Eunuch Qin had served Fu Huang since he was just two years old. In his eyes, Fu Huang had always carried the bearing of a sovereign. Even as a child, he was more composed and self-restrained than the other princes. By the time he was twelve or thirteen, he no longer displayed emotion openly. And once he became emperor, it wasn’t merely that he hid his emotions—he became lifeless, cold as still water even when ordering executions.
But now… Qin thought he saw fear flash across the emperor’s face.
Lihua Palace was close to the imperial palace, and communication between them was swift. That evening, Prince Huan had sent word that he would be accompanying the Empress Dowager to Chonghua Temple to pray for the Grand Consort.
After the incident at Shanyuan Temple, this sudden fire at Chonghua was deeply alarming.
Eunuch Qin immediately ordered horses to be readied. “Bring Bai Li Cong!” he shouted. “Remove the saddle, hurry!”
The flames from the Yongfu Pagoda lit up half the capital. The Imperial Fire Brigade and the Covert Fire Patrol were dispatched at once, and even nearby civilians joined the effort to extinguish the blaze. Chaos reigned within and around the temple.
The Empress Dowager, her hair in disarray, was surrounded by golden-armored guards and several noblewomen. She anxiously called out, “Where is Prince Huan?!”
No sooner had she spoken than the thunder of hooves echoed from the front. A group of riders charged through the gates, and the crowd hastily parted. At the head rode a man in a dark dragon-embroidered robe, hair loose and wild. His horse hadn’t even stopped when he leapt off in one fluid motion.
People moved to kneel in greeting, but Fu Huang’s eyes swept over them and he barked, “Where is Prince Huan?”
“He hasn’t come out yet!” Empress Zhang said anxiously. “He went toward the Four Sages Hall!”
More horses arrived, and among them was Eunuch Qin. He had ridden too fast and fell hard to the ground. Fu Huang turned at the sound—Qin knelt, wincing in pain, and cried, “Your Majesty, don’t worry about this old servant—please, go save them first!”
The Empress Dowager saw the emperor about to charge into the blazing temple and instinctively cried, “Your Majesty!”
Fu Huang turned and looked at her. The wind blew his hair into disarray, and under his thin robe, his frame looked gaunt and frail. He said nothing and walked straight through the gates of Chonghua Temple.
Eunuch Qin lay trembling on the ground, watching the emperor’s figure disappear into the flames. For a moment, it was as if he were seeing the Fu Huang of fourteen years ago—the boy who had charged into the burning Xiangrui Hall.
That fire had led to Fu Ye’s disappearance for fourteen years… and to Consort Zhaoyang’s death.
A mother lost. A brother vanished.
It must never happen again.
It must never happen again.
The emperor now stood tall, nearly eight feet, outwardly strong—but inside, he was shattered. He was no longer the twelve-year-old boy who once braved fire without hesitation. If it happened again, not even the gods could save him.
Qin struggled to get up and noticed blood rubbed raw on Bai Li Cong’s flanks. Pain flared in his ankle, and he collapsed again. His white hair came undone, scattering in the dirt.
Just then, a collective gasp rose from the crowd.
He looked up—and saw the Yongfu Pagoda collapse.
The wooden structure groaned like a dying dragon, each tier crumbling in turn. Tiles and beams fell like meteors, flames erupting in all directions—a torrential storm of sparks like rain made of fire and blood.
Flames landed on Fu Huang’s robes, burning tiny black holes into the thin fabric. The crowd screamed and ran past him, but he alone walked against the tide—heading straight into the inferno.
His mind was blank. He had no idea where to go. He simply moved forward, driven by instinct. His boots crunched over embers, hair tangled and dripping with sweat. His entire body trembled—not with fear, but with something closer to delirium.
It felt just like the fire at the palace, all those years ago.
Back then, he’d ignored everyone’s pleas and run in without hesitation. Now, he could barely keep himself together. He was shaking, hollowed out—like a walking corpse.
The Four Sages Hall was deserted. It sat too close to the Yongfu Pagoda—its collapse had buried the entire courtyard under rubble. Not a single building remained standing. All had turned to ash.
Screams and cries echoed all around, but he couldn’t see a single person. Climbing over debris, he stood alone amid the burning wreckage.
He thought he heard Fu Ye call his name.
But the heat and panic triggered his old illness—his vision blurred, pain stabbed through his skull, and it felt like his entire body might shatter under the pressure of the flames.
He thought: Let me die here.
Let this all end.
“Brother! Brother—Fu Huang!”
