Chapter 81.

Xue Shu fell silent.

He’d always known this about Yin Chengyu—this unshakable resolve, this maddening selflessness. In this life or the last, Yin Chengyu would always place the greater good above his own desires. His heart wasn’t his own; it was tied to the empire, the people, the crumbling dynasty he carried on his weary shoulders.

In their past life, after ascending the throne, Yin Chengyu’s health deteriorated rapidly. The imperial physicians pleaded with him to rest, to stop pushing himself so mercilessly.

But the kingdom was fractured, plagued by internal corruption and external threats. There were too few capable officials left after purging the court of traitors, and Yin Chengyu couldn’t bring himself to delegate. He bore it all, day and night, reviewing memorials by hand, leaving his body to rot as the nation demanded everything from him.

Xue Shu had watched it all, his heart clenched in a helpless rage. He wanted to take the burden from him, to lighten the load that was crushing him. But their relationship by then was a fragile, precarious thing. Xue Shu feared that offering help would spark suspicion, that Yin Chengyu would think he sought power rather than to save him. So instead, he remained silently by his side, a shadow tethered to his light.

The memorials piled high on the imperial desk, never-ending. Yin Chengyu worked deep into the night, often until exhaustion claimed him.

Unable to dissuade him, and desperate to ease the strain, Xue Shu began reading the documents aloud, his voice steady in the dim candlelight. It became a quiet routine—hours spent together under the flickering flames. Sometimes, when Yin Chengyu was too tired to continue, he’d lean against Xue Shu’s shoulder, drifting off for a moment’s rest.

Those stolen moments, rare and fleeting, became their semblance of peace. Nights blurred into one another as they sat, closer than they’d dared to be in years.

Xue Shu hated how Yin Chengyu neglected his body. He’d fought with him over it, again and again, but he always lost. Every time, without fail, Yin Chengyu’s unyielding determination left him powerless.

Yin Chengyu was like a beacon in the endless dark, burning himself alive to light the way for the people of Great Yan. Xue Shu was both drawn to that brilliance and terrified of the inevitable—the day the light would burn out while the night still lingered.

Xue Shu inhaled deeply, the icy air cutting through his chest as he suppressed his rising anger.

His gaze fell to Yin Chengyu’s shoulder. The silver armor was shattered in one place, revealing torn black fabric underneath. The padding beneath was soaked with specks of blood, stark against the pale winter’s frost. The heavy winter clothing hid most of the injury, but what little Xue Shu could see made his stomach twist.

Instinctively, he reached out, wanting to check the wound, but hesitated, his hand curling back. His voice dropped to a low murmur, restrained: “Does it hurt?”

Yin Chengyu glanced at the wound, frowning. He wanted to dismiss it, but the words changed before they left his lips: “A little. Check it.”

The tiger had been fierce, and many were injured in the fight. Yin Chengyu ordered the troops to rest where they stood and assess their wounded.

Xue Shu had a tent raised to block the biting wind, and only then did he strip away the armor and outer layers to examine the wound.

By then, the blood had dried, the gash glued to the inner garment. Xue Shu’s brows furrowed as he carefully peeled the fabric away, his movements slow and deliberate.

It wasn’t a deep wound, more superficial than serious. But the tiger’s claws had been sharp—merciless. Even though they hadn’t reached the bone, the jagged marks carved into Yin Chengyu’s pale skin made Xue Shu’s chest tighten unbearably.

Bruises blossomed across his shoulder, dark and angry, trailing toward his shoulder blade. Three deep claw marks split the tender flesh, edged with crusted blood, the torn skin raw and exposed.

“This needs to be cleaned thoroughly before medicine can be applied,” Xue Shu said, his voice steady but sharp. He soaked clean cloth in strong liquor and knelt closer. Meeting Yin Chengyu’s unflinching gaze, he tilted his shoulder toward him. “If it hurts, bite me.”

Without waiting for a response, Xue Shu began. His hands moved with careful precision, each motion deliberate, each touch as gentle as possible. But even he knew the sting of the liquor was cruel—worse than the tiger’s claws.

Yin Chengyu’s breath hitched as the alcohol bit into the wound, the pain far sharper than the initial injury. His jaw tightened, veins bulging against his pale skin as he forced himself to endure it silently.

Xue Shu noticed. His touch grew even lighter, though his expression remained cold and focused.

Yin Chengyu exhaled heavily, his forehead pressing against Xue Shu’s shoulder. His voice came low and commanding, yet tinged with weariness: “Hurry up.”

Xue Shu quickened his pace, while Yin Chengyu leaned his sweat-drenched forehead against his shoulder, biting down on his clothes to stifle the pain. The ache was searing, almost unbearable, and his impulse was clear—he wanted to bite him, to make him hurt just as he did.

Yet, a memory from the past life surfaced suddenly: around this time, Xue Shu had once shielded Emperor Longfeng. That was before his return to the palace, back when he’d only heard bits and pieces about the incident. All he knew was that during the Danxi Winter Hunt, the emperor had faced a grave danger, and Xue Shu had risked his life to save him.

The details of that perilous moment remained hazy, but he recalled fleeting glimpses of his scarred chest—those deep, jagged reminders of his sacrifices. Among those scars, surely, was one left by that day’s ordeal.

His resolve softened. He couldn’t bring himself to make Xue Shu suffer anymore.

With half-closed eyes and a voice hoarse from pain, he asked, “Did it hurt back then?”

Xue Shu froze momentarily, his hands halting mid-motion, before resuming as if nothing had happened. Of course, it had hurt. He was only human, bound by the frailties of flesh and bone. But he had always endured better than most, masking his pain behind an iron will.

