Chapter 113

Chapter 113

Wen Zuo clung to a sliver of hope—that Xie Langyang wouldn’t dare bring up the matter of rebirth.

No matter who he told, others would only think he had gone mad, that he had lost all reason in his desperate bid to frame Wen Zuo.

Plunging himself into an even more perilous situation was not something Xie Langyang would do lightly.

Though Wen Zuo had felt a flicker of tension upon learning that Shen Zheng had returned to the capital to oversee the trial, Xie Langyang’s reaction during the court hearing confirmed his suspicion—Xie Langyang was unwilling to be seen as a complete lunatic.

Xie Langyang had spoken, and Shen Zheng had believed him—yet Shen Zheng was utterly indifferent.

The turn of events had completely exceeded Wen Zuo’s expectations. Even as Shen Zheng carried him out of the Dali Temple prison, the fresh, chilly air hitting his nose, he couldn’t bring himself to lift his head and gaze at the long-missed sky. His heart was filled with nothing but dread.

He had previously dismissed the idea of Shen Zheng’s rebirth, believing it was merely his soul returning to its rightful place. But now, it seemed there must be something more—otherwise, Shen Zheng wouldn’t have known the contents of that stack of self-incriminating confessions.

Yet in his present condition, he lacked the strength to delve deeper into Shen Zheng’s origins. He was too consumed by anxiety.

The facet of himself he had tried to hide had been exposed; his plan to deceive heaven and earth had utterly failed.

Moreover, he had just lied to Shen Zheng, yet Shen Zheng had clearly guessed everything.

His heart, which had sunk into cold water, now floated back up, pounding frantically on the surface.

Wen Zuo hung his head, silent, not daring to look at Shen Zheng. He buried his face in the warmth of Shen Zheng’s robe.

Shen Zheng remained silent as well. All Wen Zuo could hear was the steady, powerful beat of his heart and the faint, snow-scented breath that drifted before him.

Wen Zuo quietly clenched his fingers, exerting force, straining the unhealed abrasions on his wrists. A sharp, lingering pain spread through him.

His hair was pinned under Shen Zheng’s arm. With his head lowered like this, his scalp ached faintly from the pull. After over twenty days in prison, his hair seemed to have grown longer, now falling past his waist—but at this moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care about such things.

From now on, he could no longer be the noble, virtuous Master Wen. He was once again that villainous minister who committed every evil deed.

And a villainous minister who had once harmed Shen Zheng.

He should have explained something—for instance, that back then, he had only confined Shen Zheng to the Phoenix Balcony; the fall from the tower was not his doing.

But the words died on his lips, feeling utterly ridiculous.

Harm never ceased to be harm simply because it wasn’t absolute. Wen Zuo had never been one to make excuses for himself.

Shen Zheng carried him into a small red-lacquered sedan chair and lowered the curtain, enclosing them in a narrow, hidden space.

He wasn’t set down but remained seated on Shen Zheng’s lap, leaning softly against his chest. With each sway of the sedan, he gently bumped against Shen Zheng.

The side curtains fluttered in the wind, occasionally letting in a cold breeze that brushed his neck.

The wind was piercingly cold, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, his chest filled only with a sour ache.

Shen Zheng’s earlier attitude toward Xie Langyang had warmed his heart, but that was no reason for him to feel at ease.

This was the most insurmountable problem of his life. Wen Zuo even thought that if Shen Zheng sought revenge, he wouldn’t resist—even if it meant returning to prison or enduring punishment.

It was only fair; after all, he had done the same to Xie Langyang.

The sky was now fully bright, and the streets grew crowded. As the sedan reached an intersection, it was blocked by the press of the crowd. The attendant repeatedly urged others to make way, but the throng barely budged.

The silence inside the sedan was suffocating. Finally, Wen Zuo couldn’t bear it any longer and spoke with difficulty: “The plot at the Spring Terrace Chess Association… was indeed devised by this teacher in my past life. But I never took your life. If Your Highness wishes to punish or seek revenge, I will accept it all, willingly and welcome it…”

After speaking, Wen Zuo subtly shifted his gaze upward, secretly observing Shen Zheng’s expression.

What he saw left him utterly stunned.

Shen Zheng sat quietly, but his eyes were red. Tears streamed down his unkempt stubble, dripping onto his fur collar.

