Ru Hai arrived at the Four Seasons Garden at dusk. Half of the sunset glow still lingered in the sky, and a broken rainbow hung across the glazed tiles on the western eaves of the pavilion within the garden.
Last night’s torrential rain had stripped the Star-Enclosed branches of all their blossoms. The Four Seasons Garden hadn’t put up its canopies this time, so naturally, it hadn’t escaped unscathed. The gates stood wide open. The flowers that had once been cherished by the late Emperor were now crushed into mud, sorrowfully carpeting the bluestone path in a decadent, extravagant tapestry of jade and vermilion—like a funeral shroud draped over the earth.
“The Emperor’s imperial garden—trespassers die! Trespassers die!”
A sharp, clear voice rang out. Ru Hai glanced to his left. The “doorman” perched on the rosewood Fu-Lu-Shou stand followed him with its gaze—a stunningly beautiful parrot with a phoenix crest, green feathers, white jade beak, and a white beak. It was said to be a little creature Lord Tan had raised for seven or eight years, grandly named “Startled Shriek.” Its precious feet had once mistaken the late Emperor’s white jade crown for a perch. The late Emperor hadn’t skinned it, saying that Lord Tan rarely kept any little pets.
The bird was beautiful and lively, but Ru Hai had no mood to appreciate it at the moment. His gaze had already swept past as he glided forward lightly.
“Someone! Someone…”
Startled Shriek flapped its wings and screeched, its fine gold leg chain clinking. But the garden’s dedicated palace attendants and the entire Directorate of Ceremonial Affairs had been withdrawn early that morning. No one answered its call.
Ru Hai therefore had a clear path all the way through. It was his first time here, and he didn’t know the way. Fortunately, the garden was laid out squarely. Past the layered flower beds, he could see the carved wooden door at the innermost end. He passed through it. Beyond was a petal-shaped shallow pool, filled with drifting mist. At its center stood a three-story pavilion, its walls pink, its tiles glazed, its yellow curtains swaying—built by imperial decree in the first year of Fengcheng, modeled after the lotus-and-peony pavilion. A cursive-script plaque hung on the first floor. The two characters “Lotus Terrace” were written with such vigorous, snake-startled-grass strokes that they fully demonstrated the calligrapher’s skill.
He crossed the bridge, ascended to the second floor—only one side room had its door open. Ru Hai stepped lightly to the door and glanced inside. An ancestral tablet stood in the hall, flanked by a portrait of the late Emperor. In the bronze censer on the offering table, the three incense sticks had burned down to barely a nub. Beside it sat a woven rattan flower basket, filled with pink hollyhocks, pomegranate blossoms, pale pink daylilies, double-petaled gardenias, and calamus—the seasonal Dragon Boat Festival arrangement.
But it had already begun to wilt.
This was the arrangement the late Emperor had personally put together two days ago. Ru Hai remembered that evening when Lord Tan had taken the flower basket and smiled at the late Emperor. The hazy, ever-present veil of mist that always seemed to shroud that face instantly lifted—he looked like a truly guileless child, while the late Emperor played the role of an elder brother, fittingly tucking a pink hollyhock blossom behind Lord Tan’s temple.
At dinner that evening, the late Emperor was assassinated at Ci’an Palace. So sudden that he never had the chance to say goodbye to Lord Tan.
A bird skimmed across the eaves, snapping Ru Hai back to the present.
At that moment, a figure was kneeling below. He was not wearing the coarse mourning garments—instead, he was dressed in a pale sky-blue robe, its hem flowing softly across the round cushion beneath him. The silver-embroidered intricate lotus-and-treasure pattern at the hem was exquisitely lively, as if blooming upon clouds and water. His long hair was gathered into a bun with a wooden hairpin, half of it loose—like a bolt of silk draped over a willow branch by the water’s edge.
“Your Highness,” Ru Hai bowed at the waist.
