Chapter 74.

"What do you think of Princess Uju, Your Highness?"

The low, questioning voice brushed against his ear, dripping with suspicion. The shift in Xue Shu’s attitude was too blatant, and Yin Chengyu frowned in irritation.

He despised this domineering aura Xue Shu always carried, the way he tried to control every situation. It brought back memories of the previous lifetime—memories he’d rather forget.

Back then, whenever Xue Shu was in a foul mood and wanted to stir trouble, he’d toss out vague, loaded questions like bait. No matter how Yin Chengyu answered, the outcome was always the same: a mess of torment and frustration.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that Xue Shu didn’t care about the answers. He was only looking for an excuse to vent his twisted desires, using Yin Chengyu as his outlet.

The déjà vu of it all sent a cold shiver down Yin Chengyu’s spine. His voice snapped like a whip, sharp and commanding: "How dare you?! I’ve answered this once already. Don’t test my patience with your nonsense."

But Xue Shu wasn’t one to back down. His eyes stayed locked on Yin Chengyu, gleaming with something dark and unreadable. "Both the Oirat and Tatar tribes are eager to secure a marriage alliance with Great Yan. Tell me, Your Highness, would you consider such an arrangement yourself?"

The question was maddeningly familiar. He’d asked it before, in that other life.

Yin Chengyu had answered it then, too.

But for Xue Shu, one answer was never enough. He needed to hear it again and again, to soothe the raging storm of jealousy and violence that consumed him.

Yin Chengyu’s brows furrowed deeper, irritation flickering in his eyes. Perhaps he’d been too lenient with Xue Shu lately, indulging his jealousy and tantrums.

Turning his piercing gaze on the man, Yin Chengyu’s voice dropped, steady and cold: "Women have their Seven Grounds for Divorce. Today, I’ll lay down seven rules for you."

Rising to his feet, he pressed a firm hand on Xue Shu’s shoulder, forcing him to kneel. Only then did he lean down, meeting his defiant gaze head-on. His tone was laced with finality. "First rule: no jealousy."

Their eyes clashed, neither willing to retreat, a battle of wills fought in silence.

Xue Shu caught the flicker of annoyance in Yin Chengyu’s eyes, the unyielding resolve. This wasn’t the man he knew from before. This Yin Chengyu was different.

Tension rippled through Xue Shu’s jaw as memories of Yin Chengyu’s soft smiles and tender kisses surfaced. How often had they shared such warmth in the past life? Almost never.

He hadn’t clawed his way back to this life just to repeat old mistakes.

Swallowing his pride, Xue Shu’s gaze softened, the heat in his eyes dimming. Still on one knee, he reached out to grasp Yin Chengyu’s hand. When the other man swatted him away, he tried again, relentless. Finally catching it, he wrapped his palm around it, lowering his head to press a reverent kiss to the back of Yin Chengyu’s hand. His voice was hoarse, filled with a desperate sort of sincerity. "Your Highness, you’re far too perfect. It’s no wonder so many covet you. Forgive me. I couldn’t hold back."

Yin Chengyu’s expression flickered, but he said nothing.

Emboldened, Xue Shu reached for his sleeve, sliding his hand up to his waist before pulling him into a fierce embrace. Resting his head against Yin Chengyu’s abdomen, he whispered darkly, his tone dripping with possessiveness: "When Princess Uju spoke those words at the banquet, I wanted to kill her with my bare hands."

Yin Chengyu didn’t doubt him. Xue Shu wasn’t one to bluff. What he wanted, he took, no matter the cost. And if someone stood in his way? He’d eliminate them—man or woman, strong or weak, it didn’t matter.

He’d once mentioned that his mother had been a gentle, kind soul. But Xue Shu? He had none of her softness. He was all sharp edges, a wolf with blood in his veins and fire in his eyes.

And perhaps that was what Yin Chengyu admired most.

He’d known, the moment he chose to keep Xue Shu close, that he was bringing a wolf into his fold. A wolf could be loyal, could even act tame, but it would never stop being a predator.

Lowering his gaze, Yin Chengyu pried Xue Shu’s arms from around him, gripping his jaw firmly as he spoke, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet: "Remember this well. I am not yours to possess. Let this be the last time you step out of line."

