Chapter 152: Yin Ciguang’s Epilogue - No Reunion in Sight

Late spring hung heavy in the air, with trees adorned in wild blooms and swarms of orioles flitting chaotically. The lingering chill of the moonlight seeped through the windows, falling cold and piercing onto bare skin like a spectral stream.

Startled awake, Yin Ciguang sat frozen, his gaze pinned to the silvery night outside. The dream he had just escaped from refused to fade; instead, it sharpened in vivid, merciless detail, replaying in his mind like a relentless lantern show.

His eyes flicked to the furnishings within the room. As they landed on familiar objects, his pupils quivered, and his fingers, resting limply on the silk quilt, slowly curled into a fist.

This was his bedchamber in Yongxi Palace.

It had been years since his mother’s death. After being granted the title of Prince An, he had rarely set foot here. He lived either in the Prince’s estate outside the palace or in a side chamber of Qianqing Palace. The last time he had returned to Yongxi Palace, this once-vivid repository of his memories had become a cold, lifeless void, tainted with the oppressive scent of incense.

But now, everything was as it had been—worn, yet hauntingly warm.

Casting aside the quilt, Yin Ciguang swung his robe around his shoulders and slipped off the bed. He lit a lantern and made his way to the side chamber where his mother had once lived. Back then, she had not yet been elevated to the rank of consort and resided humbly in the side hall of Yongxi Palace. The resources allocated to her rank had always been meager, and deliberate deprivation ensured that even basic necessities were scarce.

In those days, to save oil, the palace would go pitch dark at night, with only the icy glow of moonlight frosting the walls.

Yet, the shadows were no hindrance to Yin Ciguang. Every table and chair of this place was etched into his memory. He could navigate it with unerring precision, even blindfolded.

The lantern’s flickering flame illuminated his determined expression as he approached the side chamber’s door. Its warm orange glow spilled over the threshold, rousing the drowsy palace maid standing vigil outside. Blinking in a haze of confusion, she looked up, only to see the figure bathed in golden light. Her sleepiness fled instantly, and she scrambled to her feet, about to bow.

“Your Highn—”

A sharp wave of his hand silenced her.

Yin Ciguang’s dark eyes locked onto the tightly closed doors. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven beats as a storm of emotions raged within him. He shut his eyes briefly, forcing himself to swallow the torrent. When he finally spoke, his voice was raspy and raw.

“Is my mother resting?”

It was well past midnight. Of course, the lady had retired hours ago.

The maid hesitated, her gaze flickering with uncertainty before she lowered her voice to respond. “Yes, Your Highness. The lady has long since gone to bed. Do you need me to—”

“No.” His refusal was curt, final. “Don’t disturb her.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away, lantern still in hand, leaving the maid to stare in confused silence before sinking back into her post.

Just as silently as he had come, Yin Ciguang slipped back into his bedchamber. The palace maids slumbering inside remained undisturbed, oblivious to his restless presence.

Standing before the window, he lowered his head, his gaze tracing the lines etched into his palms. For a moment, he was utterly still, before his hands rose to cover his face. His shoulders trembled violently, and from his throat came a muffled, guttural sound—somewhere between a sob and a laugh, broken and hollow, shattering the night’s fragile stillness.

……

The turbulence of the previous night had wreaked havoc on Yin Ciguang's fragile health. After tossing and turning in bed until dawn, his condition took a steep nosedive the next day. Fever swept through him like a wildfire, leaving him dazed and disoriented. Soon after, a relentless coughing fit wracked his frail body.

The palace maids, scrambling to find a physician but failing miserably, were left in sheer panic, utterly helpless. It was only through a brief moment of lucidity that Yin Ciguang managed to order the maids to brew some medicine. Forcing down a bowl of the bitter concoction, he finally managed to break the fever, and the coughing subsided slightly.

Still, his body remained weak, his face as pale as lifeless parchment.

