Chapter 106: Very Warm

Chapter 106: A Comforting Warmth

Xiao Shao sighed softly.

He pulled the fragile young man into an enveloping embrace—one hand resting on his back, the other gently stroking the back of his head—and called his name softly: "Qi Yan?"

Qi Yan did not respond. Even in his collapse, he was silent, introverted and reserved, much like his writings. Xiao Shao held him by the shoulders, and if not for the faint, almost imperceptible trembling, the figure in his arms might have seemed asleep.

But this was not a good sign. Those who broke down and vented their anguish, though suffering and hopeless, could still carry on. Yet Qi Yan did not scream, did not wail—like cold ashes, even the last remnants of warmth had dissipated, leaving only hollow silence.

Holding him like this, Xiao Shao couldn’t see Qi Yan’s face, but from the cold dampness seeping through his shoulder, he could imagine those elegant eyes brimming with tears, now spilling uncontrollably.

They stood before the late Prince An’s tomb for a long time, so long that the mountain wind stilled and the dampness on Xiao Shao’s shoulder nearly dried. Only then did he gently tug at Qi Yan’s earlobe. "Feeling better?"

He teased lightly, "Crying like this in front of the late Prince An’s tomb—if the tombkeeper saw you, they might think you’re a long-lost descendant of the imperial family, here to mourn your ancestors."

It was a habitual jest, but as soon as the words left his mouth, Xiao Shao realized his mistake. Wasn’t Qi Yan exactly that—an orphan who had lost his parents? Though not the late Prince An’s, using such terms was still inappropriate.

Of course, Qi Yan couldn’t respond to his joke at this moment. Instead, he clutched at Xiao Shao even tighter, so tightly that there was no space left between them, so tightly that Xiao Shao’s ribs ached. It was as if only the warmth of their pressed-together bodies could keep him from recalling, from associating, could offer him a moment of respite from the endless nightmare.

"Does it hurt so much? If you keep crying like this, your eyes will swell." Xiao Shao patted his shoulder and sighed. "Stop crying. I’ll help you kill Xiao Yi, alright?"

Qi Yan abruptly looked up.

Xiao Yi—the Crown Prince of Da Qian, the heir to the throne, a figure who holds the fate of the realm in his hands. Yet Xiao Shao had uttered those words so lightly, his tone as casual as if discussing what to eat for dinner.

Xiao Shao met his gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t tell me you’ve picked up the stubbornness of those stuffy Confucian scholars—blind loyalty, blind filial piety, believing the Emperor can do no wrong, that imperial authority is supreme, and that you must defend him?"

Qi Yan’s lips trembled, his teeth biting into his lower lip until blood welled. He let out a soundless, bitter laugh, the words forced through clenched teeth: "No... I..."

How could he not want it? How could he not hate?

His Qi family, a dozen family members—though not aristocratic, they had been harmonious and peaceful. Now, only he and his sister remained, along with two young sisters. How could he not hate?

He wanted Xiao Yi dead.

But Xiao Yi was the Crown Prince, the future Emperor. What could his hatred accomplish?

Pulled from the depths of overwhelming agony, Qi Yan belatedly realized the seditious words he had just uttered.

Spending every day by the second prince’s side, Xiao Shao’s relaxed, gentle demeanor had nearly made Qi Yan forget—this man before him was also a prince, Xiao Yi’s own brother.

Today, Xiao Shao might still favor him—perhaps for his looks, perhaps for something else—and overlook his offense. But what if, in the future, he no longer did? This single sentence alone could cost him his life, subjecting him to tortures ten thousand times worse than what his father had endured.

Qi Yan had few cards to play. He dared not gamble.

So he reigned in his thoughts, pulled away, and stepped back from Xiao Shao’s embrace. Lowering his gaze to conceal his emotions, Qi Yan silently berated himself for carelessly placing his trust. Suppressing the bitterness in his heart, he said hurriedly, "My apologies for losing composure in your presence."

Xiao Shao watched him quietly.

Qi Yan’s eyes were red-rimmed, the beauty mark at the corner of his eye glistening with moisture, making him appear heartbreakingly vulnerable. His forced composure only made him seem more wretched. Looking at him, Xiao Shao’s heart softened.

He raised his hand and touched the corner of Qi Yan’s eye.

His thumb brushed away the lingering dampness, as gently as wiping dust from an inkstone—a scholar's tool used for writing calligraphy. The warmth lingered at the edge of his eye, causing the skin there to twitch faintly.

Xiao Shao said softly, "Really done crying? Good. I’ll help you kill Xiao Yi."

Before Qi Yan could react, Xiao Shao asked lightly, "Xiao Tanhu [an honorific for talented scholars], would you like to join the Grand Secretariat?"

