Chapter 93: Heart’s Weariness (Part 1)

Chapter 93: Heart's Weariness (Part 1)

Xiang Zhi was unaware that even at a moment like this, when he wished he could bare his very soul, a third person was with them.

Seeing Le Wuya's calm expression, the more he spoke, the more hopeless he felt. His eyes burned with heat and stung, and he genuinely wished he could break down and cry.

He'd even confessed to secretly copying his clothing style as a child, about buying a parrot and teaching it to say "Le Wuya, you bastard," hoping to rile him up when he invited him over for a feast...

Why did he still refuse to remember him at all?

Gradually, something shifted in Xiang Zhi's demeanor.

His hand slipped off Le Wuya's wrist and slowly crept upward.

He thought: Le Wuya had never been one to stay put—he was like the wind, sweeping in and out freely, as if no one could ever tie him down.

So maybe, only if he obediently nestled inside that little golden peanut around his neck could this man belong to him completely?

His thumb pressed against Le Wuya's throat, stroking it over and over with gentle care, yet his gaze was nothing short of menacing.

Luckily, he was blessed with a handsome face—even his menacing look was captivating.

Le Wuya, with his animal-sharp instincts, sensed something and felt his scalp prickle. His Adam's apple bobbed nervously.

Xiang Zhi's eyes lit up. His fingertips, as if in a game, patiently chased the bob of his Adam's apple, almost taking on a playful, boyish charm.

Le Wuya understood the madness beneath that smile and sympathized with his frantic, exhausting antics all night.

He'd already been cold enough to him today.

A little fuss from him wouldn't hurt anyone.

But in the end, Xiang Zhi never dared to apply even a hint of pressure.

He spread his arms, looped them around Le Wuya's neck, and hung on him.

"I hate you," he murmured against Le Wuya's ear. "Teacher, I hate you so much."

Le Wuya now truly grasped the depth of his hatred.

...Because Xiang Zhi nearly crushed him to death.

The guy usually kept a low profile, but once drunk, his limbs went limp and heavy—impossibly heavy.

Le Wuya had no choice but to do the same—spreading his arms, slipping them under Xiang Zhi's armpits, and hoisting him up.

Since his hands were free anyway, Le Wuya patted his back, and in this moment of near-intimate closeness, whispered a warning: "If you dare throw up on me, I'll punch you."

Xiang Zhi ignored him completely, his voice pitifully hoarse, almost raw, as he whispered: "Teacher, I carried you home once. Can you carry me too? My place isn't far—just over ten li away..."

Le Wuya was stunned: "You... You're way too generous with me."

Xiang Zhi buried his face in the crook of his shoulder, blushing a little: "Forget it then. Just holding me like this... works too."

Seeing that Xiang Zhi showed no reaction to his whispered threat, Le Wuya relaxed a little.

...He was truly drunk.

Then a pang of sadness hit him.

He knew Xiang Zhi's alcohol tolerance.

...You foolish boy, how much did you drink before coming?

Seeing that Xiang Zhi's voice was like sandpaper, his words trailing off in a trembling, off-key whisper, Le Wuya patted his back again and soothed: "Seventh Prince, stop talking. You'll really ruin your throat."

Xiang Zhi was stubborn to a fault. Even though his voice sounded like a crow's caw, he persisted: "You're not my subordinate. You're my teacher. Teacher, do you remember? Before you died, I came to see you..."

Seeing the Seventh Prince so relentlessly wrecking himself without a hint of remorse, Le Wuya couldn't take it anymore.

He called out toward the tree: "You coming down or what? Want to watch your master wreck his throat and go mute?"

A nimble figure stepped from branch to branch and dropped down from the top of the ginkgo tree in a few quick moves—far more agile than Le Wuya had been back in the day when he climbed trees to pick persimmons. Even the rustle of his clothes blended perfectly with the wind in the leaves.

The man stood behind Xiang Zhi, gave a slight bow, then knocked him out with lightning speed.

In the next moment, with a single hand, he easily peeled Xiang Zhi away from Le Wuya's embrace.

With the cover of branches gone, under the clear moonlight, Kong Yangping's face was revealed.

He was a rather unremarkable-looking man.

His features, taken individually, could be called handsome; but put together, they formed a plain face that left no impression.

Coupled with his reticence and his lithe build, he always gave off an eerie sense of "holding his breath, ready to startle someone."

He spoke, his words concise and his tone flat and dull: "Sorry for the trouble, Magistrate Wenren."

Le Wuya praised him: "Well hidden."

The compliment sounded like an insult, and Kong Yangping didn't dare acknowledge it, responding only with silence.

At exactly three in the afternoon today, Ru Feng had uncharacteristically invited him out to catch up.

