Fu Ye walked briskly, almost at a run.
Shuangfu, pudgy and panting, struggled to keep up. He was falling behind when Qingxi grabbed his arm and pulled him along in pursuit.
Shuangfu couldn’t help but admire these attendants trained in the imperial household—their movements were so precise. Even at such a hurried pace, the hems of their green robes spread like lotus leaves, and still not a fold was out of place.
But him? His stubby legs churned furiously, and he was nothing short of a mess.
Only once they were well away from the Hundred Flowers Pool did Fu Ye finally let out a breath.
He felt that Fu Huang’s imperial presence had grown oppressive these days. Maybe since that fit he took ill during the hunt, the Emperor had completely lost his trust in him. No matter what oath he swore, no matter how much he tried to prove he’d never go back to the way things were, it didn’t seem to matter.
This possessiveness, this sense of unease—it wasn’t what a brother, even an emperor, should feel for his prince.
“Xiao Ai, Xiao Ai,” Fu Ye called softly.
But there was no reply.
Behind him came the sound of Shuangfu gasping for air. Fu Ye turned and saw him bent over, hands on his knees.
“Your Highness, please—slow down. I’ve gotten too fat lately. I can’t keep up anymore!”
Fu Ye couldn’t help but chuckle. But then, off in the distance, he spotted Fu Huang and his entourage descending from the pool.
Quickly, he said, “These wet clothes are unbearable. I’m heading back to change. Just follow as you can.”
Shuangfu watched him hurry off, Qingxi keeping pace at his side. The prince was moving so fast, it was as if some ghost was chasing him.
Back at the residence, Qingxi pulled the screens closed and stood outside holding Fu Ye’s fresh robes. The camellia pattern in silver thread shimmered faintly in the candlelight, and the jade clasps on the greatcloak chimed softly. When Fu Ye took off the damp cloak, Qingxi risked a glance upward. All he saw was part of the prince’s figure—the slender waist, the gentle curve at his hips, the fall of black hair veiling it all, like a flawless figurine carved from white jade.
“Clothes,” Fu Ye called.
Qingxi bowed his head and offered the robes. Fu Ye slipped into his underclothes, and only then did Qingxi enter to help him dress.
Qingxi had never personally served the Emperor this closely—those duties were left to the older, trusted attendants. The closest he’d ever been was delivering clothing or holding the basin at the morning wash.
But Fu Ye—Fu Ye wasn’t the first noble he’d served. When he’d first come to the capital, he’d been sent to the household of Prince Qi. There was a favored attendant there, Huiwu, who shared the prince’s bed like a wife. Qingxi had been expected to stand nearby as they lay together, to assist as needed, without the slightest regard for his personhood.
Noblemen never saw servants like him as human. They’d have him stand there bare as they were, and when it was over, he was to clean them without hesitation.
But Fu Ye wasn’t like that.
That first time he’d bathed him, Fu Ye had sent him out. At first, Qingxi thought it was because the prince didn’t trust him.
Only later did he realize that Fu Ye saw his servants as people.
He didn’t like to see them made to sit through long, tiring nights. He felt embarrassed to undress before them. If he got something good to eat, he’d insist they try it too. And he didn’t like when they got too caught up in ceremony.
When Qingxi had been assigned to serve Fu Ye, it was with a purpose—to watch him. The Emperor was wary of this long-lost brother who had suddenly returned, and most in Qingyuan Palace thought he was merely a pawn of the Empress Dowager.
Qingxi had watched Fu Ye earn his place, watched him win a favor beyond any other. And he’d been happy for him.
He’d known hunger, known hardship. He was a good judge of character. And Fu Ye was a good man. He deserved good things.
But this? That the Emperor had fallen for him? He hadn’t seen that coming.
Qingxi kept his gaze lowered, tying the prince’s sash.
“Why didn’t Your Highness wait for His Majesty?” he asked.
Fu Ye replied, “I wanted to change before he got back.”
And just as the words left his mouth, the Emperor and his attendants entered.
Qingxi quickly pulled the screen closed.
