ITIEQ C62

Chapter 62 – The Weight of His Affection

“Shen Qinghe!”

“Teacher!”

Yao Guang hurried over from afar, trailed by a string of Qingbei students who had left and now returned.

They swarmed around the two like tadpoles finding their mother. Seeing their teacher’s ashen face—clinging to a single breath, as if ready at any moment to let go—they were seized by grief and fury; eyes reddened, and the younger ones could not help but weep.

All of Qiuquan County had benefited from the Governor’s kindness; the Qingbei students most of all. Without his goodness, who knows where they might have starved or frozen to death; how could they have food and clothing today, still study, and earn their own wages?

To call it a life‑remaking恩 would not be too much!

“Those bastards—if they fall into my hands, I’ll slice them into a thousand pieces!”

“Yes—yes! Even if I risk my life, I won’t let them have it easy!”

A funeral‑like wailing din—loud enough to split a skull.

The underworld’s little imps hadn’t come, but several students were like heralds calling his soul away.

The Wei estate, top to bottom, had already been sealed tight by the Dragon‑Rampart Camp. With such upheaval, even the soundest sleepers were roused. Dozens of clan branches, hundreds of retainers—no sooner had they risen than soldiers stopped them at their doors, forbidding them to go anywhere. The courtyards hummed like flocks of sparrows and doves—a marketplace before the main hall.

But there were exceptions.

The Wei family’s only external guest presently resided alone, in a secluded, cool courtyard opened at the foot of the back mountain. In that living hush, a white‑robed gentleman parted flowers and brushed willows as he came, followed by black‑clad men of the rivers and lakes; who knew how many hid in shadow.

“Seems we have a visitor—oh, a distinguished one.”

He lifted his gaze—and met the eyes of the Zhaohuan Emperor, dressed in dark plainclothes. He inclined his body in greeting—the founding emperor’s decree allowed those of the Yue clan to forgo full prostration before the royal house.

Yao Guang, seeing him, felt as if confronting a father’s murderer. Eyes red, he shielded Shen Qinghe like a hen with a chick, and spat two words through his teeth: “Yue! Zhi!”

Yue Zhi laughed lightly, not sparing him a sidelong glance. He looked straight at the Emperor. “Your Majesty need not blame me. Not a single hair of your minister’s head has fallen.”

He stood in the shade, the line between light and dark a clear boundary.

Hair? His life was half gone! Even when he wiped out bandits, he gave them a clean cut!

Yao Guang had met Yue Zhi before. A face that looked like it belonged to moonlit poetry—who would have thought, in private, he used such venomous means!

Xiao Yuanzheng knew him well—the Yue clan’s eldest son, famed in the capital for an excellent reputation.

But Shen Qinghe was not one to pick fights on purpose.

Xiao Yuanzheng only looked at Yue Zhi, eyes deep, saying nothing. Yao Guang, being closest, sensed something familiar—like that time, facing a rebel leader threatening three hundred prisoners, Brother Xiao had worn this same look.

The youth in his arms coughed twice more. Xiao Yuanzheng slid an arm around his waist and lifted him in a horizontal carry. The black‑haired youth’s brows knit; Xiao bent and propped an elbow to shield out the sky.

“There will not be a next time.”

…

Shen Qinghe did not wake for three days. When he opened his eyes, he saw dark‑green curtains softly swaying; his senses slowly returned; someone was pressing his wrist.

“Ah—Lord Shen is awake.”

“White‑bearded… old man?” Shen Qinghe was not quite lucid.

“You’re awake!”

Yao Guang’s face popped into view, and Shen Qinghe’s mind drew back from a drifting white dream. Only after the white‑bearded imperial physician studied his complexion for a while and calmly put away his medicine chest did Yao Guang, unable to wait, fling himself to the bedside. “You slept five days! A full five days! You scared us to death. We asked Imperial Physician Jiang and he wouldn’t say how you were—he’d only speak to His Majesty. What—am I some outsider unworthy to hear?”

Shen Qinghe frowned; his mind was just rebooting. Yao Guang’s loud chatter sounded unreal, like seeing flowers through fog. “Five days…” He recalled being taken into the Wei clan’s private dungeon, and then… then…

In a certain sense, Yue Zhi had not lied. When he was brought out, aside from the bluish bruises on wrists and ankles from long fetters, there were hardly any wounds.

But that did not mean he had been comfortable.

Scattered shards of memory ripped at him like a tide. Shen Qinghe hissed and cut off the stretch of recollection.

Ha. He was still alive. Shen Qinghe lowered his head and pressed his brow. The Yue clan; Yue Zhi—the new hatred was engraved onto his heart, likely not to fade for a decade.