Word of his condition quickly reached Concubine Rong, who rushed to his side. The sight of his frailty broke her down; tears streaked her cheeks as guilt flooded her voice. “The Crown Prince has decided to let the incident at the Banana Garden go. I will not face punishment. You needn’t torment yourself any longer.”

It was only moments earlier that she’d learned from the night-duty maids that Yin Ciguang had snuck out late at night to check on her. She assumed his worsening illness stemmed from his ceaseless worry over her safety.

Her words, however, made Yin Ciguang freeze in momentary confusion. His memory was hazy, stuck on the moments before his previous life had been snuffed out.

The details of this current timeline—its year, its month—remained a blur. Yet her mention of the Banana Garden incident instantly brought clarity: he had somehow returned to the critical moment when his mother had nearly fallen victim to a vicious scheme.

In his first life, Yin Chengjing, aided by Yin Chengzhang, had drugged the wine in a bid to orchestrate a scandal involving his mother and the Crown Prince.

The plan had been for his mother to be caught in a compromising position, thus ruining the Crown Prince’s reputation. But the Crown Prince had caught wind of the plot and avoided the trap, choosing instead to protect Yin Ciguang’s mother by claiming the wine was poisoned rather than drugged.

In doing so, he shielded her from disgrace but sowed the seeds of future conflict.

That night, Yin Ciguang had agonized over the implications. He knew Noble Consort Wen and her faction wouldn’t take this setback lying down. His mother had been dragged into the Crown Prince’s camp, and retaliation was inevitable.

After a night of sleepless deliberation, he had made the bold decision to approach the Crown Prince the very next day, offering his loyalty in a desperate gamble for protection.

The Crown Prince, ever magnanimous, had agreed, granting shelter to Yin Ciguang and his mother. Yet the struggle for the throne only grew more ruthless, the hidden daggers deadlier. Despite the Crown Prince’s benevolence, Yin Ciguang had underestimated Noble Consort Wen’s ruthlessness.

In the end, neither he nor his mother had survived her vengeance.

On his deathbed, the Crown Prince had asked if he regretted seeking his aid. At the time, Yin Ciguang had hesitated. Regret had consumed him. He’d thought that, by staying neutral, refusing to participate in the treacherous battles of succession, and quietly protecting his mother, he could avoid the inevitable bloodshed.

But in the final moments before death claimed him, fragments of his past lives flashed before his eyes. He remembered his first lifetime.

In that life, the Crown Prince had failed to uncover the plot. He drank the drugged wine and, in his dazed state, was led into a trap, ending up in bed with Yin Ciguang’s mother. Noble Consort Wen had burst in with a retinue of noblewomen, catching them red-handed.

The once-esteemed Crown Prince was stripped of his title, his reputation in tatters, and confined to a life of exile. His mother was sentenced to death, her body denied a proper burial.

Yin Ciguang, already plagued by chronic illness, lost what little favor he had left. Deprived of his medicinal supplies on Noble Consort Wen’s orders, he followed his mother to the grave not long after.

A princess despised by the emperor, dying quietly in obscurity—her fate was scarcely acknowledged, let alone mourned.

Now, here he was in his third life, bound once again to this web of palace intrigue. He had fought, struggled, and died twice already. The futility of escape was crushing. As long as he remained trapped in the cold, suffocating embrace of the palace, the tides of fate seemed impossible to overturn.

Yin Ciguang’s dark eyes flickered with unyielding resolve. After a long silence, he reached for Concubine Rong’s trembling hand and grasped it firmly. His voice was low but steely, each word carrying the weight of his determination:

“Mother, I must see the Crown Prince.”

……

Following the trajectory of his previous life, Yin Ciguang dragged his frail body to Wangshan Pavilion, where he met the Crown Prince.

Everything unfolded exactly as it had before—the Crown Prince accepted his pledge of loyalty and agreed to protect both him and his mother consort. Yet this time, Yin Ciguang carried the weight of memories from two lifetimes.

Those memories allowed him to finally pierce through the veil of emotion in the Crown Prince's eyes—eyes filled not with warmth, but with a poignant pity, the kind reserved for recognizing one’s own kind.

