BEGW C73

Chapter 73

For a fleeting moment, Jiang Yuxun’s breathing faltered.

The stabbing pain in his wound slowly ebbed away, replaced by an indescribable numbness that seemed to seep through his veins.

Instinctively, he tried to pull his hand back—only for it to lightly bump against the rim of the basin.

“Don’t move.” Ying Changchuan caught his hand again.

“O–oh… alright.”

The water, once scalding, had now turned pleasantly warm after sitting for a while in the chill of winter.

The dark, inky liquid swirled between their fingers like a slender black serpent.

As the Son of Heaven poured medicine over Jiang Yuxun’s hand, he spoke in a tone both casual and deliberate:

“If my dear minister does not take better care of himself, and if I continue not to mind it for him, I fear this hand will soon be beyond saving.”

Jiang Yuxun instinctively lowered his voice, guilty as a child caught in mischief.

“…It’s not that bad.”

After a day of walking through the cold wind, his voice had grown hoarse, and the soft murmur came out almost as an intimate whisper.

The scent of medicine wove between them like invisible chains, binding them tightly together.

Unconsciously, Ying Changchuan’s fingertips brushed past Jiang Yuxun’s wrist.

Jiang Yuxun’s hand trembled at the touch.

The emperor’s words just now… seemed to have crossed a line.

Was he overthinking it? He lowered his gaze, not daring to look at Ying Changchuan’s face.

…Did the emperor say those words as a ruler to his subject?

But if that were the case, why had he never shown the same concern for Zhuang Yue, whose face bore a scar as long as a knife’s edge?

Could it be… because his own face was still unscarred and therefore worth the emperor’s notice?

Droplets of water slid down his wrist and fell into the basin below, sending faint chills prickling across the back of his hand.

As he stared at his wavering reflection in the inky water, a dreadful realization struck him—

what kind of emperor would personally apply medicine to his minister’s wounds?

Not Ying Changchuan, not even those rulers famed for their “kindness” throughout history would ever stoop to such intimacy!

Startled by his own thought, Jiang Yuxun yanked his hand back with a splash.

Drops of black water scattered into the air, staining the emperor’s robe like dark plum blossoms blooming in the night.

The sound of falling water broke the strange silence that had filled the cabin.

Panicking, Jiang Yuxun hurried to wipe it off. “Forgive me—”

Before he could finish, Ying Changchuan raised his hand first. “Go dry your hands.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Jiang Yuxun quickly reached for a silk handkerchief, but after taking only a few steps, he froze.

A guilty fire spread through his chest, burning so hot that he couldn’t help but stammer out an explanation.

“Just now, I—I only flinched because the medicine stung a little. It wasn’t… anything else. Please, Your Majesty, don’t misunderstand.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Jiang Yuxun wished he could bite his tongue clean off.

Wasn’t that the perfect example of “there’s no silver buried here”?

Why had he said so much?

When their hands were both in the medicine, Ying Changchuan could surely tell whether it stung or not!

“Of course.”

A faint, nearly inaudible chuckle came from behind him.

Ying Changchuan took up a silk handkerchief to dry his own hands and said leisurely,

“I know.”

Jiang Yuxun closed his eyes, unable to meet that gaze.

And in silence, he finished the unspoken part of that sentence for him—

I know, my dear minister, that you are lying.

—

That night, guilt gnawed at Jiang Yuxun’s conscience until he once again dreamt of Ying Changchuan.

Just like the last time—the absurd “oral exam” dream—this one too took place in modern times.

In the dream, he had frostbite on his hands and went to a hospital for treatment.

But the moment he opened the door to the consultation room, the doctor inside—the one in a white coat and bowtie—was none other than Ying Changchuan.

Before Jiang Yuxun could turn and flee, the “Doctor Ying” had already picked up an ointment and begun applying it to his hand.

But somehow, in the process of that gentle care, Jiang Yuxun—whose only ailment was a frostbitten hand—ended up lying on an operating table.

Lifting his eyes, he saw Ying Changchuan beneath the bright surgical light, pulling on latex gloves with chilling precision.

Then, from a tray beside him, the doctor picked up a scalpel and a pair of tissue scissors.

The cold gleam of metal flickered in his ash-gray eyes.

Jiang Yuxun lay helpless beneath him, like a lamb waiting for the slaughter.

