Chapter 4: The So-called Backup

Chapter 4: The So-called Backup

After that day, Xiao Han quickly adapted to his new, over-the-top identity.

Never been an emperor before? No worries, the playbook has it covered.

Don’t know how to handle official documents? No worries, the playbook has it covered.

Don’t know how to govern a country, master imperial strategies, expand territories, or balance court factions? All of that is no problem, as long as you can manage romance!

Everyone in their student days has fantasized about having a Doraemon, a magical cat that could stuff all knowledge directly into their brains with its wondrous gadgets. Xiao Han was no exception. Although in some ways this childish wish seemed to have come true, he couldn’t feel happy about it at all.

Thus, in the eyes of ministers, eunuchs, and concubines, Emperor Qing’s unpredictable temperament became even more severe and fearsome than before.

Snowflakes drifted down, covering the entire palace in a silver cloak.

Xian Fu, holding a lantern, trotted quickly and stopped briefly in front of the Evergreen Palace, adjusting his attire before stepping in slowly. The tall red lacquered wooden doors kept the wind and snow outside.

He bowed and entered the inner chamber, where Emperor Qing was reclining with his eyes closed on a pearwood couch, padded with warm and thick white tiger fur. A brazier burned fiercely to one side, and in the center of the incense table stood a blue and white porcelain vase holding a few sprigs of winter plum sent by Vice Minister Zhuo Fan from the Ministry of Rites the day before.

Hearing footsteps, Emperor Qing slowly opened his eyes. Xian Fu hurriedly offered hot tea, subtly observing the emperor’s expression while softly expressing concern, "The snow outside is heavy, Your Majesty. Sleeping like this might risk catching a cold."

Emperor Qing lazily stood up from the couch, the fox fur cloak on his shoulders slipping down to reveal a well-tailored, gold-trimmed black robe. His broad shoulders and narrow waist highlighted his tall and commanding presence.

"It’s snowing again?" Although he asked, Xiao Han didn’t look towards the window, his gaze instead falling on the winter plum in the vase, which already showed signs of withering after just one day.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Xian Fu noticed the emperor’s gaze and quickly added, "This servant just met Vice Minister Zhuo Fan, who asked if these plum blossoms had withered, so he could gather fresh ones for Your Majesty to enjoy."

Not long ago, Zhuo Fan had been appointed as Vice Minister of the Ministry of Rites. Although no one dared to say it openly, rumors were rife that Zhuo Fan had climbed the ranks swiftly by climbing into the emperor’s bed and serving him with his charms.

Though harsh, it was the truth.

Zhuo Fan was naturally reserved and aloof, and being elevated so high and so fast by the emperor’s favor made him the target of jealousy in the court. He had few friends, apart from those sycophants who flattered him, only Shao Ze, the Tanhua from the same imperial examination, was close to him. Zhuo Fan disdained to associate with sycophants, and although Shao Ze had the camaraderie of a fellow scholar, he was extremely averse to the ambiguous entanglement between Zhuo Fan and Emperor Qing, always seizing opportunities to advise Zhuo Fan not to misplace his affections and to stop his clandestine affairs with the emperor. Naturally, Zhuo Fan was angered by such words and avoided discussing it further, leaving him all alone during daily court sessions.

Until recently, when Wen Muyan, the prince who inherited the title of King Wen, returned to the capital from his fief to receive Emperor Qing’s enfeoffment.

Thinking of this, Xiao Han sneered coldly in his heart, but his gaze grew even gentler. His fingertips brushed over the soft red plum petals, as if caressing a lover’s cheek. "He’s so frail; how can he withstand such heavy snow? Summon him into the hall."

Xian Fu bowed and retreated.

Once the door was closed, Xiao Han flicked his sleeve, causing the red plum blossoms to scatter to the ground, leaving only a few petals on the branches, left looking pitifully alone.

Zhuo Fan arrived quickly.

In fact, the day after that night, he had been appointed as Vice Minister of the Ministry of Rites. Just as he was reveling in his official success and ambition, Emperor Qing seemed to gradually lose interest in him, no longer favoring him every night. Although there were occasional moments of tenderness, it was more like the emperor occasionally glancing down at a pet cat or dog, playing with it for a moment before tossing it aside and forgetting about it.

People in love often lose all sense. It was clear to everyone that Zhuo Fan was about to fall out of favor, but he, still ensnared in love, clung to a faint hope, torn between hope and despair. However, the emperor summoned him less and less frequently, and the palace was filled with more and more beauties. Seeing himself on the verge of becoming one of the countless forgotten consorts of Emperor Qing, Zhuo Fan finally found it unbearable.

"Your humble servant greets Your Majesty. May Your Majesty be at peace."

