Chapter 7: Meeting in the Dungeon

Chapter 7: A Meeting in the Prison Cell

The black-robed Emperor swept his sleeves and departed, leaving Xu Zhuo, the Minister of the Dali Temple, to cast a resentful glance at Zhao Mengxian. How, in the space of a single sentence, had this hot potato landed in his lap?

According to the laws of Great Zhou, court officials detained in the main hall were required to remove their crowns and official robes, and be escorted by the Imperial Guard.

The Imperial Guard entered from outside the hall. Ling Yehan, not wearing a crown to begin with, nor official attire, removed his armor. Only then did the courtiers who had not yet left notice that beneath his armor, his inner garments were stained with dark brown blood, appearing to be several days old. It was unclear whether the Marquis of Jingbian had intentionally presented himself before the Emperor in such a pitiable state. Imperial Guard Commander Xing Fang, formerly Xiao Chen’s personal guard, was no stranger to the Marquis. Seeing him in this condition, his gaze flickered slightly, but he remained silent.

The first month of the year was Shangyang City’s coldest. The prison cells of the Dali Temple saw only a few hours of sunlight daily. Unlike the biting cold outside, the cells were damp and frigid. Each cell contained only a bed and a small table; the blanket on the bed was worn so thin it was barely recognizable, its original color long faded.

Ling Yehan was confined to a cell. The jailer, noting his placement in the highest-security section, knew this prisoner was someone of importance and quietly asked Xu Zhuo, “Sir, does this one require special treatment?”

Xu Zhuo rubbed his temples, almost raw with frustration. Special treatment? The grave crime of defying an imperial decree was tantamount to treason—how could he offer special treatment? Anyone else in this situation would likely have been reborn by now.

“Give him an extra charcoal brazier.”

The jailer nodded. Just one extra brazier—it seemed the prisoner wasn't as significant as he had initially thought.

A charcoal brazier was placed beside Ling Yehan, who looked up and thanked the jailer.

In the premier cell, Ling Yehan, clad in a dirty inner garment stiff with dried blood, wrapped himself in the thin blanket and sat on the bed with his knees drawn up, silently enduring the dull pain in his shoulder. Soon, the physical pain was overshadowed by his swirling thoughts. His mind was filled with the image of the figure he had seen in the hall earlier. What a pity; he had been too far away to clearly see Xiao Chen’s face. He buried his chin in his knees, then chuckled self-deprecatingly. Perhaps it was for the best that he hadn’t seen clearly—if he couldn’t see Xiao Chen, then Xiao Chen likely couldn’t see him clearly either, sparing Xiao Chen the annoyance of seeing him.

Though utterly exhausted, he found himself unable to sleep. Tilting his head back, he watched through the small window as the once-bright moon was gradually swallowed by clouds, and the sky darkened completely. Soon, snowflakes as large as goose feathers began to fall. Ling Yehan, however, had no mind to appreciate the scene. He felt waves of heat and cold—one moment he leaned his back against the icy brick wall, the next he curled up near the nearly extinguished charcoal brazier.

Imperial Study

“More tea.”

Xiao Chen did not look up, his vermilion brush moving without pause as he spoke. Zhang Chunlai, checking the time, nervously picked up the teapot to refill the cup but was stopped by his master, Zhang Fu. Zhang Fu bowed cautiously and said, “Your Majesty, it is almost midnight. Drinking tea at night harms the body and may disturb your sleep. This humble servant notices heavy snow outside—perhaps you should rest in the Imperial Study tonight?”

Xiao Chen finally looked up, his cold expression shifting slightly. Zhang Fu immediately understood and ordered the window to be opened.

Snowflakes swirled in, carried by the cold wind. Xiao Chen thought of the stubborn fool who had knelt in the council hall earlier that day and recalled the absurd night two months prior. Uncharacteristically, he felt a headache coming on. Leaning back in his chair, he pressed his fingers to his temple and asked, “Who escorted the Marquis of Jingbian to the Dali Temple today?”

Zhang Fu promptly replied, “It was Imperial Guard Commander Xing Fang. He is on duty tonight.”

“Summon him.”

Xing Fang entered, bringing with him a chill from the cold, and paid his respects to Xiao Chen. Before long, the Emperor’s expression grew increasingly somber.

“You said his inner garments were covered in blood?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. The stains appeared to be several days old. This subject also noticed a bandage peeking out from beneath the collar of his inner garment.”

The room fell into a brief silence before Xiao Chen stood up.

“Prepare a horse. Summon an imperial physician skilled in treating external injuries.”

An imperial token was used to open the palace gates after curfew. Imperial Guard Commander Xing Fang personally knocked on the door of the Dali Temple. Before the guards could report to Xu Zhuo, a gold token was displayed before them. The Imperial Guard swiftly took control of the prison’s security, clearing the courtyard and forming two rows to reveal a figure clad in a dark brocade cloak.

The figure bypassed the guards, stepping through the deepening snow in the courtyard, and headed straight for the prison cells at the rear of the Dali Temple.

Footsteps echoed, growing closer from the direction of the grimy cell door. Xiao Chen removed his hood, the flickering oil lamps in the passage casting shadows across his handsome, chiseled face, half in shadow. Xing Fang personally led the way and unlocked the door to the premier cell. As Xiao Chen stepped inside in his gilded riding boots, his eyes immediately fell upon the disheveled figure huddled by the extinguished charcoal brazier, wrapped in a filthy blanket. A sudden, unexplained anger flared up inside him, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Whether it was the oppressive silence in the room, more chilling than the storm outside, or the sound of the lock turning that roused the half-asleep man, Ling Yehan slowly opened his eyes. In the dim, yellowish glow of the lantern, could it be... he was seeing Xiao Chen’s face?