He suddenly turned around—and through the flames, he saw a familiar face.
Who else could it be but Fu Ye!
Fu Huang, dazed and unfocused, rushed straight through the fire. Even as Fu Ye shouted, “Be careful, brother!” he was immediately pulled into a tight embrace.
Fu Huang’s body radiated heat from the fire, his frame tense and trembling. He was much taller than Fu Ye, whose face was now pressed against his shoulder. The familiar scent of medicine mixed with smoke filled the air. His whole body was shaking as he wrapped Fu Ye tightly in his arms, clutching him so hard it hurt—Fu Ye could barely breathe.
“I’m okay, brother!”
Fu Ye called out anxiously, his voice trembling ever so slightly.
He had never seen Fu Huang like this before. The emperor he remembered was always lifeless and cold, stoic even during illness.
His chest tightened. He reached out and hugged Fu Huang back. Compared to Fu Huang’s build, Fu Ye’s body was lean and slender. His arms stretched up around his brother, hands gripping tightly onto his shoulders.
Though a prince, Fu Ye had taken on a leader’s role amidst the chaos. But trapped in a hellish inferno, how could he not feel fear? And yet, the moment he saw Fu Huang, it felt like his heart had finally found solid ground. Maybe it was because this man feared neither gods nor fate, defying heaven itself with his very existence. With someone like this on the throne, it felt like no matter what happened—even if the sky were falling—he would be the one holding it up. There was no one in the world greater or stronger than him.
Once the black-armored guards arrived, Fu Huang finally loosened his grip and looked at him with a dazed expression.
He wore only a plain inner robe, now filthy with soot. His hair had come undone, falling loosely around his face.
“Are you hurt?” Fu Huang asked.
Fu Ye shook his head. “I was calling for you earlier, but you didn’t hear me—you scared me half to death.”
Then he added, “There were many elderly women in Houying Hall who couldn’t move well. I helped guide them to the nearby Buddha caves. We’re all hiding there now.”
Only then did Fu Huang notice that the three large Buddha caves nearby were packed with people.
At the entrance of the cave farthest back, a nun was draped in a cloak—his cloak, the one he had given to Fu Ye. That deep black cloak hadn’t fully covered her snow-white robes, and a large portion of it had been burned away by the fire. Yet he could still recognize the silver cloud patterns along the hem. The nun’s pale hood had slipped, revealing a single cinnabar mark between her brows. He didn’t even see her face—yet in that moment, he knew who she was.
He froze on the spot.
Fu Ye spoke softly beside him, “Everyone’s alright.”
Fu Huang lowered his eyes and let out a quiet “Mm,” as if he had returned to his usual self. He reached out to straighten Fu Ye’s collar.
By now, both the Imperial Fire Brigade and the Covert Fire Patrol had arrived and were beginning to extinguish the blaze and evacuate the crowd.
Fu Ye took charge of escorting the Lady of Chu and the others to safety. Her clothes had been damaged by the flames as she tried to help others, so Fu Ye had given her his cloak. As he followed behind her, he caught sight of the dragon embroidery rippling across the back of the cloak—and couldn’t help but glance back at Fu Huang, who was now giving orders to the fire patrol.
But Fu Huang never once looked at Lady Chu. From start to finish, he acted as though she was just another plain-faced nun among the crowd.
Just like that night he sat outside Chonghua Temple.
His heart brimmed with deeper admiration and affection for Fu Huang. Maybe it was the merciless blaze—or maybe the feeling of barely escaping death—but something in him had softened. Alongside the reverence came a deep, aching sorrow. And so he devoted himself to protecting Lady Chu, personally escorting her to safety beyond the temple walls.
Lady Chu was not what he had imagined.
He’d heard her story from Eunuch Qin and pictured someone as resolute and unyielding as Empress Zhang—sharp in temper and unwavering in virtue. But the woman he saw was altogether different. A natural crimson mole graced her brow, her voice was soft and measured, her presence quiet and serene in a way words couldn’t quite describe.
Clad in snow-colored robes, she looked every bit the image of the Bodhisattva Guanyin. Fu Huang, in contrast, dressed in dark robes, looked more like a specter clawed out from the pits of hell.
As the prince so dearly trusted and loved by Fu Huang, Fu Ye felt it only right that he, too, should hold Lady Chu in the highest regard. Yet he kept his distance, and after entrusting her to the temple abbot and overseer, he returned at once to the Empress Dowager’s side.
