The name has been updated from ‘Wen Renlin’ to ‘Wenren Lin.’ Apologies for the error.

Chapter 70: Lessons In The Shadows

Most of the time, Wenren Lin’s self-control was unnaturally strong.

Even when he occasionally lowered himself to serve, his hands still carried the habit of dominating everything, his lowered gaze dark and composed.

Zhao Yan once said she disliked how he always seemed detached—as if standing outside of everything, calmly watching in his pristine robes—which made her feel an inexplicable sense of shame and helplessness.

But this time was different. Wenren Lin reclined with one leg propped up, his snow-colored robe loose. One hand rested lazily on his knee, the other wrapped around Zhao Yan’s waist, his eyes lowered as he kissed and nipped at her slowly.

The hall was dark, and only the vague outlines of shapes could be discerned.

Zhao Yan tried to catch a glimpse of Wenren Lin’s expression in the moonlight, but her lips were suddenly bitten—his hoarse voice came low:

“Focus.”

“…”

A fine layer of sweat formed in her palm. After a moment, she bit her lip and said with difficulty, “I can’t… I can’t steady…”

“While I was serving Your Highness, my hands weren’t idle.”

…

Wenren Lin raised the hand resting on his knee, easily enclosing Zhao Yan’s wrists in his palm, guiding her hand to hold the brush correctly.

“Your Highness is very clever,” he praised beside her ear.

In the darkness, every sensation was heightened. Zhao Yan’s arms ached, and just as she was about to protest and give up, her lips were silenced.

A forceful yet lingering kiss. She could only tilt her head back and endure. When she tried to push him away, she realized her hands were still trapped in his grasp—and that cup of wine had now turned into a trail of sweat.

Zhao Yan didn’t know how much time had passed before Wenren Lin finally released her.

Her lips were as red as if stained with blood, and she looked like someone pulled from water—leaning weakly against his broad chest, gasping for air.

She heard the rustling of movement—Wenren Lin had stood up and walked around the pitch-dark hall with ease.

When he returned, he had already donned his official robe and carried a pot of tea he’d somehow found. He soaked a cloth in the cool tea and took Zhao Yan’s slender hand, slowly wiping it clean.

In the dim light, his deep red robe looked heavy and solemn. When he lifted his eyes, the sharp, elegant lines of his features were brought into stark relief.

“Your Highness has wet the hem of my robe.”

His voice was lazy, as if merely stating a fact.

Zhao Yan’s cheeks flushed even in the darkness. She shrank her fingers in discomfort, only to be firmly pressed down again by Wenren Lin. The damp cloth stole away the heat and soreness lingering at her fingertips.

He said, “Your Highness wears someone else’s skin. Naturally, there’ll be all sorts of buzzing flies and honeyed pests around. But these matters—only I will handle them. Understand?”

“You’re not telling me to stay clear-headed anymore?”

“Telling you not to place too much hope in me doesn’t mean avoiding me. You misunderstood my meaning—who’s to blame for that?”

“Always right, aren’t you. You indulge yourself and make it hard for others.”

Wenren Lin was a man both strong and ruthless. After everything they’d gone through, it truly was hard to treat him with detachment.

Maybe if she knew what he truly wanted, she could understand the contradictions in his unreasonable behavior.

Zhao Yan looked up and asked, “I’ve always wondered—what exactly is it the Grand Tutor wants?”

Wenren Lin’s hand slowed. He stared at her quietly for a moment, then asked in return, “Has Your Highness ever thought of shedding this disguise and living the peaceful life of Princess Changfeng?”

Zhao Yan froze.

The Yong Prince and his son had been punished, Xu Wanyi’s child was only four months along, the new policies had yet to take effect, and the royal family had no heir… She couldn’t imagine what would become of Great Xuan if she were to walk away now.

“I have thought about it—but not now.”

She lay curled on the Luohan bed, her youthful robes outlining her form. With rare honesty, she said, “I want to do what I can. Besides, ‘If the battle goes too well, there may be a trap’—that’s what you taught me. I feel like something’s off. I need to figure it out.”

Wenren Lin chuckled softly and murmured like a spell, “I can do all that for you. Your Highness only needs to rest your mind… and give yourself to me.”

Zhao Yan studied him by the moonlight, trying to tell whether he was serious.

“I won’t.”

