Late October. Deep winter. On the grasslands, no plant life remained; animals either hibernated or starved. Going out hunting on a day like this, one couldn’t be sure of catching anything—and it was safer not to be hunted by starving predators.
…
Even knowing something was off, Meng Xizhao came as promised.
Commander Jin had arranged the meeting at the foot of a low hill nearest the palace. In the vast Chanyu court, this hill was a rare patch of green, covered with numerous pine trees forming a dense conifer forest.
Meng Xizhao could not ride a horse, so a Xiongnu carriage had brought him. Upon arrival, the Xiongnu left. Meng Xizhao wrapped himself in his cloak, shivering as he stood in place.
“…What is the meaning of this?”
The day was already cold, cloudy, and gloomy, with snow threatening. The pine forest was empty, animals hidden, not even a bird calling—an eerie stillness that would unsettle anyone.
Knowing Commander Jin had done this on purpose, Meng Xizhao pressed his lips together, unwilling to stand idle. If a move was made, he would have to respond.
He started to slowly search the area, calling out Jin’s name.
“Commander? Are you there?”
Suddenly, hurried footsteps approached from behind.
Meng Xizhao reflexively turned—but before he could see who it was, a blade slashed toward his chest.
Perfect. This would finally make up for that unfinished regret. His mind went blank. His legs couldn’t react in time; he just stood there dumbly.
The next moment, a black figure leaped from behind and intercepted Jin’s strike, then delivered a flying kick that sent Jin stumbling back several paces, half-kneeling.
If Jin hadn’t trained, he likely wouldn’t have gotten up again.
Yet Zhan Buxiu still wasn’t finished. Even in winter clothes, his arm muscles swelled visibly. “Xiongnu scum, you’re seeking death!”
He swung at Jin’s head. Jin wasn’t the helpless Meng Xizhao; he wouldn’t leave himself defenseless.
If Zhan’s strike landed, Jin would be dead. Realizing this, his pupils constricted.
At that moment, Meng Xizhao shouted sharply, “Stop!”
Zhan hesitated, then turned and saw Meng Xizhao striding toward him. “Did I tell you to strike? Get away!”
Zhan’s eyes blazed with anger and frustration.
This wasn’t prearranged. Meng Xizhao had thought hunting in the freezing weather would be strange, so he had casually brought Zhan Buxiu along to follow secretly. But what happened next was beyond his expectation. He truly wanted to stop Jin now.
The icy wind no longer felt as biting. Cold sweat ran down his back, and his forehead burned. In this furnace-like panic, he could not pause; he had to intervene immediately.
“If you kill him, how do we explain this to the Chanyu? How do we explain it to the Left Xianwang? The wedding hasn’t even taken place yet! You start by killing a Xiongnu commander? Zhan Buxiu, are you out of your mind?!”
Zhan: “He tried to kill you! Why can’t I defend myself?!”
Meng Xizhao reflexively glanced at Jin.
Then he asked, “Commander, would you like to explain?”
Jin Tuzhe: “…………”
How could he explain? Should he say that he hadn’t meant to kill Meng Xizhao, only scare him, make him panic, and teach him that a fence-sitter gets no favors?
But the act hadn’t gone as planned; Meng Xizhao had witnessed the drama. Explaining now would be even more humiliating.
Still, doing nothing would only worsen matters. Meng Xizhao, until now, had been a fence-sitter; after this, he might directly switch allegiance to the Right Xianwang.
Thinking this, Jin gripped his sword hilt. “You want me to explain? Who claimed to be my friend? Who promised to help the Left Xianwang? And who, fickle and indecisive, abandons loyalty at a whim! I, Jin Tuzhe, have no such friends—only enemies!”
Watching Jin’s righteous indignation, Meng Xizhao had one thought: This guy is advancing quickly in idioms…
He paused, then turned to face Jin. There was no hint of guilt or shame—only a matter-of-fact tone. “Commander, I’ve already shown my sincerity, inviting you repeatedly to meals and drinks. Yet you and the Left Xianwang never gave me clear information. And now you blame me?”