“You’re a bit late,” Tan Yun said. “I’ve already recited the sutra several more times.”
Tan Yun’s voice was soft, but not gentle—it was the tone of someone accustomed to others straining to hear him. In a daze, Ru Hai was reminded of that year by the cold palace wall. Tan Yun, carried past on a stool, had uttered a single light word—”Strangle”—and ended the lives of the bullies and wicked servants who had tormented his Highness, granting them new life. Before that, Ru Hai had knelt and kowtowed to heaven and earth every night. Tan Yun was the bodhisattva he had finally prayed for.
“Don’t just stand there blocking the light,” Tan Yun said. “Come in.”
Ru Hai quickly acknowledged, stepped lightly forward, and knelt down. He placed the sandalwood two-tiered box in his arms on the floor, kowtowed three times to the ancestral tablet, then turned to Tan Yun and said: “Your Highness has sent this servant to deliver something to you.”
Tan Yun fingered his bodhi seed prayer beads in silence.
Ru Hai lowered his head and opened the box. What met his eyes was a flower—pink petals, yellow stamens, unique and delicate. Beneath the lotus peony was a sheet of gold-flecked paper, inscribed in Yan-style calligraphy: “Prince Hui’s Mansion, Bihua Lane, Xiude Street.”
Xiude Street lay in the western part of the city, in the “west is noble” quarter of Yongjing—home to the high and mighty. The newly built Prince Hui’s Mansion was there too.
The meaning of His Highness sending this note was clear. But Ru Hai thought His Highness had been too hasty in his grief. Even if a once-powerful figure was willing to retire to a quiet life, the Prince Hui’s Mansion would never be the place—it was nothing short of humiliation.
A mocking smile appeared on that face. Ru Hai’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Before he could speak, a pipa sleeve swept before his eyes—the flower was brushed into the bronze basin two steps away. The half-burned stick of incense still smoldering in its ash was doused outright. “Fwoosh”—and Ru Hai’s heart leaped with the flame. He murmured: “This was the finest specimen of the year.”
His Highness had cherished it like a treasure. Ru Hai had thought it was meant to be presented to the Emperor to win a moment of joy—he hadn’t expected it to be a contest with the late Emperor himself.
And indeed, it was a crushing defeat.
Tan Yun brushed aside the note. The second tier held a white porcelain cup—pomegranate blossom wine. Prince Hui was particular; even in bestowing poison, he would match it to the season. He raised the cup and drank it dry, then took an embroidered handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the wine from his lips. “Go,” he said.
Ru Hai answered with a trembling voice, lifting the box. Tan Yun closed his eyes gently. In just two or three days, that face had become like flawed white jade—still beautiful in form, but its warm, translucent luster gone. Only the crimson mole between his brows remained, blazing red—a blood nail, piercing straight through Ru Hai’s heart.
With a thud, his knees hit the ground. Ru Hai said: “I beg you—leave a message for His Highness?”
“He wants to set me aside, to cow the Directorate of Ceremonial Affairs and elevate the Grand Secretariat. This is the court he prefers. As for his thunderbolt tactics being too hasty—I won’t comment.” Tan Yun said in a calm voice. “I served first as a childhood companion in the Prince’s residence, then as Seal Bearer of the Directorate of Ceremonial Affairs and Superintendent of the Embroidered Uniform Guard. The late Emperor and I shared the bond of youth. He raised and trusted me. I am not a subject of Great Yong—in this life, I wished only to dwell on one Lotus Terrace and serve one sovereign. This act is not to submit to punishment—it is to follow my lord in death. Prince Hui need not concern himself.”
Ru Hai had a thousand words in his heart, but could only choke on his silence.