She pressed her lips together and said clearly, soberly, “I won’t hand my life over to someone else. I belong only to myself. I can handle this.”

Exactly the answer he expected.

Wenren Lin gazed at her clear, determined eyes. He raised a finger and tapped the small red mole at the corner of her eye.

“That strength of yours—soft on the outside, but unyielding inside—that’s what I like most about you.”

He leaned down and whispered beside her ear, “It makes me want to crush you in my arms… and torment you thoroughly.”

Zhao Yan’s eyes widened. She gathered her robes tightly and said, “You’re not thinking of—”

“Your Highness.”

Zhang Cang’s voice came from outside the hall, uneasy and hesitant: “His Majesty requests your presence at the Hall of Supreme Harmony.”

Wenren Lin placed the damp cloth on the small table, picked up the chest binding and began wrapping it around Zhao Yan again. “Is Your Highness returning to the banquet or to the Eastern Palace?”

“Eastern Palace,” Zhao Yan answered without hesitation, raising her arms with a muffled voice. “I don’t have the strength…”

“Don’t have what?” Wenren Lin deliberately asked as he tied the final knot.

“No strength!” Zhao Yan could only grit her teeth and say it again, blushing furiously.

Wenren Lin let out a pleased, low laugh that rumbled softly from his chest.

“Your Highness’s physical strength needs some improvement,” he said with a smile. “Next time, I’ll teach you a simple sword technique. It’s good for the body and useful for self-defense.”

Zhao Yan fell silent. Great. Now she had no excuse to avoid him.

“Rest here for a while, Your Highness. Someone will come clean up soon,” Wenren Lin said, carefully tying her jade belt clasps. He then lifted his hand and gently rubbed the top of her head before standing up to leave.

As the door opened and closed, his voice came from outside the hall: “Her Highness is drunk. Prepare a carriage to send her back to the Eastern Palace.”

Moments later, Liu Ying entered with a lantern and called softly, “Your Highness?”

“Don’t light the lamp,” Zhao Yan said quickly, face burning, afraid the maid would see anything she shouldn’t.

The couch still had a slightly damp patch. Fortunately, it was covered with a jade mat and would dry soon.

Zhao Yan sat up and rubbed her fingertips. “Bring a basin of clean water—I want to wash my hands again.”

Liu Ying obeyed and backed out with the lantern. The hall returned to quiet darkness.

Zhao Yan sat curled on the Luohan bed, her arm resting on the screen as her fingertips shimmered faintly white under the moonlight. Her palms were rubbed red, and the strange sensation still lingered in her skin. She couldn’t help curling her fingers, burying her burning face in the crook of her arm.

What was going on? Why did things always end up like this when they tried to settle scores?

And the worst part—she kind of… didn’t mind it. It was so inexplicably absurd.

Just then, she heard light, hurried footsteps outside the window.

Someone? Zhao Yan instinctively perked up her ears.

A low and somewhat flustered voice said, “Since Master Huang’s death, our lord has lost his eyes and ears. Messages now can only be passed under the guise of banquets.”

“Huang” was the secular surname of Master Shen Guang. And “our lord”… who was that?

Zhao Yan tensed, quietly got up, and leaned against the Luohan bed’s backrest. She carefully poked a tiny hole in the window paper with her finger.

Through the narrow opening, she could see a section of rockery and stone path, with the stones glowing pale in the moonlight.

A man dressed like a Daoist stood with a horsetail whisk in hand, facing away as he spoke with someone hidden behind the rock. The second person remained entirely out of view—not even a robe hem was visible—making it impossible to identify him.

After some indistinct conversation, the Daoist said, “Don’t worry. Once that Xu family member gains His Majesty’s trust, they’ll be even more useful than Master Huang.”

When the exchange ended, he pressed his palms together and bent his thumb and index finger inward, muttering something softly.

Zhao Yan knew that gesture all too well. Back at Jinyun Manor, the female Daoist who blew up the alchemy chamber had used that same sign while chanting something like “Shenguang descends—boundless immortal master…”

The Shenguang Sect was still active? And the “Xu” they mentioned—was that Xu Maoyun?

Zhao Yan knelt by the window, deep in thought about the Shenguang Sect’s intentions. She was startled by the sudden sound of the door opening behind her and stumbled backward.

“I deserve punishment! I forgot to knock,” Liu Ying said hurriedly, bowing in apology.

