Chapter 84: A Kiss Without Rhyme Or Reason

Zhao Yan suddenly recalled a detail.

ShenguAng Zhenren was skilled in refining golden elixirs, which earned him the emperor’s trust. However, before he was silenced, he never admitted to being the “Immortal Master.” He only said, “I was ordered by someone else to make the poison.”

That “someone else” was quite intriguing.

But Shenguang Zhenren was dead, Wei Yan had been brought to justice, and yet the pills in the red lacquered box had not disappeared.

Zhao Yan once believed that someone else under Wenren Lin was making the antidote for him. But today, upon seeing that same medicine box appear in the Taiji Hall with her own eyes… she suddenly realized that her initial assumption had been wrong.

Shenguang Zhenren might have just been a decoy. The real “Immortal Master” who refined the medicine was someone else entirely.

From what Eunuch Feng said, the emperor clearly knew about the antidote pills. So was he trying to save Wenren Lin, or…

A sharp pain throbbed in her head. Zhao Yan held her forehead, pressing her fingertips to her temples.

At that moment, the palace doors opened. The wind diluted the warm fragrance in the air, bringing with it a sharp chill.

The lamplight flickered. Zhao Yan looked up and saw Wenren Lin arriving, cloaked in the night. He casually brushed the snowflakes off his dark cloak.

The palace attendants bowed, served warm wine and food, then quietly withdrew, closing the doors behind them.

Wenren Lin removed his cloak and draped it over his arm. His dark robe made him look even more upright and sharp, like a sword.

“What puzzle are you struggling with this time?”

He walked casually to Zhao Yan’s side, bracing one hand on the desk, leaning over to look at the messy ink marks on the rice paper in front of her.

They were very close. Zhao Yan could even feel the cold, snowy scent clinging to him—clear and chilly.

Seeing that the paper bore only a few ink smudges and no actual writing, clearly the result of her daydreaming, Wenren Lin narrowed his eyes slightly and said with a hint of amusement, “Your Highness has grown increasingly bold lately—summoning me as casually as one would summon a favored consort.”

Zhao Yan looked at his profile, cold and elegant like jade. Her lips moved slightly, and she said hoarsely, “But you still came.”

Wenren Lin gave a faint, emotionless laugh and was about to leave when his sleeve was suddenly grasped by a slender, pale hand.

He turned back, following the hand down to see the trembling lashes of the young princess.

Zhao Yan said, “Today in the Taiji Hall, I saw the pills Eunuch Feng presented to the emperor. The box and the scent were exactly the same as the antidote you take every month.”

Wenren Lin listened quietly.

Of course he knew Zhao Yan had stumbled upon the antidote for the Cold Bone Poison in Eunuch Feng’s hands. Within the palace and beyond, there were no secrets from him—especially when it came to the young princess’s movements, which he paid even closer attention to.

“You said it was General Wenren who personally gave you the poison, but then… why is the antidote in my father’s hands?”

Zhao Yan swallowed her dry throat. “I want to know. I want to hear it from you.”

Wenren Lin lowered his gaze to look at her and instead brought up an unrelated topic: “Does Your Highness remember the story of Yang Jin Suspecting His Servant?”

Zhao Yan naturally remembered.

It was a story Wenren Lin had told her in the hot spring pool of the Jade Spring Palace, after Zhao Yuanyu had been executed in the secret prison. In the tale, General Yang Jin was defeated in battle and fled. While on the run, he was pursued and suspected that the only servant who had stayed by his side had betrayed him. He subjected the servant to brutal torture. The loyal servant, unable to prove his innocence, cut open his own belly and gouged out his heart to prove his loyalty.

At the time, Wenren Lin had told her: to prove one’s innocence, one must be willing to cut open their heart.

“Do you know what happened afterward?” Wenren Lin interrupted her thoughts.

“Afterward?”

Zhao Yan had read The Extended Chronicles of Chengde, and that story had no continuation. She asked, “Didn’t the loyal servant die after cutting out his heart?”

“Yes. He had to die.”

Wenren Lin spoke calmly, letting Zhao Yan clutch his sleeve. He pulled over a chair and sat down, leaning back as he continued, “But what if he didn’t die? What would Yang Jin do then?”

If the loyal servant who gouged out his heart had survived?

Zhao Yan considered it from a human perspective and said thoughtfully, “If the servant survived, Yang Jin would surely be overwhelmed with guilt and try to compensate him with generous gifts. But since he was naturally suspicious, he would always carry a thorn in his heart… Because he had hurt the most loyal person by his side, he would likely live in constant unease, fearing that the servant might one day truly turn against him…”

At that moment, a chill ran through Zhao Yan’s heart.

