The moment that thought crossed his mind, Fu Ye felt how ridiculous it was. Across the flickering bonfire, he gazed at Fu Huang.
Fu Huang was deep in conversation with his most trusted generals, while Qin Neijian knelt at his side, using a silver knife to carve slices of roast venison. The other eunuchs stood by with towels and basins, lending Fu Huang a trace of imperial leisure and dignity.
Without that, he hardly looked like an emperor at all right now.
He was still dressed in his hunting garb. Earlier, while battling a tiger, a branch had scratched his cheek, leaving a thin line of blood. Since returning, he hadn’t bothered to change clothes. His hair was slightly mussed, his face weathered from two days of hunting. His frame seemed even more solid and sinewy—he looked more like a hardened commander than a sovereign.
Fu Ye had learned the name of the bearded officer who always spoke with Fu Huang—Meng Xiao, commander of the Imperial Guard, the elite force stationed closest to the capital. Qin Neijian had told him Meng Xiao had fought alongside Fu Huang for years, rising from a common soldier to this high post, one of the emperor’s most trusted young generals.
Fu Ye actually knew Meng Xiao’s younger brother, Meng Chi—the deputy commander of the palace guard. Meng Chi was pale-skinned, handsome. Fu Ye remembered thinking, With Xie Liangbi and all the other pretty boys reassigned, why did the emperor keep this one close?
That thought brought back memories of all of Fu Huang’s jealous little fits.
As Fu Ye watched, their eyes met—and Fu Huang beckoned him over.
Fu Ye had been tending the venison himself earlier, and his clothes still smelled of smoke. Being fastidious about cleanliness, he’d changed into a prince’s formal robe.
Meng Xiao, rough and straightforward from his years in the army, had long heard of the prince’s beauty, but this was his first time seeing him up close during the hunt. When Fu Huang approached with Fu Ye, Meng Xiao had actually thought the emperor had found some new imperial consort. He’d met many nobles, but none who looked like this. Every time Fu Ye got near, he found himself tongue-tied.
Only Fu Huang, it seemed, could stay so calm in the presence of someone like that. The sight made Meng Xiao admire his emperor all the more.
The night wind was cold on the hunting grounds. As soon as Fu Ye sat down, Fu Huang reached out—an attendant handed him a cloak, and he draped it over Fu Ye’s shoulders. Then he waved for Meng Xiao, who’d risen to his feet, to sit again.
Fu Ye gathered the cloak at his neck, lowering his eyes. This had been Fu Huang’s own cloak. He must have gotten too warm and taken it off earlier. It had been sitting near the fire, so it was still deliciously warm.
Beside him, Qin Neijian, who’d been carving venison, suddenly dropped the knife onto the tray with a loud clang.
Fu Ye said gently, “Be careful, Master Qin.”
Fu Huang glanced down at the sound.
Qin Neijian hurriedly said, “It slipped.”
It didn’t slip—I’m shaking! he thought, panicked. Heaven help me, my heart’s been in knots since yesterday!
Just as that thought crossed his mind, he heard the emperor, who’d been calmly discussing the political situation in Dayong with Meng Xiao, suddenly turn his head and say, “Your stomach’s weak. You’ve already had eleven pieces. Don’t overdo it.”
Qin Neijian looked up to see Fu Ye, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, holding another piece of venison.
Eleven pieces? The emperor’s been keeping count?!
True to form, Fu Ye, ever obedient, put the piece back down on his plate. But Fu Huang picked it up himself and popped it into his own mouth, wiped his fingers with a towel, and said to Meng Xiao, “Go on.”
Qin Neijian: “……”
Fu Ye: “……”
I need to keep my distance from Fu Huang, Fu Ye thought. These straight-man tricks of his are way too confusing. If I don’t get a grip, I’m bound to make a terrible mistake.
So he got up and said, “I think I ate too much. I’ll take a walk to help it settle.”
But before he could slip away, Fu Huang said to Meng Xiao, “Eat more yourself. I’ll join the prince for a stroll.”
Fu Ye: “……”
The night wind was sharp. Fu Ye said softly, “Brother, you should wear a coat too.”
Qin Neijian said quickly, “I’ll fetch one at once, Your Majesty.”
