Qin Duoye finally drained the terrifying, pitch-black, and intimidating medicinal broth in one gulp, then sent Gou Hongyang away with a straight face, though he was gritting his teeth.
The moment the heavy door clicked shut, he bolted back into the room, grabbed a cup of green tea from the table, and tilted his head back, chugging the whole thing.
Only after the slightly bitter and astringent taste of the green tea washed away the lingering, potent medicine from his mouth did he let out a slow, heavy breath.
Damn it all, in both lifetimes, he had absolutely loathed bitter things!
Once the visitor left, the room instantly fell quiet. Sanjiu lingered nervously at the edge, looking as though he wanted to say something yet didn’t dare.
Noticing this, Qin Duoye adjusted his demeanor, trying to look as approachable as possible. “Sanjiu, if you have something to say, just spit it out.”
Sanjiu shook his head. Until today, he had always felt the master was no different from himself—belonging to the same social stratum, someone he could chat with casually without a shred of fear.
Yet now, Sanjiu no longer dared. He felt as though the master had suddenly acquired an inexpressible air of authority, one that instinctively made him want to hunch his back, lower his head, and tremble with unexplainable dread.
“Very well, then I have things to say.” Qin Duoye beckoned Sanjiu to his side, slipped a monetary deed into his hand, and said, “I know you’ve looked after me for over a decade, diligent day in and day out. But I no longer need anyone’s care now, and you’re at the age to marry and settle down. Take this money; consider it a start for your future.”
Sanjiu stared blankly at the deed, taking a good moment to process the meaning behind Qin Duoye’s words.
His eyes widened in disbelief as he hurriedly tried to push the paper back. With a dull thud, he dropped to his knees and grabbed the hem of Qin Duoye’s robe.
“Master, I don’t want the money! Please don’t send me away!” Tears streamed down Sanjiu’s face. “My life was saved by you, Master. Sanjiu has no wish to marry; I only hope to keep looking after you forever.”
Ah.
Qin Duoye let out a soft sigh.
There was no denying Sanjiu’s genuine affection; the boy truly wanted to stay by Wen Qinghe’s side.
Yet neither could it be denied that Sanjiu had indeed committed acts of betrayal against his master.
Sanjiu was merely an ordinary person, much like the bustling masses drifting through the world—kind-hearted, yet struggling, wavering, and easily swayed.
“Then tell me the truth: who did you go out to see, and what did you say to them?” Qin Duoye looked straight into Sanjiu’s tear-filled eyes. Though framed as a question, his tone was steady and certain.
Sanjiu’s pupils contracted violently.
Judging by that reaction, there was no hiding it.
“Don’t be afraid, I’m not blaming you.” Qin Duoye looked down at the teenage boy, softening his tone and striving to make his voice as gentle as possible. “Nor am I sending you away. Trust me.”
Sanjiu choked back a sob. “Master…”
“Yes, I’m listening. Take your time, don’t rush, and tell me everything.”
“It was Lord Liu…” Sanjiu’s voice grew much quieter, laden with guilt and remorse, his voice trembling on the tail end of the words. “For some time now, I’ve been nagging you at your ear to accept Lord Liu’s deal… And today, taking advantage of the trip out to buy supplies, I went to find Lord Liu first to tell him you had returned…”
“It’s nothing major, no need to be scared.” Qin Duoye reached out to pat Sanjiu’s fluffy head, speaking softly. “Would you mind telling me the reason?”
Feeling the gentle pressure on top of his head, Sanjiu sniffled, nodded, and murmured, “Lord Liu found my younger sister. She’s a maid in an estate, and word is she was about to be sold off to someone as a concubine… Lord Liu promised that if I helped him, he would redeem her slave contract so we could be reunited.”
So that was it.
Unsurprisingly, the kid wasn’t purely malicious; he likely thought that just passing along a couple of words and relaying a message wouldn’t cause any real harm to his master, which gave him the nerve to carry it out in sheer terror.
Yet once the intent to betray one’s master took root, it was destined that he could never again become a true confidant.
Uncertain how the original Wen Qinghe would have dealt with Sanjiu—and too lazy to dwell on it—Qin Duoye had no desire to make things difficult for a kid.
He pulled the final monetary deed from the box and placed both of them into Sanjiu’s hands.
“Is this enough to buy your sister’s freedom?”
Sanjiu froze, staring blankly at the wealth in his hands before lifting his head in utter disbelief, his other hand anxiously twisting the hem of his tunic.