In the last life, the Crown Prince had been no different from him. It was shared pain, mirrored in their lives, that had stirred the Crown Prince to extend his hand in compassion. But Yin Ciguang, blind in his delusions, had mistaken that hand for something more. He had drowned himself in the fantasy.

"So, that’s how it was..." Yin Ciguang murmured, a bitter sigh escaping his lips, tinged with a loss he couldn’t quite name.

Turning, his gaze lingered one last time on the striking figure of the Crown Prince standing tall in the pavilion. But without hesitation, he tore his eyes away, resolute, and strode toward Yongxi Palace.

Not once did he look back.

*

Everything followed the trajectory of the previous life with uncanny precision. Since the farewell at Wangshan Pavilion, Yin Ciguang confined himself to Yongxi Palace, feigning illness. He never stepped outside, nor did he see the Crown Prince again. Like an indifferent spectator, he coldly observed the unfolding events from the sidelines.

It wasn’t until the lump plague reappeared in Wangjing, just as it had in his memories, that he quietly sought out Yin Chengyu. This time, he handed over both the bloodletting technique and the cure he had developed in his former life.

However, unlike before, he refused to step into the limelight to claim the credit. Instead, he used his knowledge as leverage, extracting a promise from Yin Chengyu: when Yin Chengyu ascended the throne, he would grant Yin Ciguang and his mother permission to leave the palace and retreat to the south.

Yin Chengyu agreed.

This time, the plague was contained far faster than before. Yet, Yin Ciguang deliberately kept himself uninvolved.

Emperor Longfeng’s attention never once strayed to the neglected “eldest daughter,” nor did his mother gain any favor or elevation in status as a result. Yongxi Palace’s allowances remained miserly, and Noble Consort Wen’s lackeys continued to cause trouble from time to time—but it went no further than petty harassment.

By the time the royal hunting expedition at Danxi rolled around, Yin Ciguang and his mother’s lowly status naturally excluded them from accompanying the imperial entourage. He only learned the results after the hunt had ended, when the imperial procession returned to the capital.

Just as before, the Oirat and Tatars proposed marriage alliances with Great Yan. And, just as in the last life, a wager was made, with the Crown Prince emerging victorious in the end.

Meanwhile, the third prince, Yin Chengjing, fell in love with Princess Uju during the hunt. An incident saw them face mortal danger together, and Yin Chengjing injured his leg saving her. Their romance blossomed into a happy union, culminating in an announcement: the third prince would wed both Lady Yao as his principal wife and Princess Uju as his secondary consort come spring.

By avoiding the Danxi expedition, Yin Ciguang had escaped the harassment of Mubai’er and ensured that his true identity remained concealed. Still, as a precaution, he secretly vetted all the palace staff in Yongxi Palace, ensuring that only trusted attendants with years of loyal service remained within the inner quarters.

Noble Consort Wen did attempt to plant spies in his household, but evidently, she viewed him as little more than a frail, inconsequential princess. Her informants lingered for a few days, found nothing of interest, and soon withdrew.

Yet Yin Ciguang remained ever-vigilant. He meticulously revisited the events of the past, ensuring no detail had been overlooked. As time passed, he carefully counted the days, waiting for the inevitable turn of events. Finally, news arrived—Lady Yao was pregnant.

Reborn into this life, Yin Ciguang had again pledged his loyalty to the Crown Prince, but this time, he kept his involvement to a minimum. He refrained from openly associating with the Crown Prince or reclaiming the identity of the eldest prince. Instead, he guarded Yongxi Palace and his mother with relentless caution, counting each passing day as he awaited the final outcome.

His rebirth had hardly changed a thing.

The only difference was that Noble Consort Wen had not poisoned his mother. Instead, she remained the most favored woman in the imperial harem, basking in glory. Using the pretense of losing her own child, she took the Fourth Prince, Yin Chengxu, born of a palace maid, under her wing.

Meanwhile, Emperor Longfeng, untouched by devastating blows, appeared robust enough to still fawn over Yin Chengxu, raising the boy personally out of misplaced affection.

