LBLCPCB C23

Chapter 23

The scent in the room would not fade. Zhu Song wanted to leave, but he lacked the strength. He mustered all he had and shouted toward the door: “Call Zhu Lingye here.”

A voice answered outside. Zhu Song could no longer sit; to collapse on the floor seemed undignified, so he forced his legs—soft as tofu—to carry him to the bed, where he fell.

Lying there, he clutched his sword to his chest. Just when he thought consciousness might ebb entirely, the door opened in the silence.

Assuming Lingye had come, he said, “Put out the incense in here.”

Footsteps crossed the room, searching for the source. After a while came the hiss of water dousing flame, and an acrid smoke rose.

Eyes still unwilling to open, Zhu Song felt “Zhu Lingye” draw near the bed. “Stand guard. Let no one approach me.”

“Alright.”

That voice was not Lingye’s. Zhu Song’s eyes flew open. When he saw who stood there, he jolted upright. “Why are you here?”

Wen Fengxuan’s face was calm, though a strange flush tinged his cheeks—unnatural. “The day the refugees entered the city, Yi Kangning brought me to the Provincial Yamen.”

Zhu’s brows drew together. Then he had been here for days?

“Why haven’t I seen you?”

“He locked me up.”

Wen spoke the shocking words with the plainest expression. Zhu’s temper spiked. “Locked you up? Is he rebelling?”

“I did not reveal who I am,” Wen said.

“Why?”

“To avoid trouble.”

Zhu’s mind was a muddle; he could not follow all of it. Yet one question was sharp: if Yi Kangning did not know Wen was the Crown Prince, why bring him here now?

“You slipped out?”

“Yi Kangning brought me.”

The slowness of this exchange grated—but Zhu’s head throbbed and fogged, so he followed along. “For what?”

Wen fell quiet. The room was dim; one could see only outlines, but even that could not hide his beauty. Zhu had been holding his body’s reaction at bay; seeing that face made the heat surge, threatening to break free. He yanked the quilt over himself, hiding the telltale signs.

“Yi Kangning is a problem. Go out—now.”

“He’s waiting at the door,” Wen answered simply. “I can’t leave.”

“Then the window,” Zhu snapped. “Whatever it takes, get out. And fetch Zhu Lingye and Zhu Lingwang at once. I will have them protect you.”

His forehead suddenly cooled; something soft and chill pressed there. The sensation drew a near‑cry from Zhu, but he bit down hard and knocked Wen’s hand away.

He had used his full strength—the sharp crack in the air turned Wen aside, and that sound, perversely, rattled Zhu’s control. His mind skittered toward images he should not see.

“This won’t do.” Zhu glared hard. “Go.”

Wen tilted his head, childlike—and Zhu’s blood roared. He jerked his gaze aside. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“You’re suffering,” Wen said, unembarrassed. “He drugged you. He drugged me, too.”

Fire raced under Zhu’s skin—every stretch of flesh felt singed. His eyes locked to Wen again, the urgency almost audible. “What do you mean ‘too’? He drugged you?”

Wen nodded. “Fu Wushan. On the day it’s taken, and every fifteenth day thereafter, one must… join with another. Else, when the poison flares, breath and blood turn backward, ten thousand ants gnaw the heart, and on the third flare—blood runs dry and death follows.”

“What?” Zhu felt as if a thunderbolt split him. Wen, by contrast, was calm—too calm, as if speaking of someone else.

“Do not worry,” Wen murmured. “I won’t live long anyway. Perhaps three months at most.”

His tone was gentle—a windless lake—but it made Zhu ache. He turned away. “Don’t say that. There must be a cure.”

Wen lifted his eyes, suddenly changing the subject. “When I first collapsed from poison, they say you risked leaving the capital to find dragon bone for me. I’ve wanted to thank you face to face, but never had the chance. This moment is not right, but I may not live to dawn—so let me say it now. Thank you, Zhu Song. You are the first person in this world to treat me kindly. I was born ill‑omened—an early death is my fate. I’ve already accepted it.”

He smiled, serene in resignation—painful to behold. Zhu could not stand it. “Don’t. I’ll get the antidote from Yi Kangning.”

“He won’t give it,” Wen replied.

“Then I’ll kill him.”

Zhu flung aside the quilt and tried to stand—overestimating himself. His legs, cotton‑soft, failed him and he toppled forward. Wen reached to catch him and missed; together they fell.

