Chapter 63.

The aftermath of the disaster demanded swift and tireless action. Yin Chengyu didn’t have the luxury of lingering. After briefly sitting to catch his breath, he was up again, ready to survey the devastation. Before leaving, he called in the waiting medic and eunuch, issuing sharp, no-nonsense orders to care for Xue Shu.

"Take turns keeping watch over him. Not a single misstep is allowed. If anything changes, find a doctor immediately—or me."

They nodded solemnly, their compliance unquestionable. Only then did Yin Chengyu leave.

It was already late—well into the evening—and though the rain had finally stopped, the night was far from restful. Soldiers, relentless and grim, lit torches and pressed on with the grueling task of clearing landslides and rubble.

Four days had passed since the earthquake. Among the two thousand soldiers trapped beneath the debris, nearly a thousand had been unearthed through ceaseless digging. Yet most were beyond saving—only a pitiful handful had survived, barely one-tenth of those buried.

The longer time stretched on, the slimmer the chances of finding anyone alive. Knowing this, the soldiers refused to stop, working through the night with unyielding determination.

Yin Chengyu observed the scene for a while, then summoned the commander of the Qingzhou garrison. His tone was commanding, his orders precise. "Make a list of every soldier involved in this rescue operation. When the dust settles, I’ll reward them from my personal coffers."

He’d barely finished speaking when he noticed Marquis An Yuan rushing off, his expression tense. Narrowing his eyes, Yin Chengyu called out, halting him in his tracks.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry, Marquis An Yuan?"

The man froze mid-step. In the dim light, he hadn’t noticed Yin Chengyu standing there. Forced to turn back, he bowed respectfully.

"Your Highness," he began, his voice measured, "the landslide at Mount Xiaopan buried thousands in Xieshi Village. Remembering Your Highness’s teachings—that even rebel soldiers are citizens of Great Yan—I’ve dedicated a team to rescue efforts in the area."

Yin Chengyu smiled faintly, his nod seemingly genuine. "Wise of you. The Hongying Red Army was, after all, made up of desperate common folk. And now that disaster has struck, the court cannot ignore their plight. Besides," he added with deliberate emphasis, "I owe my survival to the Holy Maiden and the Right Protector. Their aid during the earthquake saved my life."

Marquis An Yuan’s face twitched at those words, his discomfort poorly masked. Yet he maintained his composure, replying stiffly, "Your Highness is magnanimous. If there’s nothing else, may I take my leave?"

He was eager to escape, but Yin Chengyu wasn’t done with him.

"Mount Xiaopan lies deep within Fuhu Ridge, the very epicenter of the earthquake. The devastation in Xieshi Village must be severe. A single team won’t suffice. Luckily, Ying Hongxue and He Shan know the area well. They’re trustworthy and capable. I’ll personally request their help to bolster your efforts. Take the opportunity to rest—overworking yourself won’t do anyone any good."

His words dripped with warm concern, his smile almost tender, but Marquis Anyuan felt a chill run down his spine.

His lips parted as if to speak, but he hesitated, his mind swirling with suspicion. More than once, he wanted to pin Yin Chengyu with the question burning in his gut—had he already uncovered their scheme with the second prince?

Was that why he was so hell-bent on standing in their way?

However, the truth burned bitterly in his chest: Yin Chengyu knew. He had to.

Was this all a calculated game?

The night before the earthquake, the Second Prince had led a hundred men into Fuhu Ridge. When disaster struck, they were caught in the landslide. For four agonizing days, Marquis An Yuan had lost all contact with him. While publicly claiming to rescue villagers, he’d actually been scouring the area for the Second Prince.

This was his plan. These were his men. If the Second Prince died, the Xu family would face the wrath of Noble Consort Wen, and it would be his head on the chopping block.

Lately, he was completely drained, and not a damn second went by where he didn’t feel the raw sting of regret eating at him.

