Bravo!”

Amid the applause, Su Wanqing concluded with an elegant spin, her skirt blooming like flower petals.

But Fangru’s eyes remained fixed on Zhou Ling. She saw the emperor idly toying with his jade thumb ring, not even bothering to lift his eyelids.

This wasn’t right.

Fangru’s fingertips unconsciously dug into her palm.

In her past life, when she had performed this dance, Zhou Ling’s gaze had been so intense it nearly burned through her.

Back then, he hadn’t even noticed his wine cup tilting, the liquid soaking the sleeve of his dragon robe.

“Just one more glance…” she whispered inwardly.

But Zhou Ling merely propped his chin lazily, his gaze drifting to the night outside the hall. Even as Su Wanqing exited the stage, he never granted her a proper look.

A sudden, inexplicable anger flared in Fangru’s chest.

She had meticulously choreographed this dance, personally refined every posture, and calculated each spin to perfection—all for this moment of awe.

Yet that man wouldn’t even spare it a glance?

“Zhou Ling…” She bit her lower lip, suddenly realizing what she had been hoping for. The realization sent heat rushing through her—annoyed at his indifference, and even more annoyed at her own concern.

The crabapple tree rustled lightly, and Zhou Ling abruptly looked up.

Across the sea of people, his gaze met hers directly, like the moon reflected in a cold, deep pool.

Fangru’s breath hitched, and the embroidered handkerchief in her hand slipped silently to the ground. His stare was too focused, as if the entire hall’s brilliance dimmed, leaving only her standing in the light.

The emperor tilted his head slightly, a strand of ink-black hair slipping from his jade crown, making his eyes appear even more profound.

Fangru felt a strange restlessness.

In her memory, the Zhou Ling of her past life had never looked at her like this—not with the authority of an emperor inspecting his subject, but with the nearly improper intensity of a man gazing at a woman.

The wine cup in his fingers rotated halfway, pausing at a subtle angle. Fangru suddenly realized that from this position, he might have a clear view of her ears, which had reddened slightly from her earlier irritation.

A night breeze brushed past, stirring the loose strands of hair at her forehead.

Zhou Ling’s gaze followed, lingering on the vermilion mark between her brows for a duration that could almost be called audacious.

Fangru instinctively raised a hand to cover it but abruptly changed the motion mid-air to adjust her hair—a futile attempt at concealment that drew a faint, almost imperceptible smile to the emperor’s eyes.

Fangru snapped back to reality, only then noticing the crumpled state of the handkerchief in her grasp.

She discreetly tucked it into her sleeve, her fingertips brushing against dampness—unnoticed, a fine layer of sweat had moistened her palm.

“Are you unwell, Miss Shen?” a noblewoman beside her asked with concern.

Fangru forced a faint smile. “It’s nothing, just a bit stuffy.”

When she looked up again, the figure in dark robes had vanished into the crowd.

Fangru took a deep breath, lifted her skirts, and hurried through the corridor.

The night breeze brushed against her fevered cheeks, yet could not dispel the inexplicable restlessness in her heart. She shouldn’t have followed him, but Gu Zhou was still waiting for her in the prison.

Deep in the garden, Zhou Ling stood alone beneath a weeping crabapple tree.

The moonlight outlined his tall silhouette, fallen blossoms clinging to his shoulders as if even an emperor could be touched by mortal dust.

“Your Majesty.”

Her voice was soft, yet it made Zhou Ling’s back stiffen slightly. He didn’t turn, merely raising a hand to catch a drifting petal: “Miss Shen is quite bold.”

Fangru pressed her lips together, forcing herself to take a few steps forward: “This subject’s daughter has a request.”

“Oh?” Zhou Ling finally turned, crushing the petal between his fingers until its juice stained his fingertips, “For Gu Zhou?”

The mockery in his tone made Fangru’s chest feel tight.

The night breeze swept through, shaking loose a shower of blossoms, some landing in her hair. Zhou Ling suddenly raised his hand, but stopped just before touching her, instead plucking a petal from her shoulder.

“To beg, one should adopt the posture of a beggar.” His voice was low, carrying a veiled threat.

Fangru took a deep breath and began to curtsy, but he stopped her with his folding fan against her wrist: “That’s not what I want.”

Under the moonlight, his gaze was too explicit, making Fangru instantly understand his implication. She stumbled back a step, her lower back hitting the cold stone railing.

“Your Majesty jests.” She forced composure, “This humble subject merely wishes to…”

“Use your petty cleverness to deceive me?” Zhou Ling suddenly closed in, the scent of ambergris enveloping her, “Such as… teaching someone else to dance my favorite dance?”