BEGW C72

Chapter 72

The inner cabin was carpeted with thick rugs, soft beneath the feet like pressed cotton.

To prevent the emperor from catching a chill, the attendants had hung woven wall tapestries on all sides.

Made of fine wool, the tapestries were adorned with landscapes and flowers—so intricately crafted that they not only insulated against cold and sound, but also absorbed light.

As the cabin door slowly closed, the room dimmed at once.

The sound of river water lapping against the hull faded into silence.

No incense burned within, yet the imperial furnishings and dragon robes had all been perfumed beforehand with fragrant fumigation.

Upon entering, Jiang Yuxun immediately caught a faint whiff of ambergris.

Everything around him seemed to wordlessly remind him—this was Ying Changchuan’s domain.

The moment the light dimmed, Jiang Yuxun froze at the threshold, not daring to take another step.

He hesitated, shrinking slightly. “Your Majesty, perhaps I should just—”

Perhaps I should just go back out?

“Where does my beloved minister wish to sleep?”

The emperor’s question cut through his thoughts.

He blinked, momentarily dazed, and blurted, “Inside, I suppose.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he shut his eyes in silent despair.

Damn it… once spoken, words are water spilled upon the ground—there was no taking them back now.

Outside, the snow thickened once more. Heavy clouds blanketed the full moon.

In the unlit cabin, the shadows deepened.

Jiang Yuxun’s heart skipped a beat.

…it’s just sleep.

I won’t die from it!

He took a deep breath, clutching his pillow and blanket to his chest, and fumbled forward.

Keeping close to the wall, he edged toward the bed—then, like a gecko clinging to a cliff, pressed himself flat against the outermost side and lay down.

A soft rustle followed—“shff”—as Ying Changchuan drew down the canopy curtain, settling onto the same bed.

Jiang Yuxun’s heart plummeted.

In that instant, their breaths and heartbeats were confined beneath the same veil of silk.

The cabin plunged into complete darkness.

Every faint sound became painfully distinct.

The silk pillow, stuffed with herbs, emitted the faintest rustle—sha sha sha—as he shifted, the sound brushing against the silence like a whisper.

He lay rigid and motionless, hardly daring to breathe.

Perhaps it was his imagination—but he thought he heard a low chuckle near his ear.

Though two layers of bedding separated them, a strange tingling sensation spread through the half of his body closest to the emperor, as if a current of static had passed through him—soft, electric, and impossible to ignore.

Warmth seeped upward from beneath the bed, thawing his stiff, frozen limbs.

He kept reminding himself—just stay awake a little longer, wait until the emperor falls asleep before closing your eyes.

But the bedding was simply too warm, and the exhaustion he’d been holding off for days crashed over him all at once.

Half-dreaming, half-awake, Jiang Yuxun murmured drowsily, “…strange.”

“What is?” Ying Changchuan’s voice was low, soft as silk.

“Why… can’t I hear Your Majesty’s pillow?”

Reclining beside him, Ying Changchuan chuckled quietly, his voice gentle and unhurried—like a bedtime tale murmured at the edge of sleep.

“The late Duke Jing of the previous dynasty accomplished nothing great, but fussed over every triviality. To maintain what he called ‘the poise of nobility’ even in slumber, he ordered attendants to watch my bedding through the night. Should the covers shift even slightly, they were to wake me.”

Before the emperor could finish, Jiang Yuxun’s heavy eyelids began to close.

The emperor’s father was truly absurd…

As far as he knew, only corpses slept without moving.

So Ying Changchuan had grown up like that?

Never once sleeping through the night in peace?

The temperature in the cabin rose gradually.

The steady murmur of the river outside seeped through the wooden walls, its rhythm lulling him to sleep.

Drifting deeper into drowsiness, Jiang Yuxun’s hazy irritation slipped out in a mumble: “Children can’t sleep without turning over… but still, it’s fine…”

His voice grew softer, trailing into silence.

Ying Changchuan shouldn’t have spoken further—

Yet he couldn’t help but whisper, “What is fine?”

“…Fine that Your Majesty’s grown up now.”

The man who’d been clinging to the wall finally rolled over, speaking with sleepy generosity. “It’s alright—you can toss, turn, whatever you please… I won’t be mad.”

With that, he fell completely silent.

The cabin was once again still.

After a moment, Ying Changchuan’s quiet laughter rippled through the darkness.

…

The great barge sliced through the river’s surface, gliding steadily south.

At some point, the snow had stopped, settling upon the deck in a thin, gauzy layer.

Within the canopy, Ying Changchuan’s eyes were open.

—clear, steady, and without the slightest trace of fatigue.