After a long silence, he whispered, “One… just one of these is more than enough.”
“Good,” Qin Duoye said, having no wish to drag the conversation out further. “Keep the other one as well. I’ll be moving into the palace in a couple of days and probably won’t come back often. Once you’ve brought your sister back, you can both live here. Use the remaining money to manage the estate and cover your daily expenses. If it’s ever not enough, send a letter to the palace, and I’ll send more.”
“M-Move into the palace?!” Sanjiu gasped, shock washing away everything else Qin Duoye had just said. His gaze instinctively drifted to the bite mark on Qin Duoye’s neck and, realizing how rude it was, he hastily looked away, asking with strained difficulty, “Master, the rumors about a male favorite… are they true?”
Of course they were false. If they were real, he would slice off Qin Xuanxiao’s head.
Daring to take his own ancestor into the palace as a male favorite—what unmitigated audacity.
Qin Duoye rolled his eyes internally, though his face remained completely expressionless. He still needed this identity, so outwardly, he naturally had to maintain the charade of being a male favorite. Sanjiu couldn’t be trusted with the truth, and even if he were, there was no reason to tell him.
“Sanjiu, go eat your dinner. You don’t need to come to the main room tonight; I’ll read for a bit and then turn in.”
Sanjiu was initially stunned, but then a sudden thought struck him, instantly re-energizing him. “Master, don’t give in! You can appeal to the head of the family! There has to be a way! The officials won’t just stand by and watch you…”
“That’s enough, Sanjiu.” Qin Duoye frowned slightly, cutting him off. Though his tone remained light, it brought Sanjiu’s words to an abrupt halt. Qin Duoye waved a hand, signaling for the boy to leave. “My mind is made up. No more needs to be said.”
The fleeting gentleness vanished instantly. Twelve years of imperial majesty made his words brook no argument.
The door to the main room clicked shut.
Qin Duoye picked up the history book Sanjiu had just bought, changed into his sleeping robes, poured a cup of clear tea, and sat behind the desk.
His slender fingers lightly brushed against the book’s flyleaf, where neat, dignified characters were meticulously arranged.
The fragrance of the clear tea curled lazily in the air.
Qin Duoye closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. He—a soul that should have perished long ago—had awakened in a later era.
With his eyes shut, the memories of his past life played out like a revolving lantern in the darkness. In his youth, he grew up on the frontier while the capital was caught in treacherous political turmoil; as a prince’s heir, he had somehow ended up a puppet under eunuch dictatorship.
In one year, he reclaimed imperial power and purged the court. In three years, he campaigned across the dust of battlefields, personally leading troops through rebellions. In five years, peace was brought across the realm, and nations came to pay court.
In seven years, he streamlined internal administration and allowed the people to recuperate. In nine years, he reformed the governance and filled the state coffers. In eleven years, he laid the foundation for the Great Wei’s peaceful and prosperous era.
Shortly thereafter, he died of a sudden illness in the autumn wind of the twelfth year of Anping.
History books recorded barely a whisper, yet who could know the piles of white bones buried beneath a golden crown?
In this life, I settled all the affairs of the realm. As for rights and wrongs, merits and demerits, and whatever the future holds, I leave them to later generations to judge and let history take its course.
Future generations…
I suppose I must be the very first emperor in history who got to live to see his own empire and dynasty after death.
Heh, this is merely what I deserve for a lifetime of doing good deeds!
Qin Duoye slowly opened his eyes. The flickering candlelight on the desk danced within his pitch-black pupils, illuminating them with a fierce, brilliant warmth as the former emperor began to flip through the history of later generations.
Emperor Lie of Wei passed away in the twelfth year of Anping, plunging the entire nation into profound grief.
Qin Duoye’s fingertips brushed across the line of text before continuing downward.
Then came his younger brother, Qin Zezhi, who took over the burden of the throne, continuing the Anping era name. By the fifteenth year, granaries were overflowing, and doors were left unlocked at night with no one picking up lost property on the roads.
At the beginning of the year, a miraculous multicolored light descended from the heavens, resembling the wings of a colorful phoenix, prompting a change in the era name to Xingfeng, alongside a universal amnesty across the realm.
Later on, the northern frontier grew restless and uneasy following the death of Qin Duoye.
Fortunately, his younger brother possessed ample martial prowess, beating the northern tribes black and blue before sending them scurrying back to their homeland in disgrace.