If reinforcements had arrived just a month earlier back then, perhaps the 80,000 soldiers trapped in the isolated city of Yanluo Pass wouldn’t have all perished.

How did the emperor view Wenren Lin, the sole survivor who had crawled out from a mountain of corpses?

When he saw the only surviving heir of the Wenren family returning to the capital with a coffin, did he, like Yang Jin in the story, feel guilt—and then, unease?

The monthly antidote was both a means of saving Wenren Lin, a display of imperial benevolence, and a tool of control and self-preservation.

That was how the emperor could trust Wenren Lin so deeply—under the guise of “honoring the orphan of a fallen hero,” he allowed him to wield immense power and ascend to a position above all others.

Wenren Lin could not possibly have failed to see through these imperial tactics.

Zhao Yan suddenly understood where his terrifying thoughts had come from. It wasn’t that he had betrayed Da Xuan—it was that Da Xuan had long since betrayed him.

Did Wenren Lin want to seize the throne?

No—Zhao Yan quickly dismissed that idea.

If Wenren Lin truly intended to overthrow the dynasty, he would have won the people over with virtue and compassion. But his cold, destructive, and aloof way of living—how could that be the behavior of someone seeking to rule?

Snow and wind swept past, casting fleeting shadows on the paper windows. The hall was silent, save for the occasional crackle of the charcoal fire.

Zhao Yan’s lips parted. She clenched her fingertips and said, “I’m someone who hates trouble. I’ve always only cared about the snow in front of my own door, never the frost on others’ rooftops. Even pretending to be the crown prince and holding court in the Eastern Palace was only to find out the truth behind Zhao Yan’s death…”

Wenren Lin raised an eyebrow, pressing his fingers to his temple. “Your Highness, if you have something to say, just say it plainly.”

Her slender, pale fingers tightened around the dark-trimmed sleeve, then slowly released. Her fingertips slid down the veins of his hand and gently clasped his knuckles.

Their fingers intertwined. Wenren Lin was slightly taken aback.

“I’m not only afraid of trouble,” Zhao Yan said softly, “I’m also petty. I hold grudges. When I was little, Zhao Yan once told me, ‘Don’t preach kindness to others unless you’ve suffered what they have.’ If I had gone through what you did, I’d probably be even more tormented, even more extreme. So I have no right to ask you to forgive this world. But…”

She paused, then lifted her clear, resolute eyes to meet his gaze and said earnestly:

“But could you give me a chance, Grand Tutor? Maybe this world… still has hope.”

The fingers intertwined with his were slender, but they held on tightly, as if letting go would cause him to vanish.

A flicker of emotion passed through Wenren Lin’s eyes, followed by a soft laugh.

“Hope?”

He repeated the word, then turned his palm to take control of the gesture. Leaning forward with his elbow on his knee, he asked in return, “Soldiers defend the city and save the people from fire and water—what is their end? The Crown Prince tries to reform and save a collapsing empire—what was his fate? The Northern Yi press at the borders, uprisings erupt everywhere. Tell me, Your Highness, what does Da Xuan have left to save itself?”

His voice was soft, like a whisper, gentle and cold—just like the snow falling outside.

Zhao Yan pressed her lips together, the line of her mouth turning pale.

Wenren Lin gently squeezed her fingers, coaxing her to release her tightly bitten lower lip. His voice was low and steady: “I didn’t hide my poison attacks from you. Now I’ve laid bare my intentions. I’ve been more than lenient with you, Your Highness. What more do you want? You know—I can’t turn back anymore.”

“I know. I’ve said it before—no one has the right to ask you to forgive this world. I’m not asking you to let go, nor will I stop you from seeking justice for the soldiers who died so tragically. I only ask that you give this broken, wounded country a chance. Give a chance to those whose conscience still lives, whose blood still burns.”

She blinked, her voice hoarse. “Even someone like me, who hates trouble, is now willing to throw herself into the fire like Zhao Yan once did. Grand Tutor, won’t you let me try?”

Wenren Lin’s gaze darkened. “You know it’s a moth flying into the flame—why try?”

“But over 80,000 people already died at Yanluo Pass. We can’t let personal grudges drag more innocent people down.”

Zhao Yan stood up, her voice growing clearer and more resolute. “I can help you. Just give me one year.”

As she rose, Wenren Lin looked up at her, meeting the blazing light in her eyes. “A year is too long.”

“Then… half a year.”