Empress Dowager Zhang was visibly shaken. She clutched his hand, scolding him repeatedly. Normally regal and composed, she now looked exhausted and terrified. Fu Ye knew she was only frightened for his sake, so he listened quietly, nodding in agreement with whatever she said.
After she finished, the Dowager turned her gaze back toward the smoldering remains of Chonghua Temple.
Fu Ye asked gently, “May I go check on Royal Brother?”
On any other day, she would’ve turned him away with a cold glare and harsh words. But this time, she said nothing—just pressed her lips together as if she hadn’t heard.
So Fu Ye wrapped himself in a robe and returned to the temple ruins with Eunuch Qin and several attendants.
Eunuch Qin was limping badly, yet insisted on accompanying him. Thankfully, most of the fires had already been put out. Perhaps the gods had protected them—combined with the rain the night before, most of the main halls were saved. Still, the wind inside the temple grounds remained strong, and white smoke lingered like a veil. From a distance, they spotted Fu Huang standing high on a ridge, hands clasped behind his back, hair flowing loose, thick smoke swirling at his feet, and the full moon glowing cold above him.
“His Majesty rode in at full gallop… scared us half to death. Thank goodness Your Highness is safe,” Eunuch Qin said.
Fu Ye looked up at Fu Huang. He, who always had something clever or sharp to say, suddenly found his chest warm and tight, unable to form a single word.
The long night passed quickly. By dawn, most of the lingering smoke had cleared, though thick columns still rose from the wooden beams beneath Yongfu Pagoda. For safety, the guards kept everyone outside the temple grounds. Crowds of townsfolk and monks had gathered, thousands strong, weeping openly at the loss of the pagoda. Their grief echoed through the capital.
With the fire extinguished, the aftermath began—recovery, relocation, investigation. The monks and nuns were to be moved temporarily to Fuhua Temple. Fu Ye helped them onto the carriages, his eyes constantly seeking out Lady Chu. He finally saw her, still wrapped tightly in a cloak, her face hidden. She hadn’t exchanged a single word with the Dowager or any of the noblewomen.
As the emperor’s birth mother, her status—no matter how complicated—meant no one dared treat her with anything less than respect. If her wish was to live out the rest of her life in such quiet seclusion, then may it be so.
As she stepped into the carriage, Fu Ye bowed deeply.
Though she was technically the widow of Crown Prince Mingyi—his elder in rank and generation—Fu Ye, ever courteous and proper, gave her the parting bow she deserved. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed others kneeling as well. Turning, he saw Fu Huang emerging from the temple.
Fu Huang didn’t appear to notice them. He stopped at a distance, speaking to the officer in charge of fire suppression and other officials.
A nun accompanying Lady Chu bowed to Fu Ye before the carriage slowly rolled forward. Only then did Fu Huang glance in their direction.
He caught sight of the dark robe—his own—that Lady Chu still wore over her shoulders.
They were mother and son in name only. No bond, no affection. Yet because of Fu Ye, that robe had ended up with her, shielding her from a night of cold.
Perhaps this—this strange twist of fate—was the closest they would ever come. He didn’t even know what she looked like.
But that was enough. No need for more.
Fu Ye waited until the carriage was out of sight, then walked back to Fu Huang’s side.
Fu Huang hadn’t slept all night. His old head illness was likely acting up again—his lips were pale and cracked, dark energy clinging to him like a shroud. He looked terribly worn, almost as if the cool gray-blue mist of dawn had soaked into his very bones.
Fu Ye’s heart sank, weighed down with a heaviness he couldn’t name.
“Royal Brother, I’ll take the Empress Dowager back to the Lihua Palace first.”
Fu Huang nodded. Fu Ye then removed his own outer robe and gently draped it over his brother’s shoulders.
Fu Huang didn’t refuse.
Seated in her sedan chair, Empress Dowager Zhang gazed from afar. The mountain wind swept past, carrying with it charred ashes that brushed against the hem of Fu Huang’s robes.
Fu Ye said, “Then I’ll take my leave now.”
Fu Huang gave a soft “Mm.” Who knew what was going through his mind at that moment? He stood motionless, hair loose, staring straight at Fu Ye without saying a word.
Fu Ye turned and walked toward the Empress Dowager. Together with Sun Gongzheng and the others, he began descending the mountain. The sky was overcast, dawn just beginning to break. Fu Huang watched as Fu Ye’s figure grew smaller and smaller, nearly disappearing into the morning mist—until, just before vanishing from sight, Fu Ye suddenly turned back and looked at him one more time through the veil of fog.