Xiao Han slowly turned to look at the kneeling Vice Minister of Rites. Today, Zhuo Fan didn’t even don an outer robe, his shoulders covered in snowflakes. Having stood in the wind and snow for a long time, his face was slightly blue from the cold, his nose slightly red, his eyes half-filled with resentment. His long black hair, like satin, hung down his back, making his body appear even more delicate and pitiable.

"Rise," Xiao Han uttered indifferently, his brow slightly furrowed with a hint of mockery. He couldn’t make sense of the script’s odd predilections—what was so appealing about a national pillar who didn’t think of serving the country but instead spent all day whining over which concubine the emperor favored?

Did he think he was acting in "Empresses in the Palace"?

"Your Majesty, these plums—" Zhuo Fan held a few freshly picked plum branches in his arms, but when he looked up, he saw that the blue and white porcelain vase now contained a few budding orchids.

Following his gaze, Xiao Han looked at the orchids in the vase and smiled meaningfully, casually saying, "Those were just brought by Mo Lan. Seeing the plum blossoms had fallen, I had them replaced. The scattered petals on the ground were rather disheartening."

Upon hearing Mo Lan's name, Zhuo Fan's heart trembled. Wasn't he the new male consort who had just entered the palace the day before? In just two days, he had already won Emperor Qing's favor?

"So Your Majesty doesn’t care for plum blossoms after all... It seems I overstepped," Zhuo Fan whispered, clutching the cold plum branches tightly in his arms, his once fervent heart gradually cooling. He had hoped Emperor Qing would exchange a few more words with him, but the emperor remained silent.

So, from beginning to end, it was all his own wishful thinking...

Observing Zhuo Fan's despondent expression, Xiao Han felt little sympathy. While he had no intention of hurting him, he certainly had no intention of loving him either.

Xiao Han coldly repeated the scripted lines, "Do you have anything else to report, Minister? If not, you may leave."

Zhuo Fan seemed about to say something, but just then, Eunuch Xian Fu's voice came from outside the door, "Your Majesty, Mo Lan requests an audience."

"Let him in," Xiao Han said, already losing interest in Zhuo Fan. He returned to his reclining couch, closing his eyes to rest.

Zhuo Fan remained frozen in place. Logic urged him to leave the frigid palace at once, but when he heard the door open and Mo Lan's light footsteps, he felt as though he were nailed to the spot, unable to move.

Mo Lan was a strikingly young and handsome boy, with a delicate and charming appearance. He turned to Zhuo Fan with a smile, though it was filled with mockery.

"Mo Lan greets Your Majesty. I heard from Eunuch Xian Fu that Your Majesty has been busy with state affairs, so I specially prepared some white fungus soup for Your Majesty to enjoy."

Although Mo Lan wasn't exactly Xiao Han's type, he was at least attentive. Xiao Han beckoned him over, and Mo Lan quickly approached, feeding him the soup spoon by spoon with an air of intimacy.

"How does Your Majesty find it?" Mo Lan asked, his fingers lightly tracing circles on Emperor Qing's chest.

"Not bad," Xiao Han replied.

Pleased with the response, Mo Lan beamed like a pleased pet, chuckling softly.

Left to watch their affectionate display, Zhuo Fan felt as if he had plunged into an icy void. He didn't know how he managed to leave Changqing Hall. Outside, the snowstorm raged, mixed with icy rain. The biting wind left Zhuo Fan's face as pale as parchment. He stood in a daze beneath the window of Changqing Hall, listening to the intermittent laughter and sweet gasps from inside. He imagined Emperor Qing teasing, caressing, and doting on someone else, and the pain in his heart felt as though it were being sliced by a knife. He wished he could just disappear.

He loved Emperor Qing so much—how could the emperor be so heartless to him?

Meanwhile, Xiao Han, who was merely playing along with the young boy inside, didn't feel much better either. Looking at the "childlike" face of the sixteen or seventeen-year-old, Xiao Han couldn't muster any interest. He absentmindedly reached into the boy's robes, but the boy's moans were more exaggerated than a cat in heat. To make matters worse, Xiao Han didn't want to drink the white fungus soup!

Damn it, it was either ginseng tea or some kind of soup, osmanthus-flavored cakes or walnut cookies. As an emperor, didn't he have the right to gnaw on a chicken leg?

Xiao Han was so overwhelmed by the sweetness that he felt nauseous. He was convinced that Mo Lan must have been an angel who died from eating too much salt in his past life. Was he determined to die from sweetness in this life?

Suddenly, a wish rose from the depths of his heart: he hoped that one day he could open a ranch filled with alpacas, so he could stand in the yard every day and shout, "Grass mud horse, grass mud horse!"