Xue Shu’s eyes darkened briefly, but he nodded.

Yin Chengyu continued, his tone cold and calculating: "As for Princess Uju, she’s no innocent. She doesn’t desire me—her ambitions lie with Great Yan itself. A woman with such wild ambitions is of no use to me. If the opportunity arises during the hunt, handle her as you see fit."

In the last life, Princess Uju had used the might of the Tatars to back him into a corner, forcing him to promise her the position of Empress.

It had nothing to do with romance or passion. It was a power play—a brutal game between the Yan Dynasty and the Tatars. Her demand wasn’t just to humiliate him; it was a calculated move to coerce him into conceding benefits during negotiations between their nations.

Back then, Great Yan was weak. He had no desire to see war erupt along the borders and bring suffering to his people. Swallowing his pride, he endured her insults, treated the Tatar delegation with formal courtesy, and sent them away without incident.

He wasn’t a coward. He wasn’t afraid of battle. But he wouldn’t let fleeting anger plunge his people into chaos.

Predictably, the Tatars launched an attack soon after. But he’d anticipated the move, knowing their internal struggles would prevent a full-scale war. He prepared his defenses, and when their initial assault failed, they didn’t dare try again.

His composure in the face of humiliation didn’t mean he wasn’t seething.

In that life, circumstances had forced his hand. But now? This life was different.

The Yan Dynasty hadn’t yet fallen to such dire straits, and the Tatars had yet to conquer their rivals. There was no need for restraint. Confronted again by the scheming Princess Uju and her entourage, he had no intention of playing nice.

Someone had to teach them a lesson.

When Xue Shu heard his plan, the dark tension in his expression dissipated. “May I handle this myself?”

“Don’t kill anyone,” Yin Chengyu said, casting him a sharp glance. “We can’t let the Tatars use it against us.”

Xue Shu’s eyes lit up with a dangerous edge, eager to act. “And if someone else dares eye you, Your Highness, am I free to—”

“I’ve said this before.” Yin Chengyu pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. “No jealousy.”

When Xue Shu’s eyes flickered with defiance, Yin Chengyu sneered, his voice icy. “It seems you haven’t learned your lesson.”

Turning, Yin Chengyu picked up a brush and began writing on a scroll of rice paper. When he finished, he faced Xue Shu with a cold, mocking smile. “Come here. Copy this Doctrine of Male Virtues a hundred times. Memorize it.”

Women had their Virtues for Women, so Yin Chengyu decided to create his own version for Xue Shu. It was time to teach him some discipline.

Xue Shu stood frozen, glaring at the fresh ink, his expression twisted in reluctant frustration.

Yin Chengyu knew him too well, pinpointing all his favorite vices and condemning them with merciless precision.

Face dark, Xue Shu hesitated to pick up the brush.

Yin Chengyu’s fingers tapped the desk, an impatient rhythm that brooked no argument.

Reluctantly, Xue Shu sat, seizing the brush with a sour expression.

Yin Chengyu loomed behind him, the cold touch of a ruler in his hand. When Xue Shu hesitated, he let it land on the back of his hand—not too hard, but not gentle either. “Why aren’t you writing?”

Veins bulged in Xue Shu’s forehead as he gritted his teeth and forced himself to begin.

Yin Chengyu watched intently, sometimes leaning close to offer sharp criticisms.

“Your handwriting is a mess. Slow down and focus.”

“That character is crooked. Clearly, your attitude needs work.”

Each critique came with a light tap of the ruler on Xue Shu’s body—a warning, a tease, a punishment.

Yin Chengyu leaned over, his breath brushing against Xue Shu’s ear, low and deliberate. “If you’re going to write, do it properly. Why is your hand shaking?”

The ruler traced a path beneath Xue Shu’s collar, cold against his skin.

A drop of ink fell onto the paper, spreading like a dark stain—ruining it.

Yin Chengyu frowned deeply. “One page, and you’ve already ruined it. Your carelessness reveals your insincerity. Tell me…” His voice dropped, velvety and dangerous. “How should I punish you for this?”

Xue Shu’s breath quickened, his body tense. His hand shot out, gripping Yin Chengyu’s wrist, veins straining under his skin. His restraint was almost palpable, trembling at the edge of breaking.