Qi Yan was startled, his fingers clutching his sleeves tightening as he looked at Xiao Shao in disbelief, as if hearing something incomprehensible.

...Join the Grand Secretariat?

This dynasty did not appoint a prime minister, so the cabinet surpassed the six ministries to become the supreme seat of power in Da Qian. Scholars across the land bustled about, each dreaming of mastering both literary and martial arts to serve the imperial family, leaving behind a chapter or even a sentence in the vast annals of history, so as not to waste their decade of arduous study and wealth of talent.

But the Grand Secretariat—how could a eunuch ever enter?

The sanctuary for scholars—were he to step inside, others would likely shrink away in distaste, fearing contamination.

Xiao Shao could tell what he was thinking just by looking at his expression.

Qi Yan had talent, no doubt, but at times he was overly rigid, prone to overthinking and getting stuck in dead ends, carrying the air of a scholar—a temperament Xiao Shao particularly disliked. Seeing it made him want to tease, to toy with this refined scholar until he could no longer maintain his composure, brought to the brink of tears.

So he pinched Qi Yan’s earlobe, leaning in to tease him: "Once I kill Xiao Yi and ascend the throne, I’ll be the sovereign of the realm. Whoever I say enters the cabinet, enters the cabinet. Xiao Tanhu, I’ll give you a new identity then. You’ll bear the burden, helping me review memorials day after day—how does that sound?"

Qi Yan lifted his gaze, his eyes dead as ashes sparking back to life, glimmering with fragmented light.

Xiao Shao thought to himself that scholars were truly baffling—exploiting him to review memorials actually made him happy?

But observing Qi Yan’s expression, the pallor of death had faded somewhat, as if he had finally recovered. Xiao Shao also sighed in relief, inexplicably reminded of an asparagus fern he had once kept.

That fern had been acquired from Senior Tutor Song’s hands. The old man loved cultivating plants, claiming that gardening nurtured one’s temperament and brought peace of mind. Out of curiosity, Xiao Shao had taken a pot to play with. The fern, elegant in its pot, had nearly perished under the lash of winter winds. Xiao Shao took it home, added soil and fertilizer, and carefully tended to it all summer. By the next year, it had flourished luxuriantly.

Later, Xiao Shao turned to other pursuits and never gardened again, but the fern continued to thrive in his study, its emerald leaves a constant delight.

Ever since bringing Qi Yan back from the Directorate of Ceremonial, it felt like he had taken in another pot of dying fern. This plant had endured wind and rain, weathered severe cold, and was now teetering on the edge of extinction, ready to perish at any moment. It couldn’t be scolded, punished, or struck—it needed tender cultivation to sprout new shoots.

Yet thinking this, he found it somewhat absurd.

In his past life, Qi Yan had followed the Crown Prince and lived just fine, later even wielding great influence in court, often crossing swords with Xiao Shao, basking in political triumph. Since when had he become a delicate fern needing meticulous care?

But faced with this still-unseasoned Qi Yan, Xiao Shao couldn’t help but soften his heart—again and again.

He sighed deeply and pressed a bundle into Qi Yan’s hands. "Feeling better now?"

Qi Yan was still dazed, only managing a soft, "...Mn."

Xiao Shao: "Hold it."

He then pressed a small jar into Qi Yan’s hands, scooping some soil from Prince An’s grave to fill it before carefully sealing it with cloth and twine.

This was one piece of evidence.

After circling Prince An’s tomb and finding no further clues, Qi Yan packed the jar away, preparing to tie it to the horse for the return journey.

But Xiao Shao said, "Don’t tie it. Carry it yourself."

Qi Yan froze but obediently held the jar. Dawn was barely half an hour off, making it difficult to ride back to the estate, yet Xiao Shao showed no intention of leaving. He wandered around Prince An’s tomb, left and right, with the air of a man enjoying a spring excursion.

Then, he walked to where the horses were tethered, untied the reins, and gave the old horse a slap on the rump, letting it kick up its hooves and gallop down the mountain, disappearing in moments.

Now, there was absolutely no way they could return to the estate in time.

Qi Yan seemed to understand. "Are you waiting for something?"

Xiao Shao smiled. "Waiting for Song Lvyang."

They stood at the highest point of Qinglong Mountain, gazing downward. The eastern sky lightened to the color of fish belly, the horizon erupting in fiery brilliance. Then, at the foot of the mountain, a crimson line of fire swiftly spread upward from the base.

Qi Yan's forehead tensed.

Song Lvyang resorted to desperate measures and actually set the mountain ablaze.

Xiao Shao, however, stood up, casually brushing the grass ash from his legs, and smiled. "About time he showed up."

He had been waiting for Song Lvyang for a long time.

