Chapter 92: Inner Demon (II)

Chapter 92: Inner Demon (II)

Faced with such a pointed, cutting question, Le Wuya flashed a handsome, bewildered smile: "Seventh Prince, you're drunk."

This expression—he had already practiced it on the Le brothers just moments before, so he pulled it off with ease.

"...I'm not drunk. I'm using the wine as an excuse to play the fool."

Xiang Zhi wasn't buying it, waving his hands around as he spoke: "Playing dumb—you taught me that too. Do you remember? That year... the winter solstice family banquet when I turned twelve, I wanted Father to go sit with Mother after the feast, so I deliberately drank a lot of wine, but no matter how much I drank, I just couldn't get drunk... just couldn't get drunk. I had no choice but to pretend to be drunk, yet Father didn't even care—he said he was going to see Consort Zhuang and told you to take me back..."

Le Wuya remained silent.

The summer wind blowing against them, blazing like fire, seemed to carry hard pellets of sleet, biting straight into the collars of their robes.

...

A year before this incident, Le Wuya had just married Qi Hongzhuang, the emperor's adopted daughter, Princess Xiaoshu.

Thanks to his wife, he was considered half a member of the imperial clan.

He had entered the palace for a banquet, partly to show his gratitude, when he unexpectedly received the task of escorting a sulky kid home.

Le Wuya shielded Xiang Zhi's head and face, walking shoulder to shoulder with him through the wind and snow that stung their eyes raw.

Little Seven was uncharacteristically silent, letting out only faint, warm breaths that smelled of wine.

Finding the journey dreadfully tedious, Le Wuya attempted to break the ice.

Unfortunately, he never said anything nice—he opened with: "You're not fooling anyone. Just drop the act."

Little Seven, though appearing cheerful and lively, was actually incredibly petty. Already seething over losing to Xiaoliu, Le Wuya's snide remark nearly made him blow his top.

He struggled free from Le Wuya's embrace, about to argue back, when a ferocious gust of north wind howled.

Xiang Zhi nearly got a mouthful of snow.

Fortunately, Le Wuya noticed the wind suddenly turning fierce and pulled him into his arms, spinning around to shield him with his own body.

The sweeping gale kicked up a flurry of snow and tore off Le Wuya's sable hat, revealing ears and lips reddened from the cold.

Xiang Zhi tilted his head up, his cheeks tickled by the few strands of curly hair blowing across the man's face.

The words he had been about to say died on his lips. Instead, he raised his hand to cup Le Wuya's ears.

Le Wuya, in turn, gently poked his cold-flushed cheek and said something.

The north wind carried his voice away; Little Seven could only see his lips moving.

The two stood facing each other against the solemn backdrop of white snow and red walls.

In that moment, they truly seemed to depend on each other for survival.

...

Now, at twenty-three, Little Seven clung to him, demanding an answer: "You mocked me, saying my fake drunkenness wasn't convincing at all. ...Now I've gotten good at it—I can even fool Father. But why won't you give me any praise?"

Le Wuya: "..."

What he had actually meant back then was that he didn't want the boy to put on a mask.

In that wild blizzard, the words the north wind had carried away were: Don't wear the mask for too long. Don't forget who you are.

The first time they met, Le Wuya had said something similar: You don't have to smile if you don't want to.

Le Wuya's heart ached faintly, but his face showed only confusion as he looked around: "Seventh Prince, has Kong Yangping come with you? You've been drinking—you shouldn't be out in the night wind. Be careful not to catch a cold."

The gnawing hunger in his stomach reminded him: he had to harden his heart.

Xiang Zhi grabbed his collar, refusing to let him look away, and pressed his cheek against Le Wuya's: "Don't think about others, Teacher. Look at me. There's only me here now... Just give me a little of your attention."

He lowered his gaze, catching a sliver of moonlight from the sky to study Le Wuya closely: "Teacher, how did you come back to life? Won't you tell me? I won't tell anyone else—I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Seventh Prince, I am not your teacher," Le Wuya corrected him patiently. "I am Wen Ren Ming Ke, Magistrate of Nanting."

"Teacher, I wish you were Wen Ren Yue, then I wouldn't feel so miserable." Xiang Zhi placed one hand on his chest, feeling the heartbeat within, while the other hand grasped the small golden peanut hanging around his own neck, rubbing it back and forth. "Weren't you dead? I saw you with my own eyes..."

As he spoke, another gust of wind and snow swept into his ears.

Xiang Zhi shook his head, shaking off the sound of that wind—which carried unpleasant memories—from his mind, and gazed into Le Wuya's eyes, bright one moment, dim the next.

After a moment of genuine confusion, Xiang Zhi's eyes suddenly lit up.

A thought struck him: "...Or is it that, having been reborn, you no longer remember me?"

Since Le Wuya's death, he had read many stories about spirits and foxes coming back to life.

When a person dies, it was indeed possible for them to forget all past lives.

But that didn't add up either.

If he had forgotten everything, why would he be especially fond of Sixth Brother? And why would he deliberately avoid the Le family?

This didn't seem like someone who had lost all their memories.

Xiang Zhi hesitated, then found a plausible explanation for himself: "Is it because... because you don't like me, that you forgot only me?"

At this thought, Xiang Zhi wasn't disheartened—on the contrary, he perked up, and seized Le Wuya's hand: "It's okay... it's okay. If you don't remember, I'll tell you."