“I’m not cold,” Fu Huang said.
He’d had some deer blood to drink earlier—probably the first time in years—and it had him burning up inside.
As the emperor and the prince strolled together, they were followed by a sizable retinue.
Normally, Fu Ye always had something to say, but tonight, for once, he couldn’t think of a single word. The seed of suspicion, once planted, had taken firm root and was spreading fast in his heart.
Xiao Ai said quietly in his mind, “That thought of yours is really terrifying.”
Fu Ye sighed, “Right? Right?!”
Xiao Ai added, “The original novel was just a standard harem story for straight guys.”
Then, with a bit of bitterness: “A straight man sells the faintest hint, and I’m left suffering for half a lifetime.”
Fu Ye: “……”
Fu Huang didn’t speak either. He simply walked beside him. The tents were scattered about, bonfires blazed, their flames licking at the night sky and casting a warm glow all around. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat mingled with the tang of wine. The soldiers, fueled by drink, were loud and boisterous, their laughter and shouts filling the night far more than when they first arrived.
Fu Ye stole a glance at Fu Huang. His face was calm, his gaze hidden in the shifting light and shadow, lined by hardship but noble and unshaken. There wasn’t the slightest sign of anything unusual.
They walked like that, side by side, beyond the tents. Their footsteps were light, swallowed up by the clamor all around.
After two laps of the camp, Fu Huang told him to go get some rest.
As Fu Ye made his way back to his tent, he said to Xiao Ai, “Even if the original novel was written for straight guys, isn’t it normal for there to be one or two gay characters? Statistically speaking, I mean.”
Xiao Ai replied, “True enough.”
Fu Ye: “……”
Then Xiao Ai added, “But don’t forget—he’s the emperor. And you’re his brother.”
Fu Ye said firmly, “There’s nothing possible between us.”
Xiao Ai clarified, “What I mean is—he’s the emperor. Whether what he feels for you is brotherly affection or something more dangerous, until you know for sure, you have to treat him like your big brother. And that’s all you can let yourself think of him as.”
Fu Ye had been with Xiao Ai for so long, but this might’ve been the first time he felt Xiao Ai had said something truly right—something he completely agreed with.
Exactly, he thought.
They were sovereign and subject first. Brothers second.
Misreading a normal straight man—that could be brushed off. But misreading the emperor? He didn’t even want to imagine how Fu Huang would react, or what fate would await him.
He alone knew he was a fraud—but in Fu Huang’s eyes, he was a real brother. Fu Huang had already been scarred by vicious rumors of unnatural bonds. As the one Fu Huang trusted most now, he absolutely couldn’t let himself bring harm to Fu Huang’s name a second time.
At that thought, Fu Ye was overwhelmed with guilt.
Corrupted by my own fujoshi gaze, he thought bitterly. I’ve tarnished this bond of brotherhood.
And yet, once the idea had taken root, no matter how he tried, he couldn’t look at Fu Huang the way he used to. Couldn’t go back to that pure-hearted place.
Like now—when Fu Huang came to his tent again before bed. The hunt had been sudden, and now the palace was sending urgent memorials on fast horses. Fu Huang could’ve handled them in his own tent, which was better equipped. But no—he was working here, just as he always did in Fu Ye’s palace quarters.
Fu Ye stood behind a screen, taking off his outer robe. The screen wasn’t very tall—it barely reached his chest. He kept his head down, no longer able to undress in front of Fu Huang without a flicker of unease.
And that, more than anything, filled him with a strange sadness.
If only I could go back, he thought, to being that prince who only ever wanted to serve a wise and worthy sovereign.
Be the brother Fu Huang can trust without distraction.
Outside, the noise of the camp had faded, leaving only the occasional whinny of a horse or bark of a dog. Qingxi, Shuangfu, and the rest stayed still as statues within the great tent. The orchid Fu Huang had picked for him was placed in a wide-mouthed white jade vase at his bedside. After soaking in water for a day, its petals had unfurled, standing tall and lovely under the flickering candlelight.
He turned over on his bed and heard Fu Huang’s voice come through the screen.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Probably ate too much venison,” Fu Ye replied.
And through the screen, he thought—or imagined—he heard a soft chuckle.