But this time, he didn’t act without permission. He stayed frozen, his dark, beast-like eyes fixed on Yin Chengyu—desperate, devouring, pleading.

Yin Chengyu smirked, satisfied. It seemed the exercise was working.

With deliberate slowness, he withdrew his hand, letting the ruler slide down into his robe. Cradling Xue Shu’s face, he bent down, his lips brushing against the other’s—hot and commanding.

His kisses weren’t wild, not in the slightest. They teased and taunted, just barely brushing against the surface like a dragonfly skimming over still waters—creating ripples before darting away.

Xue Shu felt his chest stir with an itch he couldn’t quite describe, a maddening yearning that drove him to one conclusion: he needed to trap this man in his arms, crush him close, and devour those lips until every ounce of longing burned out.

And so, he did.

Xue Shu couldn’t hold back any longer. His hand snaked around Yin Chengyu’s waist, pulling him in, his lips crashing down with desperate, feral intensity. He kissed him hard, rough, his tongue exploring, coaxing, pushing to uncover every sensitive spot he knew would ignite desire. He was far too familiar with the body in his grasp, a playground he had conquered time and time again, and yet, the sensation of familiarity mixed with raw urgency sent sparks flying through his veins.

Caught up in a haze of passion, Yin Chengyu nearly lost himself to the fiery assault—until an unmistakable movement broke through the fog, yanking his awareness back to the surface.

Startled, he gasped out, "Xue Shu!"

Xue Shu froze, his breath heavy, his eyes locking onto Yin Chengyu’s.

Confusion and restraint flickered in his gaze, as if unsure whether to halt or continue. Yin Chengyu studied him, sharp and unyielding, before finally making his decision. Looping a hand around Xue Shu’s neck, he pressed their lips back together, his voice a breathy murmur against the kiss: “Don’t stop.”

And this time, Xue Shu complied with a gentleness that betrayed his urgency, his kisses messy, clumsy, yet tender in a way that seared right down to the soul. Whatever that fleeting moment of déjà vu was, it might as well have been a trick of the mind.

*

Three days later, the hunt began.

At the hunting grounds, a grand viewing platform had been prepared in advance. Heavy curtains shielded it on three sides from the harsh winter winds, while bronze braziers in the shape of beast heads warmed the air, creating a cozy refuge from the raging storm outside. The snowstorm howled beyond the tent, but within, it felt like spring.

At the center of the platform sat Emperor Longfeng, his favored consort, Noble Consort Wen, at his side. Officials, their families, and other attendees filled the seats in orderly fashion, their eyes eagerly turned toward the activity outside.

Yin Chengyu sat astride his horse, clad in armor that glinted against the swirling snow. The storm blurred his features, but his upright, commanding silhouette cut through the chaos like a blade.

“Into position!”

He barked the command, his voice ringing with authority. Nodding to the leading officers, he urged them forward. Today marked the start of the hunt, but the real action would take time. For now, several teams of soldiers would encircle the grounds, driving wild game toward a designated area—a maneuver that sounded straightforward but demanded precise strategy, sharp coordination, and disciplined execution.

This wasn’t just a hunt; it was a battlefield in disguise. Every soldier’s performance reflected the military’s strength and readiness, sending a clear message to the northern tribes: the empire’s defenses were unyielding.

Seated tall, Yin Chengyu ignored the scrutinizing stares from behind. His sharp gaze pierced through the snow as he watched his troops disappear into the storm. Confidence burned in his eyes. This wasn’t merely about sport; it was a statement. He would make sure the Tatars and Oirats understood: a dragon in shallow waters or a tiger cornered in the plains was still a predator to be feared.

From the viewing platform, Aharu’s sharp eyes never left Yin Chengyu. The more he observed, the more formidable this crown prince appeared. Compared to the emperor, this heir’s ambition burned far brighter—a fact that made him exceedingly dangerous. If Yin Chengyu were to ascend the throne, the Tatars and Oirats would face nothing but hardship under his reign.

For the first time, Aharu felt less hesitant about his alliance with the third prince. Watching the troops move like a well-oiled machine under Yin Chengyu’s command only solidified his decision: kill the dragon before it fully grows.

