Chapter 64.

Xue Shu never expected that the end would come so quickly.

Yin Chengyu, frail from injury in the imperial mausoleum, had been further weakened by multiple assassination attempts over the years. His health spiraled downward, and within three years of ascending the throne, his life burned out like a spent candle. No amount of rare medicine or renowned physicians could save him, despite Xue Shu scouring the empire for a miracle.

Those useless quacks had nothing to offer except their pitiful refrain: "This humble servant is powerless." As if they could say nothing else.

But Xue Shu refused to accept fate.

He fought tooth and nail with Death itself, desperate to hold on to Yin Chengyu. But the harder he clung to the man, the faster he slipped through his grasp—like sand pouring through clenched fingers.

Day by day, he watched helplessly as Yin Chengyu grew more emaciated, his once pale skin now ghostly white, devoid of even the faintest trace of blood. Blue veins snaked along his neck like delicate cracks in porcelain. Lying on the vast imperial bed, he seemed so small—like a fragile glass doll that could shatter at the slightest touch.

Xue Shu couldn’t bear to let go, but he also couldn’t hold on.

He could neither keep him nor set him free.

The imperial chambers reeked constantly of medicine, a heavy, bitter stench that never dissipated. Yet Yin Chengyu, frail as he was, never flinched when drinking the black, acrid decoctions brought by the imperial physicians. He swallowed them all without a word, his expression calm, his backbone unyielding.

He clung to life with all his might but faced death with fearless serenity.

Even in his final days, he methodically arranged a stable future for Yin Chengyue and the empire he was leaving behind.

Xue Shu, however, had long since resigned himself to his fate. He had prepared to follow Yin Chengyu to death.

He was, after all, the greatest threat to Yin Chengyue’s claim to the throne. If Yin Chengyu couldn’t live, then neither could he.

And that was fine.

Once, when Yin Chengyu had been angry, he’d accused Xue Shu of defiance and rebellion. This time, Xue Shu could finally give him the obedience he’d always demanded. Their fleeting time together had already been borrowed; to die together would be the only fitting conclusion.

Xue Shu had never intended to live without him.

But Yin Chengyu was cruel to the bitter end. Even in death, he denied Xue Shu the privilege of sharing his grave.

Instead, with a single parting request, Yin Chengyu left him with the crushing weight of Yin Chengyue’s future and the empire’s survival squarely on his shoulders.

Xue Shu wanted to follow him into the afterlife. But the thought of meeting Yin Chengyu again in the afterworld and seeing disappointment in his eyes—was unbearable.

The man he loved was gone forever, the past turned to ashes. The road behind him had vanished, and there was no home to return to. A wanderer with no destination, Xue Shu could only shoulder Yin Chengyu’s dying wishes and forge ahead.

From this point forward, life and death, glory and disgrace, no longer mattered to him.

......

Xue Shu finally wrestled free from the crushing weight of his grief. Lying flat on his back, he stared blankly at the canopy above, his unfocused gaze drifting aimlessly.

He remained motionless for what felt like an eternity before stirring.

Ignoring the sharp pain of torn wounds on his back, he climbed out of bed and began to search the tent, his movements aimless and desperate.

There was no mirror to be found, only a basin of water.

He stood over it, lowering his gaze to the reflection staring back at him.

The face in the water was youthful, untouched by the ravages of time. Yet his eyes—dark, clouded, and stormy—betrayed the weight of countless winters.

For a long while, he stared in silence, his mind awash with memories of past and present colliding in a furious tempest. Eventually, the storm subsided, leaving behind a single frozen image: the face he had dreamed of endlessly, that once vibrant and youthful visage he had longed for over five agonizing years.

He closed his eyes, recalling the icy chill of the mausoleum's burial chamber. The memory was sharp and unforgiving, the cold so biting it seemed to burrow into his very bones. It was a cold he would never forget.

He shivered, tugging his robes tighter around himself as if that alone could banish the frost of his memories. Reaching out, he touched the water’s surface.

The reflection rippled and blurred, distorting the features he had been so desperate to hold on to.