Was he hearing things? He glanced back toward the screen, saw only the hunting scene painted on it. Beyond the gauzy fabric, Fu Huang’s silhouette loomed, vague in the shifting light.
The copper crane lamp beside him flickered, the flame’s heart glowed a purplish blue. On the screen, the light cast shapes like the tongue of a serpent, quivering as if it might lash out.
Then he saw Fu Huang rise and walk toward him.
Fu Ye’s heart skipped. He watched the shadow move across the screen.
Don’t get nervous. Don’t get nervous. He’s just a big brother checking on his little brother.
Fu Huang had changed out of his hunting clothes, down to a snow-white inner robe beneath a dark cloak. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Venison’s heaty—I told you not to eat so much.”
Fu Ye’s mind flashed back to something he’d read: how venison was said to stoke the fire, bolster virility. In countless novels, deer blood was practically treated as an aphrodisiac—drink it and you’d be a beast, overwhelmed by desire.
And here I am stuffed with venison, and the emperor’s had deer blood…
Oh god, brain, stop it. Stop.
Fu Ye was warm too, so he’d pushed the blanket down to his chest, exposing the white fabric of his inner robe. His neck was as smooth as carved jade. The light behind the screen was soft, his eyes glimmered like glass, and for some reason he felt anxious. Lying flat, staring at the ceiling, some demon possessed his tongue to ask:
“Are you… here to rub my stomach?”
What the hell did I just say?!
He wanted to bite his own tongue off.
A fleeting, unreadable expression crossed Fu Huang’s face. Then he asked, “How should I rub it?”
Fu Ye froze. “I was just… asking if that’s why you came over.”
Clearly, that wasn’t why Fu Huang had come. But just as clearly, now that the idea had been voiced, Fu Huang was considering it. He asked again, evenly: “How should I rub it?”
Fu Ye: “……”
He studied Fu Huang’s face closely. No hint of anything improper—just genuine concern. Not a trace of scheming or hidden intent. Silently, he berated himself:
You idiot. It was just a joke.
But his mind wouldn’t stop conjuring up ridiculous images—of belly rubs turning into fire, leading to all sorts of nonsense.
This isn’t some smutty novel. And Fu Huang isn’t that kind of reckless, overly familiar man.
Fu Huang simply sat there at his bedside, calm as ever.
And yet, Fu Huang himself felt a strange unease, his heart wavering. In the past, he would’ve reached out without hesitation, without even asking, and rubbed Fu Ye’s stomach without a second thought. No fuss, no overthinking. But now—now that things had come to this—he felt hesitant. Laughable. Terrifying.
He turned his gaze to Fu Ye. How beautiful he was, and yet so vulnerable, so easy to pity. If Fu Ye knew his own brother harbored feelings that broke every law of kinship—wouldn’t he be horrified?
Brotherly sin…
The word itself was filthy, pointing to dark places. He knew exactly where two men’s “sin” would land.
Fu Ye—so pale, so fair…
He really was—
He rose, and the dark cloak folded at the edge of Fu Ye’s bed slowly unfurled before him. The hidden dragon patterns woven into its creases emerged faintly in the dim light—like fierce flood dragons, bound in chains, revealing themselves from the dark.
At this moment, the emperor’s figure was lean, imposing, and regal—like a black dragon lurking in the night, making one’s heart tremble.
If that dragon coiled around him, there would be no escape. No place to bury his bones.
Fu Ye thought, Honestly, it might have been better if the emperor had actually come to rub my stomach. At least then he could watch his movements and expression and see if there was any hidden meaning.
But now—now it felt like scratching an itch through a boot, leaving his mind a complete mess.
Yet the emperor left instead, ordering Shuangfu to come and tend to him.
Shuangfu had no idea what he was supposed to do, and looked at Fu Ye nervously, uncertain.
Fu Ye clutched at his bedding, said nothing, just closed his eyes.
He felt hot.
Shuangfu hesitated, then asked, “Your Highness… are you feeling warm?”
“Mm,” Fu Ye murmured. Through the screen, he could see the emperor instructing Qingxi and the others to pack up the memorials.
The attendants moved noiselessly; even their footsteps on the floor were audible in the silence. Only when Fu Huang finally stepped out did Fu Ye tug the blanket down, exposing his damp, heated underrobe.
