Chapter 51.

The next day at court, Yin Chengyu announced his intention to personally travel to Shandong to suppress the rebellion.

The court was divided—though most ministers opposed the idea. To them, quelling the unrest could be handled by others, but the Crown Prince’s safety was non-negotiable.

But Yin Chengyu had made up his mind. His decision wasn’t something the ministers’ pleas could sway.

Kneeling courtiers filled the hall, their voices entreating. His sharp phoenix eyes swept over them as he asked, his voice cold and cutting like shattering ice, “If I do not go, who will restore the dignity of the royal family? Who here guarantees Shandong’s rebellion will be quelled?”

His frigid tone cut deep. No one dared answer. Heads lowered, gazes fixed to the floor. Shandong’s rebellion could be subdued, but no one dared take responsibility for salvaging the royal family’s honor.

The truth was bitter: there was no better candidate than the Crown Prince.

Yin Chengyu’s gaze raked over the assembly. His tone brooked no argument. “Since none of you can go, I will. The Ministry of Revenue will allocate supplies in the next two days. We march in three.”

The decision was final. Unshakable.

On the first day, supplies were prepared.

At dawn on the third, Yin Chengyu led 5,000 soldiers of the Four Guards Battalion out of the capital, heading straight for Shandong. The situation there demanded urgency, so their journey was a relentless forced march.

For seven grueling days, they pressed forward without rest. It wasn’t until they reached the border of Shandong that Yin Chengyu ordered camp to be set and the troops to rest for a day.

By then, the men and horses were utterly exhausted. Tents were pitched, fires lit, and the cooks ladled out steaming bowls of bone broth. Soldiers, relieved of their watches, sat in clusters around the campfires, the air rich with the comforting aroma of meat.

Yin Chengyu, however, didn’t linger in his tent. He climbed alone to a small hill on the camp’s western edge. The hill was sparse, overgrown with low wild grass, but offered an unobstructed view of the campfires below, scattered like stars against the night.

“Why aren’t you resting, Your Highness?”

The voice came from behind. Xue Shu climbed up from the other side and stood by Yin Chengyu’s side.

“The tent feels stifling. I couldn’t sleep,” Yin Chengyu replied, his gaze fixed on the crescent moon hanging in the sky.

They had departed in mid-August. Seven days of hard travel later, the moon was now a sliver, but its light was sharp, outshining the surrounding stars.

“Then let me keep you company.”

Xue Shu shrugged off his cloak, spread it on the ground, and gestured for Yin Chengyu to sit.

Yin Chengyu didn’t refuse. He crossed his legs and sat, then glanced back to see Xue Shu still standing. He waved him over, commanding, “Sit with me. Talk to me.”

Xue Shu complied, sitting beside him. His long legs sprawled awkwardly due to the cramped space on the cloak.

Noticing, Yin Chengyu shifted over, making room. “Come closer. Stretch out your legs.”

He lay back without waiting for a response, resting his head on Xue Shu’s thighs. “Massage my head.”

Xue Shu’s body stiffened at the sudden intimacy. Heat coursed through him, as if a burning iron had been plunged into still water. He fought to steady his breath, fingers hesitating before burying themselves gently in Yin Chengyu’s hair.

Yin Chengyu gazed at the crescent moon above, while Xue Shu’s eyes remained fixed on him. His intense stare was impossible to ignore. Yin Chengyu turned his head slightly, his voice quiet but deliberate. “When we pass through Jining on the way, you can visit if you want. After the rebellion is dealt with.”

His words were meant to show care, assuming Xue Shu might wish to revisit his homeland.

But Xue Shu shook his head. “There’s nothing for me there. No good memories left.”

Jining wasn’t truly his hometown—only a place where his mother and sister once lived. It had become his home because they were there.

Now, with them gone, his mother cremated in an unmarked pyre alongside others, leaving no grave to visit, Jining held only shadows of bitterness. There was no reason to return.

His voice was calm, detached—he truly had no ties to this place, no trace of sentiment or nostalgia.

Or perhaps it was just that, ever since his family had passed, he’d been like drifting willow fluff, carried wherever the currents took him—rootless, aimless, untethered. Nothing stirred his heart anymore, save for one singular exception: the person before him.

This man was all he’d ever wanted in his entire life.