On the second day after the late Emperor’s passing, someone had seen Lord Tan heading toward Ci’an Palace, with an attendant behind him carrying a curved bow. By the time Ru Hai rushed over, a crowd of kneeling figures filled the grounds outside Ci’an Palace. Lord Tan sat on a rosewood chair outside the hall doors. Directly before him, a wall of embroidered silk was riddled with arrows, pinning the Empress Dowager to it—one arrow aimed squarely at her brow. But the force had been restrained; it had lodged rather than pierced through, and caught between the arrowhead and the bloody hole between her brows was Tan Yun’s white jade thumb ring.
Blood was splattered everywhere. Lord Tan sat cleanly, untouched by a single drop. But that one arrow had also pinned him to the wall. So he returned to the Lotus Terrace, dismissed his attendants, knelt in meditation and chanted sutras, and finally drank the poisoned wine without a single struggle.
Lord Tan had no need for the late Emperor’s farewell. In his heart, they were merely parting for two or three days.
“Your Highness saved His Highness and this servant back then, and helped us on several occasions. I…” Ru Hai was overcome with shame and remorse, sobbing uncontrollably.
Tan Yun said: “Prince Hui was the late Emperor’s blameless brother. Allowing him to be trampled upon would have tarnished the late Emperor’s honor. Helping him back then had its benefits, and later support was merely the result of weighing interests on all sides. Since it was mutual utility, there’s no need for sentimental talk of gratitude. Let ‘timing and circumstances’ be the closing words—it will be decent for both of us.”
Sometimes the lighter the words, the more they burn with shame. Ru Hai could no longer bear to stay. He kowtowed three times, his forehead pressing to the ground. “This servant could never repay Your Highness’s grace, even with a thousand deaths. I only pray that in my next life I may be your beast of burden—carrying you on high ground, and in low places, flaying my own flesh to repay you for this life!” He wiped his tears and retreated in a fluster.
As the sound of footsteps faded, Tan Yun’s hand, which had been fingering his prayer beads, suddenly trembled—slowing down because of a sharp pain. A sweet, cloying metallic taste kept rising in his throat. He finished the last line of the sutra, raised a finger, and wiped the corner of his mouth. His fingertip came away wet and sticky with warmth. He couldn’t help but open his eyes and look at the portrait. “Poison, after all—and it really does gnaw to the bone and pierce the skin, doesn’t it?”
The late Emperor smiled back at him, just as he had in life—carefree and debonair—but no longer responded.
Thud!
Tan Yun collapsed to the floor. A few choked sobs escaped his throat as the poisoned blood gradually soaked his neck. His life had been extraordinary—from a “little bastard” in a poor alley to the “Nine-Thousand-Year Lord” by the Emperor’s side. Yet if His Majesty were still here, growing old together with him day by day, only then would he truly be able to say “no regrets” at the moment of death.
Tears slid from the corners of his eyes across the bridge of his nose, blurring the portrait further. Tan Yun closed his eyes.
But he didn’t expect to open them again.
When he opened his eyes and saw himself lying horizontally on the ground, Tan Yun was uncharacteristically at a loss. The view was from above—mid-air, looking down from the corridor. So this was what happened after death—the soul truly leaves the body and lingers for a while in the old place, listening to family wailing over the corpse?
But most of his “family” were already dead. He could have skipped this step. He wanted to catch up with His Majesty as quickly as possible… Which direction should he run? Tan Yun tried to move, only to find himself unable to budge.
“Your Highness, why have you come?”
Ru Hai’s voice came from below. Tan Yun’s “body” couldn’t turn around, so he had to tilt his head slightly, shifting his gaze sideways.
Prince Hui had somehow ended up standing on the bridge, rooted in place. He wore coarse mourning garments, his face pale but strikingly handsome. The Fu family produced beautiful people; all these princes and imperial grandsons were good-looking. He waved Ru Hai away, yet remained frozen on the bridge, his eyes red-rimmed as he stared up at the second floor, looking utterly lost.
