The moment he laid eyes on him, tears welled up uncontrollably.
His emperor was indeed thinner than before. His skin had darkened a bit, the angles of his face more pronounced, his features carved sharper by hardship—but that only made him seem more steadfast, more resolute. There was now the bearing of a true sovereign about him—a ruler who had conquered and endured.
Yet beneath that regal presence lingered the scars and fierce edge left by war. It was as if the long, bitter journey through the cold winds had seeped into his very soul, leaving behind a chill that no cloak could keep out.
Fu Ye tilted his head back, gazing up at Fu Huang. His gaze fell on those parched, cracked lips, and in that instant, he ached to lean in, to kiss him, to soothe that dryness with his own warmth.
But with all eyes upon them, he could only bow deeply, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“Your humble brother welcomes Your Majesty home in triumph.”
Fu Huang dismounted, his gaze never leaving Fu Ye.
Even from afar, he had seen him.
There he stood—at the very front of the crowd.
The drums thundered like a storm, golden bells and jade chimes rang out in unison. The civil and military officials lined up in perfect order according to rank: the scholars on the east, holding ivory scepters; the warriors on the west, with ceremonial blades at their sides. Behind them, tens of thousands of nobles and ladies of the capital, dressed in their finest silks and jewels, filled the space as far as the eye could see—all their attention burning upon him.
But Fu Ye, standing there, outshone them all. His eyes drew every bit of Fu Huang’s focus.
He was thinner now too, but somehow stood taller, prouder than the day they parted. Tears glimmered in his eyes as he struggled to hold himself together.
That face—how many sleepless nights had it haunted Fu Huang’s dreams?
The music fell silent. All that remained was the sound of the wind. The master of ceremonies cried out, his voice trembling with passion,
“Kneel in salute!”
And in unison, tens of thousands fell to their knees, welcoming their sovereign home.
“Long live the Emperor! Long live His Majesty, ten thousand years!”
“Congratulations to His Majesty on his triumphant return! May your great deeds last a thousand autumns, may the realm know peace and prosperity!”
The roar shook the heavens, echoing across the vast land.
But Fu Huang stepped forward. As Fu Ye moved to kneel with the rest, he caught him up in his arms.
Fu Ye gasped in surprise. A rush of heat swept through him, and his legs nearly gave way.
Their robes were cold as ice—but their hearts burned as one.
In that moment, Fu Ye forgot everything.
Forgot the rites, forgot the proprieties—he simply raised his arms and embraced Fu Huang in return.
He didn’t smell the familiar hint of medicine, didn’t feel the warmth of Fu Huang’s body through the thick layers—but that grip, that tight, unyielding embrace, was enough to fill his heart to the brim.
The Empress Dowager stepped forward, her voice steady but touched with emotion.
“The Emperor has returned.”
Only then did Fu Ye release Fu Huang, wiping away his tears as he straightened himself. Fu Huang, though, kept hold of his hand.
The cold wind tugged at their robes, the two garments rippling together as one.
Fu Huang turned to the gathered crowd and said,
“Rise.”
In that moment, with all eyes upon them, Fu Ye steadied his racing heart. Yet his fingers trembled ever so slightly. Fu Huang’s hand, stronger now, its bones more prominent, its skin rougher, gripped his tightly. His fingertips were ice cold, while Fu Ye’s hand—pampered in the palace’s warmth—was even paler and softer than before. Fu Huang’s grip was firm, the cold biting into his skin, sending a sharp sting through him. That sting anchored him in reality, leaving him dizzy with the rush of it all.
Goosebumps rose over his entire body.
Whether from the cold or the storm of emotion, he couldn’t tell—but beneath his robes, his body felt drawn taut, like a bowstring pulled to its limit.
He dared not look at Fu Huang again, and Fu Huang didn’t look back at him either.
Qin Neijian, Zhang Gui, Xu Zongyuan, and the others all dismounted as well.
Qin Neijian’s eyes were still rimmed red. Afraid of being seen in such a state, he kept his head lowered slightly, his red ceremonial robe rustling softly in the wind.
And so began the grand welcoming ceremony—one they’d rehearsed countless times in the palace before this day.
First came the most solemn rite of all: the offering to Heaven.
Fu Ye walked ahead, leading Fu Huang toward the altar. He didn’t dare glance back.
The wind was bitter cold, but he burned from within—as if fire and ice clashed inside him, and the collision left him floating somewhere between reality and dream.