Just as the scissors were about to descend—he jolted awake, eyes snapping open.

With a groan, he flicked himself on the forehead—hard.

The sharp sting finally cleared his dazed mind.

Ahhh!

What the hell was that nightmare?!

In the darkness, Jiang Yuxun took a deep breath, forcing himself to roll over until his back pressed against the icy cabin wall.

Anything to stay as far from Ying Changchuan as possible.

The river current carried the grand vessel swiftly downstream. The rowers paddled with all their strength, and their arrival at Taoyan County came even earlier than expected.

As the ship slowed near their destination, soldiers began clearing the ice from the gangway.

Taking the chance, Jiang Yuxun went up to the deck, surveying the scenery along both banks.

No one aboard had a moment to rest.

Since that day’s tumble, Zhuang Youli hadn’t seen Jiang Yuxun at all.

Now, as he prepared to disembark, he finally spotted him standing at the stern.

“A’xun, what are you looking at?” Zhuang Youli pulled his collar tighter, approaching carefully.

Jiang Yuxun didn’t answer directly. Still gazing ahead, he said quietly,

“We’ve entered the capital city of Taoyan County—Xikou City.”

Zhuang Youli nodded and followed his gaze.

Unlike Zhaodu, Xikou City stretched lengthwise along the riverbanks.

They had not yet reached the city center, but on the left bank, the outlines of houses could already be seen.

“…The houses are collapsing!” Zhuang Youli gasped, gripping the icy railing tight.

“Yes…” Jiang Yuxun nodded grimly.

Snow was easy to sweep away—but ice, once hardened, was nearly impossible to remove without melting.

The wooden rooftops and beams, burdened under the weight, had snapped and caved in.

Even the straw meant for insulation had frozen solid, losing all warmth.

From afar, the homes looked like fragile toys crushed in the palm of some giant.

Leaking roofs, walls open to the wind—Jiang Yuxun could hardly bear to imagine how the people inside were surviving.

Along the riverbank, at least a third of the houses had collapsed.

Tall trees were snapped in half, lying broken across the land.

Both banks of the river were a desolate ruin.

With homes destroyed and roads blocked by fallen trees, even those wishing to flee had no way to go.

Jiang Yuxun shook his head. “Not just the houses or trees—look ahead. See that? That’s a camphor tree. It should be evergreen all year round, yet now it’s shedding its leaves. If the freeze continues, it will die before spring.”

“That’s… a camphor tree?” Zhuang Youli murmured.

The once lush branches were bare, resembling northern sycamores stripped by winter.

Jiang Yuxun’s tone grew heavy. “There are mulberries and orange trees too. The same fate awaits them.”

He gripped the railing tighter.

When they passed through the canyon earlier, he had already noticed broken fruit trees on the mountainsides.

The orchards in the plains below must be faring no better.

Cold seeped through his gloves, biting into his bones.

The people who lived off these trees would lose their livelihood entirely—

for new saplings would take three or four years before bearing fruit again.

—

“Lord Jiang, the ship will dock in about a quarter of an hour,” a soldier reported.

“Understood.” Jiang Yuxun nodded, then returned inside with Zhuang Youli.

After a brief exchange, he excused himself, citing the need to change into thicker clothes.

Zhuang Youli watched him go, frowning.

“Wait—he still hasn’t explained why he smelled so strange that day…”

He turned to follow, but Jiang Yuxun had already disappeared up the stairs.

“Fine then, A’xun!” Zhuang Youli clenched his teeth in irritation.

He realized, with dawning clarity, that Jiang Yuxun had been avoiding him deliberately these past few days.

If that wasn’t guilt, what was it?!

His rare curiosity burned brighter than ever.

—

The vessel docked outside Xikou City.

The freezing wind howled like knives, pelting them with snow as sharp as salt crystals.

Jiang Yuxun squinted against it and followed behind Ying Changchuan.

At the end of the gangway, a familiar figure awaited them.

Amid the storm, the governor of Taoyan County stepped forward and bowed deeply.

“Your servant Tong Hairin greets Your Majesty! Long live the Emperor—long live, long live!”

“Rise,” came the calm imperial voice.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

When Tong Hairin lifted his head, his eyes brightened upon recognizing the man beside the emperor.

“Lord Jiang, you’ve worked hard on this journey.”

Jiang Yuxun blinked before quickly returning the bow.

“Governor Tong.”