Shuangfu added cautiously, “I’ve heard that too much venison can make you feel overheated.”
It’s made me hot all the way to my heart, Fu Ye thought bitterly.
If he was honest with himself, he knew this wasn’t because he had some deep, hidden love for the emperor. It was that his mind had been thrown into chaos by these sudden, dangerous speculations. No wonder he was on edge, seeing ghosts behind every tree.
He tried to reflect calmly: Is there any genuine affection buried in this confusion? Lying there, he thought carefully about Fu Huang.
In terms of rank—he was the emperor, ruler of a vast empire.
In terms of talent—he excelled in music, strategy, calligraphy, riding, archery.
And he’d lived as a bachelor for years, spotless in conduct.
And just as his mind started to dwell on Fu Huang’s lean, resolute frame, that austere yet striking face—a different kind of allure compared to the likes of Xie Liangbi—he forced himself to stop.
If I could just cut off my own thoughts, he thought, I’d throw up steel barricades right here.
The emperor slept lightly. At the palace it wasn’t so bad, but here on campaign, he’d fallen back into old habits. Qin the eunuch kept watch at his side and noticed he lay awake, weighed down by some heavy thought.
In a low voice, Qin asked, “Your Majesty seems troubled these days?”
Fu Huang stared at the tent’s ceiling and said quietly, “I heard Emperor Mingzong treated the princes very well. When one of them returned from his fief, Mingzong had him share his bed and table as a sign of favor. Is that true?”
Qin: …!!
Your Majesty, you’re scaring this old servant to death!
He was silent a long while before replying, “There is such a rumor.”
Fu Huang said no more, simply gazing up at the roof of the tent, his expression unreadable.
Qin, however, found his own sleep had fled entirely. The more he thought about it, the more dreadful it seemed.
And it wasn’t that the idea of brothers violating the natural order was terrifying in itself—it was…
If both sides feel the same, it’s a scandal of morality at worst. But if one feels nothing and the other forces it…
A forced union—now that would be poison. Both the emperor and Prince Huan would fall into ruin, beyond the help of even the gods!
Just as his mind was racing with these thoughts, he suddenly heard the emperor speak again:
“Why don’t you ask why I’m bringing this up?”
Qin hesitated, then bowed his head. “Why does Your Majesty ask this?”
Fu Huang was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “Forget it. Go to sleep.”
Qin: ……
But after a while, Fu Huang’s voice came again:
“If I told Huan to come share my bed—just to sleep, nothing more—do you think he’d agree?”
Qin: !!
I’m getting too old for this… I was hoping to live another hundred years, too!
He stammered, “Your Majesty… this servant couldn’t say…”
After that, master and servant both fell silent.
By the next morning, the sky was overcast and gray, the early mist draping spring in a damp, hushed stillness.
It was still quite early; most had yet to rise.
The emperor’s great tent stood alone at the center of the open field, with Prince Huan’s tent right beside it—its size and grandeur matching the emperor’s exactly.
Exceeding his station… utterly exceeding it!
Beyond that were the tents of the palace attendants and court officials, including a few record-keepers who had come from the palace to document the emperor’s daily life.
Those fellows were always up at dawn.
Qin the eunuch, planning to catch a little more rest himself, spotted a few of these record-keepers whispering behind one of the tents.
“I heard the prince had indigestion last night, and His Majesty went over to rub his stomach,” said one, his voice young—must be that newly appointed scribe.
The other sounded more seasoned. “Heard?”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly follow the emperor over there and watch, could I? But through the screen I caught a few words… His Majesty asking, ‘how do I rub it’ and so on… What do you think? Are details like that supposed to go in the record too?”
Qin felt his heart seize. !!
He cleared his throat softly.
The two scribes turned, spotted him, and hurriedly straightened their robes to bow. “Master Qin.”
Qin coughed again, putting on a kindly, grandfatherly smile. “Such trifling matters—nothing to do with governance, nothing to do with His Majesty’s virtues or faults—there’s really no need to record those, wouldn’t you say?”
The young one blinked, then quickly nodded. “Yes, of course, Master Qin speaks wisely. Domestic trivialities don’t need to be written down line by line.”
Qin’s mouth twitched.