This was not over.

He brooded, expression turning gloomy. Yao Guang had never seen him like this. He couldn’t help reaching out to pat his arm—only for the man on the bed to jolt and list to the side.

“Hey!” Shen Qinghe clutched his arm and cried out.

Yao Guang had not expected him to be such a fragile shell. His hand froze midair; he withdrew it, rubbing the back of his head with chagrin. “Sorry—forgot you’re hurt.”

News of Shen’s awakening spread at once. Several worried students hurried over, clustering around him with anxious chatter. When Xiao Yuanzheng stepped through the door, silence fell. Students who had never so much as glimpsed the Emperor’s hems didn’t know whether to sit or stand, or how to perform the proper rites.

Xiao Yuanzheng raised a hand to excuse them. He looked to Shen Qinghe, who was being carefully attended and comforted at the center.

“Do you feel better?”

Shen Qinghe propped himself up and offered a thin smile. “Thanks to Your Majesty’s blessing, my spirits are decent.” Seeing the crowd so solemn, he could not help a quip to ease the air: “It’s been only a few days—why does the weather feel changed? Wearing a single outer layer and it’s a bit chilly… Could it be Heaven knows I nearly died unjustly—and is sending frost in June for me?”

“Cold?” Yao Guang blinked. He himself wore only a silk‑hemp outer robe over an inner layer and still felt stifled—how could it be cold!

The inner room suddenly grew quiet.

Shen Qinghe’s heart stuttered. He guessed something—and shut his mouth.

“You all, leave us.”

Only after a long moment did Xiao Yuanzheng speak, voice low.

Everyone filed out in silence. Even Yao Guang, who had been grinning moments ago, said nothing; outside, he swung a fist into a pillar.

“Damn it!”

His face was not good—in truth, no one’s was. If His Majesty had not come in person, they would have exhausted every trick and still failed to rescue him. They had always known the might of the great houses; to be so utterly helpless against it left gall choking in their throats.

“As long as I, Gao Rong, live, we are irreconcilable.”

Gao Rong’s temperament was always cool; now his words rimed with ice.

“Teacher said he hoped our flame could light every inch of Great Yong; that our skills could shelter every displaced soul.”

The speaker was Cui Yun, top seller at the Yunzhong trade fair—a member of the academy’s first cohort of female students admitted to the inner court. In all conduct, she followed Shen Qinghe’s principles; at the academy it was “Teacher this, Teacher that,” and her respect for him was highest. When she was hastily sent back to Cangzhou, she was the first to sense something was wrong.

“If even Teacher cannot be sheltered—how can we speak of sheltering the world?”

Several students echoed her. Some were native to Qiuquan; some had transferred household registration from nearby prefectures. All had been under Qingbei’s care. To them, Governor Shen was master and elder.

They knew little of clan tyranny; they only knew their teacher had been tormented here. Their youthful blood flamed as one. Boys who previously only knew full bellies, warm clothes, and burying their heads in study, lifted their eyes at last—and clearly saw the giant blocking the path ahead.

“This road—so long as Teacher walks alone, he’ll be hurt. From now on, I will protect him.”

“And I!”

“Count me in!”

One by one, Qingbei students declared their loyalty. Yao Guang found it almost funny, but only tugged at the corner of his mouth—no laugh.

Shen Qinghe had toiled over Qiuquan for more than three years. Anyone with eyes could see his heart’s blood in it. Now, hearing the students make even reckless vows, Yao Guang thought only: worthy of the teacher who taught them.

This man was one for whom others would go through fire and water.

However fervent the outer room, within, only two breaths sounded.

Outside, the din rose. Xiao Yuanzheng shut the windows meant for ventilation, shutting out the shrilling of myriad cicadas. He found Shen Qinghe sitting alone within the bedcurtains, clutching an edge of quilt to pull over himself, so he shrugged off his own outer robe. What fit him perfectly sat on Shen Qinghe like a cloth cover—wrapped snugly with plenty to spare.

The thick, well‑structured robe bore a faint soft fragrance, similar to that often burned within the Hall of Contained Brilliance, calling up deep memories in Shen Qinghe. The heat it carried, though, was almost scorching. As soon as he put it on, he felt seared. Did the Son of Heaven’s garments really carry dragon qi? They did seem to kindle warmth—better than a thin, cold quilt.

He was at first flustered by the honor; but it was so comfortable, and the giver was the Zhaohuan Emperor himself. With an easier conscience, he tugged it tighter, curling entirely within it like a great black rice dumpling.

“Never thought Your Majesty would come in person. Forgive this sick subject, who cannot rise to greet you.”