Moonlight filtered faintly through the curtains, its silver hue reflected in his smoke-gray irises—softened now with a glimmer of warmth.

After a brief pause, he turned slowly onto his side.

Jiang Yuxun, who had started the night pressed against the wall, had in his sleep drifted toward the center of the bed.

Curled up like a small, defenseless creature seeking warmth, he nestled unconsciously beside Ying Changchuan’s shoulder.

Though the imperial bedding was heated, he still shivered faintly within the covers.

Only the tip of his reddened nose and the trembling fringe of his lashes peeked out from beneath the quilt.

For a heartbeat, the emperor’s breath faltered.

Perhaps it was the memory of those drowsy words—I won’t be mad, no matter what you do.

He had promised himself not to disturb the other man.

Yet after a few seconds, he found his hand rising of its own accord, brushing gently against those delicate lashes—

like the wings of a butterfly, they fluttered against his fingertips.

That faint touch tugged at a taut, unseen string within Ying Changchuan’s chest—

and in that instant, his composure dissolved.

The ship drifted southward with the current; the scenery along the riverbank blurred past in retreat.

Soon, the trees lining the shore grew lush again, the bareness of the northern winter replaced by a hint of green.

By dawn, when Jiang Yuxun’s inner clock roused him from sleep, Ying Changchuan was gone. The bedding on the other side had already been neatly folded away.

He supposed he should have felt anxious.

But remembering that Eunuch Sang had already misunderstood their relationship eight hundred times over, he decided not to care.

With the nonchalance of a man beyond embarrassment, he called for water to wash up, then joined Zhuang Youli on the deck.

This morning, he intended to see for himself how much snow had fallen overnight.

…

The corridor beneath the deck was long and narrow.

During the southern tour, it had always remained open, but this time the far door was tightly shut.

As they walked side by side, Zhuang Youli suddenly leaned close.

He murmured, “Strange…” then, like a curious hound, sniffed lightly near Jiang Yuxun’s shoulder.

Startled—being terribly ticklish—Jiang Yuxun nearly jumped.

Though travel had been harsh, he had washed and changed at every post station.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, instinctively edging to the opposite wall. Sniffing his own collar, he frowned. “Do I smell odd?”

Zhuang Youli ignored the question, circling behind him to lift a strand of hair to his nose.

Narrowing his eyes, he whispered conspiratorially, “…Ah Xun, what is this scent on you?”

As far as he knew, Jiang Yuxun wasn’t one for scented oils or incense.

They had nearly reached the corridor’s end when the soldiers stationed there pushed open the wooden door.

A blast of frigid wind surged in, whipping Jiang Yuxun’s loose hair into the air.

A sinking feeling gripped his chest.

Zhuang Youli shivered violently, nearly retreating back inside—then froze, eyes widening in realization.

“I know!” he exclaimed.

!!!

Jiang Yuxun’s intuition had never been so sharp.

He didn’t even ask what Zhuang meant—he could already see the accusation written plainly in his friend’s face.

Everything within the inner cabin—every sheet, every robe—had been imbued with ambergris.

After sleeping in the emperor’s bed all night, he must reek of it!

“You—don’t know anything.” Jiang Yuxun clapped a hand over Zhuang’s mouth before he could speak, his tone fierce and desperate.

He might be clumsy—but Zhuang Youli was even worse!

Zhuang’s eyes bulged with alarm.

The soldiers nearby glanced over, puzzled.

Struggling to breathe, Zhuang wheezed between muffled protests, “Ah Xun—you—you actually hid something like this from me?!”

I tell you everything—and you kept this from me?!

Being a native of the Great Zhou, Zhuang was no stranger to the concept of “male favor.”

At first, he had only harbored vague suspicions.

But seeing Jiang Yuxun’s frantic reaction confirmed everything for him—

this was an unspoken confession!

Jiang Yuxun hissed in a low voice, leaning close, “It’s truly a misunderstanding! I’ll explain when we’re alone—please?”

Zhuang’s eyes screamed I don’t believe you, but with so many witnesses nearby, he could only nod stiffly. “Fine… but let go first, I—I’ll suffocate if you don’t…”

Jiang Yuxun finally released him, straightening his robe and pretending nothing had happened.

But before he could recover his composure, a sudden shriek pierced the air.

“—Ah!”

Zhuang Youli’s foot slipped the instant he stepped onto the deck, and he fell backward with a crash.

Jiang Yuxun lunged to grab his arm—but too late.

The momentum dragged them both down, tumbling hard onto the icy boards.

The guards rushed forward, startled. “Lord Jiang! Lord Zhuang! Please wait, we’ll help you up!”

“Hss—” A stabbing pain shot through Jiang Yuxun’s knee.