In just a few short years, Tong Hairin had aged dramatically—wrinkles lined his face, his once-black hair now gray.

Had his voice not remained the same, Jiang Yuxun might not have recognized him at all.

…How had he grown so old?

The fierce river wind scattered snow from the branches, and a withered leaf fell onto Tong Hairin’s shoulder.

As he raised his hand to brush it away, Jiang Yuxun noticed—his left arm was in a splint.

Lowering his voice, Jiang Yuxun asked, “Are you still able to move freely, Governor?”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” Tong Hairin said with a rueful smile. “Just a small fall. A broken arm won’t stop me.”

Seeing his spirit unbroken, Jiang Yuxun exhaled in relief.

Tong Hairin leaned closer and murmured, “There are many in the city like me.”

They entered the riverside governor’s manor, where officials had already prepared reports for the emperor.

The register divided the citizens into groups—elderly, weak, sick, disabled, infants, and strong adults—detailing every expectant and nursing mother in the county.

“Your Majesty,” Tong Hairin explained, “thirty percent of the city’s houses have collapsed. Thankfully, most roofs were light, and since the people evacuated early after noticing the buildup of ice, there were few casualties.”

Ying Changchuan turned a page. “And where are these displaced citizens now?”

“Most have taken refuge with relatives. Those without have been settled in local schools.”

Taoyan had long been one of the first counties to establish schools—initially for agricultural instruction, later for literacy.

The new buildings were spacious and sturdy, guarded by soldiers who cleared snow from the roofs daily.

They had become, unexpectedly, the safest shelters in the region.

The emperor nodded approvingly.

Tong Hairin bowed again before turning to Jiang Yuxun.

“As per your letter, the women skilled in weaving and sewing have all been gathered in the schoolhouses.”

Gone was the timid official who once clung to self-preservation. Now, as the county’s governor, Tong Hairin carried himself with quiet, steady resolve.

“Thank you, Governor Tong,” Jiang Yuxun said sincerely.

“Merely my duty,” he replied, smiling faintly. “The cotton from your ship is being unloaded now and brought here.”

Snow was rare in Taoyan—its winters never this bitter.

Most commoners faced the cold in autumn clothes.

Shelter was one problem, but warmth another.

Earlier, Ying Changchuan had already ordered surplus winter uniforms from the northern armies sent down the river.

Those garments would soon be distributed according to the census.

The cotton aboard Jiang Yuxun’s ship had been set aside for children, to be made into winter coats within days.

The governor’s manor bustled with activity. Officials reported civil matters; military commanders gave their briefings.

As night fell and the streets glazed with ice, Jiang Yuxun decided to inspect the nearby school before it grew too dark.

Snow continued to fall, freezing the city in white silence.

The path between the docks and the school had been cleared earlier by soldiers, who now carried bundles of cotton back and forth.

Inside the school, hundreds of women worked at low desks, tracing patterns on rough cloth with intense focus.

Their chatter filled the hall with the rhythmic clatter of needles and thread.

“Where’s my scissors?!” cried one woman in brown, rummaging through piles of fabric. “Quickly! I’ve drawn all the patterns—I just need to cut!”

“Here!” another said, pulling a pair of scissors from beneath her fabric. “Use them first, but give them back later!”

“Of course!”

As one cut, another finished stitching a garment and set it neatly aside—ready for stuffing with cotton.

The air buzzed with diligence.

Leaning close to be heard over the noise, Tong Hairin said,

“We’ve calculated the cotton amounts exactly as you instructed, Lord Jiang. Infants under one year will wear pure cotton coats. Children between one and three, as well as pregnant and nursing mothers, will have garments half-filled with cotton and half with flax. Any remaining will go to children under ten.”

His voice was loud enough that a nearby woman looked up, startled.

“Lord Jiang?” she whispered, eyes widening as she recognized him.

She had seen him once before, during the imperial tour.

Now, overcome with emotion, she rose to bow, eyes reddening.

“There’s no need for formality,” Jiang Yuxun said quickly, lowering his voice. “Please, continue your work.”

“Yes, yes!” she replied, wiping her tears hastily. “Lord Jiang, rest assured—I won’t waste a single bit of cotton.”

Her words trembled with feeling.

Earlier that autumn, she had been blessed with both a good harvest and her first grandchild.

But before she could celebrate, this merciless winter had struck.