And now that he had him, there was nothing else left to crave.

“Tell me,” Yin Chengyu’s sharp gaze pinned him in place, his voice as cutting as the question itself. “Am I as unbearable in your memories as everything else?”

His tone bordered on unreasonable, on petulant, but it didn’t matter—when it came to Xue Shu, his whims were law.

Xue Shu didn’t look away, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. His lips quirked into a faint, almost teasing smile. “Your Highness,” he murmured, voice steady, “you were the only light in that wretched time.”

The past came rushing back, unbidden. Stark and bitter, it was a landscape of shadows and grime—save for one vivid figure, etched into his memory like a flame in the dark.

It wasn’t difficult to recall; how could he forget him?

“Do you remember, Your Highness? It was Yutai that year—so many people died. Corpses piled high in the streets, no one left to bury them. Then you came. You ordered every body cremated, their ashes scattered together on the eastern mountain. You even had a monument erected, with the names of the dead carved into stone.”

Xue Shu’s voice was even, devoid of emotion, as he continued: “My mother was among them. Back then, we couldn’t afford a coffin, and the city was flooded—there was nowhere to bury her. I wrapped her body in a straw mat and left her in a crumbling temple. But when you decreed all the bodies to be cremated and honored, I brought her there.”

He wasn’t a believer, never had been. But the thought of his mother, who’d suffered so much in life, left to rot in some forsaken grave? That, he couldn’t bear.

So he carried her himself.

At the cremation pits on the eastern mountain, flames devoured the dead while a ritual altar stood below. Monks in ash-colored robes sat chanting sutras, their low voices filling the air, offering solace to the departed.

Crowds knelt outside the altar—grief-stricken souls who’d lost loved ones in the disaster. Xue Shu knelt among them, hollow-eyed, his lips reciting the sutras without thought. His gaze, however, was fixed solely on one figure.

The crown prince.

Yin Chengyu stood at the altar, dressed in plain mourning robes, hands clasped in prayer. A string of prayer beads dangled from his fingers as his closed eyes reflected a pious serenity.

The world worshipped gods and Buddhas. Xue Shu worshipped him.

It was he who ended the suffering. It was he who planted the seed of hope in Xue Shu’s barren soul.

“In the years after, I wandered without home, without faith. I trusted no gods, no men. Only you.” Xue Shu lowered his gaze, his voice soft but fervent. “You, my prince… you are my god.”

These words, even under Yin Chengyu’s relentless questioning in the past, had never escaped his lips. They were his most guarded secret, locked away where no one could find them.

But tonight? The air was intoxicating—silver moonlight, a beautiful man, and a quiet intimacy that disarmed him completely. He let the truth spill out, raw and unfiltered.

Realizing what he’d just revealed, Xue Shu held his breath. His dark eyes stayed locked on Yin Chengyu, betraying a flicker of tension.

Yin Chengyu stared back, his brows furrowed since the mention of Yutai, his expression unreadable. As Xue Shu’s words faded into silence, the prince let out a soft sigh, propping himself up on one arm.

Without hesitation, he reached out with his other hand, sliding it around Xue Shu’s neck. His palm pressed firmly against the back of Xue Shu’s nape, pulling him down with deliberate force.

The space between them vanished. Nose to nose, breath mingling, their proximity was suffocatingly intimate.

“From this moment on,” Yin Chengyu whispered, his voice low, predatory, “you will have no other god but me. Do you understand?”

Before the final word even left his lips, he closed the gap—crushing their mouths together in a searing, possessive kiss.

Yin Chengyu was no novice in this. His tongue swept in like a thief, prying apart Xue Shu’s defenses with ruthless ease, setting him ablaze.

When he opened his eyes, just a sliver, he caught a glimpse of Xue Shu’s trembling lashes, his gaze feral and unguarded, like a beast unleashed.

Yin Chengyu chuckled low in his throat—a dark, taunting sound that barely escaped before Xue Shu silenced him, devouring him in return.

Xue Shu, for all his inexperience, was quick to adapt. That primal instinct, that untamed edge he carried in his bones—it came roaring to life.

And soon enough, the tables turned. He pinned Yin Chengyu down, his grip unyielding, his kiss fierce and unrelenting. The raw hunger in his movements left no room for tenderness, only the desperate, savage need to claim what was his.