He tried to push himself upright, but the strange, slick texture under his palm made him pause. “Stay where you are—don’t move!”

The easy smile vanished from his face.

The guards froze, startled by his tone. “Y-yes, my lord.”

Though he hadn’t managed to catch Zhuang entirely, he’d softened the fall—so instead of striking his head, Zhuang landed squarely on his rear.

“What is it, Ah Xun?” he asked, dazed.

“The deck,” Jiang Yuxun bit out, “is frozen solid.”

“What?!” Zhuang blinked and reached down.

Brushing away the thin layer of snow, he saw it—an unbroken sheet of ice covering the entire deck.

Gripping the wall, Jiang Yuxun slowly stood.

The wind from the Chen River howled past; the emperor had ordered soldiers to keep close to the cabins to prevent frostbite, so no one had inspected the deck.

Only now did they realize—the “snow” was not snow at all, but ice beneath a dusting of frost.

“What’s happening?” a guard murmured.

Jiang Yuxun clenched his hand, voice low. “This is the difference between the south and the north…”

All eyes turned toward him.

Testing his knee to ensure no fracture, he took a cautious step forward. “In the north, where temperatures stay low, snow usually piles softly upon the ground.”

“Only the roads, trampled by hooves and feet, melt slightly by day—then refreeze into ice.”

The men nodded in understanding.

Pain pricked his knee like needles, but he continued, steady and composed. “In the south, the ground is warmer. Snowfall at night freezes into ice by morning, then is layered with fresh snow above.”

“I see…” Zhuang Youli nodded gravely, moving along the opposite railing.

Both men’s faces had grown solemn—their earlier foolishness completely forgotten.

Reaching the edge, Jiang Yuxun brushed the railing clean with his sleeve—

revealing yet another thin layer of ice beneath.

“The railings are frozen, too…” he murmured.

A heavy silence fell.

The northern-born soldiers, long accustomed to snow, finally understood the court’s anxiety.

If conditions were like this here, the situation in Taoyan must be dire indeed.

To ensure safe travel, the ship’s braziers had been replaced with heated water bladders.

Each day, the vessel stopped ashore to refill them.

By late afternoon, they docked at an unfamiliar pier.

Jiang Yuxun disembarked briefly.

“Lord Jiang, please!” called one of the soldiers tending the fires. “The wind and smoke here are terrible—you should rest aboard!”

Heating enough water for the fleet was no small task; smoke from the massive cauldrons turned the air thick and gray.

Jiang Yuxun coughed lightly. “It’s fine—I’ll just walk a bit.”

He wandered toward a low shrub nearby.

Sunlight pierced the haze, glinting off its dark green leaves.

Brushing away the snow, he uncovered a thin crystal sheath of ice.

The evergreen bush was encased like candied fruit in glass.

He removed his gloves, pried a fragment of ice free, and held it up to the sun.

The delicate veins of the leaf were perfectly preserved within—

shimmering like carved crystal in his palm.

But he took no joy in it.

His chest felt heavier than before.

They hadn’t even entered Taoyan County yet—and already, the ice was this severe.

He could well imagine what awaited them farther south.

That day, the emperor issued several decrees: ordering nearby prefectures to send charcoal to Taoyan, dispatching fast boats ahead to open granaries and serve porridge to the starving.

By dusk, he and Jiang Yuxun boarded another ship.

That spring, fields near Zhaodu had seen the first large-scale planting of cotton.

The harvest had ended just months ago, the bales stored in Ningping Warehouse.

Jiang Yuxun had wanted to bring it all to Taoyan, but cotton took up too much space—even several ships couldn’t carry as much as he wished.

He sighed, crouching to lift a tuft of cotton with his gloved hand.

“…It’s not that cotton can’t grow in the south,” he murmured. “But the heavy rains hinder fluffing, and the humidity breeds disease. Had I known this, I’d have arranged to plant some here too.”

Taoyan rarely saw snow—its people likely lacked even the simplest padded garments.

He could hardly imagine how they survived winter.

As he spoke, he ran his fingers over the soft fiber, his tone filled with quiet regret.

Ying Changchuan stepped closer, reading the guilt in his eyes. “Had you not thought of it, even these few ships of cotton would not exist.”

Jiang Yuxun shook his head gently.

He understood the emperor’s kindness, yet could not shake his remorse.

…He wasn’t born of this world.

With his knowledge of history, he should have done better.

Sniffling softly, he said, “Once the reclamation is complete, we should divide the land—half for grain, half for mulberry, hemp, and cotton. If every family could have one or two new sets of clothing each year, that would be enough.”

“…To expand the land is greatness; to clothe and feed the people—that is greatness beyond greatness.”