Yin Ciguang watched from the sidelines, his gaze cold and unyielding, finding it all darkly comical. No matter the timeline, his father was always the same—a muddled, incompetent ruler. And it was always others who paid the brutal price for his failings.

Just like in the previous life, Yin Chengjing, faced with a dead end, ultimately chose rebellion.

Without Yin Ciguang’s subtle machinations this time, the coup was delayed by two months, giving Yin Chengjing more time to prepare. Yet the result remained unchanged—failure. The rebellion was quashed when Xue Shu, the ruthless Overseer Commissioner of the Western Bureau, personally executed Yin Chengjing, restoring order with decisive bloodshed.

But Longfeng Emperor did not emerge unscathed. Taken hostage and thrown into icy waters during the chaos, he fell gravely ill after being rescued. Though his life was narrowly saved, he was left paralyzed, bedridden, and forced to name the Crown Prince as regent.

Still, Longfeng Emperor, ever distrustful of the Crown Prince, schemed to keep him in check. He brought Noble Consort Wen and the Fourth Prince into Qianqing Palace under the guise of attending to his health while appointing Shao Tian and Gao Xian as regents to counterbalance the Crown Prince’s influence.

What unfolded in the court was a vicious struggle. Yin Ciguang did not know all the details, but one thing was clear: officials like Shao Tian and Gao Xian, who clashed with the Crown Prince's interests, had discreetly thrown their support behind the Fourth Prince—just as they had backed Yin Ciguang in his past life.

To them, it never mattered who sat on the dragon throne. What mattered was who could safeguard their power. Longfeng Emperor was all too aware of this, indulging their schemes to suppress the Crown Prince and preserve his own tenuous grip on authority.

Beneath the façade of imperial tranquility, treacherous currents roared.

The emperor’s health deteriorated rapidly, his life held together by the desperate efforts of court physicians. Knowing the Crown Prince’s ascension would strip them of power, Noble Consort Wen and her faction launched a coup in the fall.

High Eunuch Gao Xian, bearing an imperial edict forged in the emperor’s hand, summoned the Crown Prince to Qianqing Palace, ostensibly to tend to the ailing emperor. The Crown Prince, feigning concern over his own lingering illness, refused to comply, citing fear of endangering the emperor’s health.

After several failed attempts, Gao Xian escalated. Citing "defiance and disobedience" against the emperor, he ordered the imperial guards to surround the Crown Prince's residence, intent on seizing him.

When Yin Ciguang heard the news, he shot to his feet, ready to intervene, but halted after a single step. He let out a bitter laugh, sinking back into his chair.

"Acting on impulse won’t help," he muttered to himself.

The Crown Prince was no fool.

Meticulous and calculating, he was not one to be cornered without a plan. Besides, Xue Shu was still by his side—a sharp blade poised to strike.

Piecing together the recent movements in court and harem, Yin Ciguang discerned the Crown Prince's strategy. He was waiting, letting the enemy make the first move to justify eradicating them in one fell swoop.

There was also Ziyuan Zhenren, the enigmatic Taoist master, trusted implicitly by the emperor. Hidden in plain sight, Ziyuan Zhenren’s presence remained undisclosed to Consort Wen’s faction, making him the emperor’s sole confidant outside their reach.

As the autumn wind howled, Yin Ciguang tightened his cloak and stood under the corridor, his piercing gaze fixed on the direction of the Crown Prince’s palace.

*

Three days later, Gao Xian met his end at the front lines, executed without mercy.

In the shadows, the Crown Prince secretly rallied the court’s elder statesmen, convincing them with an explosive claim: “The Emperor has likely been taken hostage.”

Stirred into action, they marched with their forces straight into the Qianqing Palace, they pledging their loyalty to protect the throne.

But when they stormed the Qianqing Palace of Heavenly Purity, what greeted them was far worse—a corpse. Emperor Longfeng had been dead for days, his body stiff, cold, and ghastly blue.