A sudden, consuming terror gripped him. What if everything he saw now was nothing more than a delusion born of unbearable longing?

What if none of it was real?

His heart raced, and he was seized with a desperate need to see Yin Chengyu, to confirm that this fragile reality wasn’t just a cruel trick of his mind.

He didn’t even bother grabbing his outer robe as he strode out of the tent. The commotion startled the young boy on watch, who stumbled to stop him.

But Xue Shu’s sharp, cutting voice froze him in place: “Shut up. Don’t call anyone.”

The boy stared at him, trembling with fear, and retreated further into the shadows.

On his way out, Xue Shu’s sharp gaze caught the medicine chest set aside by the boy. It was filled with supplies meant for treating his injuries. He paused before it, rummaged through for a moment until he found what he wanted, then strode away.

It was already deep into the night. The camp lay still, the fires reduced to faint embers, with only the patrolling soldiers still moving amidst the quiet. Even those rushing to save the injured earlier had taken a pause.

Xue Shu slinked through the darkness, avoiding the patrols, and made his way to Yin Chengyu's main tent. Hidden in the shadows, he created a diversion to lure the guards at the entrance away before slipping inside.

The tent was nearly silent, save for the soft breathing of a lone night attendant, a young eunuch who had fallen asleep on a chaise. Xue Shu approached him soundlessly, pressing two fingers against his pulse. A brief moment later, the eunuch slumped into unconsciousness.

Xue Shu lingered momentarily before moving forward, step by step, toward the bed behind the screen.

The man lying there was deep in sleep.

Even as Xue Shu stood at the bedside, the other remained oblivious. His posture was impeccable, hands folded neatly over his abdomen, long black hair spilling across the pillow in inky streams, accentuating his delicate, angular face.

If the world was indeed shaped by the hands of Nuwa, then Yin Chengyu was undoubtedly her most favored creation.

Xue Shu drank him in with greedy eyes, letting his gaze roam from the faint tremble of his lashes to the fullness of his lips. Every inch of him seemed so vividly alive.

His chest tightened, and his vision blurred with heat. His trembling fingers lightly brushed against Yin Chengyu’s cheek. The warmth of his skin shattered Xue Shu’s fragile composure, and he buried his face into the curve of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of him.

The sleeping man stirred faintly, his brows knitting together. Beneath thin lids, his eyes flickered as though he were on the verge of waking.

Xue Shu froze, then slowly lifted his head. His dark, unreadable gaze lingered on him for what felt like an eternity before he pulled the cloth he’d taken from the medicine chest. Drenched in a faint anesthetic, it was mild but effective enough to prolong his sleep.

Yin Chengyu’s fluttering lashes grew still, his breaths settling back into a slow, steady rhythm.

Xue Shu tucked the cloth away, kicked off his boots, and climbed onto the bed. He turned Yin Chengyu to face him, pulling him close in an unrelenting embrace.

In the dark, he let his yearning loose, ravaging the man in his arms with wild, reckless hunger. His lips trailed over closed eyes, traced the sharp bridge of a nose, then lingered on those soft, inviting lips. Over and over, he kissed him fiercely, desperately, as if trying to brand every part of him into his memory. Yet, even in his ferocity, he was careful—leaving no marks, no evidence of his trespass.

Five years.

Five long, tormenting years since Yin Chengyu had died.

To others, their time apart might have felt like a fleeting dream—a bitter memory fading with the dawn. But to Xue Shu, it had been an entire lifetime spent in agony, drowning in love and despair.

In those years, he had lived every day in torment, a gnawing pain no one could understand. He had honored Yin Chengyu’s final decree, dedicating himself to the young emperor, expanding the empire, and forging a golden age for the Great Yan.

He played the role of the virtuous, loyal minister, abandoning the ruthless claws and teeth of his past. He cast aside ambition and greed, living as Yin Chengyu had envisioned for him.

People praised his transformation, claiming the late emperor’s insight had been unmatched. Yet no one knew that behind the façade, he endured sleepless nights, consumed by memories of a love lost.

