Back when Zhan Shenyu’s household was ransacked, Meng Jiuyu had led the operation. Hundreds of soldiers stood guard, alert for any of Zhan Shenyu’s old followers trying to fight back.
Yet the event had occurred so suddenly that Zhan Shenyu’s former troops were trapped at the Nanzhao border and couldn’t arrive. Only the surrounding villagers watched numbly, hating the scene in their hearts yet too afraid to utter a word.
Some things need not be spoken aloud; they radiate in the harsh daylight, making every ransacker feel like a thorn in the back, filling them with isolation and fear.
This time, however, the situation of ransacking Qiu Suming’s household was different.
This operation was led by Xie Yuan, accompanied by two senior officers from the Ministry of Revenue and the Ministry of Punishments.
Emperor Tian Shou no longer entrusted the task to the Meng family—not out of concern for them, but because that day, Meng Xizhao had been so excited by the ransacking that the emperor doubted his intentions, suspecting he wanted to profit from the operation.
……
For this reason, he forbade both Meng Xizhao and Meng Xiang from participating. By regulations, Meng Xiang would have been the most suitable, as he was a censor and had contributed to Qiu Suming’s impeachment.
As for Xie Yuan, he had always remained quietly in the Secretariat, hardly causing any commotion. The emperor was not particularly fond of the Xie family, yet having watched Xie Yuan grow up, and after the Crown Prince reminded him of this, Tian Shou allowed Xie Yuan to serve as a secretary. From time to time, Xie Yuan would appear before him, wandering about without fuss.
For someone like Xie Yuan, whose character was so utterly unremarkable that even three strikes wouldn’t provoke a reaction, Emperor Tian Shou didn’t really like him. Yet he had encountered him enough times that forgetting him was impossible. So when Yan Shunying recommended candidates for the household raid, the emperor instinctively thought of Xie Yuan.
Raiding a household always meant offending people. Unless someone wanted to line their own pockets, no one volunteered. Tian Shou thought, if this task is difficult for anyone, why not assign it to Xie Yuan?
After all, the Xie family was already like lice on the body—too many to matter.
……
Xie Yuan received the imperial edict and rose without a word. Even the eunuchs could not tell whether he was pleased or displeased. When they returned to report, they didn’t know what to say.
That afternoon, after changing clothes and washing himself, Xie Yuan led his men in a grand procession to the Qiu household.
Like Meng Jiuyu before him, he brought several hundred soldiers. But unlike Meng Jiuyu, who had brought so many troops to prevent the citizens from rebelling, Xie Yuan brought them to move the treasures efficiently.
That afternoon became a story that Yingtian Prefecture would talk about for decades.
The gates of the Three Departments’ Chief official’s mansion were wide open. Inside, cries and wails never ceased. Several officials sat in the front courtyard, while box after box of treasures were carried out in a continuous stream—from noon until sunset, the work was still not complete.
The gold and silver were so heavy that the poles of the carriers snapped. Boxes tumbled to the ground, lids bursting open, and countless gold ingots spilled out. Each ingot weighed ten taels. The surrounding villagers gawked at the sight of gold strewn across the ground, finally grasping roughly how wealthy the Chief of the Three Departments really was.
From that day onward, no one would ever pay attention to Lady Meng’s dowry again. Compared to the Chief of the Three Departments’ fortune, her dowry was insignificant.
Somebody suddenly shouted “Good!” and immediately, the crowd applauded, cheering in unison.
The senior officers from the Ministry of Revenue and the Ministry of Punishments heard this and thought to silence the villagers. But Xie Yuan stopped them, instructing them to continue supervising the soldiers’ work and not be distracted by outside noise.
Xie Yuan held the higher rank, and his reasoning was impeccable. They exchanged a glance and, seeing no choice, stayed put. Outside, the cheers grew louder with each passing moment.
Ordinarily, celebrating a corrupt official’s downfall would be improper, since a corrupt official was still an officer, and taking pleasure in their misfortune could be punished.
