On the day of the Winter Solstice, snow fell over the palace.
The heavy snow began at the fifth watch of the morning, starting as nothing more than a scattering of powder-like flakes. But as the sun slanted westward and dusk settled in, the accumulation had already reached half a foot deep—blanketing the ornate glazed tiles of the palace roofs completely, softening even the sharp edges of the vermilion walls into rounded, gentle contours beneath the white.
Yet this sweeping, magnificent scene, falling upon the forgotten corner of the Cold Palace, brought nothing but bone-piercing cold.
The old roof tiles of the Cold Palace groaned under the weight of the snow. The crooked jujube tree in the courtyard had its branches bent low; occasionally, a clump of snow would shake loose and fall with a dull thud to the ground.
Xi Yu stood by the window, watching the snow outside, and finished the last cold steamed bun in his hand.
This was his final meal in this place—and it could hardly even be called a meal.
The bun was cold. The water was cold. But he chewed with deliberate care, swallowing every bite slowly.
After night had fully fallen, Xi Yu made his move.
He changed into a half-worn blue robe—something Old Zhou had managed to procure for him before he passed. It was a common style worn by Jiangnan scholars, washed so many times the fabric had faded to white, with frayed edges at the cuffs—but it was clean.
On the day Old Zhou died, Xi Yu hadn’t had the chance to wear it for him. Nor had he been able to take Old Zhou with him when he left.
He gathered his long hair at the nape of his neck with a plain cloth tie, revealing his full face.
Then he walked to the corner of the room, moved aside the loose brick, and retrieved an oil-paper bundle from inside. It was what Old Zhou had given him—containing only a few copper coins.
The bundle was light, but as he held it to his chest, it felt as heavy as a life.
Back inside the room, Xi Yu arranged the prepared items in their proper places.
Then he used a fire striker to ignite the pile of dry firewood in the corner of the Cold Palace.
As the flames leapt up, he didn’t look back—he crawled straight into the hidden passage beneath the bed.
The passage was narrow, barely wide enough for him to press his body flat against the ground and crawl. The Cold Palace had been built atop the old imperial drainage canal, and this dry sluice had been abandoned for years, connecting to a disused culvert outside the palace walls.
The waterway was dank and frigid, with ice crystals clinging to the stone walls. Melted snow seeped through the cracks above, dripping down as icy droplets onto the back of his neck and spine.
His whole body trembled, his lips turning a pale purple from the cold—but he never stopped crawling forward.
Xi Yu knew exactly what he was doing. He was clawing his way out of this tomb.
After about the time it takes to burn an incense stick, the space above his head was no longer the brickwork of the Cold Palace, but loose, breathable soil.
He pushed hard against the dead branches and snow covering the opening above. The side of his hand was cut by sharp gravel; blood beaded up and dripped onto the snow, quickly buried by the fresh flakes falling anew.
He emerged from the ground and stood beyond the palace walls.
The bitter wind rushed straight into his collar.
Xi Yu drew a deep breath.
This was the air outside the palace walls—the scent of withered grass, of fresh snow, of cooking fire drifting from some distant household’s stove.
No incense. No musty reek of rotting old wood. No damp, chill miasma that hung year-round in the Cold Palace.
He drank in several greedy breaths. The cold air made his throat itch, but he didn’t cough. Instead, he tilted his head back and looked up at the sky above.
The snow was still falling.
Large flakes tumbled down from the darkness, landing on his brows and eyelashes.
He blinked once. The snowflake resting on the tear-shaped mole beneath his eye melted into water, tracing down along the corner of his eye—like a tear that had been delayed for a very, very long time.
Xi Yu did not look back at the palace walls that had trapped him for eighteen years.
He turned and walked toward the west side of the city.
A trail of footprints marked the snow behind him—but the snow was falling heavily, and within less than half an hour, they would be completely erased, leaving no trace behind.
To the west of the city stood an abandoned Earth God Temple. Old Zhou had said that someone would be there to receive him.
Xi Yu walked through the snow for a long time. His fingers were red with cold, and his old boots had filled with slush—each step squelching beneath him.
He walked slowly, but his steps were steady—as steady as when he had left the Cold Palace.
The temple came into view. Its door hung askew, and the interior was pitch dark. He stood at the entrance and spoke the words Old Zhou had taught him in a low voice.
“Uncle Zhou said there’s a lamp here.”
Silence answered him for a moment.
Then a hoarse, aged voice responded: “The lamp went out long ago. Come in, child.”
Xi Yu pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Seated within was an old man he did not recognize—likely the person Old Zhou had entrusted with this task before his death.
When the old man saw Xi Yu’s face, he faltered. His lips parted, and a flicker of complicated emotion passed through his clouded eyes.
Trembling, he rose to his feet and handed Xi Yu a bundle.
“New identity papers, a travel permit, and a few taels of silver. That lame Zhou had been arranging this for over a year. I’d thought the child he spoke of had long since died. You…” The old man looked him over, started to say more, then stopped himself.
“Forget it. I won’t ask. Go now—don’t leave the city before dawn.”
Xi Yu took the bundle, fastened it to himself with a bow of his head, and said softly: “Old Zhou is dead.”
Then he turned and walked away, his retreating back carrying a trace of sorrow.
The old man was stunned for a moment, then let out a faint, resigned laugh—though his eyes held grief.
As Xi Yu reached the door, the old man called after him: “That face of yours… cover it up.”
Xi Yu turned his head slightly. Those peach-blossom eyes of his were unreadable in the darkness.
He murmured a soft “Thank you” and stepped out of the temple.
The snow had begun to ease. A crack formed in the clouds, allowing a sliver of moonlight to fall upon his face.
Xi Yu pulled his collar up higher, hiding half his face, leaving only his eyes exposed.
Those eyes gleamed startlingly bright beneath the moon, the flush at their corners deepened by the snowy night—as if touched with rouge.
By daybreak, the fire that had burned for half the night in the Cold Palace had finally died out. The eunuchs sent by the Imperial Household Bureau to collect the remains found only a few charred bone fragments and some scorched scraps of old fabric among the ashes.
Word spread through the six palaces in less than half a day. Hot on its heels, a trove of “ironclad evidence” was discovered in the Third Prince’s residence—a white-fat jade pendant engraved with the prince’s personal seal, and secret letters containing ambiguous, damning contents.
The Third Prince had no way to defend himself. The Emperor, already displeased with his sons’ factional maneuvering, issued an immediate decree placing the Third Prince under house arrest pending investigation. In an instant, the prince’s rising momentum in the succession struggle was utterly crushed.
That same day, an ox-cart rolled slowly out of the city gates.
The young scholar on the cart wore a faded blue robe, a travel permit tucked securely in his bosom.
Xi Yu lifted a corner of the cart’s curtain, squinted those beautiful peach-blossom eyes, and looked up at the sky beyond the city walls.
The sky was vast, distant, and blue as if it couldn’t be real.
Xi Yu let the curtain fall, leaned back in the cart, and slowly closed his eyes.
From this day forward, there would be no more forgotten little prince languishing in the Cold Palace.
Only Xi Yu. Only ever Xi Yu.
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