In his previous life, during that winter hunt, Emperor Longfeng had been far from healthy. Years of indulgence and reliance on alchemical drugs had left him hollow. Though he seemed robust on the surface, his body was a crumbling facade.

When the tiger lunged, just as it did today, the emperor’s poor aim only enraged the beast further. Startled, his horse threw him to the ground, leaving him vulnerable. The guards hesitated; only Xue Shu moved, placing himself between the emperor and the tiger’s deadly fangs.

The cost was steep—two fractured ribs and a brutal blow to his abdomen.

He’d survived on sheer willpower alone, knowing that if he died, his prince would be utterly abandoned. It was sheer luck, or perhaps his unyielding determination, that pulled him through.

But survival was only the beginning. Even as his body screamed for rest, he forced himself out of bed, seizing the fleeting favor of the emperor to cement his usefulness. Every move was calculated, every step deliberate.

And it had paid off.

Now, as Xue Shu cleaned the wound before him, his hands were steady, his touch efficient. The filth was cleared, fresh blood welled, and he deftly applied hemostatic powder before wrapping it tightly with a bandage.

All this without answering Yin Chengyu’s question.

He knew Yin Chengyu had pieced the truth together. Perhaps he already knew.

But to acknowledge it?

To give it weight with words?

That was a step too far.

Fortunately, he didn’t press further.

Relief washed over him as he tied the bandage securely.

“It’s done.”

Yin Chengyu sat upright, testing his arm. A dull ache lingered, but it was manageable, not enough to hinder his movements. He cast Xue Shu a sidelong glance, his voice even as she instructed, “Bring me another basin of water. I need to clean my face.”

The sweat on his skin felt sticky and uncomfortable.

Xue Shu obeyed silently, slipping out to fetch the water.

Watching his retreating figure, Yin Chengyu let out a soft, amused laugh.

The infamous, cold-blooded Jiu Qiansui—revered and feared—reduced to this careful, hesitant man.

He twisted the jade ring on his finger, her thoughts dark and sharp. One day, he vowed, he would strip him of that carefully crafted facade. Down to the raw truth beneath.

*

Since the arrival of Emperor Longfeng and his entourage, the officials of Great Yan have been on edge.

They had assumed it would take at least half a day for the hunting party to emerge, but to their surprise, just over an hour later, a procession appeared from the forest. At the forefront, clad in an imperial yellow dragon robe, was none other than Emperor Longfeng himself.

The Emperor no longer looked like the trembling wreck he had been earlier when the tiger had scared the courage out of him. Now, he had managed to regain his composure. After catching his breath, tidying his robes, and downing a medicinal pill, he made sure to present himself as the dignified ruler he was supposed to be before leading the group out.

While still in the hunting grounds, Gao Xian had quickly assessed the Emperor’s mood and discreetly warned everyone to keep their mouths shut. What happened during the tiger hunt would stay between those present—no one else would ever hear a word about it.

As the group approached, Emperor Longfeng dismounted, and eunuchs hurried to assist him in removing his armor. Meanwhile, Gao Xian, ever the astute opportunist, instructed his men to display the two massive tiger corpses at the counting station, declaring loudly, “His Majesty hunted down two tigers!”

The stands erupted with cheers and flattery. The officials showered him with endless praise, their voices echoing across the field.

Though Emperor Longfeng briefly looked uneasy, he quickly masked it with a calm facade. Sure, the hunt had taken an unexpected turn, but his men had killed the tigers, and that was enough for him to claim the glory.

“Skin the tigers and preserve the hides. The rest shall be rewarded to those who contributed to the hunt,” he ordered, smugly ascending to the viewing platform amidst a sea of sycophants.

In the background, Aharu and the envoys from Oirat lagged behind. Watching the Great Yan officials heap exaggerated praise on Emperor Longfeng’s so-called bravery, they exchanged knowing looks and sneers.

Of course, none of them exposed the farce. They had no intention of letting the credit shift to the Crown Prince, whose capable presence had been unmistakable. Letting Longfeng bask in this ill-gotten glory was far better for their agenda.

Taking his seat, Aharu mulled over everything he had witnessed during the hunt.

Longfeng might be a cowardly fool, but the Crown Prince? That man was sharp, a diamond in the rough. And those men under his command—each one seemed like they could stand shoulder to shoulder with the fiercest warriors of the Steppe.

No, the Emperor was not the threat, but the Crown Prince? If he ever took the throne, Great Yan future strength would be a significant concern for the tribes.

Aharu’s fingers drummed against his knee as he recalled the Khan’s instructions before their departure. He summoned a bodyguard and whispered orders: “Get a message to Princess Uju. Tell her to act swiftly. Failure is not an option.” His eyes darkened with a chilling determination.

*

After resting for an hour, Yin Chengyu ordered his men to transport the game they had hunted so far, along with the injured soldiers, back to the edge of the hunting grounds.

With just over forty able-bodied men remaining, they prepared to venture deeper into the forest to track down the wolf king.

Just as they were about to set off, faint cries echoed from a dark cave nearby. Yin Chengyu, ever alert, halted immediately and turned toward the shadowy entrance.

“Zhao Lin,” he commanded, “go check it out.”

He remembered the two tigers from earlier—one slightly larger than the other. Though he hadn’t had the chance to determine their sexes, their sequential appearances suggested they might have been a mated pair.

Zhao Lin dismounted and ventured into the cave. Moments later, he emerged, grinning from ear to ear, holding a wriggling tiger cub.

“Your Highness!” he exclaimed. “There’s a little one in the cave!”

———Author’s note: His Highness: Strip this coward down and expose him for the spineless dog he is. Cowardly dog: ???