But Xie Yuan deliberately turned a blind eye, emboldening the villagers. After venting their excitement, they began to inquire about the official leading the raid.
Upon learning his name—Xie Yuan, nephew of the late Empress Xie and cousin to the current Crown Prince—they nodded in approval, memorizing the name and even growing fonder of the Crown Prince.
Not one family, not one household—yet the Crown Prince’s cousin raided the home of the Sixth Prince’s uncle. Who was virtuous and who was corrupt was now clear.
That evening, some fainted from grief, others rejoiced.
The former, naturally, were Qiu Suming’s family. The latter, of course, was Emperor Tian Shou, who had unexpectedly acquired an enormous fortune.
Meng Xizhao had conservatively estimated that Qiu Suming’s wealth equaled ten of the Great Qi state treasuries. After the raid, though all treasures had not yet been moved, Xie Yuan had roughly accounted for everything. Converting it, the total wealth came to about thirteen state treasuries of Great Qi.
And this was not the emperor’s recollection of past revenues; it was last year’s, totaling forty-five million taels of silver.
Emperor Tian Shou’s eyes went wide as he examined the list Xie Yuan brought.
Earlier, because Qiu Suming was about to be executed, the emperor had felt some unease. Now, seeing this, he wished the law allowed him to personally skin Qiu Suming alive.
Nearly sixty million taels of silver!
Qiu Suming had served as Chief of the Three Departments for seven years. In that time, he sent the emperor only three gifts annually: a New Year gift, a birthday gift, and a gift upon his return to the capital to maintain appearances.
These gifts ranged in value, from the lightest at a hundred thousand taels to the heaviest at three to four million, totaling at most thirty million taels.
This did not include gifts padded with inflated value, such as enormous pearls supposedly harvested by tens of thousands of laborers, or Buddhist amulets consecrated by high monks from Tianzhu.
Qiu Suming was a blatant, open-handed corrupt official. He never hid his wealth and always exaggerated the value of his gifts. At first, Tian Shou didn’t notice. Later, even when he did, he let it slide due to the rarity and “free” nature of the items.
Now, however, all these details came back to him.
……
Cursed, cursed indeed!
Every time Qiu Suming had presented gifts, he claimed to have mobilized his entire family, even mortgaging his house to do so. All along, he had been mocking the emperor!
Furious, Tian Shou turned red in face and neck, immediately ordering Qiu Suming to be subjected to death by lingchi. The original plan to exile the entire Qiu family was revised: males over sixteen were to be executed, females over sixteen were to be taken into government service as prostitutes, and the remaining family members were still to be exiled—though now to Youzhou, extremely close to the Xiongnu.
……
Previously, Tian Shou had decreed that Qiu Suming be publicly hanged outside Donghua Gate. Soldiers had announced this several days in advance. The sudden change felt inappropriate. The new Minister of Punishments even asked whether the execution site should also be changed with the switch to lingchi.
Tian Shou responded decisively: Why change it? Of course not!
Keep him outside Donghua Gate for all to see. Let everyone witness the fate of someone who steals from the emperor and shows no filial devotion!
……
Executions were conducted at noon, under the hottest sun. This ensured the soul departed peacefully, preventing any restless spirit from returning to wreak havoc.
Meng Xizhao did not go to witness the scene; he did not dare. Even though Qiu Suming, the one being executed, deserved to die a thousand times over, he could not bear to watch flesh being carved away piece by piece.
But he did not go—others did.
Jinzhu led the villagers she had brought to Yingtian Prefecture. Early in the morning, they secured a prime spot at the marketplace entrance. Old and young alike fixed their eyes on the execution platform, waiting for the man to arrive.
They had never seen Qiu Suming, and Qiu Suming had never seen them. When he was brought onto the platform in his prison garb, he looked in panic at this group of bold, bloodless-fearing villagers. Unknowingly, he saw a group entirely different from the rest of the crowd.
Qiu Suming was bewildered. He had no idea who these people were, nor what suffering he had brought upon them.