This time, Xiao Chen appeared clearer than in any of his previous dreams. In the past, the man’s features had always been veiled, as if obscured by a fine gauze—a sign that he still did not wish to be seen. But now, Ling Yehan could make out his expression, his eyes. Had he finally decided to see him?

In his half-awake state, he was overwhelmed as a flood of emotions surged—sorrow, grievance, and pain crashing over him like a tidal wave. His feverish mind clouded, his eyes reddened and welled with tears as he crawled from beside the brazier toward Xiao Chen. Xing Fang, standing guard behind the emperor, instinctively gripped his sword, only to see Ling Yehan, with tear-filled eyes, grab hold of the emperor’s leg.

"Brother, you’ve finally come to see me. I was wrong—I shouldn’t have defied the decree, I shouldn’t have stayed away. Brother, I know I was wrong..."

Ling Yehan’s choked sobs echoed through the prison cell, as though he were pouring out words he had been unable to say ten years earlier, when he had missed his last chance to see Xiao Chen. Clad in a black brocade cloak, Xiao Chen stood rooted to the spot, completely thrown by this move. The imperial guards behind him, already holding their breath, listened to the heart-wrenching weeping, hardly daring to breathe. The Marquis of Jingbian actually...

"Brother, I know you’re angry with me. Punish me however you want, just don’t disappear, won't you? Stay a little longer, please?"

Xiao Chen looked down at the tear-streaked, grimy face—unwashed for who knew how many days—and his mind wandered back to the first time he had met Ling Yehan, when the boy was only eight, so hungry he fought stray dogs for food on the streets, yet never shed a tear. The earlier blaze of anger seemed to subside slightly. Staring at the tear-stained face, he reached out after a moment and touched Ling Yehan’s forehead—it was burning hot.

Seeing Xiao Chen’s gesture, Xing Fang released his grip on the sword hilt.

Without turning around, Xiao Chen ordered, "Imperial physician, come examine the Marquis."

Zhou Zheng, the physician who had been trying to remain inconspicuous, stepped forward. He reached to check Ling Yehan’s pulse, but the man, just back from the battlefield for less than three days, was instinctively wary of strangers. Even in his feverish delirium, Ling Yehan reflexively twisted the physician’s wrist as he reached out, forcing the frail Zhou Zheng into a twisted kneeling position.

"Marquis, Marquis!"

Xiao Chen frowned slightly and softly chided:

"Let go."

Ling Yehan's fierce, barbaric stare lifted at the sound, his eyes bloodshot:

"If I let go, you won’t leave."

Xiao Chen gripped his wrist firmly:

"Let go."

Ling Yehan instinctively released his hold, not daring to make a sound, just tilting his head up to watch the man, afraid that if he didn’t comply, the man would leave—a rare chance to see him, even in a dream.

Xiao Chen glanced down at his collar, then tugged open his robe. Beneath the undershirt, bandages were indeed wrapped around him. Gripping the back of his collar, Xiao Chen tilted his chin slightly:

"To the bed."

Dazed with fever, Ling Yehan didn’t dare disobey the person before him, and obediently crawled over. Xiao Chen noticed the hard plank bed with a bit of straw, unfastened his own cloak, and laid it over the planks before pressing Ling Yehan down onto it:

"Lie still. Don’t move."

Ling Yehan nodded.

"He’s likely injured. Examine him carefully."

Only then did Zhou Zheng cautiously step forward to check Ling Yehan’s wounds. Xiao Chen remained standing behind him, his gaze fixed on the injuries. The shoulder wound was the most severe—an older wound that had healed poorly, swollen and inflamed. The longer he looked, the darker his expression grew, sending a chill down Zhou Zheng’s spine.

Fortunately, Zhou Zheng had brought the palace’s finest medical supplies. He cleaned and rebandaged the wounds, then administered medicine to reduce chills and fever. The concoction contained sleep-inducing components, and after days without rest and half a night in the cold, Ling Yehan’s eyelids grew heavy soon after taking it. Before long, he was asleep.

Zhou Zheng finally stood up, wiping sweat from his brow.

"How is he?"

"Reporting to Your Majesty, the Marquis has both blade and arrow wounds. The one on his shoulder has been acting up. His pulse indicates extreme exhaustion and a chill, which is why he has such a high fever."

He had intended to say that such a condition would likely worsen in the prison, but then it occurred to him that the Marquis of Jingbian had committed no minor offense—he had defied an imperial decree—so he swallowed his words.

Xiao Chen glanced at the man who had already fallen asleep, feeling a surge of annoyance. He turned to Zhou Zheng:

"These next two days, you are responsible for the Marquis of Jingbian's health. Don’t let him die of fever in prison before he’s even been tried."

Zhou Zheng bowed:

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Xiao Chen didn’t look back at the man on the bed and strode straight out of the prison. He declined Xing Fang’s gesture to offer him his cloak and quickly exited the Dali Temple. On that snowy, windy night, the black-robed Emperor galloped on horseback down Vermilion Bird Street and entered the Donghua Gate.