Meng Xizhao smiled. “Where in this world does one side court, the other ignores, and then, after the other side is promised elsewhere, they shout betrayal?”
He curled his lips, softening his voice. “Isn’t that shameless?”
Jin: “……”
“You—!”
Though furious, Jin knew he was in the wrong and hurriedly offered an excuse. “The prince is still considering! But you suddenly go to Fokan—so fast! Your sincerity is negligible!”
Meng Xizhao’s mind clicked—Fokan was the Right Xianwang.
The Left Xianwang? Oh, yes… Ruzhuo.
Silently, he muttered: Xiongnu names are all ridiculous. Then he frowned. “Jin Tuzhe, are you really ignorant, or pretending to be?”
This was the first time Meng Xizhao had called him by his full name, and Commander Jin wasn’t used to it; he froze for a moment.
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Meng Xizhao let out a cold laugh—another new kind of treatment. Jin even felt a little aggrieved. Just admit it—you’ve changed! You never treated me like this before!
…
Meng Xizhao continued: “Being friends isn’t one side taking while the other gives. That’s not friendship; that’s tribute. Commander Jin, you’ve heard everything I’ve said—yet do you only remember the parts that benefit you? I said that the Crown Prince is in a difficult position and needs support. Have you forgotten all of that?”
Jin was stunned.
He hadn’t truly forgotten, just hadn’t taken it to heart.
Seeing Jin’s expression, Meng Xizhao immediately knew what he was thinking. His cold laugh grew louder: “You serve the Left Xianwang and have your reservations; I don’t blame you. But must you be so lenient with yourself and harsh with others? I pledge loyalty to the Crown Prince—and only the Crown Prince. My concerns, why can’t you understand? The Left Xianwang has time; our prince does not. We can’t wait while you deliberate day after day.”
Jin: “……”
His heart sank.
Earlier, though angry, he had clung to a small hope: that Meng Xizhao hadn’t truly sworn allegiance to the Right Xianwang—it had been a misunderstanding. But now, Meng Xizhao’s words made it clear: he hadn’t only joined forces with the Right Xianwang, he did so openly, without fear of others knowing.
Damn it—what could Fokan have possibly offered Meng Xizhao?!
The thought both puzzled and alarmed Jin.
—If Meng Xizhao could persuade that stingy old Fokan to cooperate, what had he given in return?!
Jin’s mind was almost smoking.
Right Xianwang Fokan was the lifelong enemy of Left Xianwang. Even the Chanyu had no one as detestable.
Jin believed this without question. So the moment he realized Meng Xizhao had really allied with the Right Xianwang, he panicked. He sheathed his sword and approached Meng Xizhao. Zhan Buxiu, keeping a calm, inscrutable expression, was increasingly astonished. Seeing Jin come forward, he instinctively stepped up, raising his weapon to block Jin’s path.
Meng Xizhao waved at him impatiently. “Move. He won’t dare do anything to me now. Stay there and watch the area—tell me if anyone comes.”
Zhan Buxiu glanced at Jin, then at Meng Xizhao. Hesitating for a moment, he obeyed and stepped aside.
Jin’s gaze followed Zhan.
This man had defeated their eldest prince.
Even Jin, a skilled warrior, knew he couldn’t withstand a single strike from the prince. And this man had effortlessly beaten the prince, even breaking his sword. If he had been born among the Xiongnu, the position of Grand Commander would surely be his.
Well… everyone has blind spots. Just as the Qi people believed a great literary talent is valued everywhere—living without food is tolerable, but lacking respect is not—so too, the Xiongnu valued physical prowess above all. Strength could surpass knowledge of the battlefield. They naturally assumed someone like Zhan Buxiu must be rare in the Qi state and deserving of respect.
And here, Meng Xizhao had commanded Zhan Buxiu all the way, yet the man had obeyed without complaint.
