The Banished Immortal of the Cold Palace: His Majesty’s Young Master Yun Has Fallen Asleep Again - Chapter 9

The accumulated snow crunched softly beneath his boots as Yan Linyuan stepped into the West Courtyard once more.

The coffin would not be brought into the palace until dawn, so Imperial Concubine Shu’s remains still rested within the hall. A single plain white palace lantern swayed beneath the eaves, casting a bleak and desolate light over the snow-covered courtyard.

He stood inside the hall for a long time, only walking out slowly when the water clock pointed to the very end of the Zi hour.

The night wind whipped across his cheeks, carrying remnants of snow. Just as he was about to leave, his peripheral vision caught sight of that white plum tree by the East Courtyard wall. The branch where a silk ribbon had been tied during the day was now empty.

The plain white silk ribbon, hidden in his sleeve, had been gripped in his palm for some time, its edges warmed by his body heat. He paused, turned around, and walked toward the plum tree.

The footprints in the snow were chaotic, as the traces of palace servants coming and going during the day had not yet been fully covered by the fresh snowfall. He reached the base of the tree and looked up.

He saw someone.

The person was lying on his side upon a slanting plum branch. His white robes seemed to merge almost entirely with the accumulated snow, save for a mane of ink-black hair cascading down between the branches, fluttering slightly in the wind.

The moonlight filtered through the sparse branches and spilled onto his face, outlining a profile of ethereal beauty: his brows were like distant mountains shrouded in mist, his nose was straight as if carved by a blade, and his lips were an incredibly pale shade, like plum blossoms just beginning to bloom.

He kept his eyes closed, his eyelashes casting fine, fragmented shadows against his pale skin. His breathing was so soft it was almost inaudible, as if he were merely the spirit born of this plum tree, ready to dissipate with the next gust of wind.

Yan Linyuan’s pupils contracted sharply.

His fingers, clutching the ribbon, tightened unconsciously, causing fine wrinkles to crease the silk in his palm.

He stood rooted to the spot, his gaze locked onto the person in the tree as if nailed in place, moving from the dangling tips of his hair to the hands hidden in his sleeves, and finally to that face which appeared nearly translucent under the moonlight.

The night wind rose suddenly, and a few white plum blossoms fell in a rustle. One happened to land right between Yun Biechen’s brows.

He remained completely unaware, still deeply asleep, as if all the turmoil of this world had nothing to do with him.

Yan Linyuan’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

He stepped forward slowly, his boots sinking into the deep snow with a faint, brittle sound.

He stopped three paces away from the plum tree, his upturned face bearing an expression that was dark and inscrutable. It was a focus mixed with astonishment, scrutiny, and a hunger that bordered on predatory.

He watched for a long time.

So long that when another gust of wind rose, a stray lock of Yun Biechen’s hair brushed lightly against his shoulder.

Yan Linyuan suddenly raised his hand.

His fingertips paused half an inch before touching that lock of hair, eventually only brushing through the air where the hair had fluttered.

He withdrew his hand and slowly raised the plain white ribbon from his palm, not to tie it back onto the branch, but to press it lightly against his own palm.

One end of the ribbon hung down, shimmering with a cold, faint light in the snowy night.

He lowered his head to look at the ribbon, then raised his eyes again to look at the sleeping person in the tree. The corners of his mouth hooked into a very slow arc. It was faint, yet carried a deep, bottomless undertow.

“Found you.” He uttered those two words extremely softly, his voice so low that only he could hear.

The most beautiful sight in the world.

After an unknown amount of time, Yan Linyuan finally turned, clutching the ribbon, and walked into the night without looking back.

Only a line of deep footprints remained on the snow, along with the sleeper on the plum branch who remained entirely oblivious.

The ribbon that should have been tied back onto the branch was ultimately tucked into his sleeve and taken away from this cold and desolate courtyard.

Yan Linyuan’s footsteps disappeared completely into the wind and snow.

Some time later, Yun Biechen slowly opened his eyes, his gaze filled with drowsiness.

He sat up, white plum blossoms sliding off his lapel as he looked toward the direction of the West Courtyard’s hall door, where the faint light of a plain white lantern shone.

He flipped off the tree, his toes landing on the snow without leaving a single complete footprint.

The inside of the hall was colder than it had been during the day.

Imperial Concubine Shu’s remains rested in the center, covered by a plain white linen cloth, revealing only a lock of greyish-white hair.

The palace lantern burned quietly in the corner, casting her silhouette in a hazy light, as if she might sit up at any moment and continue humming that broken song.

Yun Biechen walked to the side of the coffin. It was a makeshift, thin coffin with rough wood that had not even been lacquered. He sat on the floor beside it and took a small wine flask from his sleeve.

It was not Pine Snow Brew, but a much harsher spirit known as Burning Knife.

He pulled out the stopper, and the spicy scent of the liquor mingled with the musty odor of the hall. He tilted his head and took a gulp, the strong alcohol burning down his throat, yet no warmth managed to seep into his bones.