……
When Meng Xizhao emerged from the new mansion, the execution was long over. Even the platform had been dismantled, and the marketplace was reset. People shared the day’s events with eager abandon, without restraint.
Qingfu arrived in his carriage at the small inn outside the city. Everyone in the inn was waiting for him.
Besides them, very few in the world knew who the true contributor to Qiu Suming’s downfall was.
The old scholar, leading the remaining villagers, knelt before him in gratitude. Meng Xizhao did not stop them. Once their emotions had calmed a little, he asked, “After returning home, you will have to start anew. The court will soon issue relief funds. Since your village became the site of this exposure, the money you receive will be slightly more than elsewhere. But having lived in the mountains all these years, your old villages have likely fallen into ruin. Restoring them will be difficult.”
He considered carefully before asking, “Would you like to stay in Yingtian Prefecture? I have some estates and plenty of good farmland. If you wish, I can register your household under my estates. Whether farming or running a trade, I will not mistreat you.”
The old scholar turned to the other villagers. They were silent for a while. Then he faced Meng Xizhao again: “We are grateful, sir, but the heart of a farmer is to return to the soil. We wish to go back to our homeland.”
Meng Xizhao looked at them and did not insist.
“Returning to the soil” may have been one reason. But seeing their uneasy expressions, he knew a more important cause: they did not want to interact with officials.
Qiu Suming was an official, and he himself was an official. Even if he was a good one in their eyes, any association with bureaucracy meant danger. After all they had endured, the last thing they wanted now was trouble.
Once the matter was settled, they did not even wish to linger for a single night. They wanted only to return home and relay the news to those left behind. Meng Xizhao sent several strong attendants with them, and Jinzhu provided them with a substantial amount of travel money. The government would never have been so generous—even if the petition was theirs, they would not receive so much.
With these funds, rebuilding the village and starting anew should be manageable. Shortages of manpower and the scars on their hearts, however, would take time to heal.
As the sunset painted the sky crimson, Meng Xizhao and Jinzhu watched the group hunching under new clothes that did not fit their figures, faces bearing smiles stiff from years of disuse. They turned and resolutely strode toward their hometown.
Smoke drifted from the tea stall. Near dusk, the streets had few passersby. Meng Xizhao and Jinzhu paused, watching until the group disappeared from view, then exchanged equally lost expressions.
Meng Xizhao called out weakly, “Jinzhu.”
She sighed in response: “My lord.”
Meng Xizhao said, “Tomorrow is the first day of the month. I will go to Jiming Temple to offer incense. If anyone at the mansion asks, you know what to say, right?”
Jinzhu, expressionless, replied: “Yes.”
Meng Xizhao continued, “Also, all the matters of the new mansion, I leave in your hands, alright?”
What else could Jinzhu say? She could only nod, expression numb.
She had once read in gossip and stories of ladies secretly meeting their lovers in temples, committing unspeakable acts under the Buddha’s gaze. Never had she imagined that now, she would witness such things firsthand.
Not only witness, but also become a participant in their “play.”
…It was sinful.
＊
Even as the poison began to subside, the Crown Prince’s routine of offering prayers on the first and fifteenth of each month remained unwavering.
Because the poison was not fully cleared, he still felt discomfort on these days, though far less severe than before.
If asked, Cui Ye could not truly say whether it was the medicinal decoctions and baths that worked, or simply the Prince’s well-lived life and good mood that kept the lingering poison from stirring.
……
Meng Xizhao and the Crown Prince departed on separate routes, to later converge at the back hill.
Before going to the back hill, Meng Xizhao had to first correct the lie he had told the year before—namely, renewing the incense money for the Eternal Lamp he had promised Emperor Tian Shou.
Soon he would be running the mansion and managing his own affairs. Even with ample funds now, handing over five hundred taels of silver was painful.
Expressionless, Meng Xizhao gave the silver to the monk before him, then turned sharply to leave.
Before he had even taken a step, a small novice appeared from behind, looking at Meng Xizhao with delight.