He shifted his gaze to Yin Chengjing, seated further down the platform. The third prince was far easier to manipulate than his brother—a much safer pawn for the Tatars’ goals.

Turning to Princess Uju beside him, Aharu’s voice dropped into their native tongue, sharp and commanding. “Princess, make sure to bring the warriors we’ve prepared.”

The princess frowned in confusion. “Didn’t you say the spring campaign has drained us too much? That we should focus on an alliance through marriage with the empire?”

The warriors he referred to weren’t ordinary guards. They were elite hunters, killers skilled in both stalking prey and spilling blood.

Aharu’s expression darkened. “The empire has more than one prince. I think the third would suit our needs just fine.”

Princess Uju shot Yin Chengjing a disapproving glance. Sure, he was good-looking, but compared to the Crown Prince? Please. He was leagues behind.

She felt a flicker of contempt but quickly crushed it. In matters this grave, her preferences were meaningless.

In the steppes, women had always been low in status. Even her own mother had to watch her tone and tread carefully. As the Khagan's favorite daughter, her value lay not in affection but utility. She was a tool—a sharp, beautiful tool that had quietly removed countless threats for her father’s peace of mind.

This? This was just another mission. Another name on her list.

Her fingers brushed against the coiled whip at her waist. Not the ornamental one she usually carried, but a nine-section steel whip, its slender length lined with vicious barbs. Cold metal bit into her palm as she gripped the handle, her gaze hardening into icy resolve. "Rest assured, Grand Tutor," she said, her voice sharp as a blade. "Uju will see this done."

While Uju and Aharu spoke in hushed tones, the martial arena at the edge of the hunting grounds erupted in noise.

This was tradition at the Danxi Winter Hunt—a way to pass the time as they drove beasts into the open. Young nobles from various families would duel, showcasing their skill and hoping to impress the Emperor.

But the inclusion of Oirat and Tatar participants had transformed the matches into more than idle sport. Now, every clash was a battle for national pride. Those chosen to represent their people were the fiercest, most skilled warriors.

The rules were simple: a challenger entered the ring and held the platform against all comers. The last one standing was the victor.

First up was a Tatar warrior named Yemang. A name well-earned. Built like a bull, with muscles to match, Yemang carried two enormous axes that gleamed ominously under the pale winter sun.

He made a slow circle of the arena, his heavy axes carving deep grooves into the frozen earth with a resonant thud. Stopping dead center, he raised his voice. "Who dares face me?"

The words were a challenge, but his eyes?

They sought only one prey—the soldiers of Great Yan.

That brazen taunt sent blood boiling among the ranks. A young officer, unable to stomach the insult, leapt from his horse. "I’ll take you on!"

He was a deputy general, well-built and armed with a red-tasseled spear. But next to Yemang’s hulking frame, he looked wiry and almost fragile.

The gong struck, and the duel began.

Yemang fought like an avalanche, relentless and overwhelming, but the deputy general stood firm. Sparks flew as steel clashed, filling the air with the metallic ring of battle.

From his vantage point, Yin Chengyu watched impassively, snow and wind whipping around him. The deputy was skilled—better than most in the Great Yan army—but against Yemang’s sheer brute strength, it was clear he wouldn’t last. And sure enough, after barely a quarter-hour, the balance tipped. The deputy faltered, his movements slowing, his strikes weaker.

Yin Chengyu’s mind wandered, a frown creasing his face. The disparity was glaring. A soldier of this caliber, already considered excellent in Great Yan, was barely holding his own. Meanwhile, warriors like Yemang seemed plentiful among the Oirats and Tatars.

Just then, a shocked gasp rippled through the crowd, pulling Yin Chengyu from his thoughts.

He looked up just in time to see blood spray across the arena. The deputy general lay crumpled in the dirt, his arm severed, his fate uncertain.

Yemang stood triumphant, axes in hand, his expression one of casual malice. He turned to the Great Yan contingent, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ah," he said lazily, "weapons don’t always listen. A slip of the hand."

His tone feigned apology, but his eyes told another story: I did it on purpose. What are you going to do about it?

Yemang’s grin widened. This wasn’t just victory—it was provocation. Pure and simple.

———The author notes: The Prince: Don’t like the rules? Recite The Code of Male Virtue a hundred times. The wolfhound: …