To “have food and warmth” was trivial to the modern mind, but in this age, it was a dream.

Snow fell and ceased in turns over the Chen River.

As they spoke, the storm cleared—the heavy clouds parted, revealing a breathtaking sunset.

The crimson glow washed over Jiang Yuxun’s face, lighting the depth of his dark eyes.

“So hard…” he whispered.

In this age, no one even conceived that the common people should eat and stay warm.

After all, through all dynasties, the people had always suffered.

He sighed softly.

As he began to rise, a shadow fell over him—

and Ying Changchuan bent to take the cotton from his hands.

Startled, Jiang Yuxun looked up. “Your Majesty?”

The emperor said nothing—he merely offered a hand, gently lifting him to his feet.

The sunset spilled like molten gold across the tranquil river, draping them both in red light.

“Very well,” Ying Changchuan said quietly.

Then, meeting Jiang Yuxun’s gaze, he spoke clearly, each word resonating like a vow:

“I give you my word—the people of Great Zhou shall never again suffer hunger or cold.”

The heat of their joined palms spread upward, making Jiang Yuxun’s pulse quicken.

At that very moment, a wave struck the hull, rocking the ship.

His heartbeat surged in rhythm.

Feeding and clothing all—perhaps impossible. But so what?

If even Ying Changchuan, born of this land, dared to promise it—how could he shrink back?

The wind swept the clouds clean, scattering sunlight like shards of gold.

Jiang Yuxun smiled faintly and clasped the emperor’s hand in return. “Then it’s a promise?”

“A promise,” Ying Changchuan replied.

A gentleman’s word, firmer than iron, swifter than four steeds could chase.

By the time Jiang Yuxun returned to his cabin, night had fallen.

After a simple supper, he sat at his desk.

The attendants had already placed a wooden basin before him—herbal medicine for frostbite, still steaming.

Cautiously, he dipped his fingertips into the surface.

After a moment’s hesitation, he submerged his whole hand.

“Hss!” He winced sharply.

Whatever the concoction, it burned—hot, tingling, like handling chili oil.

The parts of his hand untouched by frostbite already stung; the affected skin

was agony.

…Perhaps he should just skip it?

He’d never had frostbite before, but from experience he knew—it healed when spring came.

Besides, once they reached Taoyan, he’d only freeze again. What was the point?

Convincing himself, he withdrew his hand—

only for the cabin door to open.

Ying Changchuan stepped inside.

His gaze fell instantly on Jiang Yuxun’s injured, reddened hand.

“Didn’t you say it wasn’t serious?” the emperor asked, striding forward.

He ate this fast?!

Flustered, Jiang Yuxun hid the basin behind his back. “This morning it was only a little red—I didn’t expect it to worsen after a short walk.”

Ying Changchuan halted before him, his tone low. “If you know it’s serious, why throw out the medicine?”

“Because… it burns.” Jiang Yuxun rarely saw him so stern, and anxiety prickled through him.

The emperor said nothing—he simply caught Jiang Yuxun’s hidden hand, rolled up his sleeve with practiced ease—

“Your Majesty, that’s really unnecessary!”

But Ying Changchuan ignored him, firmly guiding his wrist into the basin.

“The medicine burns,” Jiang Yuxun warned quickly. “Be careful.”

“It’s fine.”

The emperor’s hands were large and strong, easily enveloping his.

Though born to luxury, years of campaign had bronzed his skin a pale gold.

Beside it, Jiang Yuxun’s frostbitten hand looked almost translucent.

Ying Changchuan showed no sign of discomfort.

Holding Jiang Yuxun’s wrist steady, he ladled water gently over the wounds, each motion deliberate and calm.

Their fingers tangled beneath the surface, ripples whispering softly between them.

The sound of the dark liquid trickling echoed faintly in the quiet room.

…Something felt off.

Jiang Yuxun averted his gaze, forcing a laugh. “My hand’s just a bit unlucky lately. It’s nothing major—annoying, but manageable. As long as it still works, it’s fine.”

Ying Changchuan frowned slightly, his grip tightening. “As long as it works… how generous of you.”

Was it his imagination—or did the emperor’s tone suddenly turn cold?

Jiang Yuxun blinked, bewildered.

What did I do now?

He muttered, half-defensive, “I know my own hand best, Your Majesty. You speak as if you care for it more than I do.”

The emperor lowered his gaze, continuing to pour water, his movements unhurried—his voice equally calm.

But the words that followed struck Jiang Yuxun’s chest like thunder.

Droplets of black medicine fell between their intertwined fingers.

Ying Changchuan’s voice descended with them—soft, certain.

“Yes.”

…Yes?

He—he said yes?