The night was heavy with silence, the occasional chirp of insects breaking through the stillness. From afar, faint voices of soldiers drifted over, but here, time felt suspended.

When they finally pulled apart, it had been a while—long enough to leave both of them breathless.

Yin Chengyu’s chest rose and fell slightly, his thumb brushing away the smear of blood lingering at the corner of his lips. His gaze slanted toward Xue Shu, sharp as a blade, before spitting out a curse, his tone biting: “You damn mutt.”

Always biting. Always leaving his mark.

And Xue Shu? Not a shred of remorse in his expression. He just smiled, unbothered, and reached out, tucking the stray strands of hair behind Yin Chengyu’s ear with infuriating ease.

“Don’t touch me,” Yin Chengyu snapped, slapping the hand away, his tone bristling with irritation. “Sit still.”

For once, the man obeyed, folding himself into quiet submission, the image of a loyal dog who’d stolen his treat and dared not overstep again.

Satisfied, Yin Chengyu leaned back, stretching out once more. “Now keep going,” he ordered, gesturing toward his head. “Massage.”

Xue Shu’s eyes flickered, lingering shamelessly on those swollen, reddened lips. His tongue darted out, wetting his own, but the thirst clawed deeper.

A kiss like that? Just a taste. A cruel tease. It had stirred something primal inside him—a beast gnawing at its chains, demanding more. He wanted everything. To brand Yin Chengyu as his. To mark him, claim him, drown him in his scent until there wasn’t an inch of him left untainted.

Yet all he could do was sit there, fists clenched, holding himself back as he stared. He looked and looked, memorizing that face with eyes half-lidded in a fleeting moment of peace. His voice came out low, rough, curling like smoke around them:

“Will Your Highness ever only have me?”

Yin Chengyu’s lashes fluttered at the feather-light touch trailing behind his ear. He opened his eyes, gaze steady, unreadable, and simply stared back at Xue Shu.

He didn’t answer, and that silence—the weight of it—was maddening.

Xue Shu didn’t retreat, his voice pressing on, relentless. “The Second Prince has his consort. The Third Prince has concubines and courtesans filling his estate. Will Your Highness be the same?”

His thoughts slipped to the vivid nightmare that had haunted him—those damned petitions urging for a crown princess. The mere idea twisted something ugly in his chest, a bitter, jealous fury that left him teetering on the edge of madness.

His grip on Yin Chengyu tightened unconsciously, fingers digging in. A sharp hiss of pain snapped through the tension.

Yin Chengyu frowned, his voice biting, and Xue Shu’s hands dropped instantly, curling into fists as he fought for control.

“Who else do I have but you?” Yin Chengyu shot back, his annoyance plain in his glare.

“And later?” Xue Shu pressed, unyielding, as if blind to the storm building in the other man’s expression.

The laugh that escaped Yin Chengyu was short, laced with exasperation. He sat up abruptly, seizing Xue Shu’s jaw in his hand. His thumb dragged heavily over the split on Xue Shu’s lips, smearing the ache deep enough to make the man flinch.

“That,” Yin Chengyu said, voice low and cutting, “depends entirely on how obedient you are.”

“I’ll listen,” Xue Shu swore, the words leaving him in a breathless rush. His shoulders tensed, hands fisting in the grass beneath him as he tried to hold on to whatever sliver of composure he had left.

The promise seemed to please Yin Chengyu enough. He leaned back again, reclining against the soft slope beneath the night sky. The stars and moon above shone brightly, the cool breeze kissing his skin. He wasn’t in the mood to return just yet.

“Stay quiet,” he said sharply, the warning clear. “No more fuss.”

Turning his face away, he settled in for some rest. But the heat radiating so close—just beside him—pricked at his nerves. He frowned, tilting his head to glance at Xue Shu once more.

“Behave yourself,” he muttered, the command heavy with finality. “Don’t disturb my rest.”

With that, he shifted away, his back to Xue Shu, leaving him to simmer in his own frustration.

———Author’s Note: The mutt: Your Highness… tastes so sweet. The mutt: …Still want more.

———TN: Xue Shu is far too naive in this life compared to the sharp, calculating man he once was. It doesn’t take much for the Crown Prince to wrap him around his finger and make him submit. His Royal Highness knows exactly how to break in his loyal pet and bend him to his will.