Toward Prince Hui, Tan Yun couldn’t say he bore any hatred. As he’d said before, he hadn’t saved Prince Hui out of pure kindness, nor did he expect to be regarded as a benefactor. But the debt of deceit had to be counted. This wolf in sheep’s clothing—docile and endearing to his face, while behind the scenes playing both sides, securing his footing with the Grand Secretariat as well—had certainly made something of himself. If His Majesty were still alive, Tan Yun would have torn off that mask and kicked him back into the gutter, shattering him to pieces.
Raising a wolf invited trouble. He needed to reflect—but the wolf also had to be dealt with.
Yet now, he truly had neither the spirit nor the means to do so. Tan Yun withdrew his gaze, when suddenly a rush of footsteps thundered in—orderly, rapid, each step as if shaking the very earth.
During the national mourning period, who dared to make such a commotion in the palace?
“Silence in the pala—”
The abruptly cut-off shout interrupted Tan Yun’s thoughts. He strained for a glance. At the garden gate, blood splattered the blue bricks. A pair of black boots turned past Ru Hai’s bleeding neck and stepped into the Four Seasons Garden. The tip of the blade hanging by the owner’s side dripped blood with every step.
A line of men formed along the palace path. They wore no helmets—only half-armor black breastplates, with swords at their waists, cold and austere. They were neither the Imperial Guard nor the Embroidered Uniform Guard.
The one entering was clearly the leader. A cloak and hood covered most of his face, obscuring his features, but his killing intent was overwhelming… a demon.
Tan Yun’s gaze flickered, avoiding the brunt of it. He noticed that Prince Hui below was on high alert, clearly caught off guard as well.
Oh?
The leader walked up to Prince Hui. He paused for only a strange, silent moment. Then, the blood-dripping horizontal blade turned—and suddenly pierced through Prince Hui’s chest. The strike was swift and ruthless. Prince Hui didn’t even have time to react before the blade was driven in again and again, skewering him like a skewered gourd.
Silent collapse, calm madness—like splitting open a watermelon, the head thudded to the ground in a spray of blood and brains… Thwack! The tip of the blade pinned the head to the bridge!
Tan Yun was no stranger to bloodshed. He didn’t flinch at the gory mess of flesh and brains. He only stared at the demon, his thoughts in disarray.
A murderous rage, a hatred that reached the heavens—which loyal subject of the late Emperor was this?
No. That wasn’t right.
The late Emperor had few heirs. His only surviving young prince was Grand Secretary Chen’s grandson. If the young prince ascended the throne, he would have to rely on the Chen family’s maternal relatives. By the time he came of age to rule, if he turned out to be incompetent, Great Yong might very well change its surname. Admittedly, the Fu family still had three other eligible heirs—the late Emperor’s ninth brother, Prince Hui, and two cousins from the Prince of Qin’s household. But the Prince of Qin’s mansion had long since moved to the northern border; one prince was mad, the other blind—neither reliable. That left Prince Hui as the most suitable successor. Therefore, if this man were loyal, he had no reason to kill Prince Hui.
Furthermore, with the Emperor’s recent death, the palace was under strict martial law. For this contingent to have broken in before Prince Hui even noticed them and made it all the way to the Eastern Garden, they must have had an inside accomplice. It was possible that the Chen family, unwilling to hand over the throne and wary that Prince Hui might harm the young prince once in power, had moved first to overturn the situation. But such bloody, brutal methods were unfitting no matter how one looked at it. At the very least, while it wasn’t certain whether this man was connected to the Chen family, he and Prince Hui clearly had a personal grudge.
As Tan Yun pondered, the demon continued up the stairs.
The figure turned at the stairwell. Tan Yun’s sharp eyes caught that the man’s hand was trembling—overcome with uncontrollable excitement.
Of course. With His Majesty gone, killing him had become a new fashion. For the sake of the state—one dynasty, one court. For personal reasons—as Superintendent of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, if no one hated him, it would mean he hadn’t been diligent enough in his duties.
What a pity. He was too late.