“I did what you asked of me. He came.” He said softly to the coffin, his voice appearing exceptionally clear in the empty hall. “But you know better than anyone else: even if he came, he would not acknowledge you.”

Yun Biechen rubbed his temples with exhaustion; he was sleepy.

He then looked at Imperial Concubine Shu’s remains, recalling that day, the rare moment when she had been lucid.

Imperial Concubine Shu had simply sat on the dilapidated bed with hollow eyes, clutching that braid made of dried grass. Hearing his footsteps, she had suddenly looked up, her eyes erupting with startling brilliance.

“Young Master Yun, you are an immortal, are you not?” She lunged over, her gaunt hands grasping his sleeve. “Please, save me. Take me out of here.”

Yun Biechen tried to pull his hand back, but she gripped it tighter, her nails almost digging into his flesh.

“I am no immortal,” he said. “I cannot even save myself.”

“You are! You must be!” The Imperial Concubine’s voice sounded as hoarse as a broken bellows. “No one is left to save me. There is no one. I beg you, save me.”

Yun Biechen was silent.

The Imperial Concubine suddenly let go, stumbling back two steps before falling to her knees and banging her forehead heavily against the ground.

“I beg you. I beg you to help me pass a message to Yuan-er. Tell him…” She raised her head, her face covered in tears. “Tell him that his mother did not harm the late Emperor! That cup of poisoned wine… the Empress forced me to serve it.”

The wind outside the hall suddenly grew stronger, causing the torn window paper to rattle noisily.

Yun Biechen helped her up, but she gripped his hand as if it were a life-saving straw, her speed of speech nearly hysterical:

“I am the legitimate daughter of the Zhenbei General’s mansion. I entered the palace at sixteen. Because my father and brother held military power, the Emperor both favored me and feared me. The Empress, that poisonous woman, she conspired to make me serve that cup of poisoned wine to the imperial bedside.”

Her voice trembled violently; every word felt as though it were squeezed from between her teeth:

“I… I truly did not know… it was poisoned wine.”

Tears flowed down, mixing with the grime on her face. The Imperial Concubine suddenly laughed, a sound more wretched than crying:

“The late Emperor did not drink the wine, but my father and brother were branded with the charge of treason, and my entire family was executed. One hundred and thirty-seven people. She did not even spare my nephew who had just turned one month old. The Empress herself carried the imperial decree to the Cold Palace and told me that from this day forward, my Yuan-er would be her son. She would raise him to become the most virtuous monarch.”

She grabbed Yun Biechen’s hand, her nails digging into his skin:

“She said if I dared to say a single word, she would make Yuan-er ‘die accidentally.’ Young Master, do you understand? I cannot speak. I cannot say anything. I can only go mad. I can only wait here, waiting until I die.”

Yun Biechen felt a warm liquid on the back of his hand—it was her blood, as her nails had pierced his flesh and her own fingertips.

“Everyone says I am mad,” the Imperial Concubine’s voice suddenly lowered, carrying a strange, eerie calm. “But I am not mad. I am more lucid than anyone. I know that every Winter Solstice, Yuan-er stands under the outer wall of the Cold Palace for the time it takes for a stick of incense to burn. I know he hates me. He hates me for harming the late Emperor, and he hates me for letting him fall into the Empress’s hands.”

She released his hand, stumbling to a dilapidated cabinet, and retrieved an oil-paper parcel from a hidden compartment at the very bottom.

The paper was very old, its edges worn and frayed. She opened it carefully to reveal a small notebook, no larger than a palm. The pages were yellowed, but the handwriting remained clear.

“This was left behind by my father and brother,” she said, thrusting the notebook into Yun Biechen’s hands. “It contains all the connections of the General’s mansion in the court and the military, as well as evidence of the Empress’s maternal family’s corruption and factional activities over the years. I have hidden this for over ten years, waiting for the day I could give it to someone I could trust.”

Yun Biechen flipped open the notebook. The first page listed the names of the one hundred and thirty-seven members of the Zhenbei General’s mansion, followed by their dates of birth, dates of death, and burial locations, most of them in mass graves.

“I beg you,” the Imperial Concubine knelt again. This time she did not kowtow, but merely looked up, the frantic light in her eyes extinguished, leaving only an ash-like stillness. “After I die, give this book to Yuan-er. Tell him that I am the one who failed him, that it was all my fault.”

She paused, a twisted smile tugging at the corners of her mouth:

“Also, I have arranged for people. After you finish this matter, they will take you out of the palace. Under the third brick of the East wall of the Cold Palace, I have buried some gold and silver, enough for you to live comfortably for the rest of your life. This is your payment.”

Yun Biechen looked at the book in his hand, then back at her.

“Why me?”

The Imperial Concubine whispered, “I do not know what it is you intend to do. But I know that before you finish your task, you will not leave the imperial palace. And I can handle the aftermath for you, allowing you to retreat safely. Young Master Yun, you have no choice but to choose me.”

As the memory ended, the wine flask was more than half empty.

Yun Biechen slowly poured the remaining liquor in front of the coffin. The strong alcohol seeped into the brick cracks, leaving dark traces behind.