Le Wuya: "Seventh Prince..."

But before Le Wuya could refuse, he went on: "I used to hate you when I was a kid. Do you know why?"

"The first time we met, I thought you were different from everyone else. But when you took me and Xiang Zhi Jie to our first riding lesson, you said Zhi Jie had a better grip with his legs than I did, and his back was straighter too. I was furious... No instructor had ever dared compare the two of us—they always rated us separately. You were the first to compare me to him, and I didn't even come out on top..."

Le Wuya silently said "ah" in his mind.

He had always had an excellent memory, and he vaguely recalled this incident.

Back then, Le Wuya had never been an imperial tutor before, so he simply followed his own habits, hoping to encourage Little Seven to learn from Little Six—after all, they could learn from each other.

But when he noticed the small dimple at the corner of Xiang Zhi's mouth suddenly vanish, Le Wuya knew he was in trouble.

This kid was petty—just like him.

"But later, when I grew up and thought about it again, I wasn't as angry anymore," Little Seven said softly. "Because after that, you never compared me to him again."

"Other tutors knew the imperial rules too well. They didn't dare compare us."

At this, he grew a little shy and lowered his voice: "You were different. It wasn't that you didn't dare—you just cared about whether I'd get upset."

He looked at Le Wuya, full of hope, trying to catch a flicker of emotion or a hint of memory in his eyes.

But Le Wuya remained silent and unresponsive, standing there quietly, staring at him like he was a naive kid.

That look made Xiang Zhi's skin crawl, goosebumps rising in waves.

He got more reckless, throwing aside all his cunning, pretense, and inhibitions, awkwardly but sincerely describing their clashes in the past, and the secret, restless little thoughts hiding under all that sharpness.

"That year on the winter solstice, I couldn't get Father to Mother's side, but I wasn't all that upset. Because that was the first time you ever held me. ...Before that, you only ever held the Little Stutterer."

"By all rights, at the family feast, I should've called you brother-in-law, but I hated that name. So I always called you teacher."

Xiang Zhi rambled on, spilling his dark thoughts and petty grudges bit by bit, yet his words had this weirdly pure sincerity to them.

He went on and on about countless old memories, his tone swinging between tight and loose, only his hand, gripping tight, trembling with hopeful anticipation.

"Teacher, do you remember? That day, you killed Kui Zizhao, almost blew your cover, and with nowhere to go, you hid out at my place. I was honestly thrilled: you were hurt so bad, yet so docile, lying still in my arms for the first time... I lay next to you for a bit, secretly resting my head on your shoulder—did you notice?"

"That day, you woke and slept, slept and woke... during the longest stretch you were awake, we talked for a while."

"Kui Zizhao used to be part of the pure faction and was close to me back then. I asked why you killed him, but you never answered, just smiling and saying, 'If I chopped off one of your right-hand men, would you be pissed?'... Teacher, do you remember what I said?"

When Le Wuya didn't respond, he didn't get mad, just kept going on his own:

"I said, 'I don't have right-hand men, only tools.' You said I was cold, and I shot back, 'If the teaching's sloppy, it's the teacher's fault'..."

Xiang Zhi repeated every word of their talk, like it was just yesterday.

"You had such a wicked tongue. You said you only taught me archery and horseback riding, and if the other lessons went bad, that was on the other teachers, not you." Xiang Zhi's voice slowly went soft. "...That's when I noticed how many white hairs you had."

"You were already pretty out of it by then... Teacher, do you remember the question I asked you later?"

This, Le Wuya really didn't remember.

At that time, he was gravely wounded, and every sound reached his ears like it was coming through water, faint and blurry.

Being able to joke around with Xiang Zhi was already the last bit of strength he had.

Xiang Zhi didn't need Le Wuya to remember it.

He repeated it word for word: "I asked, 'Teacher, can I grow old with you, sharing white hairs?'"

Le Wuya's heart jolted, and he almost lost his composure.

Fortunately, he managed to hold it together, only showing a perfectly measured look of compassionate gentleness.

But this again stirred Xiang Zhi, driving him to rummage through one memory after another, like an eager child showing off his treasured collection to the person before him.

Yet the person before him remained unmoved by his agitation, only advising, "Seventh Prince, stop talking. There's still some water in my flask—drink it to moisten your throat."

This wasn't what Xiang Zhi wanted to hear.

So he ignored Le Wuya's advice, consumed by his own emotions, swinging between ecstasy and despair, speaking on and on until his throat was congested with blood and his voice hoarse, yet he refused to stop.

Every syllable he uttered carried a fractured obsession and fear.

In Le Wuya's memory, Xiang Zhi had never spoken so much in one go.

By the end, even Le Wuya himself was confused.

Was he truly drunk, or, as he claimed, using the wine to feign madness?

...From this, one thing was clear: he hadn't lied about that.

His acting skills might indeed have reached perfection.

But Le Wuya steeled his heart, struggling to control his surging emotions, remaining silent and unresponsive.

The reasons were simple.

First, he was using Wen Ren Yue's body, which bound them together.

He couldn't reveal his past life to others without his permission.

...Except for Xiaoliu and Little Phoenix, who had been involved in his resurrection.

They had the right to know, but they could only guess on their own.

Second, within the lush canopy of the ginkgo tree where they stood, a person was silently crouching.