Jin realized that since returning to the Xiongnu, the same thought had recurred daily: they had underestimated Meng Xizhao.
And that thought deepened each day.
Previously, the Left Xianwang had seemed uninterested in Meng Xizhao. Now, Jin suspected the prince might have made a mistake.
Even a hero has moments of decline. Ordinary people continue to fall. But a hero, given the chance, rises again and tramples everyone beneath him.
Jin turned to Meng Xizhao, his eyes filled with deep respect and a glimmer of awe.
It had not been easy. After nearly two months, Jin no longer saw him as an ordinary Qi man, but as an equal.
Recognizing him fully, Jin’s attitude shifted completely. He said earnestly: “Whatever Fokan can give you, the Left Xianwang can give—and even more.”
Meng Xizhao turned, scrutinizing him as if he were a stranger, then said with a wry smile, “That’s not bad. But what does your Left Xianwang want in return?”
Jin pursed his lips.
He had come out today entirely on his own, without consulting the Left Xianwang. Acting behind the prince’s back for the first time, he was both nervous and excited.
A good subordinate clears obstacles for his master, not merely obeys orders. Otherwise, someday, the Left Xianwang could find himself in danger.
Feeling almost like a politician, Jin narrowed his eyes slightly. “The Left Xianwang wants the loyalty of the Qi people.”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
I could slap you in the face and see if you still want loyalty.
He chuckled: “Sorry, the Qi people can’t give loyalty—only support.”
Jin pouted, thinking the Qi people were troublesome, even in their words.
“Support is loyalty, but you can only support the Left Xianwang. Not anyone else.”
Meng Xizhao considered him for a moment, feigning thoughtfulness, then asked, “Fine. Will the Left Xianwang give our Crown Prince the same support?”
Commander Jin nodded.
Meng Xizhao smiled, and this time the smile was far more genuine: “In that case, let’s see how sincere Left Xianwang truly is. Soon enough, there will be something that requires his support. When that time comes, you mustn’t let us down.”
Jin: “……”
Some attitudes, once missed, cannot be regained.
Meng Xizhao now was far bolder than before, but Jin roughly understood: this was the real Meng Xizhao. Previously, he had been deferential and ingratiating only because it served his interests.
Power… it always comes down to power.
If the highest authority among the Xiongnu rested with Left Xianwang, Meng Xizhao would never have dared to show such audacity today.
Hmph. The Qi people were right—he was a shameless little man!
＊
Commander Jin left, but Meng Xizhao didn’t immediately move. He stood there quietly, lost in thought.
When he finally snapped out of it, only Zhan Buxiu remained by his side.
Hugging his cloak tightly to block out the wind, he muttered, “Ask whatever you want.”
Zhan Buxiu hesitated: “…You truly serve the Crown Prince?”
Meng Xizhao glanced at him, thinking it a pointless question. “Haven’t you noticed over these past few days?”
“… I thought you were just putting on a show with him.”
Zhan Buxiu had assumed that the Crown Prince, being the highest-ranking member of the group, was why Meng Xizhao acted so close to him. Once back in Yingtianfu, separated from the prince, he wouldn’t behave this way anymore.
Hearing this, Meng Xizhao lifted his head and spoke seriously: “Zhan Buxiu, I need the Crown Prince.”
Zhan Buxiu froze.
Meng Xizhao continued: “Even if he is now just a powerless pawn, a figurehead established by the Emperor, I need him. Because with him present, everyone’s future will proceed more smoothly, and fewer hardships will fall upon us.”
Zhan Buxiu looked at Meng Xizhao.
He had no particular opinion about the Crown Prince—he barely knew him. Yet Meng Xizhao’s words felt like a stone tossed into a still, quiet lake: it didn’t churn into a storm, but it disturbed the peace, leaving him uneasy and unable to return to calm.
Gradually, his gaze on Meng Xizhao turned cold: “You didn’t refute the word ‘serve.’”