He was crying.

Why?

Wen Zuo hurriedly straightened up, flustered, and reached out to cup Shen Zheng’s face. Ignoring how the stubble scratched his palm, he insisted on wiping away the tears.

He steeled himself and said, “If Your Highness is distressed, you can take harsher revenge—”

Before he could finish, Shen Zheng suddenly pulled him into a tight embrace, burying his face in the crook of Wen Zuo’s neck. His chest heaved as he choked out, “Heavens, how much pain you must have endured… how much pain…”

As a modern person, he couldn’t begin to fathom the despair of being pierced by ten thousand arrows or the helplessness of the one who suffered it.

Reciting the self-incriminating confession before Xie Langyang had merely been a test.

He had guessed that Wen Zuo was reborn but wasn’t sure of the timing. Since they both knew about that confession, it meant Wen Zuo had endured everything described in it.

The ending he had fought so hard to rewrite was, in fact, the starting point of it all.

From then on, every word in the history books became a tangible, unbearable pain he could no longer bear to witness.

Wen Zuo was stunned for a moment before he realized what Shen Zheng meant. He lifted his bruised wrists and tremblingly returned the embrace.

How could such a thing be?

Shen Zheng didn’t resent him; instead, he grieved over his death.

Against his own feelings, Wen Zuo said, “It wasn’t that painful. I’ve… forgotten it all.”

Shen Zheng, tall and broad-shouldered, looked almost comical buried in Wen Zuo’s neck. With tears in his eyes, he smiled bitterly. “Lying to me again.”

Wen Zuo tightened his embrace as much as he could, allowing Shen Zheng to weep softly against his neck.

“Your Highness crying for me… how can I possibly deserve—”

“Don’t say it!” Shen Zheng suddenly began kissing him, his palm cupping the back of Wen Zuo’s neck as he fervently sucked on his lips. The coarse stubble brushed against Wen Zuo’s cheeks, leaving faint red marks.

Shen Zheng kissed him urgently, murmuring fragmented, incoherent words between breaths: “I hate that heaven made me arrive so late…”

“That you had to assist Shen Chen, that you had to meet Xie Langyang…”

“It’s deliberately opposing me. Those wounds—I can’t even touch them, can’t soothe them…”

“It’s tormenting me so terribly…”

“Mmm…” Wen Zuo’s dark hair cascaded loosely as his body relaxed completely, yielding to the forceful kiss, allowing his pale lips to be kissed until they flushed red and swollen.

He, too, craved this embrace, longed for this familiar scent. The days in prison had been unbearable; he had missed Shen Zheng every single moment.

He parted his lips slightly, arching his slender, jade-white neck, letting Shen Zheng’s tongue sweep in and plunder his mouth.

But a mere kiss couldn’t soothe Shen Zheng’s turbulent emotions. Supporting Wen Zuo’s shoulder, he gently leaned him back, his burning lips leaving Wen Zuo’s mouth to trail down the delicate side of his neck. A thin layer of sweat instantly broke out along Wen Zuo’s spine.

Shen Zheng nuzzled his nose against Wen Zuo’s neck, inhaling his scent, lingering over the pulse point, rubbing back and forth.

Fortunately, though Wen Zuo’s constitution was depleted, his pulse remained steady. Shen Zheng gently took the skin at the side of his neck between his teeth, then immediately soothed it with his tongue, imprinting his mark on that small patch of porcelain-white skin.

Still unsatisfied, he used his slightly calloused fingers to gently part Wen Zuo’s collar, revealing his delicate collarbone.

Wen Zuo gasped, the corners of his eyes flushed red.

After the long kiss, Shen Zheng reluctantly released him. Wen Zuo was utterly spent, occasionally coughing softly, one arm still draped over Shen Zheng’s shoulder, the streaks of blood on his wrist inadvertently smearing onto the back of Shen Zheng’s collar.

“After two months apart, you’ve worked yourself into such a state.” Shen Zheng’s palm firmly supported his back; even through the soft cloak, he could clearly feel the sharp, bony frame beneath.

The person before him was too precious and fragile—always evoking a sense of precariousness, as if he might slip away.

The more this was so, the more Shen Zheng wanted to claim him firmly as his own, to keep him securely for himself, safe and sound.