He talked endlessly and densely—once you got into a conversation with him, it was like trying to pierce a needle through water or pour water through a sieve.

Kong Yangping tried several times to interrupt him, failing every time.

It wasn't until two hours later that he forcibly extricated himself and went to the palace gate to inquire, only to learn that the Sixth and Seventh Princes had left the palace at three. He then went to the residence to check and found that the Seventh Prince had not returned to his princely mansion.

Kong Yangping didn't make a fuss. He searched along the way and finally picked up a clue at the city gate, heading straight for the Golden Terrace.

The Seventh Prince had drunk so much wine and sneaked out of the city under cover of darkness—as his personal bodyguard, it was his duty to follow.

...And then, he heard many things he shouldn't have.

Halfway through, Kong Yangping grimaced in pain, wishing he could die on the spot to see if he could forget every word.

Now that Magistrate Wenren had caught him red-handed, his restless heart gradually calmed. He stopped dwelling on other matters and patiently recalled how to brew hangover soup.

Le Wuya, meanwhile, cast his gaze and studied Kong Yangping carefully.

He remembered that Kong Yangping's father had been an imperial physician—one of the ten physicians who had been seized to concoct elixirs for the late emperor.

Physician Kong's medical skills were superb, but they were limited to curing the ailments of the mortal world.

He could heal lives, but he could not defy fate or attain immortality.

One golden pill after another was consumed, and soon enough, the late emperor became the late emperor.

By all rights, these imperial physicians should have been skinned alive and buried as sacrifices with the late emperor for their dereliction of duty. However, the current emperor, wise and mighty, upon taking the throne, specially pardoned their crimes.

In Le Wuya's view, when the emperor was still Crown Prince, though he wielded absolute power, there was still a sitting emperor above him to keep him in check.

If the late emperor had obtained some stroke of heavenly fortune and truly lived for ten thousand years, how should he, as the Crown Prince, have conducted himself?

Now that the late emperor had failed to achieve immortality and had ridden a crane to his longed-for paradise, it was a happy outcome for all. Why create more bloodshed?

The ten physicians were, of course, not as morally corrupt in their thinking as Le Wuya.

Having escaped the jaws of death, they wept with gratitude to the emperor, swearing one after another that their families would pledge their loyalty to the Xiang imperial house for generations to come, loyal unto death.

Later, Kong Yangping, the youngest son of Physician Kong, entered the palace.

His medical skills were nothing special, but his martial prowess was exceptional, and thus he caught the emperor's eye. He was taken on as a personal attendant, trained for a while, and then gifted to the emperor's seventh son.

...

While Le Wuya was reminiscing about the past, Kong Yangping on the other side was feeling his scalp crawl under his gaze.

Years ago, Kong Yangping had dealt with Lord Yue quite a bit.

Though it was not the first time he had been rattled, every time he looked at Magistrate Wenren, Kong Yangping still shook him up.

Given that he was the one who had personally burned Le Wuya to ashes, facing this face, he calmly let his thoughts wander: What the hell?

However, Kong Yangping had always been a man of few words who rarely asked questions, never asking a single extra question or taking a single extra step.

After bowing to Le Wuya, he held Xiang Zhishi and prepared to leave.

Unexpectedly, the ghost called out to him from behind: "Kong Yangping?"

Kong Yangping stopped in his tracks and answered in a level voice: "...Yes."

Le Wuya walked a slow, deliberate circle around him.

Beads of sweat formed on Kong Yangping's forehead.

He thought, the ghost is sizing me up.

These days, Le Wuya had kept to himself in solitude, deliberately keeping his distance from everyone, yet he was not deaf to the world outside.

He had quietly observed Kong Yangping and found that although this man seemed similar to Jiang He—a stern, humorless sort—he was in truth vastly different from Jiang He, whose heart was a serene, uncluttered place.

He was a man with a mind of his own, countless schemes hidden in the depths of those dark eyes. Occasionally, when he looked up at someone, it could make a person's heart skip a beat.

No wonder Little Seven didn't trust him.

Little Seven had long been raised into a skittish, wary soul, naturally hesitant to trust anyone.

Even if it were Le Wuya in his place, he would not dare to easily entrust his heart to such an agent openly sent to keep an eye on him.

In his previous life, it had been the same with him and Sister Qi: under the same roof, each with their own hidden agenda.

It was only near death that they realized they each had their own thoughts and were not just pawns in someone else's game.

Not long ago, Xiaoliu had told him that he had brought Ru Feng under his command.

This made Le Wuya think of another possibility.

Ru Feng was about five or six years older than Xiaoliu, yet he could still be brought under Xiaoliu's command.