“Between us, there is no need for such words.” The Emperor’s brows were composed. He loosened the robe’s collar where Shen had cinched it too tight. “When we last parted, it was the first snow. Now it is high summer.”

Seeing the students’ faces earlier, Shen Qinghe already suspected some ailment had fallen upon him. Since the Emperor did not mention it, he pressed the doubt down for now.

He had imagined certain death. Never had he thought the supreme leader would put aside state affairs to come all the way to Huizhou to rescue him. Shen was not tongue‑tied by nature; with anyone else, he could have found elegant thanks. But with the Emperor, he was struck dumb—at a loss for how to express gratitude for this imperial grace.

“You’ve grown much thinner.” The Emperor studied him closely. Shen Qinghe opened his mouth—but no words came.

For years, they had exchanged only letters. Meeting again, awkwardness hung—where to begin?

“I have read every memorial you sent. Qiuquan is well managed. Your ingenious mind would make you a name for the ages in any era.”

Counting on fingers, their days as sovereign and minister were few; three of those years Shen had spent exiled to the provinces. Hearing the Emperor’s praise, his heart was a knot of flavors.

“Does Your Majesty think I can do it—even surpass the Five Great Clans?”

Such words would draw laughter outside; neither of the two here thought them absurd.

“Mm.”

Xiao Yuanzheng finished straightening his collar and set his hands down, turning to sit on the chair by the soft couch.

“Your present plight—some fault lies with me as well.”

Shen Qinghe didn’t understand. The Emperor had not left the capital; what had his capture to do with him?

“This is a cursed land.”

The Emperor’s voice was unhurried, like a bystander recounting a tale. The magical hue of the opening drew Shen in; he lifted his ears to listen.

“From the Founding Ancestor’s enthronement to my own, the blood has flowed for a thousand li. Those who went to death are more than in the former dynasty, not less. To take a realm by arms invites its backlash—upon sons and grandsons without end.”

Shen’s heart jolted. In every age, which emperor did not claim the realm righteously won? Even if it was not so, they bent every means to revise and silence, to make every record smooth and legit—lest future rule be dogged by unease.

He had not expected the Emperor, at a bedside, to state calmly what must not be spoken—and even to say such self‑cursing words about inevitable retribution.

A hand reached from the “black dumpling,” covering the hem of the Emperor’s garment where it fell beside the couch.

These are things… I may hear?

Truly not taboo…?

The Emperor looked at him gently.

“The Founding Ancestor was valiant; the High Ancestor benighted; the Great‑Grandfather turned the tide… down to my father, who sought immortals and elixirs only for eternal life, and never thought of the people. The world will not always have sage rulers nor a throne held forever. Wars end only to rise again. The Northwest Army bears it first… Once, the recommendation of Filial and Incorrupt was in vogue—yet in the North, few even have elders left to serve.”

Shen trembled within. He had always looked up from the low places at the world’s injustices; he had never had the chance to think from the heights above ten thousand.

“All under heaven laughs that my Xiao clan is cursed with short lives. Now the Imperial Seal is in my hand—how many cycles of rise and fall? Merely another turn of the wheel. The world is renamed Great Yong; to the myriad lands this is but a century. But how many centuries have the clans’ entanglements endured? Royal house, imperial kin, great clans, the poor scholars, civil officials, generals—either trampling and squeezing, or bound as in‑laws. Unless rotten flesh is cut away, Yong will fall; another Yong will rise. No matter how many go forward and fall, there will be only one result.”

Xiao’s tone was level; waves rose in Shen’s heart. His fingertips trembled slightly.

The ending of one chaos was the beginning of another—without end. To carve out rot, to kill all who obstructed—was that not also violent suppression? Strike down one faction; another rises. How then to ensure the new power forever serves the throne?… Truly, a curse embedded in this land.

“Your Majesty…”

“Until you appeared.”

The Emperor’s broad hand covered the back of the black‑haired youth’s hand. Shen felt the rough traces left by years of swordwork.

“…Me?”

“Do you remember the thumb ring I gave you? The day of the palace examination—when I first saw you—I liked you.” His gaze pierced the curtains, deep and earnest, settling upon the youth.

The ring’s implication had been too obvious. Shen had left it in his lodging in Qiuquan; he had not brought it out. He felt lightheaded—receiving an emperor’s single word, “like”… He laughed softly; his pale lips moved twice. “After eating so many losses, of course your subject has learned a lesson or two. A pity I stumbled into a gutter again—troubling you to rescue me. Time and again I’m caught by my weak spots—perhaps you have misjudged me?”

“No. You are different.”

The Emperor’s eyes looked through him—as if seeing all his uncommonness.

“You are the variable outside the rotten lifeblood of Great Yong.”