Even without strength, Zhu worried for Wen, afraid he’d struck something. He pulled him close, shifting him atop his own body. They lay pressed tight; their breaths struck each other’s lips. Zhu stared, transfixed by the flawless face inches away, swallowing involuntarily.

No wonder self‑control failed. Beauty like this would ruin saints.

At such closeness, nothing could be hidden. Wen’s cheeks flushed scarlet; he braced to sit, only to sink again onto Zhu with a soft gasp—burned by the heat.

Zhu was already a man of fire; the last thread of reason held him together. That sound plucked it—and it snapped. He seized the back of Wen’s head and drew him down. Their mouths met; the touch of cool sent Zhu spiraling. Yet he would not force. He bit his own tongue viciously—the sting dragged his senses back. Blood beaded at the corner of his mouth.

“Go, Wen Fengxuan,” he rasped. “I’m losing control.”

In that instant, he recognized himself anew. For all his appetite for beauty, some iron insisted on honor.

A graze at his lips made him start. Wen’s eyes had gone hazy, drunk with heat; his blush was fever‑deep. Gentle fingers brushed the blood at Zhu’s mouth; pale pads smeared red. He lowered his head, whispering at Zhu’s ear.

“Little Immortal Official… help me. It hurts.”

Zhu’s eyes widened. He froze, stunned at how a voice so cool could be turned, by a drug, into pure seduction.

“But your body—”

Reason gripped his mind with iron claws; to slacken would be to become a beast that might tear the fragile, sickly beauty to shreds.

And the fragile beauty, unaware of danger, lifted the sharpest blade to sever reason strand by strand. “I… can bear it.”

Logic frayed to nothing. Zhu swallowed the metallic taste. “Will you regret it? I can still go for the antidote.”

“If fate decrees it so,” Wen whispered, “I’d rather it be you, Little Immortal Official.”

Wen was not himself—yet nothing could stop the collapse of Zhu’s restraint.

With a roar—reason shattered. The beast surged, clumsy with inexperience, charging through every gate, consuming the man before him to the last morsel—making every bit his own.

Within, the sounds of weeping did not cease. Without, Yi Kangning and Duan Zhenghong were all smiles. At last—success. They smirked in contempt: the “pure, incorruptible envoy”—nothing more than a deviant.

Yi set guards at the door—no one to enter. He, finally, slept well for the first time since Zhu’s arrival. Duan, aroused by the noises, hurried home to spend himself among his scores of beauties.

By next day, when Zhu Lingye, sensing alarm, came seeking Zhu Song, the room fell quiet at last. Heavy guards flanked the door. He strode up—only to be halted. “Lord Zhu—by order of the Prefect, none may disturb the Imperial Envoy.”

“Impudence!” Lingye thundered. “You dare confine the Envoy? I report this to the Emperor—none of you will escape.”

The guards paled. “No, my lord—we would not dare. We only carry out orders.”

“Will you obey mine?” Lingye’s voice went cold. “If you do not open, this is attempted murder of an imperial envoy.”

They wavered, uncertain. Just then, Yi Kangning wandered up, yawning. “Lord Zhu—so fiery early in the day.”

With masks off, Lingye wasted no courtesy. “Not early at all. For your crimes, beheading would fall about this hour.”

Yi’s face darkened—then he smiled thinly. “Boast while you can. When the Envoy emerges and scolds you, try not to cry.”

Lingye stared through him. “Open the door. What have you done with my brother?”

“Brother? I cherish the Envoy,” Yi simpered. “He’s being treated like jade.”

“Shove your filth,” Lingye snapped, drawing his sword. He was elite of the Palace Guard, and Yi knew it. He had no will for a clash.

“Peace, Lord Zhu. I’ve done nothing. But now is not convenient to enter. Let us wait right here for the Envoy to come out.”

Lingye’s answer was steel; he lunged.

“Stop.”

Footnote

1. Fu Wushan (赴巫山) — a fictional aphrodisiac/poison name invoking “Mount Wu” imagery from classical poetry, where romantic/erotic encounters with divine maidens occur in dreams. Here it compels intercourse on a schedule, with lethal consequences if unmet.

2. “Little Immortal Official” (小仙官) — a teasing honorific/nickname that blends reverence and intimacy, heightening the scene’s charged tone.

3. “Make grain into cooked rice” — idiom for an irreversible act, often used euphemistically for consummation.