Kong Yangping was roughly the same age as Little Seven. When the Old Emperor had assigned him to Little Seven, Kong Yangping had only been in his teens. They had grown up together, far from mere acquaintances.

Le Wuya believed there were people in this world who were unwaveringly loyal to the throne, willing to die nine deaths without regret—people who, no matter how outrageous the order from their master, would carry it out willingly, even if it meant dying.

But today, listening to Little Seven recount the past, he noticed two things Kong Yangping had done that were quite odd.

First, when killing Master Venerable Kui, Le Wuya vaguely remembered Little Seven mentioning in passing that the doctor who tended to his wounds had been found by Kong Yangping.

Second, when Little Seven went up the mountain to carry down his corpse, Kong Yangping had also been present.

Le Wuya knew the current emperor's character well.

These two things Little Seven had done were enough to poke the Old Emperor's dragon scales.

In his eyes, even mosquitoes entering the capital had to fly in single file—nothing that went against his will could be allowed to happen.

Yet over the years, Little Seven had not been given a hard time.

The only explanation was that Kong Yangping was not hard-hearted. It was simply his nature to keep his head down and do his work, not one to open his heart to others.

Of course, Little Seven, being caught in the middle of it all, not daring to entrust trust to such a taciturn man, was also understandable.

In Little Seven's own view, he must have used some means—threats both soft and hard—to force Kong Yangping into silence, preventing him from reporting.

But Kong Yangping's nominal master was the Son of Heaven.

If he was willing to conceal things for Xiang Zhishi, that already showed partiality.

Little Seven was incredibly petty and tended to overthink things. Unless it was total, unreserved loyalty and protection, he would rather do without such partiality.

And so, over the years, their relationship remained shallow, and their mutual suspicion ran deep.

Thinking of this, Le Wuya could not help but sigh: The emperor's way of doing things had always stayed true to form.

Xiang Zheng was not a man who had carved his way out through bloodshed in brotherly infighting and backstabbing.

His path to the throne had been smooth sailing, which naturally fostered in him a haughty, self-important air befitting an emperor.

He was quite confident, believing his virtue and might reached every corner of the land, and his favors were heavier than mountains and deeper than the seas.

Just as he treated Sister Qi.

In truth, it was Le Wuya who had spotted the irregularities in the Qi family's case files and traveled a thousand miles to overturn her case.

It was also Le Wuya who had racked his brains behind the scenes to push the emperor into establishing her as a model of filial devotion.

But the emperor could simply assume, as a matter of course, that it was he who had personally pardoned Qi Hongzhuang, that it was the emperor's boundless grace that granted her a lifetime of honor as a lady gardener—a complete transformation, as if she had been reborn.

As for Le Wuya's small favor, it was merely the throwaway gesture that paved the way.

And Qi Hongzhuang, nothing but a low-born woman with little education, need only receive the emperor's grace and repay it with wholehearted devotion.

But it had to be said, the old bastard had a good eye for people.

Whether it was Qi Hongzhuang, Ru Feng, or Kong Yangping, they were all genuinely fine material.

With this thought, Le Wuya gazed at the sleeping Seventh Prince, then turned his gaze to Kong Yangping.

These two seem like opposites that complete each other—one outgoing, the other reserved. But in truth, one is closed off, and the other is simply deep.

Getting that stubborn Seventh Prince to change his ways? That would be next to impossible.

But this man standing before him might actually be worth teaching.

He said to Kong Yangping, "Kong Yangping, how do you write the character 'loyalty'?"

Kong Yangping's eyes flickered as he tried to figure out what Le Wuya was really getting at.

Le Wuya watched him, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Judging by the way he mulled it over, the man was clearly sharp as a tack.

But the answer he gave was surprisingly plain: "A heart under the character for 'middle'—that's 'loyalty.'"

"And what does that mean?"

Kong Yangping thought, Man, he really does sound like a teacher.

Still, he answered earnestly, sticking to his own understanding: "To keep your heart dead center, without leaning one way or the other—that's loyalty."

Le Wuya crossed his arms. "Ming Ke has a thought he'd like to share with Guard Kong."

"Please, go ahead."

"Heaven above, earth below, and man in the middle. As long as a person tends to his own heart, follows his conscience, and can look himself in the eye without shame—that's loyalty."

Kong Yangping couldn't help but shoot back, "Loyalty to the sovereign and love for the country are the eternal law of heaven and the bedrock of human conduct. How can a man just follow his own heart and do whatever he pleases?"

"Why not?"

Kong Yangping's eyes went wide, utterly baffled.

His first instinct was that these treasonous words shouldn't even be heard.

But he did not interrupt Le Wuya.