“Benefactor, please wait!”
Meng Xizhao froze.
He eyed the little monk warily. Could it be that, seeing his generosity, the boy hoped to make him an unwitting donor once more?
Unaware of Meng Xizhao’s suspicious nature, the novice stepped closer and performed a monk’s bow: “Amitabha. It has been long since we last saw the benefactor. May I ask if you have encountered any troubles?”
When the little novice spoke, his eyes sparkled as he looked at Meng Xizhao, so bright and innocent that anyone overhearing might think he was hoping Meng Xizhao would encounter some trouble.
Meng Xizhao: “…”
Well, it wasn’t exactly a curse—after all, he had encountered a lot of trouble recently.
After a brief pause, he replied, “Indeed, as the young master says, I have been extremely busy of late, which is why I’ve visited so few times.”
And in the future, he would continue to visit even less. Once the Crown Prince fully recovered, they would stop coming altogether.
……
The little novice had a round, cherubic face, and when he smiled, he looked even more endearing. “Ah, that explains why in the past few months I kept waiting for the benefactor and never saw you. I even recited the Kṣitigarbha Sutra several times on your behalf, hoping to ward off calamities and bring you safety.”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
He gave the boy a strange look.
Oh no, it seemed he had become the focus of attention. Even in a holy Buddhist place, they would stop at nothing to promote themselves—even sending children out to do business!
……
“I also—” Meng Xizhao began.
Something to do.
He didn’t finish the sentence before the little novice tugged him outside, insisting he not delay other worshippers. Once outside, the unusually lively novice began to chatter like beans pouring from a bamboo tube: “Do you remember, benefactor, the last time you said to me, ‘A thousand strikes of the wooden fish are worth less than a single packet of herbs; reciting sutras to aid the deceased is less than helping an orphaned child’?”
Meng Xizhao recalled, and indeed he remembered. Previously, feeling regret for the money he had wasted, he had spoken a few pointed words to the collector.
Ah, so the collector back then had been this very little novice.
Meng Xizhao fell silent for a moment. “Young master, is there any problem with what you’re telling me?”
The little novice shook his head rapidly. “No problem at all. I think what benefactor said is excellent. Reciting sutras is a minor good deed; saving lives is the greatest good. Your words enlightened Lotus Pond greatly. Now, Lotus Pond no longer accepts incense money. Each day, he collects firewood to exchange for coins, then goes down the mountain to serve porridge. My master said that benefactor is fated with the Dharma, so Lotus Pond has been waiting here all this time.”
Meng Xizhao thought: collecting firewood would barely earn a few coins; this little novice must spend a month just to serve two bowls of porridge.
Also, as for him doing anything—forget it. He had long since shunned worldly affairs, and even when single, he had never intended to become a monk.
Seeing the little novice’s earnest attitude, Meng Xizhao politely declined, explaining he had no intention of entering the Buddhist path. The boy, misunderstanding him, still smiled.
“I am not here to convert you, benefactor. My master believes you are fated with our Dharma, and wished to meet you.”
Realizing his mistake, Meng Xizhao did not feel embarrassed, only slightly puzzled.
He blinked, asking, “May I ask, who is your master?”
At this, the little novice straightened proudly. “My master’s dharma name is Mingyuan. He is the elder with the greatest authority in the temple.”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
A chill shot from his feet to his head, almost giving him goosebumps.
Mingyuan—wasn’t he the same monk who had issued the fatal decree upon the original master? Last year, his mother had insisted on bringing him to meet this monk. Fortunately, he had encountered the Crown Prince at the time and avoided the meeting. His mother had even lied to persuade him, and it was only because Meng Xizhao let slip a detail that he knew what was happening. Who knew what the monk would have said if they had met that day?
Though Meng Xizhao remained an atheist, after all the improbable things he had encountered in this world, who knew if Mingyuan truly possessed some supernatural ability…
Better to escape. He could not risk even a one-in-ten-thousand possibility.