Marquis Anyuan’s lips trembled as he swallowed back his panic, forcing a stiff reply: "Thank you, Your Highness, for your thoughtfulness."

Satisfied, Yin Chengyu waved him off. He watched the man flee with barely disguised haste, his back practically radiating desperation.

Yin Chengyu’s thoughts turned cold. In his previous life, things had played out differently. Based on what he’d learned from Ying Hongxue and He Shan, neither of them should have allowed Yin Chengzhang, the Second Prince, to seize the upper hand. Yet the records of that rebellion stated otherwise—Ying Hongxue had fallen under Yin Chengzhang’s blade.

Now it all made sense. The earthquake had likely caught them off guard, leaving them vulnerable. That so-called rebellion victory was nothing but an opportunistic farce, Yin Chengzhang swooping in to claim credit for their misfortune.

But this time, the tables had turned. Ying Hongxue and He Shan had survived, while Yin Chengzhang had stumbled right into the heart of the disaster.

Karma, as they say, had a cruel sense of humor.

After a moment of quiet reflection, Yin Chengyu summoned his trusted aide, Cui Ci. His voice was low, sharp with intent.

"Keep a close watch on Marquis An Yuan. If Yin Chengzhang perishes in the Ridge, so be it. If he survives..." He paused, his tone turning ice-cold. "Make sure he doesn’t leave that place alive."

This wasn’t just a play—Yin Chengyu intended to see the script through to its bitter, bloody end.

*

In the dead of night, rain began to fall again, the soft patter whispering secrets to the dark.

Xue Shu lay caught in the tangled haze of dreams, suspended between waking and slumber.

This time, the dream wasn’t a collection of fleeting fragments; it was vivid, sprawling, a complete cycle of seasons passing like lifetimes. And for the first time, he wasn’t just a passive observer. He was immersed, drowning in it, reliving it all with clarity so sharp it felt like a blade slicing through his chest. He knew—he knew—this wasn’t some fabricated fantasy. It was his life, a past he’d already endured.

The dream carried him back to when he first left Yutai, traversing mountains and rivers until he reached the imperial city of Wangjing. Two years’ worth of hard-earned silver bought him an audience with an aging eunuch at the Directorate of Palace Attendants. The old man agreed to take him in as a disciple and smuggle him into the palace—at a price.

But entry came at a cost far greater than coin. The silver he’d saved left him unable to afford a proper procedure at the silk workshop. Instead, he sought out a butcher, someone accustomed to gelding livestock. The man’s hands were calloused, his knife well-worn and sharp. It was efficient but brutal. Xue Shu bit down hard, enduring agony that etched itself into his soul.

By the time the year turned, he was healed and ready. The eunuch led him into the palace, where he joined the lowest ranks of the Directorate—just another faceless sweeper among dozens.

The days began before dawn, filled with back-breaking labor and an unspoken rule: never, ever look directly at the masters of the palace. Those caught sneaking even a glance were punished with ten lashes. Xue Shu lost count of how many times the whip kissed his back. Each time, it was worth it—because maybe, just maybe, he’d catch sight of him.

But a month passed, and he hadn’t seen the Crown Prince even once. All he could do was steal glimpses of Ciqing Palace’s towering roof, the closest he ever got to the man he had worshipped like a god.

He thought this would be his life: a quiet existence spent in the shadows, serving from afar. Perhaps one day, if luck smiled on him, he’d climb the ranks and be allowed to stand in the Prince’s presence. But even then, the Prince would never know. He would never see how far Xue Shu had come, how much he had sacrificed just to be near him. Gods belonged in the heavens, after all, and Xue Shu was content to remain among the mortals, looking up.

But gods, it seemed, were not immune to the pettiness of men.

One night, everything fell apart. The Crown Prince was accused of treason and scandal—affairs with concubines, caught in flagrante delicto. The whispers were venomous, laced with falsehoods, but they spread like wildfire. Within days, he was stripped of his title and banished to the imperial tombs.