Within three days of snowfall, half her house had caved in under the ice.

The wind howled through the broken roof, snuffing out even the smallest flame.

There was no warmth, no hot water, nothing but cold and despair.

As she spoke, tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

Startled, Jiang Yuxun bent slightly. “What’s wrong? If there’s any difficulty, speak freely—the court will not abandon you.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” she sobbed. “It’s just… I thought my family would perish this winter. But now—now we’ve been given shelter in the city, and even my grandson will have a coat of cotton to wear. How could I not weep with joy?”

Her words caught in her throat.

The emperor’s kindness had reached even the humblest home.

Regaining her composure, she picked up her needle again.

“The court has been so generous. I will treat every child like my own grandchild and make these coats well. Please rest assured, my lords!”

Tong Hairin chuckled warmly. “We are indeed reassured.”

Jiang Yuxun smiled too. “Just don’t forget to rest.”

“Yes, Lord Jiang!”

Taoyan’s situation was worse than he’d feared—but its people were resilient.

To keep the workers’ hands from stiffening, braziers had been placed throughout the hall.

Wrapped in his thick robe, Jiang Yuxun soon found himself feeling warm, even hot.

After confirming the progress, he prepared to leave.

Just then, a subordinate came to summon Tong Hairin to verify the cotton inventory, leaving Jiang Yuxun alone.

As he stepped outside into the growing dusk, he froze—

There, at the school’s entrance, stood Ying Changchuan.

Draped in a black fox-fur cloak, the emperor stood half-shrouded in the snow and shadows.

When Jiang Yuxun met his gaze, the man smiled faintly and nodded.

He had no guards with him.

It looked almost as though he had been waiting.

“Your Majesty?” Jiang Yuxun quickened his pace toward him.

Before he could ask what had brought him here, Ying Changchuan lifted the cloak from his arm and held it out.

“Put this on. It’s cold outside.”

It was the emperor’s own cloak—of course it was.

The air between them had grown increasingly strange these past days.

Jiang Yuxun could feel it—the emperor’s kindness was… excessive.

The line between ruler and subject had blurred since that night they shared warmth.

He should have distanced himself, maintained proper decorum.

But faced with the biting cold—and Ying Changchuan’s calm insistence—he accepted the cloak without protest.

After all, staying alive came first.

But just as he adjusted the fur collar, he noticed—

the emperor was idly toying with a pair of bronze scissors.

The crude shears were tarnished with rust, yet deftly handled in those practiced hands.

The flicker of firelight glinted off the metal, casting it across Jiang Yuxun’s eyes—

And instantly, his mind flashed back to the nightmare.

His fingers fumbled; the cloak nearly strangled him on the spot.

“Cough—cough!”

Ying Changchuan tilted his head. “Why so careless?”

Before Jiang Yuxun could respond, the emperor reached out and tied the ribbon himself—an effortless gesture, as though helping a minister dress was the most natural thing in the world.

But Jiang Yuxun’s heart thundered like a boiling kettle

.

He took a quick step back, trying to put distance between them.

And yet, against all reason, his mouth betrayed him.

“Your Majesty, it’s not that I was careless. I just… remembered a dream I had recently.”

“Oh?” Ying Changchuan stepped closer, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “What kind of dream?”

Jiang Yuxun hesitated. The memory of it alone sent shivers crawling up his spine.

Before he could gather himself, Ying Changchuan glanced down at the scissors again.

Moonlight pierced through the clouds, falling upon him—

and in that cold radiance, he looked exactly like the surgeon from Jiang Yuxun’s nightmare.

His expression was focused, almost solemn.

Jiang Yuxun averted his gaze immediately.

“I dreamt that Your Majesty was… a doctor. About to use scissors to perform surgery on me.”

“Surgery…” Ying Changchuan echoed, the unfamiliar word rolling off his tongue.

He set the scissors aside and walked beside Jiang Yuxun out into the snow.

The wind howled, sharp and merciless.

Yet beneath the black fox-fur cloak, the cold could not reach them.

Just as Jiang Yuxun began to breathe again, the emperor’s voice came—steady, teasing:

“Oh? And can you tell me more about it?”

The cutting wind of Taoyan lashed against his face—

each gust sharp as a surgeon’s blade, slicing him open all over again.

Helplessly furious, Jiang Yuxun looked down at his frostbitten hand.

This is all your fault!