Meng Xizhao chuckled softly, instantly dropping his previous patience. He explained that he had urgent matters at home, exchanged some polite words, and then decisively turned to leave the temple courtyard.
Once past the temple gate, he checked to make sure no one followed and finally exhaled. He then took a shortcut to the back hill.
He knocked on the door. Zhang Shuogong came to open it. Seeing Meng Xizhao, he furrowed his brows: “Why have you arrived so late, Master Meng?”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
Believe it or not, he thought.
He waved dismissively, uninterested in explaining. Zhang Shuogong, seeing this, did not press and merely stepped aside.
Cui Ye had been waiting. Upon seeing him, his first words were, “Why have you arrived so late, Second Lord?”
The same question, and Meng Xizhao’s face fell. “I was held up by a little novice named Lotus Pond. He insisted I was fated with the Dharma and wanted to take me to meet his master. Do you know who his master is?”
Cui Ye asked, “Who?”
Meng Xizhao: “Monk Mingyuan! When I was an infant, this very monk issued me a decree of early death. Because of that decree, I suffered countless hardships! My family abandoned me. Each day was just eating, drinking, and playing for appearances. How miserable was that!”
Cui Ye: “…”
His complex feelings instantly reduced to speechlessness.
After a moment, he said, “Perhaps it would not hurt to go see him.”
Meng Xizhao had intended to confront this absurd monk with Cui Ye. Hearing that, he looked at him in surprise.
Cui Ye: “…”
He hadn’t said anything outrageous.
Meng Xizhao, studying him as if seeing him for the first time, asked, “Who said they didn’t believe in gods and Buddhas?”
Cui Ye quietly answered, “I did. But regarding anything concerning you, Second Lord, I cannot help but consider it more carefully. It is safer to believe than to doubt. Perhaps if you meet this elder, he might issue a different decree.”
Meng Xizhao feared precisely that—a new decree. He feared that if they met, Mingyuan would glare, lift his monk’s staff, and shout: “Hey! Demon, give me your life!”
“…………”
Shaken by the image forming in his mind, Meng Xizhao shook his head resolutely. “I’m not going. The decree was issued by him, but this life—I broke it myself. That proves his power is not even as great as mine. So why should I go see him?”
Cui Ye had initially just wanted some peace of mind. Seeing Meng Xizhao unwilling to go, and hearing his bold words, Cui Ye pondered for a moment and found himself smiling in agreement. “Indeed, that makes sense. With such a mindset, Second Lord will surely live a long life, free from illness and calamity.”
Meng Xizhao glanced at him, then turned his gaze away. “Longevity isn’t my pursuit. To live long without companionship is far lonelier than an early death.”
When Cui Ye heard the words early death, a nerve in his mind seemed to be tugged sharply—painful for a moment, then quickly recovering. Other than making him a little stiff, it had no other effect.
After regaining composure, Cui Ye noticed the rest of Meng Xizhao’s words. He paused, as if the previously tugged nerve was now being gently soothed.
Unable to help himself, Cui Ye looked at Meng Xizhao with eyes so tender they seemed about to overflow.
He took Meng Xizhao’s hand, guiding it to meet his gaze, and softly said, “I will always be with you, Second Lord. No matter where, no matter when. I may not believe in gods or Buddhas, but I believe in you, and in us. Even if death snuffs out our lights, we will still walk side by side, through any path, to any end.”
Meng Xizhao: “…If you say it like that, and fail to do it, I’d be very disappointed.”
Cui Ye lowered his eyes and smiled slightly, a trace of helplessness showing.
“Even now, Second Lord probably doesn’t truly understand what you mean to me.”
Meng Xizhao froze for a moment, recalling something, then lowered his head in silence, unsure what to say.
Cui Ye didn’t push him, didn’t respond—yet this absence of reply carried a subtle weight of longing. He had known from the beginning that Meng Xizhao’s feelings for him were never as intense or deep as his own.
It didn’t matter.