Once, Xue Shu had scorned gods and spirits. But after Yin Chengyu’s death, the only peace he found came in chanting sutras for the departed. He had poured his efforts into building grand temples and summoning monks and priests from across the land to pray for Yin Chengyu’s soul.

But he never dared hope for an afterlife.

Life ends. Souls scatter. What afterlife could there be?

Memories were his only refuge, the sole thread keeping him from unraveling entirely.

Yin Chengyu’s younger brother, Yin Chengyue, had once confronted him in fury, calling him insane.

And perhaps he wasn’t wrong. Xue Shu had lost his mind.

It’s always easier to live in madness than to stay painfully aware, forcing yourself every second to remember that the one person you can’t live without is no longer here.

The pain? It’s unbearable.

Like having a piece of your heart ripped out, flesh torn from the bone.

Even just the memory of it makes Xue Shu’s body tremble.

He clung to Yin Chengyu with desperate intensity, gasping for breath like a fish out of water, trying to steal every ounce of warmth from him. His grip on Yin Chengyu’s hand was unrelenting, fingers drawn into his mouth, teeth grazing gently but firmly, all while his body shook from restraint.

Every fiber of his soul screamed to possess him again, fully, completely—just like before. To devour him whole, blood and flesh, fuse them together so there’d never be a chance to lose him again.

But in the end, not a single mark was left behind.

He held Yin Chengyu for what felt like hours, kissed him over and over, until the faint light of dawn seeped through the cracks. Only then did Xue Shu force himself to pull away, his gaze dark and heavy.

With care as precise as a blade, he wiped the dampness from Yin Chengyu’s face and hands, smoothed out his disheveled hair, adjusted his sleeping posture to its original state, and tucked the silk blanket neatly over him.

When it was done, it was as if nothing had ever happened.

Finally, Xue Shu leaned down, his forehead touching Yin Chengyu’s, lingering there for what felt like an eternity before he quietly stood and left.

*

Xue Shu had been gone for hours, leaving the young boy waiting in his tent in a panic.

When he finally returned, the boy rushed toward him, only to be frozen in place by the shadowy storm cloud of Xue Shu’s expression. He stopped dead, hesitating, words caught in his throat.

Xue Shu glanced at him, cold and severe. “Tonight’s events—what should not be mentioned must remain unspoken.”

The boy bobbed his head frantically in agreement, trembling. But then he noticed the blood soaking through the gauze on Xue Shu’s back. His voice wavered as he dared to speak. “Sir, the wound on your back seems to have reopened. It needs to be treated and bandaged again…”

Afraid of refusal, he quickly added, “The Crown Prince himself ordered us to take the utmost care of you. There mustn’t be any mistakes.”

Xue Shu paused mid-step. The icy storm in his gaze melted, a flicker of tenderness emerging.

He looked at the boy, his tone softening. “Fetch the medicine.” A brief hesitation. “And bring me a mirror.”

The boy didn’t dare ask why. He scurried about, eventually finding a bronze mirror and returning with it.

Xue Shu sat at the table, motionless as the boy worked on rewrapping his wounds. The mirror was placed before him.

He stared into it, his reflection staring back—dark and brooding, shadowed by fury and grief.

For a long time, he studied the face in the mirror before trying to adjust his expression.

At his age, his brow hadn’t yet been carved with deep creases, but the habitual furrow remained. Slowly, he smoothed it out, forcing the storm in his eyes to dissipate until he resembled his younger self.

Bit by bit, he coaxed a faint smile to his lips. The reflection staring back at him was bright, sharp, and full of youthful energy—the very image Yin Chengyu had loved.

The man finished dressing his wounds and retreated.

Xue Shu stayed seated, practicing that smile for what felt like hours, shedding the weight of his past life.

Finally, he pulled a jade ring from inside his robes, running his fingers over it with quiet reverence. Lowering his head, he kissed it lightly.

If this is the version of me that His Highness loved, then this is who I’ll be.

———Author’s Note: Xue Shu, the loyal dog: I can be everything His Highness desires.