Domestic… domestic what?!
He gave an awkward chuckle, about to take his leave, but then paused, an idea striking him. He doubled back and said, “I hear the new scribe here is quite the talent—your writing style, they say, is vivid and elegant. Would an old man like me be allowed a peek?”
Now, the imperial diary—Qiju zhu—was an official record of the emperor’s words and deeds, kept under strict rules and secrecy. By custom, not even the emperor himself was allowed to read it, so that future historians could write with fairness and truth.
Of course, rules were one thing. Few emperors actually kept their hands off. Even those who didn’t meddle in the histories were rare. Some, like Emperor Wuzong, regularly reviewed his own diary, cutting here, revising there, always ensuring his image came out spotless.
But this emperor never interfered. So long as they didn’t bother him directly, he let the scribes write as they pleased.
Which, in turn, made them even more cautious. After all, His Majesty was not exactly famous for his good temper. A man who killed without blinking—those scribes valued their lives. The less the emperor read, the more carefully they wrote.
Normally, no one else would be permitted to read it. But Qin the eunuch—trusted above all others—was, in truth, a living diary himself.
“Just the latest volume,” the scribe said.
Qin smiled gently. “That’s exactly the one I wanted to see.”
Both scribes let out a huge sigh of relief.
In the past, the imperial diary entries had all been drearily the same. Today, His Majesty fell ill. Today, His Majesty lost his temper. Today, His Majesty executed another minister. Today, His Majesty was gloomy and withdrawn…
Endless tedium. Grim, heavy stuff. Whenever they wrote it down, they did so on edge, fearful that one day the emperor might suddenly demand to read it and be enraged by what he saw.
But lately—oh, what a change.
Ever since Prince Huan returned to the palace, heaven help them, their dull, somber diaries had taken on new life! The things they had to record—too many to count! At last, all their literary talent, all their careful brushwork had somewhere to go.
Especially this new scribe, the fresh-faced one—he treated the imperial diary like a civil service exam essay, pouring his heart into it.
He dared claim that his portrayal of the emperor was that of a ruler both benevolent and brave, unmatched in wisdom and might.
On such-and-such day of such-and-such month of such-and-such year, His Majesty bestowed upon Prince Huan rare treasures, a display of imperial grace and deep affection.
On such-and-such day, His Majesty rode side-by-side with Prince Huan through the palace gates, galloping together down the Avenue of Heaven.
On such-and-such day, His Majesty gifted Prince Huan his own imperial robes and dragon medallion. Prince Huan wore them, and looked like a jade tree, a blooming orchid.
On such-and-such day, at Fuhua Temple, His Majesty released lanterns with Prince Huan, together praying for peace and prosperity across the land.
On such-and-such day, during the spring hunt, His Majesty spotted a green orchid and plucked it for Prince Huan; and on the same hunt, captured a golden deer, returned triumphant, and was gifted a jeweled belt by Prince Huan in celebration. His Majesty cherished it, wearing it day and night.
The scribes beamed as they watched Qin the eunuch leaf through the records.
Who wouldn’t see in these pages the makings of a wise and noble sovereign? These entries washed away His Majesty’s old reputation for coldness, for heartlessness, for dark and brooding ways!
But as Qin read, his expression grew ever more grave.
Oh heavens above… oh merciful heavens above.
Each of these events alone, nothing remarkable. But taken together?
This wasn’t an emperor’s diary.
This was a chronicle of imperial love.
The thought struck him like a bolt. His heart pounded, shaken and fearful.
No matter how things might turn out between His Majesty and Prince Huan, once the historians got their hands on these records, what could they write but: The emperor cherished Prince Huan deeply. The emperor adored him. The emperor loved him with steadfast devotion.
Qin’s chest ached with a bittersweet heat. He couldn’t bring himself to try to talk the emperor out of it anymore.
He’d served by the emperor’s side for so many years—he knew his master’s temperament too well. If the emperor was already thinking of sharing a bed with Prince Huan, his heart had gone too far. There’d be no turning back now.
At this rate, the emperor and Prince Huan would surely be consumed—whether by sin or passion, no one could yet say—but burn they would, a blaze like a dragon of fire roaring to the heavens, shaking the world, their names etched forever in history.