By not refuting it, he had tacitly admitted it. This meant Meng Xizhao genuinely believed his actions weren’t mere manipulation or pretense, but solid, unwavering loyalty.
Zhan Buxiu couldn’t accept this.
If Meng Xizhao acted purely for self-preservation or to achieve his own aims, Zhan Buxiu would have had no reaction—even if he had taken a blow meant for Emperor Tianshou, he wouldn’t be angry. He judged by heart, not by deeds.
But now, Meng Xizhao had effectively chosen a Crown Prince from the Cui clan as his master, and was entirely devoted to him…
Zhan Buxiu clenched his fists, feeling a sense of betrayal.
Meng Xizhao frowned.
He asked, “What do you consider loyalty?”
Zhan Buxiu’s tone was hard as steel: “Serving someone with your life.”
Meng Xizhao made a small “oh” sound: “Then I can’t serve anyone. I value my life above all else; I would never sell it for someone else.”
Zhan Buxiu looked at him suspiciously: “Then what about your relationship with the Crown Prince?”
Meng Xizhao fell silent.
He found Zhan Buxiu a little annoying—so many questions.
But he couldn’t avoid explaining. He needed Zhan Buxiu on board with his plan. If the plan hadn’t even set sail and Zhan Buxiu jumped ship, it would never work. Moreover, the man had a strong latent rebellious streak; Meng Xizhao didn’t want his first action, once powerful, to be striking at Zhan Buxiu.
…
“I and the Crown Prince… are roughly in a protector-and-protected relationship.”
Meng Xizhao hesitated. He wasn’t quite sure what the exact nature of their relationship was—master or servant, friend or companion. Upon reflection, it even felt a little ambiguous.
Zhan Buxiu asked: “The Crown Prince protects you?”
Meng Xizhao snapped back to himself and laughed: “Impossible—it’s me protecting the Crown Prince.”
Zhan Buxiu: “……”
“Then why do you act so close to him?”
Meng Xizhao pondered silently: “Somehow it just… happened. Now even if I wanted to distance myself, it’s too late. So I just muddle along as it is.”
In Meng Xizhao’s original plan, there had been no step requiring closeness to the Crown Prince.
With Emperor Tianshou’s temperament, getting close to any royal would bring trouble. He had planned to remain a solitary minister clinging to the Emperor. Once the Emperor died, he could maneuver again: either attach himself to the new emperor or resign quietly.
He had confidence in himself—he was clever enough to retreat unscathed nine times out of ten.
So the Crown Prince’s existence had initially been nonessential.
Yet now, when he looked back, almost every page of his plan had somehow come to include the Crown Prince’s name.
Plans are constantly revised, and the future constantly shifts. If Zhan Buxiu hadn’t asked today, Meng Xizhao might not have realized how much bigger and broader his thinking had already become.
On rare occasions, Meng Xizhao would reveal a genuine, quiet emotion beneath his usual flamboyance. Every time he did, Zhan Buxiu felt a pang of empathy.
He blurted out: “Then if that’s the case, better to decide once and for all.”
Meng Xizhao glanced at him, as if to say, You really don’t know what you’re talking about.
Zhan Buxiu: “……”
Meng Xizhao, in a tone of lofty condescension, said: “There are some things I can’t explain to you. I often act one way in front of people and another behind their backs, and I like to scheme—but I don’t scheme against everyone.”
After a pause, he said, “In short, this matter has nothing to do with you. Loyalty is my responsibility—I’ll handle it. You just focus on your own duties.”
Having said that, he hunched his shoulders. “I’m freezing. Let’s go quickly; who knows if anyone else will show up here soon.”
Zhan Buxiu actually had many questions he wanted to ask. Lately, Meng Xizhao was either out attending social affairs or spending time with the Crown Prince. When he himself was in his room, Zhan Buxiu avoided seeking him out, worried someone might notice they already knew each other. So, along the way, they hardly had any private time to talk.