He pulled the robe tighter around himself. It still carried warmth. And in that warmth, he felt—strangely—that maybe being cast aside by so many wasn’t such a big deal after all.
On the way back to the Lihua Palace, the Empress Dowager remained quiet. As they neared the palace, she suddenly asked Fu Ye, “I heard that the Emperor originally wanted to have the monks of Shanyuan Temple executed and their bodies hung in the temple. Was it you who talked him out of it?”
Fu Ye replied, “It was actually Royal Brother’s own decision. I merely reminded him that you and Grand Madam are both devout Buddhists.”
The Empress Dowager glanced at him. “No need to speak on his behalf.”
Fu Ye said sincerely, “I only speak the truth.”
Neither of them had slept the night before. The Empress Dowager looked exhausted, occasionally casting glances at Fu Ye. He, too, showed signs of fatigue. She remembered how he’d draped his robe over the Emperor just earlier—such an intimate gesture—and cautioned him, “Even if the Emperor listens to you, don’t let that make you arrogant.”
Fu Ye nodded, “I understand, Mother.”
Looking at this well-mannered and thoughtful young man—so pleasant to the eye—she finally understood. The Emperor, who listened to no one, could actually be swayed by him. Since Fu Ye’s return, the Emperor’s condition had seemingly stabilized. Even the palace atmosphere had changed. The once-tense court now felt slightly easier to breathe in—even for her. If the Emperor truly would heed Fu Ye’s counsel, then with him as a mediator, perhaps they could all live a little more peacefully.
She hadn’t slept all night. Wrapped in her cloak, she nodded off in the carriage, drifting between dreams and waking. In that hazy state, an old memory surfaced: a young Fu Huang, only in his teens, accompanying her to Chonghua Temple to offer incense. Back then, he had been so respectful and sincere—dutiful and kind. It had only been a decade or so, but it already felt like a previous lifetime.
Upon her return to the palace, the Empress Dowager fell ill.
Her body, already frail with age, had been pushed too far—overexertion, fear, and stress all taking their toll. By midday, she was burning with fever.
Fu Huang returned from the temple by nightfall, but Fu Ye was nowhere to be seen. A palace attendant reported that he had remained by the Empress Dowager’s side the whole time, personally testing her medicine.
Fu Huang couldn’t help but feel even colder and more heartless by comparison.
Still, if he were to visit the Empress Dowager now, she might faint from shock.
The investigation into the Chonghua Temple fire eventually led to the Red Lotus Society. This sect had long stirred unrest in the neighboring Dayong Kingdom—no one had expected it to have roots this deep in Dazhou, even infiltrating a royal temple.
Fu Huang quickly lost patience. He resolved to completely eradicate every trace of the Red Lotus Society within Dazhou’s borders. Over the next few days, ministers were constantly summoned to the Lihua Palace.
There were now two court meetings each day. The Emperor’s sudden zeal for governance stunned Chancellor Xie and the others.
The Red Lotus Society had been around for years. Uprooting it would require swift and brutal action. Fortunately, if Fu Huang was known for anything, it was his ruthless decisiveness.
His commands were met with instant obedience.
Meanwhile, Fu Ye stayed in the Ziyang Palace, tending closely to the Empress Dowager, never leaving her side. Yet his thoughts never strayed far from the fire at Chonghua Temple. Each day, he sent Shuangfu to quietly gather information. After just two or three attempts, Fu Huang himself sent an attendant to report the latest developments directly to him.
Three updates a day.
By the third day, Fu Huang even returned to Chonghua Temple to offer incense in person.
The Empress Dowager, still bedridden, was utterly stunned.
Fu Huang was notorious for his disregard toward gods and spirits.
Dazed and feverish, she thought she was dreaming when the palace maids told her. Fu Ye, however, was truly surprised—and delighted.
So Fu Huang did understand these things. He just never cared to show it before.
Thinking back to Fu Huang’s usual indifferent, lifeless demeanor, Fu Ye actually found himself wanting to laugh.
Yongfu Pagoda had always held a prestigious place in the hearts of the people of Dazhou. Now, with the Emperor personally leading the memorial rites—and three thousand monks and nuns chanting prayers at Chonghua Temple—the scale was grand, and the public’s grief grew even deeper. When news spread that the fire at Chonghua Temple was the work of the Red Lotus Society, the people were furious, gnashing their teeth in hatred.