His princely robe was of black silk embroidered with golden serpents, so similar to what Fu Huang himself had once worn that for a moment, Fu Huang felt the illusion that it was his own garment swaying ahead of him. Following close behind, his gaze fell on those undulating gold patterns, on the pale nape peeking out beneath, and the faint, clean scent of spring in snow drifted toward him—washing away, if only for a heartbeat, the iron tang of blood that had clung to him these many days.
The horns sounded—the solemn Flame’s Blessing melody filled the air.
The flutes began—the Mandate of Heaven rang clear and bright.
The chimes followed—the triumphant notes of the Song of Victory soaring.
The eight rows of ceremonial dancers began their stately movements as the two men ascended the altar.
Atop the altar, the Nine-Dragon throne gleamed with gold lacquer, draped beneath a yellow canopy embroidered with cloud-dwelling dragons. The Emperor stepped forward to offer his sacrifices: the green jade bi, the yellow jade cong, the black jade huang—each one placed with reverence upon the sacred table.
Then came the symbol of their hard-won peace—Li Dun and three other guards, clad in gold armor, stepped forward, bearing aloft the black iron war armor and laying it solemnly upon the altar of weapons.
Grand Chancellor Xie knelt and presented the newly drawn map of the empire’s expanded borders. Fu Huang pressed the imperial jade seal upon it then and there.
Next came Fu Ye’s turn.
He stepped forward, holding in both hands the command tally that granted authority over the Imperial Guard, and offered it to Fu Huang. His voice was steady, though soft.
“Your brother is grateful to have fulfilled his duty.”
He lifted his gaze, meeting Fu Huang’s eyes for a fleeting instant before dropping it again.
Fu Huang took the tally and handed it back to Qin Neijian behind him.
Fu Ye then presented the golden record—engraved with the deeds and victories that had secured peace for the realm, destined to be written into the annals of history.
After offering it, he stepped back two paces. A gust of wind stirred his robes, and the black jade dragon token at his waist clinked softly against his belt, its clear tones ringing in the cold air.
Throughout the ceremony, Fu Ye moved with impeccable poise—a model of royal dignity. But only he knew how tautly strung he was, like a bow drawn to its breaking point. A single touch from Fu Huang, and he feared he would fall apart.
When the rites concluded, he withdrew to the Empress Dowager’s side.
She looked at him with maternal affection. “Is it too cold for you?”
Fu Ye nodded silently.
She ordered a phoenix cloak studded with tiny jade pieces draped over his shoulders. Then she turned to Fu Huang and said,
“The wind is sharp here, Your Majesty. Please ascend the imperial chariot and let the people have their glimpse of you.”
But Fu Huang looked at Fu Ye and said simply,
“Let the Prince ride with me.”
The Empress Dowager paused—
Ah well. After all the Emperor had achieved, after so long apart from his brother, what harm in granting him this small wish? The Prince, now seasoned by his service as regent, was no longer someone easily slighted.
Besides, today belonged to them both—both had earned the people’s cheers.
She glanced at Fu Ye and said softly,
“Go on, then.”
Fu Ye’s heart pounded as he dipped his head and lowered the veil of his hat. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The imperial chariot had been crafted especially for Fu Huang’s triumphant return, its name symbolic: The Chariot of All Renewal. Gleaming gold formed its main frame, carved with dragons and clouds in silver. The shafts and yoke were inlaid with slivers of ivory. The canopy of the carriage, woven from the finest silk, bore sun, moon, and stars embroidered in shimmering threads. Nine strands of jade tassels hung from its eaves, and even the curtains were woven from gold thread. Its massive wheels and sturdy spokes gleamed in the morning light, imposing and magnificent.
Fu Huang boarded first.
Fu Ye pressed his lips together, exchanged a glance with Qin Neijian, then followed him inside.
Outside, all knelt, watching as the two figures—one in black, one in red—disappeared behind the golden veil of the chariot.
There was still some distance to the city gates. Inside, the chariot was warm, with soft cushions, the faint perfume of incense filling the air.
But Fu Ye, inexplicably, began to tremble all over—perhaps the sudden shift from cold to warmth had overwhelmed him.
Fu Huang didn’t hesitate. He drew him close, settling him on his knee, studying him.
Fu Ye’s face was hidden beneath his veil, but his eyes, dark as ink, flickered like a startled deer’s, stripped now of all the princely composure he had shown during the ceremony.