But seeing Meng Xizhao’s ears flushed bright red from the cold, Zhan Buxiu had no choice and went back with him.
After their carriage had left for some time, a figure suddenly leapt down from a tall tree.
That figure went in the same direction as them, even faster than their carriage.
This world had no martial arts, yet from a young age, the palace guards were trained like special forces.
The figure ran to Cui Ye’s room and whispered everything he had overheard, then left.
Once outside, he returned to being an ordinary, obedient guard.
Cui Ye, after hearing the account, held a book in his hands and sat in silence for a long time.
Yu Fulan stood nearby, quietly groaning to herself. Why did she have to guard the prince at this hour… she would rather be guarding the Chu princess…
She held her breath lightly, eyes down on her shoes, pretending she hadn’t heard anything.
Soon, however, Cui Ye called her name.
“Yu Fulan.”
Yu Fulan quietly lifted her head. “Your Highness.”
Cui Ye kept his eyes on the book, though he could no longer focus on the text.
Yu Fulan waited for him to speak, but after a while, Cui Ye shook his head. “It’s fine. You can go. No need to attend here anymore.”
Yu Fulan blinked, worried, and stepped forward. “Your Highness…”
But that single word seemed like a switch being flipped. Cui Ye suddenly threw the book at her. It landed at her feet with a loud thud.
He stared at her, voice calm: “I said, go out. Didn’t you hear?”
Yu Fulan: “…………”
She didn’t even dare respond. Bending down, she picked up the book and swiftly left.
Experience had taught her: when the prince was angry, he only wanted to be alone. Any attempts to advise him would backfire; the best course was to leave immediately.
Yu Fulan silently stood at Cui Ye’s door. Soon, Meng Xizhao returned. His room was next door, while Zhan Buxiu’s was on the first floor. They split on the stairs. Seeing Yu Fulan, he asked with some surprise, “Yu Dutou, why aren’t you inside guarding the prince?”
Yu Fulan: “……”
You dare ask that!
He wasn’t Zhang Shuogong, lacking a fiery temper—but that didn’t mean he had none. He shot Meng Xizhao a faint glance, then turned his head, ignoring the question.
Meng Xizhao: “…?”
Meng Xizhao returned to his room. Cui Ye, hearing his voice outside, could no longer regain his usual calm. Instead, his mind grew increasingly restless.
Frankly, Meng Xizhao hadn’t said anything harsh today.
Everything he said was the truth.
Truth, therefore, was merciless.
Earlier, when Meng Xizhao called him a target, a puppet, he had felt little stir. But later, when Meng Xizhao said, “Things have turned out this way without fully understanding, and now there’s no escape,” those words repeated in Cui Ye’s mind.
He realized: Meng Xizhao was a fate, while he himself was an anomaly.
His routine disrupted, high position and power preventing offense or distance, he sank deeper and could no longer retreat. So he chose to play along, holding his nose and accepting himself as this burden.
—I need the Crown Prince.
He had heard these words months ago. Back then, Meng Xizhao said it in front of him. Listening to it, he tossed and turned, feeling emotions he could scarcely name. A life he thought was without prospects suddenly seemed to have a gaping hole, urging him to peer through, wondering if stepping outside it would reveal more of the world.
Now, he understood: Meng Xizhao’s “need” wasn’t personal; it was that the court, the empire, needed him. As one of the few still present from the Cui clan, he was worth supporting. Even if the road was perilous, Meng Xizhao would accompany him.
Truly… selfless beyond measure.
The room’s light had been extinguished. Cui Ye hadn’t lain on the bed; he simply sat in darkness, silent.
The moon rose higher, silver light spilling through the window. Cui Ye stared at the faint glow, then suddenly rose and pushed open the door.
Before, he had restrained himself—living in the palace, with too many spies around, any rash action was impossible. Now, there was no worry. Meng Xizhao was next door; this bridal escort consisted of people either marginalized or abandoned by the Da Qi court, so no one would report back.