“It’s fine. I was just distracted,” Zhao Yan replied.

She moved to sit at the Luohan bed, carefully washed her hands again, then soaked the used cloth in water until all traces were gone before letting out a long breath of relief.

She put on her boots and stepped down. Her legs still felt a bit weak.

“Careful, Your Highness,” Liu Ying said as she helped steady her.

Zhao Yan waved her hand awkwardly, lowered her gaze to regain balance, and couldn’t help cursing Wenren Lin in her heart.

…

During a break at the classics lecture, the civil officials gathered in small groups, chatting or looking into the distance.

Zhao Yan sat with her chin propped up, staring at the soft white mist curling from the incense on the table, lost in thought.

The past few days of lectures had showcased a hundred schools of thought, allowing her to truly witness the significance of a nation’s literary foundation. Pen and paper were their own kind of battlefield.

She had an idea. Leaning slightly, she tapped the side of Liu Baiwei’s desk with her brush and whispered, “I have a thought. If we could use the Mingde Hall as a model to open more academies and spread our ideas, we could influence others gradually. Like rivers converging into the sea—wouldn’t that be better than fighting alone?”

“Indeed,” Liu Baiwei said with a cultured spin of his folding fan. “We discussed a similar idea with the Crown Prince last year.”

He raised a brow. “But… does Your Highness have any money?”

“…”

Zhao Yan’s expression turned mournful. She pressed the brush to her nose and muttered, “Let me think of something… By the way, have you found anything on [1] Xu Maoyun?”

“You guessed right, Your Highness. This person had no notable works before the last imperial examination. His fame only rose after that. He has a proud and unrestrained nature, yet his poetry is quite restrained—beautiful, but lacking in strength,” Liu Baiwei said, eyes flickering as he closed his fan. “I’ll go test him out.”

With that, he stood and walked over to Xu Maoyun’s table.

“In such a grand gathering of scholars, how can we go without poetry to liven the mood? Editor Xu, would you dare to compose a linked poem with me?” Liu Baiwei cut straight to the point, bold and flamboyant.

Xu Maoyun looked startled before replying, “Why would I write poetry with you?”

“Are you scared?”

“Nonsense! I studied hard for ten years in bitter cold—why would I fear you?”

“Good. Then let’s use ‘Autumn’ as the theme and let the others be our judges. What do you say?”

Scholars loved literary duels. Seeing the excitement, they all cheered in approval.

Zhao Yan noticed Xu Maoyun clenching his fists under the table and immediately knew he was rattled. She gave a faint smile, stood up, lifted the hanging gauze, and stepped into the eastern wing room.

Huo Zhenzhen, always restless, had gone off wandering who-knows-where. Inside, only the Fourth Princess Zhao Xuan and a close maid remained.

Seeing Zhao Yan enter, Zhao Xuan nervously put down her brush and covered the not-yet-dry calligraphy on her desk with a scroll.

Even with just a glance, Zhao Yan caught sight of the phrase “Calm waves send off autumn” on the unfinished page—a line of poetry.

She was writing a response to Liu Baiwei’s poem.

The maid beside her bowed, her eyes darting toward Zhao Xuan with more anxiety than the princess herself.

Zhao Yan figured her fourth sister’s days under [2] Xu Wanyi’s control hadn’t been smooth. The servant beside her likely wasn’t a trusted aide. So Zhao Yan said, “I feel like drinking Junshan Silver Needle tea. Go prepare a pot for me.”

The maid hesitated for a moment, but serving the Crown Prince was a great honor. She didn’t dare decline and quickly left with a bow to carry out the task.

With the maid gone, Zhao Yan sat across from Zhao Xuan, smiling gently. “I’ve been occupied with the classics lectures and haven’t had a proper chance to greet Fourth Sister.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Zhao Xuan said softly.

Though she was the elder sister, she acted like a younger one, bowing her head and nervously fiddling with her sleeve. “Pei…”

Zhao Yan knew who she was asking about and said, [3] “Pei Sa isn’t here—she’s still under house arrest.”

Zhao Xuan softly responded with an “Ah,” her concern so cautious it barely showed.

Her mother had been executed, her right ear deaf, and she’d lived under others’ roofs ever since. Who knew what [4] Xu Wanyi had done to mold Zhao Xuan into this humble and reserved personality…

Zhao Yan, measuring her words carefully, asked, “Fourth Sister, do you know why Pei Sa attacked Editor Xu?”