Wen Zuo moistened his dry throat, his fingertip lightly tapping Shen Zheng’s Adam’s apple. “Your Highness is not angry with me?”

Shen Zheng looked at him, a deep meaning hidden in his eyes. After a moment’s consideration, he chose his words with extreme care: “I am not angry about matters from your previous life.”

The crowd finally parted to create a narrow path, allowing the small sedan chair to pass. The horse’s hooves clopped steadily on the ground, pulling the wheels forward with a rumbling sound, and the sedan chair began to sway gently once more.

How could Wen Zuo discern any deeper meaning from such carefully chosen words? He finally breathed a sigh of relief and rested his head contentedly on Shen Zheng’s shoulder.

“…Then how did Your Highness know about that confession?”

“Actually, even if I didn’t say it, you probably already have an idea.” Shen Zheng tightened his embrace, his hand gently stroking Wen Zuo’s back. “That self-play chess game, the Monte Carlo tree search algorithm, the lower-limb exoskeleton designed for His Majesty, the waist-level viewfinder, the fan, the heating pads I gave you—as well as the cream cake, cotton candy, the analysis of the locust plague’s scope, and the new crop, potatoes—they all originate from the place I once belonged to, though it wasn’t Nanping.

“I am from a later era, and my real name is also Shen Zheng. Coincidentally, I bear an uncanny resemblance to the Fifth Prince—and I have an identical birthmark on my pubic bone. I cannot explain what connection I have with him; I only remember waking up one day in this body, appearing at your esteemed residence.”

“A later era?!” Wen Zuo abruptly looked up.

Shen Zheng gently pressed his shoulder, guiding him to lean back against his shoulder, and asked softly, “Does it frighten you, Teacher?”

Though shocked, Wen Zuo felt this was the only explanation. Shen Zheng’s transformation from foolishness to intelligence, his knowledge of many strange and novel things—all of it now had an answer.

He thought for a moment and shook his head slightly. “My own experiences are shocking enough.”

Shen Zheng confessed honestly, “Actually, I often empathize deeply with what happened to the Fifth Prince. Perhaps my coming here was also destined.”

Wen Zuo’s voice was weak as he asked again, “Your Highness’s later era… is it still Da Qian?”

“No.”

Indeed.

Wen Zuo felt a slight regret in his heart, yet it was also expected. It seemed Da Qian was no different from past dynasties—destined to decline from its peak.

“…Then what is the name of the state in that later era?” He was already utterly exhausted but couldn’t bear to close his eyes, mustering his last bit of energy to ask curiously.

“In the later era, there are no more emperors, generals, or ministers. The country doesn’t belong to any particular surname or family—but to all the people under heaven.” Shen Zheng spoke slowly, as if telling a story. “It’s more civilized, and people live with greater freedom and dignity. Of course, it’s not without its flaws—but it’s far beyond what Da Qian can compare to. What I told you before, Teacher—that ‘people have no inherent high or low status, all possess their own dignity’—that’s what the later era taught me. There, I can love you without fear of being charged with a crime or exiled. Though not everyone may understand, they must respect our existence.”

It sounded like a dream. Wen Zuo felt the scene he described was too illusory—utterly unimaginable.

Shen Zheng lowered his head to gently kiss his temple, saying softly, “If there’s a chance, I’ll take you to see it with your own eyes. Get some rest now.”

Wen Zuo slightly raised his face to receive his kiss, his eyes heavy with sleep, tears welling up and dampening his lashes. Yet one matter still weighed heavily on his mind. “And in that later era… what is my posthumous reputation?”

Shen Zheng raised an eyebrow slightly, then calmly and eloquently began, “The history books say that although your origins are obscure, your talent is exceptional—rare in a century—with peerless beauty that startles all who see you. In Bozhou, you repaired dikes and built dams, introduced tea cultivation—your achievements are evident. Holding the position of Hanlin Academy Director in the capital, you also made contributions and were praised. However, your fame for talent was too great, inevitably arousing envy and jealousy, so you made many enemies in the court. Later generations believe your merits and faults balance each other, holding a fair and moderate view—comparable to Huo Guang of the Western Han or Wang Anshi of the Northern Song—having the merit of governing and benefiting the people, yet also carrying unavoidable controversy.”