Truly, it didn’t matter. Their lives had been so different, each with their own surroundings. The day he met Meng Xizhao might have been ordinary to Meng Xizhao, but for him, it was the first time he had received genuine kindness from a stranger.
That day, Meng Xizhao had behaved so naturally, obviously not for the first time. Every small kindness he had offered became something Cui Ye would treasure and pursue with unwavering devotion.
From the very beginning, there was an imbalance. Cui Ye never felt superior simply because he was a prince. Rather, being the prince meant he had certain deficiencies from birth, and he was destined to carry them, slowly growing into his own.
Cui Ye was skilled at self-consolation and self-awareness. He never demanded much, which made him an exceptionally considerate lover—at least, when he was with Meng Xizhao, the other felt no discomfort at all.
At that moment, Cui Ye was quietly reassuring himself, unaware that Meng Xizhao had lifted his head again, looking at him with curiosity.
Suddenly, Meng Xizhao asked, “What are you thinking?”
Cui Ye blinked, instinctively answering, “Nothing.”
Meng Xizhao frowned. “Nothing? Why have you suddenly gone quiet? Could it be that when you face me, you truly have nothing to say?”
Cui Ye: “…I don’t think that way.”
Meng Xizhao: “Then are you saying bad things about me in your mind?”
Cui Ye could only laugh and cry at the same time. “How could I? How could I ever speak ill of you, Second Lord?”
Yet as soon as he said this, Meng Xizhao tensed completely. “Then why don’t you say bad things about me?”
Cui Ye: “…………”
Was there anywhere left to reason? Even refraining from saying bad things became a fault.
But Meng Xizhao had his own logic. “Before, you and I were friends, so it was normal not to say bad things about me. But now, we are… this. How can you still not say bad things? Do you still think I’m just a friend? Cui Ye, I am no longer your friend. I am your—”
He paused, searching for a suitable title. Husband? No. Boyfriend? Cui Ye wouldn’t understand. Lover? Too clingy, almost illicit.
Finally, he settled on: “I am yours! And you are mine. Do you understand what that means? It means what others cannot do, you may. What others cannot ask of me, you may. If I seem happy when you accommodate me, that is not enough—I want to see you and me as inseparable, not you constantly sacrificing or tolerating. If something about me displeases you, speak it. If you bottle it up, one day you will no longer want to tolerate, and I—”
He cut himself off.
He realized his voice had grown too loud, his grievance too heavy. He didn’t want to complain so much; it felt unbecoming.
Meng Xizhao fell silent again, turned away, lips pressed together, slowly digesting the sudden surge of emotion.
He did not notice Cui Ye staring at him in daze, a look so silly that if drawn, it would become an unrepeatable black mark in his life.
……
Cui Ye gazed at Meng Xizhao’s profile in astonishment. This was perhaps only the second time he had made Meng Xizhao angry—the first being when Meng Xizhao had gaped, declaring he had only a dozen years to live.
This time, the anger was different. Previously, Meng Xizhao had been furious. Now, though less intense, the unwillingness to even glance at Cui Ye stirred a complex, hard-to-describe ache in him.
It felt as if his stomach had been squeezed—dull, not painful, with a faint twinge of sourness rising.
After a moment of silence, Cui Ye finally asked, “And what am I—”
Meng Xizhao furrowed his brows, turning to him, unsure what he meant.
Cui Ye: “Just now you said, ‘And I…’ What were you going to say after that?”
Meng Xizhao reacted after a second, turning his head angrily. “Why should I tell you?”
Cui Ye: “I want to know.”
Meng Xizhao ignored him.
Cui Ye watched him for a moment, waited a little, then spoke again: “If you don’t tell me, I’ll start saying bad things about you in my heart.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
He looked at Cui Ye with a complicated expression.
You’re really like a stubborn mule—won’t budge unless forced.
But he gave up on arguing. After a pause, he said flatly, “And I would be left behind, completely unaware, standing in place in confusion, unable to comprehend why this is the way you and I end up.”