The tea-brown camellia pattern flashed briefly as the screen slid into place. Through the narrow gaps between the panels, golden light spilled through. The scene on the screen—the Goddess Wandering the World—glimmered as if alive, and the whole chamber filled with a heady, sweet scent that made even Qin Neijian feel a moment’s dizzying pleasure.
Fu Ye liked to change out of sight. And somehow, Qin Neijian thought, the more the prince hid, the more forbidden, the more untouchable he seemed—the more it stirred a man’s…
He turned to look at the Emperor.
The Emperor’s gaze swept across the screen. Qingxi drew it open, and Fu Ye stepped out, already dressed.
Inside, it was like the first burst of spring light—golden radiance poured forth, scattering lotus-shaped patterns on the floor.
The Prince of Huan stood there, regal and graceful, his hair falling to his waist.
So beautiful.
After leaving the hot spring, Fu Huang had gone straight to work.
The screen hid the people within, but through the polished bronze mirror, one could faintly make out Qingxi and the others tending to Fu Ye. His hair had been fully let down, spread out loosely. Beside him, a small red clay brazier glowed softly, while Shuangfu gently fanned his hair with a round silk fan.
Fu Ye’s damp hair seemed steeped in the fragrance of peonies, slowly fluffing out into soft, ink-dark strands. Fu Huang couldn’t see his face, only that slender figure reclining on the couch, reading from a scripture.
So noble, so fragrant in his beauty.
A man like that seemed born to enjoy every wealth and honor the world could offer—he made others want to give him all that was finest under heaven.
Fu Ye was reading the Prajñāpāramitā Hṛdaya Sūtra (The Heart Sutra).
There weren’t many books here, only a few Buddhist scriptures.
They suited him.
It was as if even the heavens were reminding him to quiet his heart.
But tonight, his mind was anything but at peace. Again and again, Fu Huang’s words echoed in his head:
“So obedient.”
When Fu Huang said those words, his posture was relaxed, his expression hidden—but it sent a chill down one’s spine, made the hairs on the back of one’s neck stand on end.
Out of the corner of his eye, Fu Ye glanced toward Fu Huang. The screen blocked the view, but he could see the red-robed eunuchs of the Secretariat clustered near the emperor.
A silent assembly of high-ranking scribes, all mute, resembling lifelike dolls more than the efficient machines of Qingyuan Palace.
This strange, lifeless atmosphere seemed to spread outward from Fu Huang like a dark fog—as if wherever he went, the gloom followed.
Yet, tonight, Fu Ye found that oppressive air carried a certain strange allure.
Like the branches of that black tree finally dropping low, coiling around him like vines, sharp and grasping, trapping him in their snare.
“All forms are illusions. If you see all forms as no form, then you see the Tathagata.”
He closed his eyes and silently recited the line, while the fire in the brazier crackled softly.
Tonight, he was to keep vigil. Before Fu Huang even finished reading the memorials, he had quietly instructed Qingxi and the others to set up his bedding.
Eunuch Qin stood quietly by, and said softly, “The floor is damp and cold, my lord. There’s no harm in sharing the couch—it’s a large bed, after all.”
Heavens forgive me, Fu Ye thought.
He replied, “I toss and turn in my sleep, and I’m not used to sharing. The floor will do.”
What worried him most was Fu Huang.
Fu Huang was so forceful now.
If Fu Huang ordered him to share the bed, could he really refuse?
It wouldn’t be a suggestion—it would be a command.
Fu Huang had always been absolute in his word. And tonight, more than ever, he would not be gainsaid.
After a moment’s thought, Fu Ye steeled himself. With the emperor’s favor so high these days, he figured he could afford a small refusal—chalk it up to being spoiled by imperial grace, not disobedience.
No matter what, he couldn’t sleep beside Fu Huang.
At least not tonight.
With no choice, Qin had Qingxi and the others set up a lower bamboo couch before the emperor’s dragon bed.
He glanced at the emperor, half hoping Fu Huang would forbid it.
But Fu Huang was engrossed in his work.
The bamboo couch was inlaid with mother-of-pearl in a design of nine phoenixes chasing the sun. Four thick layers of silk-cotton padding were spread atop it, covered with a brocade quilt of butterflies threading through peonies, their wings woven of peacock feather thread and gold strands, shimmering like clouds in the evening light with every movement.