Cui Ye, under Yu Fulan’s astonished gaze, approached Meng Xizhao’s door. He first pressed his hand lightly against it, confirming it wasn’t bolted inside. Then, with a sudden force, he pushed it open with a loud bang.
He stepped inside, then slammed the door behind him.
The whole process happened in the blink of an eye.
Yu Fulan: “……”
Truly terrifying—after spending so long among the Xiongnu, even the normally refined Crown Prince had acquired the rugged, outlaw-like air of the frontier.
…
Next door, in Meng Xizhao’s room, he wasn’t asleep either. His hair was loose as he leaned against the headboard, frowning in thought over why Yu Fulan had been so indifferent to him today.
Something abnormal always had a cause. Could it be that while he was trying to sow discord, the Xiongnu had been scheming too, sneaking someone into his household?
…
Lost in thought, the “cause” manifested itself—someone suddenly broke in.
Meng Xizhao froze, and before he could see who it was, he swiftly drew the short blade tucked under his pillow.
Cui Ye: “…”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
Cui Ye glanced at the short blade, then slowly lifted his gaze to Meng Xizhao. “Isn’t this a bit overcautious?”
Meng Xizhao paused, then slipped the knife back under the pillow. “One can never be too careful. The simpler the mind, the more impulsive the action. If a Xiongnu came back later, reconsidered, and decided to kill me… then this blade would have been useful.”
Cui Ye: “It wouldn’t be.”
Meng Xizhao froze. “Why not?”
Cui Ye walked over to the only chair in the room and sat. “Outside the inn, General Ding’s men are posted; inside, my own patrols keep watch at all times. Not even a fly could get past to reach you, let alone a Xiongnu.”
Meng Xizhao instinctively wanted to praise him: “Your Highness’s arrangements are flawless—”
He suddenly paused. “Uh, Your Highness… when you said you had people patrolling… it’s… for everyone’s protection?”
Cui Ye lifted his eyelids. “No one else needs protection. Not one of them has ever killed a Xiongnu in a day.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
So, the protection was specifically for him.
Even at night, the precautions were this strict. That explained why earlier, when he had seemed to go out alone to see Jin Tuozhe…
Meng Xizhao stiffened.
The ceremonial headpiece had been removed before going to bed; now he only wore a small hairpin—a local specialty, favored by young nobles and ladies alike.
He nervously walked over, dragged a nearby stool, and, like a shy bride, sat quietly across from Cui Ye, cautiously glancing at him.
Cui Ye remained expressionless, though his eyes briefly flicked to the little hairpin engraved with a running puppy.
Meng Xizhao was a dog.
Two years younger than him.
Other seventeen-year-olds might already be adults—or even have children—but Meng Xizhao’s seventeen years occasionally reminded him that, despite his smart appearance, he was still young. Both body and mind were not fully grown, so there was no need to be too strict with him.
Cui Ye silently reasoned this in his mind—but Meng Xizhao had no idea. Meng Xizhao even felt a sudden panic, as if he had completely let his guard down.
No matter how well the Xiongnu performed, it didn’t matter. Even if they wreaked havoc, the Crown Prince would distance himself from him just because of a few words!
He felt he should say something to fix the situation, but after pondering, he hopelessly realized nothing would work.
Meng Xizhao almost wanted to cry. “Your Highness…”
The same hesitant word that once earned Yu Fulan a book thrown at her now drew from Cui Ye a calm, steady gaze that clearly said: Go ahead, I’m listening.
…
Meng Xizhao wracked his brain for an explanation. “Your Highness, I… I should have told you already. Zhan Buxiu has a grudge against Da Qi, so when I interact with him, I pay attention to his emotions.”
This attention sometimes made him say unpleasant things.
Cui Ye: “And have you ever cared about my emotions?”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
His gut told him this was a death trap—any answer, yes or no, would displease Cui Ye.