Xiao Shao had brought Qi Yan, the victim of the Silver Case, up the mountain in the dead of night—anyone with sense would smell a rat. If exposed, Song Lvyang would meet the same fate as the Qi family: left in ruins, thrown in prison—or worse. Thus, he would undoubtedly do everything in his power to eliminate Xiao Shao.

And once Xiao Shao was dead, with the emperor far away and Song Lvyang fabricating some excuse—especially with the Crown Prince mediating—even if the emperor’s wrath boiled over, the worst punishment would be dismissal, not execution.

Emperor Jianning was nearing seventy and wouldn’t live much longer. Once he died and the Crown Prince ascended, Song Lvyang would still be credited as a loyal supporter, a right-hand man. In that light, offing a reckless prince was no great loss.

He lacked the guts to murder a prince outright in Hedong Prefecture, but with Xiao Shao leaving the city and heading to Qinglong Mountain, Song Lvyang found the perfect excuse—Hedong’s dry climate made mountain fires common. The Second Prince, drunk and fooling around with servants on the mountain, accidentally got caught in a wildfire and burned to death. An act of heaven, fate’s design—no blame could fall on Song Lvyang.

When the report reached the capital, with the Crown Prince’s intervention, there might not even be a dismissal, just a demotion. For Song Lvyang, it was a bargain too good to pass up.

Qi Yan frowned. The flames had already closed in around them, growing fiercer. Though still at the mountain’s base, strong winds had picked up, and with the flames fueled by the wind, it wouldn’t be long before they spread uncontrollably, reaching them.

Xiao Shao remained composed, as unruffled as a man admiring the view, just missing a fan to complete the spoiled-aristocrat look.

Qi Yan glanced at the provisions in the bundle. "You’ve prepared for this?"

Xiao Shao chuckled. "Those maps weren’t just for decoration. Follow me."

The mercury from the eight Prince An tombs had seeped into the ground over the years, leaving many parts of Qinglong Mountain barren, like a patchy bald spot. These areas naturally blocked the fire, buying them time.

Xiao Shao had spent so long wandering the mountaintop earlier precisely to locate these spots.

But even if the flames couldn’t reach them, the smoke could kill them just as easily. They had to leave before the fire spread further.

Xiao Shao had memorized the labyrinthine paths. Turning his back to Hedong Prefecture, he led Qi Yan toward the rear of the mountain. He moved with deliberate calm, his posture relaxed, and Qi Yan, following him, gradually relaxed. Before long, the burble of running water greeted them.

Xiao Shao pulled out the map from the bundle. "If we follow this mountain stream north, it’ll merge into the Shunqing River. Across the river is the territory of Hedong’s garrison eunuch, Yao Jin. Wonder if Eunuch He’s made it yet—has he sought out his old friend?"

The stream at their side took the edge off their fear of the fire. Qi Yan settled down, but the mountain winds were unpredictable. Thick black smoke billowed toward them, filling the air with a choking stench. His hand grazed a trunk, pulling back smeared with soot.

Xiao Shao bent down, dunking two cloths into the stream.

The cloth was thoroughly drenched.

Then he stood. "Xiao Tanhu, close your eyes."

Hearing his words, Qi Yan instinctively obeyed—he had grown quite accustomed to following Xiao Shao’s instructions. A wet cloth pressed cool against his face, covering it completely.

His vision stolen, darkness enveloped him. Qi Yan’s breath caught.

This moment echoed his nightmares.

In the dream, he had been strapped to a torture bed, a soaked cloth pressed over his face as someone poured water endlessly. The cloth, saturated, made breathing impossible.

In the dream, the suffocation was visceral, the agony unbearable. Oxygen deprivation left him dizzy and disoriented.

And Eunuch He had stood nearby, murmuring reprimands, listing the rules he’d broken, the mistakes he’d made, demanding Qi Yan recite them back.

But Qi Yan’s ears had rung so violently he couldn’t even hear Eunuch He’s words. When one round of torment ended, he was ordered to repeat his faults. If he failed, another cloth was layered on. In the end, the layers piled up, and Qi Yan teetered on the brink of death before being released in a boneless heap.

This wasn’t a one-time ordeal—it happened many, many times. So many that the moment the cloth touched his face now, his muscles locked, breath quickening into shallow gasps.

But this time was different—this time, Xiao Shao was by his side.

With Xiao Shao beside him, the nightmare remained just a nightmare. They were not in a torture chamber but on Qinglong Mountain, where thick smoke scorched the air, a stream rushed nearby, and the Second Prince was holding his hand, guiding him through the ash-choked darkness.

At that moment, the flames and smoke seemed to fade away. All his senses focused on the point where their fingers touched—scorching, almost branding.

It was warm. Safe.

Qi Yan gripped back, clutching Xiao Shao’s hand tightly.

Just like that, the nightmare vanished.