Perhaps due to her impaired hearing, Zhao Xuan’s reactions were a bit delayed. After a moment, she answered quietly, “Yes.”

Zhao Yan glanced at the paper hidden beneath the scroll. With her sister’s personality, confronting her would only make her more guarded and uncomfortable, likely backfiring.

After a pause, Zhao Yan asked softly, “I didn’t come today for anything else. Fourth Sister, you are a princess of the Grand Xuan—do you really want to marry a man like that?”

Zhao Xuan blinked.

“I… what kind of princess am I, really?” she murmured, eyelashes lowered.

“What good is it to be a princess of Grand Xuan? I don’t have any other choice.”

Da Xuan had five princesses. The eldest’s consort was executed for drunkenly criticizing the court—their happiness was the first sacrifice in a political struggle. After the Battle of Yanluo Pass, the second sister was forced to marry a prince of the Northern Barbarians and died en route to her marriage. The third sister became a nun and still prayed for Da Xuan in her temple…

As for the youngest, Princess Changfeng, she hadn’t even turned ten when she left the capital.

Compared to them, Zhao Xuan felt she was already lucky. Just as Xu Wanyi said—a woman’s greatest worth was helping her husband’s household.

Born in such times, thinking too clearly only brought pain. So Zhao Xuan tried not to think, not to want too much. She read, daydreamed, and dutifully followed arrangements.

“Fourth Sister, it’s okay to be shy in nature. But when the moment calls for it, don’t cower. When you need to speak your mind, don’t stay silent,” Zhao Yan said with a warm smile. “Just ask yourself—this marriage, is it what you truly wish for?”

“I don’t know your troubles, but there are countless paths in this world. Just take that first step. Whatever happens, you still have me—and our mother.”

Zhao Xuan’s heart stirred, and she slowly looked up, eyes dazed and uncertain.

The “young man” before her was still slender, but he no longer had the look of frailty. Instead, there was a touch of radiance to him—a warmth that was just right.

Zhao Yan pressed her advantage. “Don’t be afraid. Even if things don’t go perfectly, it’s not like they’ll fall apart.”

“Fourth Princess, you…”

The curtain was suddenly lifted. Sun Maoyun entered, his forehead drenched in cold sweat.

Upon seeing the “Crown Prince,” Xu Maoyun froze awkwardly, wiping his sweat while bowing in greeting.

Zhao Yan maintained a proper smile. “Editor Xu, you came at the perfect time. That ceremonial poem you wrote the other night was splendid. I heard that His Majesty is considering promoting you to the Ministry of Revenue?”

Xu Maoyun could hardly suppress the smile tugging at his lips. He cupped his hands toward the sky and said, “His Majesty’s favor is more than I deserve.”

“Editor Xu is too modest. Just yesterday, Father was distressed about the flood in Luozhou. He said that whoever could present a prayer to appease the wrath of Heaven would be handsomely rewarded.”

Zhao Yan shook her head slightly, as if troubled. “It’s a pity—so many have tried, yet not a single submission is truly presentable.”

Sure enough, Xu Maoyun’s face lit up with delight.

Seeing it was about time, Zhao Yan cast a deep, meaningful glance at Zhao Xuan, then stepped out through the curtain.

Liu Baiwei was still playing with his fan behind the desk. When he saw Zhao Yan return, he chuckled softly. “He couldn’t come up with a couplet and made an excuse to leave for the latrine. How did it go on your end, Your Highness?”

“Nine out of ten—it’s clear that there’s something wrong with Xu Maoyun,” Zhao Yan replied, sipping her tea and speaking in a low voice. “I’ve laid a trap. Let’s see how Fourth Sister chooses. If it doesn’t work out… we’ll use other means.”

Just as she finished speaking, the break ended and the officials began returning to their seats.

Suddenly, a voice rang out from outside the hall: “His Highness Prince Su has arrived—”

The room full of chatting and laughing officials fell instantly silent. The chief lecturer, a censorate officer, was so startled he nearly dropped the scroll in his arms.

“Prince Su? Why is he here?”

“Did someone say something offensive? Is he here to hold someone accountable…”

Zhao Yan looked up in surprise as Wenren Lin strolled into the hall, calm and composed. He passed through the gathered ministers with effortless grace and made his way toward the empty seat beside her.

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