Fu Ye felt like some pampered concubine steeped in luxury.
But truthfully, he was fussy about his bed—soft, fragrant, clean. Fu Huang had teased him about his delicate ways before.
These days, Fu Huang had been diligent, working late into the night with the palace exam approaching. The attendants had all withdrawn, and even Qin dozed at his post. Only Qingxi stood quietly nearby, ever dutiful.
When Fu Huang finally rose, both Qin and his apprentice snapped awake.
Fu Ye closed his eyes, bracing himself, already rehearsing how to gently decline if Fu Huang tried to make him share the bed.
But all he heard was the soft rustle of clothing, then the emperor’s voice quietly turning down Qin’s help:
“Go rest.”
And then…
Fu Huang simply went to bed.
Fu Ye: “……”
His heart had been on edge all night for nothing.
And now, ironically, he couldn’t sleep at all.
His mind felt adrift, empty and unsettled, with nowhere to land.
A ruler’s heart is like a needle at the bottom of the sea—impossible to read.
After a while, Eunuch Qin and Qingxi quietly extinguished the surrounding lamps, leaving only a single bronze lantern glowing behind the screen. It cast a soft amber light, as if weaving a delicate, hazy dream.
He lay there, not sure how long had passed, before he furtively turned over to steal a glance at Fu Huang. The bed curtains hadn’t been drawn—they lay there in full view of one another, with nothing between them.
The young emperor lay on his back, seemingly asleep.
In that faint glow, as if in the thread of a dream, Fu Ye stared at him, lost in thought.
Fu Huang’s profile was more striking than his full face—his nose was so straight and defined.
Fu Ye rarely had the chance to look at him so closely. Fu Huang was the kind of man that, no matter how favored you were, you barely dared look at him directly.
This was not a man who left you thinking handsome or not handsome—his presence eclipsed his looks a hundredfold. When you looked at him, all you felt was the weight of imperial majesty, something that made you instinctively lower your gaze.
But truth be told, no one in the Fu clan, man or woman, could be called plain.
Compared to his sixteen-year-old self, Fu Huang was far more refined now. The years, steeped in brutality, had worn away the clarity of youth, replacing it with something darker, harsher. The clean lines of his bones were sharper now, his profile more severe—his nose high and straight, his jawline drawn in an arresting arc.
But what stood out most were his eyes.
Even now, stripped of their thunderous force in sleep, the outer corners still tilted upward in that fierce, striking curve.
Beautiful, truly.
The emperor’s hands were long.
His lips looked a little dry.
Fu Ye hastily turned over, face burning, silently vowing that come morning, he’d offer prayers and recite sutras to cleanse his heart.
That unease bled into his dreams. He slept fitfully, tormented by a vision of the day he first entered the palace—the day Fu Huang fell ill and seized him by the throat, pinning him to the bed.
It felt so real—the burning pain around his neck, that delicate white throat caught in those hands, so easily crushed with the faintest twist.
Fu Huang’s hollow eyes bore into him, emotionless, as he said, “Little brother, you’re quite the flirt, aren’t you?”
He struggled, glancing down in shame, only to see his own body shamefully aroused beneath him.
He jolted awake.
Outside, shadows of palace attendants moved about. Wrapped in his brocade quilt, he turned and glimpsed the gold dragon embroidered on Fu Huang’s dark robe through a carved screen. Even the lotus patterns in the wood seemed to darken in the gloom, becoming clusters of black flowers, as eerie as the dream itself.
The night hadn’t yet given way to dawn. Candlelight pooled like amber on the floor. Dazed and uneasy, he pushed the screen open a crack—just enough to glimpse Fu Huang standing behind it.
In the dream, Fu Huang had been cold, his hair loose around his shoulders. Here and now, Fu Huang’s hair was also unbound, softened a little by the warm fragrance of the hall.
It was hard to tell dream from reality.
His gaze lowered. Fu Huang was wiping his hands with a towel.
The Son of Heaven, ruler of all beneath the skies—rising and resting by ritual. Upon waking, he had to wash, cleanse, and change. Just now, he’d slipped off his nightclothes, wearing only a heavy robe over bare skin as he performed his morning ablutions.
Lean and sinewy, unrestrained, with a wild air about him.