Tan Yun mused, unblinkingly watching the demon approach. Step by step, the face beneath the hood became clearer—lips crimson, chin deathly pale, the kind of pallor that came from never seeing sunlight. Cold and eerie—even more ghostlike than him.
The demon stopped at the door, not moving a muscle. He must have been staring at the fresh corpse on the ground. His stiff back and limbs made him look like a puppet. Suddenly, he shuddered—finally snapping out of it. His fists were clenched so tight the veins bulged, as if the next moment he would tear free with all his might.
So they had a private grudge too—a blood feud—and this man hated him deeply, Tan Yun thought. But he had offended so many people over the years that he couldn’t immediately put a name to the face. Then the rigid figure raised a hand and tore off the blood-stained cloak, revealing a clean white robe beneath.
The demon finally stepped through the door, dazed for a few steps, then knelt and lifted the corpse into his arms. He held it with such caution and fear—as if handling fragile, irreplaceable treasure.
Tan Yun understood now. He’d heard before of people who preferred the dead to the living, who collected beautiful corpses. His own skin and bones should fit that preference perfectly.
But the demon’s back was trembling. He was crying—grieving, really. Like a child. Like someone who’d lost his mind. Like a trapped beast with its throat crushed, unable to make a sound… Well, that didn’t seem like a necrophiliac anymore.
Tan Yun felt a strange, bewildered unease. Somewhat coldly, he wondered if this man had mistaken him for someone else—because if their bond had been so deep, he wouldn’t need to see the face to recognize him.
Yet this man seemed a complete stranger.
Tan Yun searched his memory for any clue, but found none. Looking again, he saw the demon’s left thumb wipe across the corpse’s lips, then turn his hand to trace the cheek with clean knuckles. Such a tender, intimate gesture—perhaps because he wasn’t quite dead yet, Tan Yun suddenly felt half his face grow warm, as if body and soul had reunited.
What was this?
Tan Yun pursed his lips uncomfortably. It was only when that hand finally cupped the corpse’s head that he froze, catching a thread of recognition.
That hand was, truth be told, exquisitely beautiful—pale skin, delicate bones. As striking as the poisoned blood on his index finger was the crimson jade ring between them.
—When the late Emperor took the throne, Tan Yun, having been his childhood companion, was promoted to Imperial Attendant. Many sought to curry favor with him at the time. Among them, someone had given him this very jade ring. The material was decent—red agate—but the ring of baoxiang flowers carved into it was botched. Those sacred, auspicious flowers, meant to symbolize good fortune and perfection, had been ruined by a flawed carving. It could easily be taken as a deliberate curse. If Tan Yun had wanted to make an issue of it, it would have been enough to cost a life. But he’d found the gesture too foolish and tedious; he’d just laughed and tossed it aside.
It was rare for him to remember any trinket, so this one stuck in his mind. But how had this broken thing ended up being secretly picked up and kept for ten years? The man didn’t seem like someone short on money either.
Suddenly, the sharp smell of oil hit his nose. Tan Yun snapped back to attention and glanced to the side. Several of the black-armored guards had somehow brought in barrels of blazing oil and were silently dousing the Lotus Terrace with it… Their leader was still upstairs, you know.
After dousing the pavilion, the guards knelt together, kowtowed three times to the Lotus Terrace, and rose to leave. The last one hurled a torch behind him, looking up with tear-filled, bloodshot eyes.
No!
Tan Yun’s head whipped back to the room. The demon hadn’t moved an inch—just held the corpse tightly in his arms. That stubborn, desperate posture looked like he was hoping their flesh and blood would burn, fuse, and merge together, madness and all!
The flames spread.
The pavilion was engulfed in an instant. The funeral banners and yellow drapes hanging from the four corners were licked by the fire, howling as they shriveled. The crimson blaze roared, scorching heaven and earth, as if trying to burn a hole in the sky and bring it crashing down!
The man inside was gradually buried by smoke. Tan Yun was already dead, so he didn’t care about keeping an intact body. But that was a living person in there. Come out! He instinctively took a step—
Thud!