After a long pause, he answered, “I don’t know. I meet Zhan Buxiu only once every few months, and I remember what I said clearly. But I see Your Highness so often that I can’t recall all the things I’ve said before.”
Cui Ye stared at him, then suddenly smiled.
This smile was different from usual, making Meng Xizhao’s heart flutter nervously.
At that moment, Cui Ye said, “I never realized before how good you are at soothing people.”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
Looking into Cui Ye’s eyes, he said, “That’s because I’ve never soothed anyone before.”
Cui Ye raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. Meng Xizhao added, “It’s true—I only used to deceive people.”
Cui Ye: “…”
After a pause, he asked, “So, are you saying you deceived Zhan Buxiu, or me?”
Meng Xizhao replied, “I deceived no one. What I said to Zhan Buxiu was true, and what I said to Your Highness is also true.”
Cui Ye gazed at him.
He had intended to confront him upon entering, but seeing Meng Xizhao so composed yet nervously fidgeting softened him. Even his tone softened, sounding less like an interrogation and more like a joke. “A string of truths—how it saddens me.”
Meng Xizhao peeked at him. “Then, Your Highness, could you tell me what exactly makes you sad? I’ll explain myself properly afterward.”
Cui Ye smiled. “If I let you explain, then what you said before wouldn’t be the truth anymore.”
Meng Xizhao: “It’s still the truth. But even truths differ. The truth I tell Zhan Buxiu is not the same as the truth I tell Your Highness.”
Something fresh, something new.
Cui Ye glanced at him and finally said, “You said you wanted to distance yourself from me… but that’s impossible now.”
Hearing this, Meng Xizhao’s expression subtly shifted.
He let out a sudden, relieved breath. If Cui Ye had said he minded being called a target or a puppet, he wouldn’t have known how to explain it—but this… this was easy.
“Indeed. The closer I get to Your Highness, the more impossible it becomes to step back now.”
Cui Ye looked at him, saying nothing.
Meng Xizhao blinked and, putting himself in Cui Ye’s position, finally understood why that sentence weighed so heavily on him.
Leaning forward slightly, Meng Xizhao whispered, “Do you still feel that I shouldn’t be so close to you?”
Cui Ye: “I no longer feel that way.”
Meng Xizhao gave a soft “oh” and smiled, inwardly relieved.
Then he heard Cui Ye add, “But I think you might feel that way.”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
“Why?”
Cui Ye: “Because accepting one’s fate is not the same as embracing it willingly.”
Meng Xizhao was momentarily stunned, a sense of helplessness washing over him. He sighed and asked, “Your Highness, we’ve known each other for so long—do you really see me as so incompetent?”
Cui Ye frowned, unsure what he meant.
Meng Xizhao leaned his head in his hands, feeling exhausted. “When I first met Your Highness, it was by accident. By our second meeting, I already knew your identity. If I had wanted to distance myself, I could have made the entire Ying Tian Prefecture know we were at odds that very day.”
Cui Ye: “…………”
“But I didn’t. Every subsequent time, was anyone holding a knife to my neck, forcing me to see you? No. So why do you always think I would regret meeting you?”
After a pause, Cui Ye finally answered: “Because if it were me, I would have regretted it.”
Meng Xizhao blinked.
He pressed his lips together and said, “But I am not you. I will never regret it.”
Cui Ye wanted to say, the inexperienced youth fear nothing, yet never speak of forever.
He also wanted to say that the concern extended beyond just this sentence. Being a Cui, carrying the blood of the family, even if Meng Xizhao could explain every word, he would never fully believe it. Doubts would remain in his heart for life.
But Cui Ye said nothing. Tonight, the moonlight was bright, the north wind high, and the people more enchanting than the moon.
Sometimes, Cui Ye wanted to feign simplicity, to trust the paradoxical word “forever” itself. Everything else could wait until tomorrow. Meng Xizhao did not need him now, but someday he would, and as Cui Ye had said, trying to distance himself was impossible.