The corner of Wen Zuo’s mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.

His Highness really knows how to lie. If that confession had been passed down to later generations, how could he possibly have any reputation to speak of?

But he didn’t expose it, only murmured, “Then I am relieved…”

After saying this, he couldn’t squeeze out another word. His throat was so dry it felt like it was on fire, his eyelids too heavy to lift, and his consciousness gradually grew dim.

They finally arrived at the Wen residence. Shen Zheng carried Wen Zuo and jumped down from the small sedan chair. He had just lightly knocked on the gate when it was suddenly pulled open from inside by Jiang Mannv, with Liu Qiying close behind, stepping out in one stride and crying out, “My lord!”

Seeing the dazed, pale-faced Wen Zuo in Shen Zheng’s arms, Liu Qiying’s eyes instantly reddened. She gritted her teeth, brimming with fury—but had no one to direct it at—so she could only say urgently, “The physician is already waiting in the residence, Your Highness. Please take my lord to the bedroom quickly.”

“He likely has a fever. Go prepare a basin of warm water and clean linen cloth.” Shen Zheng instructed in a low voice as he walked inside with familiar ease.

Jiang Mannv caught a glimpse of the faint red marks on Wen Zuo’s neck and collarbone and burst into tears, wiping her face with her dirty sleeve and crying out in grief and indignation, “My lord! Why is your neck red? Did they torture you?!”

Wen Zuo was already too hoarse to speak. Hearing this, he mustered his last bit of strength to tug at the cloak covering him, firmly concealing the marks on his neck, then buried his face in Shen Zheng’s chest, playing completely dead.

Shen Zheng looked down at Wen Zuo, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, then said to Jiang Mannv, “Prepare two more charcoal braziers. Let him sweat it out. I’m afraid his cold syndrome has flared up again during this time.”

Jiang Mannv quickly replied, “We already have four charcoal braziers going! The physician is almost getting heatstroke!”

Shen Zheng nodded, reassured.

A wave of the joy of having survived a disaster washed over Jiang Mannv. She followed behind and asked, “Your Highness, it’s fortunate you returned in time—otherwise our lord really wouldn’t have made it! But how did you think to suddenly come back?”

Shen Zheng gently laid Wen Zuo on the bed in the bedroom, glanced sideways at Jiang Mannv, and didn’t answer.

Then he carefully removed Wen Zuo’s shoes and socks, unfastened his crumpled robe, and wrapped him in a thick cotton quilt.

Seeing Wen Zuo settled comfortably, he reluctantly stepped back, allowing the already sweat-drenched physician to come forward for the examination.

The physician sat by the bed, carefully taking Wen Zuo’s pulse for a long while before stroking his beard and saying, “His cold syndrome has been acting up for several days, left untreated. The cold pathogen has lodged in his joints. Fortunately, he is young and vigorous—his organs are not depleted—so there’s no immediate danger. But his vital energy is already depleted; he absolutely cannot endure such strain again. This time, physical weakness has generated heat, with cold and heat intermingled within. I estimate he’ll need to rest and recuperate quietly for quite some time to recover.”

Shen Zheng’s heart ached with pain, but there was nothing he could do except leave everything to the physician.

Wen Zuo was already exhausted into a dead faint; he didn’t react at all even when the physician applied acupuncture.

After a full hour of treatment, the physician finally shouldered his medicine chest, wiped the sweat from his brow, and took his leave.

Shen Zheng sat by the bed, gently tucking Wen Zuo’s quilt around him. Seeing his breathing gradually steady, his anxiously suspended heart finally relaxed.

With his back to Jiang Mannv and Liu Qiying standing nearby, he said calmly, “Bring me the letter your lord left for me in advance.”

Jiang Mannv instantly widened her eyes, her face full of disbelief.

Liu Qiying reacted swiftly, immediately playing dumb. “What letter? We haven’t seen any letter.”

Shen Zheng turned around, looking at the two with a knowing, half-smiling expression. “You’ve been sending me one every five days. How could you not know what letter?”

Greatly puzzled, Jiang Mannv blurted out, “There were no flaws in this! How did Your Highness find out?”

Shen Zheng didn’t answer, only meaningfully reminded Jiang Mannv, “Remember to have your lord settle accounts with you another day.”