Fu Huang’s name had long been terrifying. Among the common folk, there were countless wild tales about him—drinking human blood, casually beheading people in the Golden Throne Hall. He never bothered to deny or refute any of it, so many believed it to be true. His fearsome reputation was more effective than harsh laws. With the Red Lotus Society already despised by all, and the crackdown being a popular cause, the campaign progressed rapidly.
Fu Ye had always been deeply uneasy about the Red Lotus Society. After all, in the neighboring kingdom of Dayong, the male lead—who had risen from the Red Lotus Society—had already donned the imperial robe. In the original novel, when Dayong launched its invasion of Dazhou, their lightning-fast advance was largely due to the widespread presence of Red Lotus Society followers within Dazhou itself. A single call, and multitudes would respond.
Fu Huang had struck hard against the Red Lotus Society in the past, but Fu Ye had assumed that if the group could eventually unify the realm, its roots must run deep.
And yet—Fu Huang eradicated them completely, root and branch, with thunderous force.
Fu Ye almost couldn’t believe it.
Reading the memorials from across the provinces, he saw that the purge was unfolding with astonishing speed and efficiency.
That’s when he realized—tyrants do have their advantages.
When a tyrant decides to get things done, they cut down gods and demons alike. Nothing stands in their way.
Now he was starting to think—if Fu Huang really got serious, even taking out the novel’s male lead might not be out of the question.
Fu Huang had gone several days with barely any rest. On the fourth day, he finally collapsed into a deep sleep. But even in rest, it was uneasy. He woke at dusk to a cold and silent Zhengyang Palace. Sitting up, he looked toward the other side of the screen—on the sleeping couch, the quilts and pillows were empty.
But there were two imperial robes, neatly folded and placed where Fu Ye had once slept.
He turned his head to look at the attendant beside him.
The attendants by his side were all skilled in reading moods. The one nearest quickly replied, “Last night, the prince moved all his bedding over to Ziyang Palace.”
Then he snuck a glance at the Emperor. Perhaps because he hadn’t slept well, the Emperor’s expression looked terrible.
Qin Neijian was still recovering from his injuries and hadn’t been around these past few days. Without him, things felt even more hollow and quiet.
Fu Huang got up and first went to check on Qin Neijian. On his way out for a walk, he caught sight of Fu Ye just outside Ziyang Palace. The prince wore a spring robe of deep crimson, embroidered with gold and jade—vibrant, resplendent. He was chatting with a few palace servants.
He was all smiles, warm and approachable. The servants beamed back at him, and even two of the palace guards had abandoned their stiff postures, bowing slightly with cheerful grins.
In the past, Fu Huang would simply turn a blind eye to this sort of behavior, let him be. But today, hands behind his back, he watched for a long time—and the more he watched, the more displeased he became.
He knew, of course, that Fu Ye was naturally kind. That was probably why he could even get along with someone like him.
Fu Ye treated everyone well.
But Fu Huang had assumed that he, at the very least, was someone special.
No—he needed to be special.
Having just one person was enough for him. He didn’t need more.
But that one person had to be his entirely—completely, utterly, without a single piece left for anyone else.
His heart was hollow, difficult to fill.
His appetite was… insatiable.
Fu Ye spotted him then, quickly ran over, and bowed. His accessories jingled as he moved.
Seeing the Emperor eyeing his outfit, he grinned and said, “They’ve sent all my clothes over. I won’t have to wear Your Majesty’s anymore.”
Honestly, every time he wore a dragon robe, he’d been a bundle of nerves.
A prince in a dragon robe—that was worse than a commoner doing it.
His own clothes were the best. He’d picked them out himself, after all.
Fu Huang stared at him for a while, then finally murmured, “Still so vain.”
Fu Ye laughed and eagerly showed off the Hetian jade belt ornament on his waist, clearly delighted.
The jade, pearls, and jadeite of the jinbu shimmered as he walked, ringing softly with every step. Fu Huang looked at it, then unfastened a black jade token carved with dragon patterns from his own belt and attached it to Fu Ye’s jinbu.
He tilted his head slightly, studied it for a moment, then said, “From now on, always wear this. You’re not allowed to take it off.”
Fu Ye finally understood—Fu Huang just wanted him to always carry something of his on his person.
If it had been anyone else, he might’ve second-guessed it. But with Fu Huang, somehow—whatever he did just seemed to make sense.
And what could he do anyway, except indulge him endlessly?
The Emperor still didn’t seem fully recovered from the fire at Chonghua Temple. The way he looked at Fu Ye now was slower, deeper—as though his eyes were seeing him, but his mind was far away.
Darker than when they’d first met, even.
Like there were far too many things buried inside.