Cui Ye’s expression shifted slightly, though so subtly that no one could tell what he was thinking.
After a while, he suddenly laughed.
Meng Xizhao bristled. He wasn’t asking because he didn’t care—he had been waiting for Cui Ye’s response. Hearing this and not being comforted, just laughed—what kind of meaning was that?!
With a swoosh, Meng Xizhao stood up. Cui Ye was very familiar with this expression; whenever he saw it, it meant Meng Xizhao had entered “combat mode” and someone was about to get scolded—or worse.
Cui Ye cleared his throat, quickly grabbing his arm to bring him closer. He stood as well, intending to soothe him, but seeing Meng Xizhao’s furious gaze, he couldn’t help laughing again.
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Before he could erupt completely, Cui Ye finally spoke: “I laughed because Second Lord truly values me.”
Speaking calmed him slightly. Holding Meng Xizhao’s face, Cui Ye looked into his still-skeptical eyes and sighed with a helpless smile: “Who would abandon their own life and safety? If someone truly did that, they’d be stepping straight into the gates of death. Now, don’t be angry. I remember your words. In the future, I’ll try not to tolerate as much—but if I fail, Second Lord mustn’t despise me, alright?”
Cui Ye always carried himself with such generosity. Normally, Meng Xizhao should have felt reassured, but for some reason, he felt even more annoyed.
As if he alone were being unreasonable.
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Squinting slightly, he said, “I won’t despise you. At worst, the ending is reversed—not you abandoning me, but I abandoning you.”
He suddenly clenched his fingers, causing pain. Instinctively, he went to cover his face, but the one who caused it looked even more flustered. Bending down quickly, Cui Ye checked the marks on Meng Xizhao’s cheek.
Luckily, it was only a little red; it should fade soon.
Seeing nothing serious, Cui Ye had Meng Xizhao sit, gently rubbing his face. Then, serious, he said, “Don’t ever say things like that again.”
Meng Xizhao glanced at him but didn’t reply.
Cui Ye softened his tone, conceding slightly: “I know the first scenario won’t happen, which is why I could laugh so freely. But the latter…”
Meng Xizhao noticed Cui Ye trailing off, turning to look at him. After their eyes met, Cui Ye pressed his lips and spoke the rest: “Second Lord is really cruel. Knowing I cannot bear to hear such words, you still say them, digging at my heart.”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
He instinctively straightened. When he had blurted it out, he had intended to tease Cui Ye. Now, being called out, he suddenly felt guilty.
He peeked at him quietly. “Are you angry?”
Cui Ye looked at his slightly regretful expression and nodded gently. “A little.”
Hearing him admit it, Meng Xizhao felt a little bloom in his chest. He almost smiled but maintained his expression, slowly sliding closer.
Once he reached Cui Ye, Meng Xizhao shed his calm demeanor, hugging him, pressing his face to his ear, nuzzling a few times in a playful, coaxing way: “I misspoke. I won’t say such things again.”
Cui Ye let him nuzzle, and only after he stopped did he look down, their eyes meeting silently. After a few moments, their lingering gaze was deliberately broken, and both leaned closer, erasing the last bit of distance between them.
After a long while, Cui Ye kissed the top of Meng Xizhao’s head, looking thoughtfully into the air.
So Second Lord enjoyed it when he was angry, upset, or unreasonable—he liked this domineering, impossible-to-ignore side of him.
Should have said it earlier! If you’d said you liked this, I could have shown my true nature and stopped all this self-reassurance!
Meng Xizhao leaned against him, savoring the sense of being cherished from the kiss, eyes slightly narrowed, watching Cui Ye’s sleeve, thoughtful.
Cui Ye had some insecurities, no wonder he was so careful. Dating him felt like playing a character in an otome game—always overthinking, unsure if Cui Ye was truly invested.
Should have said it earlier! If you’d admitted your insecurity, I could have responded appropriately instead of doubting myself every day!
The two exhaled silently together. Though their skin touched, mentally, they were still far apart.