The truth unfolded like a scandalous nightmare. Noble Consort Wen had concealed the Emperor’s death, forging imperial edicts in a brazen bid for the throne.

The Crown Prince, as the rightful heir, had no choice but to seize control. Treachery had to be purged, chaos restored to order.

This so-called "restoration" ignited a brutal, three-day campaign of bloodshed. Noble Consort Wen and Shao Tian, cornered and desperate, chose to fight like feral beasts. The palace courtyards and the streets of the capital became rivers of red, soaked in the violence of rebellion.

When the dust finally settled, and the city drew its first quiet breath, Yin Chengyu ascended to the throne. His coronation unfolded beneath the pale grip of winter.

As custom dictated, Princesses were barred from the ceremonial grandeur. Yin Ciguang, standing atop the drum tower, heard the majestic music rolling from the imperial court. From afar, she spotted the young Emperor standing upon the city walls, receiving the obeisance of countless ministers and generals.

He was the sovereign he had always envisioned.

Kneeling towards the distant walls, Yin Ciguang bowed low, his reverence unshakable.

......

It was several days after the coronation when Yin Ciguang finally sought him out to claim what had been promised.

In this life, his interactions with Yin Chengyu had been few, their relationship distant at best. Yet despite the unfamiliarity, he met him with surprising warmth, the kindness of a ruler willing to indulge a sibling.

“Have you truly decided?” he asked, voice calm but edged with imperial authority. “If you wish to stay in the capital, I can restore your title. You can live freely as a leisurely prince and even bring Concubine Rong to your side for care and companionship.”

But Yin Ciguang refused without hesitation, his resolve unwavering. “My mind is set.”

Yin Chengyu, sharp-eyed and unreadable, did not press further.

*

Half a month later, Concubine Rong passed away, her death swiftly followed by the Grand Princess, whose lingering illness flared in the grief of losing her mother, snuffing out her own life.

As the two women's bodies were laid to rest, Yin Ciguang, dressed as a man, sat with his mother inside a carriage, making their way toward the ferry outside the city gates. Every detail of their southern escape had been meticulously arranged.

Ten days prior, Yin Ciguang had sent trusted agents ahead to purchase a residence and secure assets in the south. Now, he escorted his mother, masquerading as a merchant on a familial quest, to board a private passenger vessel waiting at the docks.

The pre-arranged ship awaited their arrival like clockwork. As the carriage door swung open, the boatman approached briskly, bowing with a well-rehearsed grin. “Welcome, Madam Rong. Welcome, Young Master Rong.”

Yin Ciguang acknowledged the greeting with a curt nod, slipping the man a generous tip before helping his mother onto the vessel.

Before leaving the palace, Zheng Duobao had discreetly delivered a box of silver notes under imperial orders. Yin Ciguang accepted it without hesitation. With wealth no longer a concern, he rented a spacious, well-appointed ship that glided over the water with serene stability.

Once his mother was settled in her cabin, Yin Ciguang stepped out to the stern, his figure clothed in unassuming azure robes. His gaze locked on the distant silhouette of the capital, sharp and unyielding. The morning wind skimmed across the water, sending his hem fluttering like a banner of defiance.

For a long time, he stood there in absolute stillness before breaking his reverie. Calling for his attendants, he ordered, “Bring the snow water I stored in the chest and the tea leaves as well. Set the tea set and brazier here at the stern.”

His commands were followed with seamless precision. The servants arranged the tea set and lit the brazier as instructed, while Yin Ciguang personally took the snow water and brought it to a boil. Each of his movements was deliberate, slow, and exacting as he brewed the tea. He settled on a seat facing the capital, placing a single tea cup before him and another across the table, a seat deliberately left empty.

The crystalline tea poured from the pot in an unbroken stream, its steam curling upward like ephemeral threads of memory. He raised his cup toward the direction of the capital, his lips forming the shadow of a smile as he toasted into the vast distance.

“From this day forward, I leave behind the fray. Let me be a man of leisure—one jug of wine, one zither, and clouds drifting by a quiet stream. Old ties shall remain untended.”