Qin Zezhi abdicated in the eleventh year of Xingfeng to pass the throne to his eldest son, taking up the role of Retired Emperor to travel the mountains and rivers with his wife and daughter.
Reading this, Qin Duoye couldn’t help laughing aloud. That younger brother of mine must have been thinking as he ran off: “My dear elder brother, I’ve secured this prosperous age for you, but this exhausting throne is too much for me to sit on—I’m off to travel!”
He had been like that ever since they were kids.
Qin Duoye smiled faintly, gently tracing the text on the page.
The ethereal mist rising from the teacup held a mortal warmth unknown to the rest of the world.
To think that the unruly, vibrant little boy had also turned into a few sparse lines of black ink in the history books.
That reckless demeanor of his had somehow stepped up to shoulder everything alone after his death, turning him into a wise ruler praised by the common folk.
As he smiled, Qin Duoye suddenly felt a prickle of tears.
He casually wiped at his eyes with a self-deprecating chuckle.
Why is it that after changing shells, I’ve become so sentimental? How old am I…
Nineteen years after his abdication, Qin Zezhi passed away of old age and was buried in the imperial mausoleum.
Friends and family had all been laid to rest a century prior.
Why must I be left alone to gaze upon the vistas of later eras, watching predecessors turn to dust…
Qin Duoye looked back into history, seeing nothing but the clothing mounds and tombs of old friends.
He quickly put down the history book, raised his head, and blinked slowly. As the blurred vision before his eyes gradually cleared, he read on.
Twenty-five years into his reign, Qin Zezhi’s eldest son passed away from illness. Another eleven years later, the next emperor tragically died of illness while on an imperial tour. Fourteen years after that…
Ever since the death of Emperor Lie of Great Wei, exactly one century had passed.
Wheat that ripened once a year had now been harvested a hundred times.
Outside the window, the night was dark and ink-stained without a single star, though a solitary bright moon hung high in the sky—the very same moon that had once illuminated the silhouette of the Emperor Lie of Great Wei a hundred years ago.
Darkness shrouded the estate, wrapping tightly around the main room.
Inside, a single lamp burned as bright as a bean, and a book served as a sail, carrying a soul from a century ago as it drifted steadily through the wind-swept waves of history.
Qin Duoye’s spine remained straight as he sat alone at the desk. The solitary candlelight stretched his shadow long and far, casting a warm halo of light and shadow while etching the surrounding gloom with profound depth.
Atop the roof of the main room, a dark figure lingering in the shadows suddenly flickered and vanished toward the direction of the imperial palace.
Imperial Palace, Hanzhang Hall.
Chixuan knelt on one knee below the steps, meticulously relaying every single observed detail back to Qin Xuanxiao.
Listening intently, Qin Xuanxiao raised an eyebrow from time to time, clicking his tongue in wonder.
“He actually said that? Hahaha, Liu Xuanhai got what he deserved.”
“He didn’t do anything to that disloyal servant?”
“You’re saying he was… reading history books? Why on earth would he suddenly feel like reading history?”
Chixuan only knew how to report and didn’t dare respond to Qin Xuanxiao’s rhetorical musings, though Qin Xuanxiao hadn’t expected an answer anyway—he was merely talking to himself.
Still, Chixuan had never seen his lord take such an intense interest in anyone before.
“It’s so late, and he’s still not sleeping. Hah, treating his health like it’s invincible, are we?” Hearing the final detail, Qin Xuanxiao let out a cold hum.
Pacing back and forth within the hall for a couple of steps, he called out, “Gou Hongyang, tomorrow morning when you deliver the breakfast and the medicinal decoction, do not knock. Wait until he wakes up; Chixuan will let you know when, and only then shall you knock.”
Gou Hongyang hurriedly lowered his head in assent. Once his head was bowed, however, his eyes widened as large as copper bells.
By saying that, Your Majesty basically meant he shouldn’t disturb Wen Qinghe’s sleep!
What did this even mean?!
It meant that His Majesty who had never cared whether his ministers lived or died—was actually taking the initiative to care about an official’s physical health and sleep schedule!
This was terrifying! Was this still the notoriously tyrannical ruler everyone knew?
Or could it be… that His Majesty had truly taken a fancy to that official?
In that case, when delivering the medicine tomorrow, he’d better repeat His Majesty’s instructions loud and clear. Hopefully, that official knew what was good for him.