And at last, Fu Ye caught sight of what had always been hidden—like a dragon emerging from mist, head lifting ever so slightly, pale but formidable, heavy with dormant might even in its slumber.
All traces of sleep fled him. Heart pounding, he hurriedly turned away, burying his face in the embroidered peonies of his pillow.
Thankfully, he’d only opened the screen a sliver, and Fu Huang hadn’t noticed.
Perhaps worried that too many people might disturb him, Fu Huang hadn’t called Eunuch Qin or the others to attend him. Behind him came the soft rustling of fabric—Fu Huang was getting dressed.
Fu Ye sat there, dazed, listening to that faint sound of clothing brushing against skin. His bangs were slightly damp, strands falling loose; the dampness seemed to spread under the brocade quilt as well. He tensed his shoulders slightly, his shoulder blades lifting beneath the skin like a butterfly about to take flight.
Only after Fu Huang left did he finally call Qingxi inside.
Shuangfu and the others came in carrying fresh inner robes, towels, and hot water to serve him.
Fu Ye told them all to leave. He entered behind the screen, mind scattered, and as he lowered his head to dry himself, he suddenly heard footsteps approaching. Peering through the screen, he saw Fu Huang walk in.
Startled, Fu Ye fumbled and nearly knocked over the screen.
Never again, he swore to himself, never again will I be alone with Fu Huang.
He wanted to go out to Shenü Lake to get some air.
But Fu Huang clung to him, saying, “Wait a bit. I’ll go with you.”
Fu Ye glanced at the mountain of memorials stacked on Fu Huang’s desk. “By the time you’re done reading those, it’ll be dark.”
He didn’t even dare look Fu Huang in the face.
Fu Huang still wore his hair loose, draped over his shoulders, dressed in a simple casual robe that made him look even thinner.
But Fu Ye no longer saw him as thin at all.
To him, Fu Huang seemed every inch a true dragon, unmatched by any man in the world.
In the end, Fu Huang wanted him to help review the memorials.
The emperor said, “Two of us reading will be faster. Once we’re done, we’ll go together.”
It’s said that in ancient times, the greatest favor an emperor could bestow wasn’t gold or jewels, or even affection—but the power to help govern the empire, to share in rule itself.
For a moment, Fu Ye was stunned.
Fu Huang had been so forceful lately—and perhaps because he felt guilty himself, Fu Ye found himself obeying without protest.
The emperor first gave him some memorials he’d already reviewed, to let him practice.
Fu Ye was nervous as could be. In his mind, these reports from officials were matters of state, weighty and solemn.
But as he read, he realized memorials could also be absurdly trivial—leaving him wide-eyed in disbelief.
One observer’s Auspicious Omen Report described how a white sparrow had appeared in a certain county, holding a sprig of blessed grain in its beak, proclaiming it a sign of imperial virtue.
You’ve got guts, flattering the emperor’s virtue like that, Fu Ye thought.
The red ink comment? Just a single X.
Who knew if Fu Huang had written it, or the Secretariat?
Another memorial reported that some woman in a certain district had returned a lost purse.
The red comment: Seen.
Was this the earliest form of read receipt?
One general, apparently on friendly terms with the emperor, had sent a series of greetings: Your Majesty, how have you been lately?
Red comment: Well enough.
General: Your Majesty, how have you been lately?
Red comment: Well enough.
General: Your Majesty, how have you been lately?
Red comment: Well enough.
Fu Ye was sure the Secretariat was answering those by then—Fu Huang would never have had the patience for it.
But the worst one of all was a memorial thousands of characters long, riddled with typos, rambling on endlessly without making a bit of sense.
Fu Ye read it, lips pressed tight, sneaking glances at Fu Huang, finally understanding why Fu Huang had created the Secretariat in the first place.
Some memorials simply didn’t deserve to trouble a sickly emperor.
Once he’d seen how this rubbish was handled, Fu Ye began to encounter memorials that fit more with what he’d imagined—reports of Red Lotus Society remnants causing unrest in certain areas, or of cases too difficult for local officials to judge, now referred to the court.
Among the memorials, one case kept being reported over and over. A woman’s elderly father had been murdered by a local thug. To avenge him, she beheaded the man and turned herself in at the county office.