Fu Huang lifted the veil, revealing his flushed face.
Fu Ye gazed at him, dazed, as if he’d lost his senses. But Fu Huang knew better—he hadn’t.
It was simply that the tide of love had swept him away.
Fu Huang pressed his forehead to his. His own was cold, Fu Ye’s burning hot.
Their breath mingled, warm and close. Fu Huang whispered,
“Stunned speechless, are you?”
Fu Ye’s tears spilled over, glistening down his cheeks.
In that moment, he was so beautiful.
It was worth every mile Fu Huang had ridden, every bitter wind he had braved, to return to him.
Fu Huang brushed away Fu Ye’s tears, tasting their saltiness—but in his mouth, they seemed sweet.
Outside, Qin Neijian’s trembling voice called out,
“Your Majesty, the imperial procession is ready to depart!”
As the carriage began to move, Fu Huang kissed him.
It was as if Fu Ye suddenly came alive. He opened his mouth willingly, and their lips and tongues entwined, the contact like a spark that instantly set them both aflame.
Fu Huang pressed down on the back of Fu Ye’s head, making him lie back and take the force of his fierce, hungry kisses. Fu Ye could only swallow again and again, his lips trembling, saliva slipping from the corners of his mouth as he shook in Fu Huang’s arms—until he was shuddering so hard he sobbed aloud, his mind breaking before his body, overwhelmed by the flood of long-held longing and the familiar breath he had missed so bitterly. In that moment, he reached a peak of emotion beyond words.
Fu Huang kissed him with almost desperate greed—his lips, his face, his neck. What they had endured wasn’t just separation; it had been countless nights on the edge of life and death. The war had cost them both half their souls. And now, together again, they felt whole—half him, half him.
It felt like a dream—to feel the living warmth of his beloved again in the cold of winter.
Fu Ye tried to stifle his sobs, burying his face in Fu Huang’s chest, and Fu Huang didn’t try to comfort him. He just kept kissing away his tears.
Fu Ye rubbed his cheek against Fu Huang’s face. His skin was rougher now, hardened by the wind and sun, dry and coarse. Fu Ye’s lips brushed over it, gently, again and again.
But Fu Huang’s gaze darkened. His large hand wrapped around Fu Ye’s neck, sliding upward. His calloused fingers left faint red lines against his pale skin. Fu Ye tilted his head back, as if Fu Huang might break his neck the next second.
Like his cold skin, it felt as though Fu Huang’s soul had been soaked too long in killing and death—he’d changed, become colder, fiercer, more dangerous than before.
Outside, Qin Neijian gently knocked on the window.
“Your Majesty, Your Highness—the city gates are near.”
Inside, Fu Ye pulled away, wiped his tears, and whispered,
“So many have waited for you. They’ve been here since before dawn.”
His eyes sparkled with tears and pride, eager for Fu Huang to see the glory that awaited him.
Two lines of imperial guards, dressed in brilliant yellow robes, marched in perfect unison, emerging from the gate. Their tall yellow standards, adorned with pearls and feathers, rippled like golden clouds under the sun, forming a shining path that stretched toward the approaching chariot. The people’s cheers rose before the carriage even arrived.
Red paper flowers rained down along with sprigs of pine and plum blossom. The air filled with cries and shouts, as if the whole city were boiling over with joy.
Zhang Gui and the honored soldiers on horseback led the way. Amidst the roar of the crowd, snowflakes began to fall—red petals mingling with white snow, drifting down together.
The curtain of the imperial chariot slowly lifted, and the thunderous cheers rushed inside.
Tens of thousands lined the avenue, gazing at the black-robed, golden-dragon-clad emperor and the prince beside him, draped in his red phoenix cloak.
“This emperor is a hero for the ages, a ruler of unmatched might!”
“And our prince—so wise, so beloved of the people!”
“With these two as the empire’s twin stars, how could our dynasty not shine in splendor!”
“Long live the emperor! Long live the emperor!”
“Welcome home, Your Majesty!”
“Victory to His Majesty!”
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”
Behind them, the Empress Dowager’s eyes glistened again with tears.
Sun Gongzheng murmured,
“Your Majesty’s blessings let us see such a day of glory.”
In the crowd, Wei Simei watched the imperial chariot pass, his heart finally settling as he saw Xie Liangbi, tall and stern, riding behind, and then Xiao Yichen, grinning and waving proudly to the crowds on both sides.
