The Little Crybaby Continues to Court Death as a Cannon Fodder - Chapter 52

Chapter 52

Wei Shengyin, the Grand Priest of the Qing Dynasty, had always maintained a reclusive stance. He spent his years practicing in the Hall of Sunken Hearts, and rumor had it that since entering the palace, he had never stepped a single foot outside its gates.

When Qiu Zhiruo arrived, Wei Shengyin sat in a corner just as he did during every previous meeting—expressionless, flipping through ancient texts. His eyes were silent and devoid of ripples, like lifeless fragments of ice.

“Grand Priest, you know your younger brother is in the palace, don’t you?” Qiu Zhiruo said slowly. Wei Shengyin didn’t speak, but Qiu Zhiruo was certain he knew. “Do you also know that the Ninth Prince has requested the Emperor to grant a marriage? He wishes to stay in the Qing Dynasty as the Crown Princess of the Eastern Palace.”

The silver eyes that had been still for so long suddenly flickered with ripples. Wei Shengyin turned his head mechanically, his lips parting wordlessly. His curled knuckles betrayed his inner turmoil.

“His… Highness?”

Did His Highness agree?

Because he hadn’t spoken for too long, Wei Shengyin found it extremely difficult to find his voice. His tone wasn’t unpleasant, but his articulation was jarring and stilted.

Qiu Zhiruo simply replied, “His Highness does not dislike him.”

In the Prince’s world, not disliking meant liking. Even if he hadn’t agreed yet, it was only a matter of time.

Wei Shengyin gazed into the distance, dazed. He possessed the aura of a lonely orchid in a deep valley—a natural, haunting distance.

I should have expected this, shouldn’t I? The Prince was only interested in him for a brief period. He had claimed he wanted to learn about fate and numerology, but after a few lessons, he stopped coming. There was no true destiny between them; any connection was merely a fruit he had forcefully tried to cultivate.

“It’s quite unfair, isn’t it?” Qiu Zhiruo’s gaze was pitiful. “Born of the same mother, yet one is the kingdom’s blessing while the other is a cursed omen. You are clearly the elder, yet your brother snatched everything away. Grand Priest, since you have feelings for His Highness, why suppress them so bitterly? He is a man of deep affection; if he knew your devotion, he surely wouldn’t let you down and would give you a title.”

Lies.

A Crown Prince keeping a few male favorites was one thing, but keeping the Grand Priest in the harem? If the Prince ever dared such a thing, he would be condemned by the masses, and his position would be stripped sooner or later.

Wei Shengyin said nothing. His gaze fixed on the powerful calligraphy before him: Do not enter the Red Dust (the mortal world).

He was born a star of calamity. His father loathed him; his mother raised him in secret. He had lived like a dog in a dark, windowless room, forbidden from seeing anyone. “Sinful”—that was the word most often associated with him. People spoke of him with disgust, as if his very name were a filthy insect.

In contrast, his brother Wei Shengmo was born a star of fortune. He possessed everything the Western Regions prized: dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair—symbols of nobility. Wei Shengmo was a Prince from birth; Wei Shengyin was a survivor who lived worse than a cur.

It wasn’t until his master took him away that his life improved. Having not seen the sun for years, his eyes bled from the light, yet he endured the pain to greedily watch the vast, bright sky.

His master warned him: life is fated. To walk the path of cultivation, he had to remember: Do not enter the Red Dust. He had done well, cutting off all contact and staying in the Hall of Sunken Hearts for over a decade.

Do not enter the Red Dust. He thought bitterly. How can one not enter when one is already standing in the middle of it?

…

The Itch in the Garden

A grand banquet was held to welcome the guests from afar. Music filled the air, and dancers moved gracefully before the laughing guests.

“Your Highness, this is a specialty wine from our Western Regions. Would you like a taste?” Wei Shengmo had specifically asked the Emperor for the favor of sitting next to the Prince.

“We do not drink.” Yu Qing turned his head away.

“Then how about tea? This tea—”

“Are you not annoying?” Yu Qing snapped, his eyes cold. The dark-skinned man immediately lowered his head, looking like a wilted, pitiable puppy.

“Your Highness, I only wish to please you.”

“Stop doing meaningless things. Us has no appetite and does not wish to speak.”

Lately, Yu Qing’s appetite had vanished again. The “leaking” had improved, but he was plagued by an unbearable itch—one that wasn’t on the surface and couldn’t be cured by simple scratching. Several times he had tried to reach in himself, but the moment his fingertips brushed the sensitive skin, his face would flush, and his hand would tremble back in shame.

Feeling stifled, he rose abruptly and left the banquet, seeking a deserted corner to call Cang He for help. He moved quickly, unaware that the Western Prince, draped in gold and jade, was following him.

The path was narrow and remote. Yu Qing looked around to ensure he was alone before ducking into a hidden nook behind some jagged rockwork. He began calling for Cang He while tugging at his collar. “So hot!”

Perhaps it was the weather, but the itchy areas felt suffocatingly restless. The sensation of a thousand ants crawling over him made his legs go weak, and he braced his hands against the rough stone. The friction brought a tiny spark of relief, and the Prince let out a small sob, calling for his shadow guard with a tearful voice.

No one answered.

Left with no choice, he had to take matters into his own hands. He unfastened his robes, his lower back arching into a beautiful, soft curve. His other hand shook uncontrollably; his legs trembled as if they couldn’t support him. The more clumsy he was, the less he could find relief.

His palms slipped against the rock several times, and he couldn’t help but cry out in a mix of frustration and pain. His white inner robes clung to his back, turning translucent under the sun to reveal the faint glow of his skin. He stood on his tiptoes, his heels quivering.

His hair, held by a jade pin, suddenly spilled down like a waterfall. Surrounded by a faint golden light from the sun, he looked like a celestial being.

Wei Shengmo had only followed to see what the Prince was doing. He hadn’t expected to witness this.

The Prince looked in agony. A flash of milky white spilled between his slender fingers, which soon turned bright red from his own frantic rubbing. The contrast of the snowy white and the vivid red was a sight impossible to look away from.

Wei Shengmo’s throat tightened. Just as he debated whether to reveal himself, the little Prince let out a sharp cry.

His fingers were buried deep, his expression one of exquisite torture. Because his hands were so small and delicate, he couldn’t reach the “source” of the itch effectively, looking more and more aggrieved. The scent of green grass mixed with the sweet, milky fragrance of the Prince. Wei Shengmo, who grew up in the desert, suddenly felt a scorching heat—as if he were being roasted by an internal fire.

Are all people of the Central Plains like this? How can he be so beautiful everywhere?

Just as Wei Shengmo’s pulse raced, a cold, pale hand suddenly reached out and covered the Prince’s small, moving hand, slowly enveloping it.

The Prince’s slender fingers were pressed against the man’s long, powerful, bone-defined hand. Yu Qing froze, his expression turning blank.

A voice, ethereal and calm yet carrying a scorching breath, spoke in his ear:

“Allow this subordinate to help you.”