According to the national law, “He who kills must die.” So some argued she should be executed. But the county magistrate, citing Confucian Book of Rites, declared, “A father’s killer cannot live under the same heaven,” and insisted the woman not only shouldn’t be punished, but should be honored for her filial piety. He refused to pass sentence and hung up his seal in protest.
The prefecture couldn’t decide the matter either, so they referred it to the imperial court. The ministers debated fiercely, and the memorials on the case piled up like a mountain.
Fu Ye had originally just been using the memorials to distract himself, but this case caught his attention. He read through all the memorials and arguments from the senior officials in the capital.
He read carefully, so focused that he skipped lunch. Eunuch Qin brought in the meal and served Fu Huang, sneaking glances at Fu Ye.
At that moment, Fu Ye’s expression was serious, his hair held back with a gold and jade hairpin, draped in the emperor’s dragon robe as he sat at the jade desk. For a moment, Qin thought he looked much like Fu Huang had in his days as crown prince—refined, composed, and noble. Qin’s heart stirred as he gazed at him.
From the moment Fu Ye returned to the palace as a prince, he’d been the heir apparent. If one day a new emperor rose, perhaps Fu Ye could survive by lowering himself, but who could predict the hearts of men? Better to hold fate in one’s own hands. No wonder the emperor insisted he study governance, personally guiding and instructing him, building his reputation as a wise and capable prince. The emperor’s intentions truly ran deep.
Seeing Fu Ye now, carefully reading and learning to review memorials, Qin tried to guess the emperor’s thoughts—but the more he tried, the more his heart sank and his mind clouded. The emperor’s mind… he dared not think too deeply on it anymore.
In any case, if the emperor was willing to entrust the empire to him, that counted as repaying Fu Ye in full, didn’t it?
In the end, it was Fu Huang himself who decreed the woman innocent.
Fu Ye came away from reading the case greatly enriched—not only seeing how laws had changed through the ages, but learning from how the ministers weighed legal, moral, and social considerations, from Xie the prime minister’s analysis of pros and cons to the clash of ideas between policies. He was fascinated.
That fascination both thrilled and unsettled him.
He ended up staying in the hall all afternoon, never making it to Shenü Lake, and kept reading memorials into the night. After supper, he began trying his hand at writing commentary.
He practiced on gilded draft paper, then handed it to Fu Huang to review.
It was his first attempt, so of course he’d only been given minor matters to comment on. Fu Huang said, “Not bad. But your handwriting still needs work.”
Then, glancing at him, he added, “You look like this, but you write like that? The ministers will be startled.”
Fu Huang sounded casual, even teasing—but Fu Ye flushed with shame. The more he thought on it, the more embarrassed he felt. “Maybe I shouldn’t write anything at all, then.”
Fu Huang replied, “If it’s no good, practice more.”
Fu Ye asked, “Should I try to copy your handwriting?”
Fu Huang said, “No need.”
Fu Huang’s script was bold and powerful, while Fu Ye’s strokes were light and delicate.
“Then won’t they know it’s me writing?”
Fu Huang said, “That’s the point. I want them to know it’s you.”
Fu Ye turned to look at him, heart pounding.
Fu Huang went on: “Emperor Mingzong was a great ruler. Late in life, when his eyes failed him, Empress Dowager Dou wrote his memorial comments for him. You’re my brother—a prince of the blood. Helping me govern is perfectly proper.” He added, “I’ll never have a harem. You’re the only one by my side. If you don’t help me, who will?”
Fu Ye’s heart burned hot, his whole chest filled with heat. It was as if Fu Huang’s words promised he would love no one else in this life.
And somehow, Fu Ye couldn’t bring himself to refuse. He gripped the brush, thinking: Even if he weren’t the emperor, even if he were just an ordinary man—if he said he’d only ever have me, how could I not be moved?
If others made such a promise, I wouldn’t believe it. But when it’s Fu Huang—so strange, so twisted—I believe him.
He even thought, If I had to spend a lifetime as his strange, twisted brother… maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
Looking at the dragon coiled on the emperor’s robe, Fu Ye thought bitterly: I’m doomed.