Le Wuya spoke smoothly, with easy eloquence: "A wise bird picks its tree; a worthy minister picks his lord. From the First Emperor down to today, generation after generation, everyone shouts 'Long live the Emperor, ten thousand years!'—but is there really a master in this world who can live ten thousand years? A man lives a hundred years at best—just a drop in the vast ocean of history. So why shouldn't a loyal heart be put on the scales and weighed, to see who's truly worthy of it?"

Kong Yangping mulled it over for a moment, then gave a deliberately vague reply: "Thank you for your guidance, Magistrate Wenren."

This was a habit Kong Yangping had learned from his father: never state a clear opinion, always leave yourself an out.

That way, no one can use your words against you, and you stay alive.

Le Wuya smiled. "Guard Kong, that 'thank you' of yours is loaded with meaning. Since you're thanking me, don't just say it—how about actually doing me a favor?"

"Please, name it."

"Guard Kong, when you're with the Seventh Prince, could you maybe drop that bad habit and speak a little more plainly?"

Kong Yangping: "..."

When Kong Yangping stayed silent, Le Wuya pressed on gently: "Think about it, Guard Kong—why did the Seventh Prince get so drunk and cause such a scene today? At the end of the day, he's never had a friend he could open up to. He's been bottling it all up for years, and this is where it's landed him."

Kong Yangping's lips twitched.

...But he wasn't Ru Feng—he wasn't someone who could talk his way through anything.

"I know it's hard to change." Le Wuya reached out and gave his shoulder a light pat. "...How about this? You make a point of saying ten sentences to him every day. That's it—just ten."

"...What should I say?"

"Whatever you like."

Kong Yangping pressed his lips together, thought for a moment, then said again, "Thank you for your guidance, Magistrate Wenren."

Le Wuya nodded, satisfied.

This thank-you sounded a hell of a lot more sincere than the last one.

...

Watching Kong Yangping lead his horse, escorting the young prince off into the moonlight, Le Wuya was suddenly hit by a wave of exhaustion so profound he could barely stay upright.

He stumbled back a few steps and slammed hard into the ginkgo tree, catching himself just before he hit the ground.

His habit had always been: wherever you fall, you squat there for a while.

Le Wuya leaned back against the ginkgo tree, slid slowly down to the ground, and let out a bitter laugh in the faint scent of the leaves:

...God, what a day.

Tired as he was, Le Wuya couldn't just sleep out in the middle of nowhere.

He hauled himself onto his horse, and under a sky full of stars, let the horse amble slowly back to the courier station.

The courier on night duty that evening was the same one who'd been sorting letters that afternoon.

Hearing hooves outside, he hurried out and took Le Wuya's reins: "Magistrate Wenren, you're back. The gates have been locked for ages, and it's pitch black out—I was starting to worry."

Le Wuya gave a gentle, gentlemanly smile, though his body was already trembling and swaying: "Would you mind warming up a pot of wine for me?"

The courier let out an "oh." "Sorry, Magistrate Wenren, but the kitchen's locked up at this hour. I do have some cold wine I keep on hand to stay awake while I do the books tonight—if you don't mind..."

Le Wuya said quickly, "Then share a cup with me."

By now, Le Wuya was utterly drained, but sleep wouldn't come.

He just wanted the wine to carry him into a deep sleep.

He downed the full cup of cold wine in one gulp, and before the alcohol could hit him, he dropped his head and dragged his weary feet up the stairs, one step at a time.

By the time he reached his door, the world was already swimming before his eyes.

Le Wuya pushed the door open with shaky hands, stepped forward, and caught his foot hard on the threshold.

His body pitched forward, out of control, and he tumbled—unexpectedly—into a warm embrace.

...Le Wuya's nerves had been stretched so thin, and he was so exhausted, that he'd failed to wonder why a courier would be so worried about where he'd been.

He tried to lift his head, dazed, as if a thousand-pound weight were tied to his neck.

He whined into the void, "I'm so tired..."

A hand settled on his back, patting him gently—just as he had comforted the young prince moments ago—stroking down his spine, top to bottom, with the utmost tenderness.

Le Wuya really liked that.

He just wanted someone to comfort him like this.

But everyone else thought he could handle anything, so no one ever did.

Le Wuya hugged back, mumbling drunkenly: "You comfort me, and I'll comfort you too... Xiao Qi, don't be upset. Both of you, your teacher cares about you..."

The hand massaging his spine paused mid-air.

Zhi Jie lowered his gaze, looking at Le Wuya in his arms, whose face was flushed and eyes unfocused, a complex emotion flickering in his eyes.

His right hand hung frozen in the air, thumb and forefinger rubbing together, as if releasing some pressure.

Finally, after a long, deep sigh, Le Wuya was pulled into a warm, gentle embrace, along with a whispered: "...Teacher, but I only care about you."