The Banished Immortal of the Cold Palace: His Majesty’s Young Master Yun Has Fallen Asleep Again - Chapter 5

Upon returning to Yun Biechen’s courtyard, Wang Sheng found that the man was no longer outside. The reflection of a figure sitting quietly and reading was cast upon the window paper of the main house. It was elegant and serene, a world away from the frenzied chaos of the West Wing.

Standing in the courtyard, Wang Sheng took several deep breaths of the cold but clean air to settle the panic in his heart. He stepped lightly toward the window and said in a low voice, “Young Master, the porridge has been delivered.”

The sound of turning pages paused for a moment. Yun Biechen’s cold, clear voice drifted out. “Did she use it?”

Wang Sheng hesitated before replying softly, “I placed the porridge at the foot of the steps. Consort Shu, she did not seem to recognize anyone, nor did she touch the porridge.”

Another silence followed. After a long while, Yun Biechen’s voice rose again, softer than before and nearly dissolving into the wind. “Understood. Go and rest.”

Wang Sheng answered with a respectful “Yes” and retreated to his small, humble, yet warm room. He lay in bed but found no sleep. The frantic eyes of Consort Shu, her contorted movements, her shrill cries, and Yun Biechen’s nearly imperceptible sigh wove together repeatedly in his mind.

The birth mother of the current Emperor was locked in the Cold Palace, driven to such madness. What unknown past existed between the immortal-like Master Yun and this mad consort? Why was Master Yun involved with her at all?

Wang Sheng slept fitfully that night. His dreams were a blur of shifting lights and shadows: the magnificent splendor of Qian’an Hall, the mottled vermilion walls at the end of the palace paths, the predatory gaze of Consort Shu, and the hem of a robe fluttering from the white plum tree.

In the latter half of the night, a sudden wind rose. He woke with a start to the rustling of plum branches and the faint sound of a light cough. Peering through the gap in his window, he saw that the candle in the main house was still lit. On the patched window paper, a thin silhouette was visible. The man sat facing the window, his shoulders slight, his coughing suppressed and restrained.

Wang Sheng gripped the edge of his garment. Without a summons from Yun Biechen, he ultimately did not dare to enter.

The next morning, Wang Sheng rose early to boil water. He froze upon opening his door. On the stone table in the courtyard sat two plates of dim sum. One held translucent osmanthus cakes, and the other held flaky hibiscus pastries, both still steaming.

“Awake?” Yun Biechen’s voice came from above.

Wang Sheng looked up to see him sitting on the roof ridge, his white robes fluttering in the morning breeze. The sunrise colored the horizon in brilliant hues, bathing his figure in a light crimson glow. The scene was so beautiful it seemed unearthly.

“Young Master, these,” Wang Sheng said, pointing at the pastries.

“Sent by an old acquaintance,” Yun Biechen said as he landed lightly on the ground, his hem not even touching the dust. “Eat. Life in the Cold Palace is bitter; there is no need to mistreat yourself.”

Watching him, Wang Sheng felt a strange sensation in his heart. Although Master Yun was in the Cold Palace, he seemed as though he had never truly been imprisoned.

Days passed in this manner. Wang Sheng gradually grew accustomed to the rhythm of the Cold Palace: cleaning the courtyard in the morning, while Yun Biechen mostly napped or read under the plum tree. In the afternoon, the master would disappear for a while and return with unexpected items. Sometimes it was a bundle of medicinal herbs, sometimes several volumes of new books, and once, even a fresh fish still flopping about.

Wang Sheng never asked where these things came from. He simply worked silently to keep the courtyard tidier, planting cold-resistant flowers in the corners and patching every hole in the window paper.

Yun Biechen was exceptionally prone to lethargy, spending most of the day asleep. When awake, he spent his time reading or staring blankly at the plum tree. Occasionally, he would teach Wang Sheng to read or instruct him on how to tend the plants. His tone was always calm and gentle, lacking the resentment of an abandoned consort and the distance of a distant immortal.

When the first snow of deep winter fell, the Cold Palace had transformed. New bamboo shoots had sprouted near the broken palace walls, and Wang Sheng had hung woven straw curtains under the eaves to ward off the cold. The white plum tree bloomed even more vibrantly; when snow settled on the branches, it was nearly impossible to distinguish flower from flake.

Wang Sheng was simmering ginger soup at the stove when he heard Yun Biechen call him softly.

“Wang Sheng, come here.”

He wiped his hands and hurried over. Yun Biechen stood under the plum tree holding a brocade pouch. It was an ordinary blue color but embroidered with exquisite hidden patterns that shimmered faintly in the snowy light.

“Keep this safe,” Yun Biechen said, placing the pouch in his hand. “If one day someone comes to take you out of the palace and I am not here, give this to them.”

The pouch felt warm to the touch and carried a faint, lingering fragrance. Wang Sheng’s heart suddenly raced. “Why does the Young Master say such things? I will always serve you.”

“The world is unpredictable.” Yun Biechen looked toward the palace walls, his gaze distant. “Remember, no matter what happens, protect yourself.”

The snow fell heavier, covering the blue bricks and hiding the traces of moss. Wang Sheng stood in the snow clutching the pouch, watching Yun Biechen turn to go back inside. He suddenly felt that this dilapidated Cold Palace was more like the world of the living than the gold-carved halls outside.

In the distance, the faint sound of a bell echoed. It was the morning bell from the direction of Qian’an Hall.

The imperial palace had trapped a seven-year-old boy named Wang Guigui; from then on, he became Wang Sheng, destined to spend the rest of his life within these walls that others saw as majestic. Wang Sheng usually felt nothing about his own fate, but now he felt it clearly. He did not want Yun Biechen to stay here. The Young Master did not belong in this place.

Through their time together, Wang Sheng had grasped the essence of Yun Biechen’s character. The more he understood him, the more clearly he knew that Yun Biechen should never have been in the depths of this palace. He was unsure of Yun Biechen’s past or his true identity, but he was certainly more than just a beautiful face. He was beautiful in an androgynous way, yet he possessed a sacred, inviolable aura. He was truly like an immortal who had descended to the mortal realm.

However, in the face of imperial power, even an immortal was but an empty title.

The late Emperor had sought the way of the immortals and pursued longevity. He should have treated an immortal with reverence, yet he had still forcibly abducted this immortal-like man into the depths of the palace. Because he was the Emperor, the master of the world, his desire for longevity did not stop him from taking what he wanted. No one could stop him, not even a god.

Thus, Yun Biechen became a locked-away immortal in the Cold Palace.

The late Emperor had passed away, and Yun Biechen, who should have been moved out of the palace along with the other concubines, had been left behind. Eunuch Wang Shunde had delayed reporting this to the new Emperor. From their time together, Wang Sheng knew for certain that Master Yun and Eunuch Wang were acquainted.

Having served the new Emperor, Wang Sheng was well aware of his morbid preferences. Yan Linyuan loved beautiful things. Whether it was an object, a landscape, or a person, he possessed an intense desire to collect them. Wang Shunde surely understood that once the current Emperor saw Yun Biechen, the man would not only be unable to leave the palace; he might not even be allowed to step out of a single hall.

Wang Sheng looked at Yun Biechen’s room, his heart sinking further.