This blend of seriousness and sarcasm felt somewhat incongruous, didn’t it? Or perhaps beneath the surface of every seemingly cold and aloof tyrant, there was a heart that was constantly roaring?

Xiao Han cleared his throat and gestured for Mo Lan to take the soup away. He draped his robe over his shoulders and walked to the window, quietly lifting a corner of the wooden shutter. From his angle, he could just make out a figure swaying unsteadily in the distance.

At this point in the plot, the so-called devoted male lead should be making his appearance soon.

Emperor Qing, hidden behind the scenes, casually grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds from the side table and began munching as he watched the drama unfold. Behind him, Mo Lan looked utterly bewildered. He had been prepared to use all his charms to serve the emperor, but instead, he was kicked aside.

What kind of act was this?

The snow began to lighten, but the rain grew heavier. Even though Zhuo Fan was standing under the eaves, he was quickly soaked through. His limbs were icy, his face pale, and his black hair clung wetly to his skin. Yet, no matter how hard Xiao Han looked, he couldn't see the "slender figure outlined by the wet clothes," "pale skin as if transparent," or "lonely figure exuding a cold, unyielding beauty like a flower on a high peak" as described in the script.

If anything, he looked more like a freshly emerged water ghost.

Xiao Han was at a loss for words. It wasn't that he wanted to mock Zhuo Fan, but the script's tendency to both mercilessly torment the pitiful protagonist and shower him with flowery, sympathetic descriptions was truly nauseating.

Zhuo Fan felt cold—his body was cold, and his heart was even colder. Yet his head was burning, as if it were about to explode.

In his dazed state, he seemed to see someone approaching with an umbrella. Raindrops drummed against the umbrella, dense and urgent. His vision blurred, but in the vast expanse of silver-white, he saw a tall figure envelop him in a warm cloak, holding the umbrella over his head and shielding him from the rain and snow with one hand.

If only... it were Emperor Qing instead.

With these thoughts, Zhuo Fan fainted.

Of course, this wasn’t Emperor Qing, as Xiao Han was still hiding behind the window watching the show.

This man had a tall and heroic figure, a handsome, gentle face, especially those deep, dark eyes, with their slender double eyelids, always seeming to hold a softness within, inexplicably affectionate.

He was none other than the King Wen, the only non-royal prince of the current dynasty—Wen Muyan.

In the midst of the snowstorm, King Wen held an umbrella in one hand and supported Zhuo Fan's shoulder with the other, looking down at the man in his arms. The snowflakes and raindrops that the paper umbrella couldn't block all fell on his black cloak and long hair, looking like a moving ink painting from a distance.

Xiao Han ate the last melon seed, clapped his hands, and laughed. What a scene—the snowstorm blowing over his head, it was like turning white-haired.

Mo Lan had no idea what Emperor Qing was seeing through the window, nor did he understand why he was laughing. He quietly handed him a cup of hot tea.

Xiao Han didn’t care what others were thinking. His eyes followed Wen Muyan, who was trying to pick up Zhuo Fan, thinking about the ultimate fate of this perfect backup—to be rejected by the submissive. Why bother being so affectionate, why bother?

His fingers brushed the warm edge of the cup, Xiao Han took a sip of hot tea, and when he looked up again, he just saw Wen Muyan stumble and almost drop the unconscious Zhuo Fan.

Xiao Han was both surprised and amused. Who would have thought that after walking a few steps, King Wen stopped, put the man down to rest, then picked him up and continued walking.

This nearly made Xiao Han burst out laughing—from his guess, it was definitely because Zhuo Fan was too heavy for Wen Muyan to carry, hahaha.

Xiao Han watched them walk to the corner of the corridor. Perhaps King Wen really didn't have much strength, or perhaps the snowy path was too difficult to walk on, but King Wen could no longer carry the big man.

He had no choice but to put the man down. Seeing no one around, Wen Muyan squatted down to rest for a while, rubbed his hands and blew on them, shook the snowflakes off his cloak, and finally circled Zhuo Fan twice, coming up with a clever idea—he grabbed Zhuo Fan's hands and dragged the man away like a big sack of hemp...

Dragged away...

Away...

Mo Lan was stunned to see the serious-faced Emperor Qing spit out his tea with a 'pfft,' scared out of his wits, and quickly knelt on the ground, trembling and begging for forgiveness.

"Your Majesty, is the tea too hot? This servant deserves death! This servant deserves death! Please forgive me, Your Majesty!"

"This has nothing to do with you, leave." Xiao Han placed the teacup aside, indifferently waved his hand, and when he opened the window to look again, the corridor was already empty.

He stood quietly by the window, listening to the rain and wind for a while, a faint low laugh appearing on his lips—this Wen Muyan seemed a little more interesting than in his past life.