Seeing Wenren Lin remain silent, Zhao Yan bit her lip and said, “Next year, on the Lantern Festival—if by then the world is still shrouded in darkness…”

“What will you do?”

“I will entrust both myself and this nation… to your judgment.”

Zhao Yan braced herself on the armrest of Wenren Lin’s chair, leaning in closer as she summoned her courage. “You know how much I value my life. You lack for nothing—this life is the most precious sincerity I can offer.”

Wenren Lin’s composed expression gradually turned solemn. No one understood better than he what it meant for the young princess to say such words.

He gazed deeply at Zhao Yan for a long moment before finally speaking. “Your Highness is being impulsive. There’s no need to go this far.”

“It’s not impulsive. I’ve thought about it behind closed doors for days. Saving you is saving Da Xuan.”

“And if I refuse? Would Your Highness kill me?”

Zhao Yan’s lashes trembled. She whispered, “…Yes.”

“Good.”

Wenren Lin nodded with satisfaction. This was the princess he admired—gentle on the outside, but strong and clear-minded within.

“But…”

Zhao Yan swallowed the pain that cut through her heart and continued, “But I don’t want to be your enemy. I don’t know why, but the thought of one day having to face you with a blade hurts me more than when I had to confront my own uncle, Wei Yan. I don’t want that day to come. Grand Tutor, there must be another path for us besides opposition.”

Her breath trembled slightly, but she stubbornly clung to the hope of carving out a sliver of light from a dead end.

Wenren Lin simply looked at her gently, like a sculpture embedded in the chair—calm and unmoved.

He parted his lips slightly, but before he could speak, something soft and warm pressed against them—sealing his words with a kiss, giving him no chance to refuse.

She had almost crashed into him, hurting herself in the process, but she didn’t care. Wenren Lin frowned slightly, raised his hand to her neck, and gently pushed her head back. His voice was low and steady:

“Your Highness, what is this now? Can’t win the argument, so you use your mouth? Where did you learn that?”

Zhao Yan simply sat on his lap, as if taming a moody, untamed stallion, her arms loosely draped over Wenren Lin’s shoulders.

Her eyes were bright and clear, her breaths soft and fragmented, and with a tone of reckless determination, she said, “Think it over carefully. No need to answer me right away.”

With that, she held her breath and leaned in again. Her kiss was artless, like a small, snarling beast, clumsily venting its unease.

Wenren Lin didn’t know whether to push her away or not, momentarily at a loss.

The tip of his tongue tasted a faint trace of rust—blood mingling with intense pleasure, intoxicating. His dark eyes shimmered with a captivating smile, a helpless sigh escaping his lips.

“All those books you read were for nothing. How did this prince teach you, hmm?”

Wenren Lin gently patted her tense back, his voice low and alluring, whispering in Zhao Yan’s ear, “The man takes the woman’s lower lip, the woman takes the man’s upper lip.”

With that, he kissed her as he described, and Zhao Yan trembled, her ears instantly burning.

“For a moment, they draw on each other, savoring the essence, gently nibbling the tongue or lightly biting the lip.”

Kissed breathless by him, Zhao Yan’s cheeks flushed hot, sweat forming despite the winter chill. Her rigid spine softened, her whole body nearly melting against him.

“Shall we continue?”

His voice was slightly hoarse, his gaze deep and unfathomable, rippling faintly.

“Shut up!”

Zhao Yan knelt and lowered her head, her long-suppressed emotions desperate for release, and this was undoubtedly the best way.

Her cheeks flushed like lychees, she pulled out her hairpin, letting her dark hair cascade over her face, panting as she said, “Didn’t you want to drag me down with you? Why not ruin me completely?”

Wenren Lin’s gaze darkened noticeably.

With a rip, the loosened band of her chest wrap was pulled free. One arm encircled her slender waist, the other cradled the back of her head as he stood and strode forward.

A clatter of objects falling echoed as he swept the ink, brushes, and papers off the desk, leaning down to press the person in his arms against it with a kiss.

Zhao Yan’s head didn’t hit the desk; it landed in his broad, elegant hand, her silken black hair spilling through his fingers.

“This prince will wash his hands.”

Wenren Lin gazed at her flushed face under the lamplight, unhurried, as if admiring a blooming lotus.

Zhao Yan grabbed his hand, silently meeting his eyes.

Caught off guard, Wenren Lin let her interlace their fingers and press them against the desk, half-lowering his eyelids as he said, “Not afraid of taking medicine anymore?”

“…Shut up!”

Her response was a soft, feeble huff.

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