They were all home.
He stopped, standing there as the riders disappeared into the distance.
Behind them, the nobles’ carriages streamed through the gates after the imperial chariot.
The great gates stood open. The emperor, the prince, the empress dowager all entered through the main gate, while the others took side gates, joining again on the palace road.
Snow fell softly, the gates muffling the cheers outside. This was unmatched glory. A hero-emperor returned in triumph, his name destined for history. And beside him, the prince. The passion of victory burned in his chest—so fierce it turned to something darker, more possessive.
Inside, the palace was festooned with lanterns and red silk. From the main gate to Qingyuan Palace, everything was bright with celebration. The servants knelt in welcome.
Fu Huang stepped down. Snow dusted the black tiles. Fu Ye followed him into the Spring Court.
Qin Neijian stopped the others.
“Let the prince attend the emperor alone. The rest of you, wait outside.”
“Yes, sir!”
The state banquet awaited.
Fu Ye helped Fu Huang remove his robes, standing close enough to breathe him in—the scent of battle, of the long road home—and seeming to savor it.
Fu Huang caught his chin, holding him still.
The warmth of the room flushed Fu Ye’s cheeks red. He met Fu Huang’s gaze, feeling that strangeness between them, that unfamiliarity born of too long apart.
He wasn’t used to a Fu Huang without the scent of bitter medicine. This Fu Huang was leaner, colder, but the love in his heart still burned bright. And that wasn’t loss—it was change.
Fu Huang lifted his chin higher, making him look up—at the stubble on his jaw, the hard angles of his face.
The war had quieted his words, hardened his soul.
Fu Ye thought: Tonight, I’ll help bring him back.
“Neijian,” Fu Huang called.
Qin Neijian entered. “Your Majesty?”
“Tell them—I won’t be attending the banquet. I’m too weary from the journey.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“No one is to linger in this courtyard. No one is to enter Qingyuan Palace.”
“…Yes, Your Majesty.”
Fu Ye’s heart jumped. Before he could speak, Fu Huang said,
“Leave us.”
Fu Ye glanced back once—but Fu Huang had already swept him up, carrying him toward the bed.
Fu Ye flushed to the roots of his hair. In that instant, it felt as if he’d turned to molten honey in Fu Huang’s arms. Fu Huang laid him on the brocade quilt. The unfamiliarity between them hadn’t fully faded, making Fu Ye shy.
“You… you still…”
“Take it,” Fu Huang said.
His voice was deeper now, his command more forceful.
It was terrifying—how much stronger he seemed.
And yet… Fu Ye looked at him, the man who had unified the world, and his ears flushed red all the way to their tips.
His beloved had just returned from the edge of death, from battlefields soaked in blood. His heart was dark, his body cold, his spirit weary and bitter. Fu Ye felt it was his duty to bring sweetness back to him, to warm him, to guide him back into the light of spring.
Fu Huang stood before him now, shedding the last of his robes.
His frame was even more powerful than before—his shoulders broader, his back more solid, his sides rippling faintly with muscle. His entire being was like a sword—
A sword that could kill with a single stroke.
He climbed onto the bed, his black eyes fixed on Fu Ye, so dark they seemed to pierce the soul.
Outside, heavy snow began to fall, the flakes as large as goose feathers. The servants of Qingyuan Palace had mostly retreated—some to the side halls near the main gate, some to neighboring Changqing Palace. Qin Neijian himself stood watch at the palace gates. Shuangfu draped a sable cloak over him. Listening to the wind howl along the eaves, he said,
“Good thing His Majesty returned before the snow started. It’s bitter cold tonight.”
Qin Neijian rubbed his hands together, tilting his head up to watch the sky.
“A good snow means a good harvest,” he said quietly.
Shuangfu smiled, lifting his gaze as well.
What a heavy snow this was.
It reminded Qin Neijian of the first time the prince had come to the palace—also on a snowy day.
And so, he always thought of snow as a sign of blessing.
At Fengchun Palace, the ministers and nobles were already waiting inside. Because of the snowfall, the servants had laid golden felt across the entire courtyard, with red silk draped everywhere.
Over the years, palace banquets had become annual affairs—but the guests always dined in fear, as if these gatherings were more punishment than celebration.
Since His Majesty had ascended the throne, this was truly the first time the palace felt so alive. The halls glowed with green and red decorations, and even the snow couldn’t chill the joy that burned in everyone’s hearts.