Billowing smoke spread, white clouds unfurled like layered silk, vaulting over palace walls and city ramparts. From the eastern outskirts of the capital, the ancient bell of Baoci Zen Temple rang out with a resonant clang.
The sound made Tan Yun’s ears ring, nearly bringing up his insides. As his vision spun, he suddenly fell—
“By the bed, the pillow tilted—gently lifting the little golden lotus. As the body moves—”①
A lilting tune, an alluring fragrance. Tan Yun jolted awake as if falling from a great height, his eyes snapping open—only to be hit in the face by a soft, flowing sleeve. A young man with a blue chrysanthemum tucked at his temple twisted his slender waist and sat down on Tan Yun’s lap, putting a bit of weight into it, just as the lyrics reached that teasing line about “bouncing the rear end”.
“Seventh Ancestor,” said an eunuch seated opposite in a chair, holding up a wine cup with a flattering smile, “Happy New Year to you!”
Tan Yun was still dazed. The young man hooked a finger under his chin, his stunning face leaning in close. Seeing Tan Yun’s blank expression, he pouted his crimson-painted lips and boldly planted a kiss on his cheek, laughing: “Seventh Lord, were you dreaming?”
“…Who are you?” Tan Yun heard his own voice—younger, more raw.
The young man smiled coquettishly, his thin, lilting voice almost breathless: “I’m little Nan-zhi.”
Tan Yun remembered.
A distant memory—one that should have faded—now surfaced with crystal clarity, as if it had just happened.
In the first year of Fengcheng, at the Beginning of Spring banquet, besides the Drum and Music Bureau and the Imperial Music Bureau, the palace had also brought in famous troupes from outside. Tan Yun stood in attendance by the Emperor. He’d cast an extra glance at the pipa player during the feast—and someone audacious enough to have the boy delivered to his arms after the banquet.
Loneliness ran deep in the inner palace. It wasn’t uncommon for eunuchs to form couples or amuse themselves behind closed doors. But the Emperor was strict about such matters and had never allowed Tan Yun to play around outside.
Just as memory held—at seventeen—the door to the private chambers was suddenly kicked open. A figure in a dragon-embroidered cloak stood at the entrance, a group of cowering eunuchs kneeling behind him.
“You’re not that old, yet your heart’s already wandering. Who taught you that?” The Emperor ignored the eunuch and the male performer who had tumbled from the chair and Tan Yun’s lap to kowtow frantically. His eyes were fixed on Tan Yun. But Tan Yun just stared back at him, dazed—shocked, joyful, wistful… far too complex, almost besotted.
The Emperor paused, about to speak—when Tan Yun suddenly pitched forward from the chair, red-eyed, and crawled on his knees until he reached the Emperor’s feet. This was a bit much, the Emperor was startled. “I—”
Tan Yun reached up and clutched the Emperor’s brocaded gold sleeve, just like the first time he’d drunk wine as a child, rubbing his arm with closed eyes, looking utterly wronged: “The spring wine was too strong.”
Seeing an old friend—had he drunk from the Yellow Springs, and was now dreaming before he forgot it all?
Preaching to a drunk was like chanting sutras to a deaf beggar—a waste of breath. The Emperor ordered someone to bring over a plate of pickled radish.③ “Look up,” he said sternly, stuffing a piece into Tan Yun’s mouth, and wiped away the lipstick mark on his cheek.
Like a cat caught misbehaving, Tan Yun was hauled away by the Emperor.
—
① A line from a traditional erotic/teasing folk song, often performed in operatic or courtesan settings.
② The private quarters or resting rooms of eunuchs serving in the palace.
③ Pickled radish was traditionally used to sober up someone drunk, similar to eating something sour or sharp to cut through the effects of alcohol. It’s also a mundane, almost humiliating thing to be force-fed—a form of affectionate but disciplinary scolding.
TOC | More chapters later
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