The same sycophants who once sang his praises turned on him, gleefully recounting every sordid detail as if they’d seen it firsthand. Xue Shu listened, silent and helpless. His hands were tied, his position too lowly to intervene.

But helplessness wasn’t a feeling Xue Shu could tolerate for long. He bribed his way to the imperial tombs, determined to see his god. What he found shattered him.

The once-mighty Crown Prince was reduced to a shadow of himself—thin, pale, and sickly, his proud bearing crushed beneath the weight of disgrace.

Gone was the man who had once been the center of the world. In his place stood someone broken, battered, barely holding on. Xue Shu’s chest burned with rage, grief, and something sharper—something that demanded action.

The world had no right to treat him this way. The throne that had been taken from him was his by divine right. If no one else would help him, then Xue Shu would pave the way himself. He would claw his way up from the dirt, drag the Prince’s enemies to their knees, and put him back where he belonged.

In just three years, Xue Shu rose from a nameless sweeper to the most feared figure in the palace. The title of Jiu Qiansui (Nine Thousand Years) was whispered with awe and terror, his influence stretching to every corner of the court. And for the next two years, he worked tirelessly, scheming, plotting, tearing apart the web of lies and alliances that had brought the Prince down.

It was almost laughable how oblivious his enemies were, scrambling to curry favor with him, unaware they were only pawns in his game. But there was no satisfaction in it, only bitterness. These were the same people who had destroyed the man he revered.

Finally, the day came. He arranged a meeting with the Prince, meticulously planning every detail. He wanted to show him that his faith hadn’t been misplaced, that he had always believed in him.

But when they met, the Prince didn’t greet him as an ally or a savior. Instead, he bared his throat like an offering and said, “Help me return to court, and I’ll give you anything you want.”

The words were like a knife to the gut. The Prince’s eyes, once filled with light, were now cold and calculating. This wasn’t the man he’d worshipped. This was someone who had learned to play the game of survival—a man who saw Xue Shu not as a friend, but as a tool.

And yet, Xue Shu couldn’t say no. He couldn’t turn away. If anything, the Prince’s coldness only fanned the flames inside him.

He no longer wanted to kneel in worship. He wanted to possess him, to drag his cold, unreachable moon down from the heavens and make him his.

The deal Yin Chengyu laid out was impossible for him to turn down—it was downright irresistible.

He craved the gods' affection, lusted to claim it, and yearned to reshape this world into a torrid battlefield of love and hatred, binding them together in an unending, feverish war of passion until the day he drew his last breath.

But desire is a dangerous game, and one misstep would send him spiraling into chaos.

By day, they clashed like rivals; by night, they tangled in bedsheets, each encounter laced with unspoken lies and unacknowledged truths. Their bodies drew closer, but their hearts drifted apart.

If you don’t speak certain words upfront, they’ll never see the light of day again.

He’d slammed straight into a wall, nowhere left to go.

He never got the chance to tell Yin Chengyu the truth—that power and status had never been what mattered to him. He clung to that power with a desperate grip, not because he craved it, but because he was terrified that without it, he’d lose any chance of being close to him ever again.

But the tighter Xue Shu tried to hold on, the more the Prince slipped away.

Xue Shu realized too late that he had walked into a trap of his own making. The power he’d worked so hard to obtain had become a prison, a wall keeping him from the one thing he truly wanted.

In the end, they stood on opposite sides of a battlefield, destined to destroy each other. Their story, a game of chess that had gone wrong from the very first move.

He had wanted to give the Prince back his throne, to return the moon to the sky. Instead, he had turned their love into a battleground, where every word was a weapon and every touch a wound.

Somewhere along the way, he had forgotten that god are untouchable for a reason.

———Author’s Note: The old man knows his sword is still sharp and ready—this fiery line comes straight from Wang Wei's "Drinking with Pei Di."