At midnight, in Nanye Palace, frost lay heavy and dew weighed down the air; dark snow drifted in swirling flakes.
A young lady rested her left hand on the desk, head bowed, eyes serene as she read a meticulously bound book, occasionally lifting her brush to make a few strokes on paper.
The hall was warm. She wore light, comfortable clothing, with her sleeves slightly slipping to reveal a section of her fair wrist. Her dark hair was half tied, cascading to her waist, with a few lazy strands draped over her arm.
The lamplight fell upon her face, making her profile gentle and composed. Her eyes were like a clear, tranquil pool—ethereal yet approachable—instinctively drawing those nearby to her.
A small palace maid standing quietly by couldn’t help but sigh in admiration. “Our lady is truly beautiful. Look at her bearing—she’s clearly from a scholarly family, with refined upbringing.”
Indeed, she was the long-admired only daughter of the Grand Minister Zuo.
The heroine herself remained oblivious to such praise, fully immersed in the story within the book.
However… if the young maid could see its contents, she would deeply understand the essence of “do not judge by appearances.”
On the pages, five bold characters stood out: “Secret Chronicles of Tianyu.”
The scholarly and well-bred only daughter of the Grand Minister Zuo was absorbed in this book’s daring and audacious story, unable to calm herself.
—Why would the iron-faced, impartial Minister of Personnel shed tears in the hall, only to find it was because of her?!
—The Grand Minister of Tianyu, a loyal minister of two dynasties, what secret schemes has he been plotting in the shadows?
—The fate-tossed young lord and the brooding, ruthless emperor—what complex love-hate relationship exists between them?
Each storyline was vivid and gripping enough that any could be recited for a whole day in the teahouses of the southern city.
Gu Jiao reluctantly lifted her gaze from the book and sipped her tea, still reluctant to part from the story.
If given the chance, she resolved to have a long discussion with the author to exchange creative insights.
The book’s scope was broad and layered—truly unique among any storybook she had ever read.
From the mundane lives of sixth-rank officials to the secret histories of the current prime minister, every notable figure in the court had been carefully chronicled and evaluated.
Its content was well-structured and meticulous, even divided into chapters according to relationships.
Gu Jiao couldn’t help but suspect the author might be someone long hidden within the court, accumulating material to craft this monumental work.
Otherwise, how could the position of the mole on the Minister of Personnel’s waist be recorded with such precision?
What touched her most was that even someone like herself—with no special skill, only slightly known due to her father’s position—had the honor of appearing in this unparalleled work.
Moreover, she wasn’t even a minor character.
The infamous treacherous consort Gu Jiao, who stirred the Tianyu court alone, disrupted the lovers torn apart by society—the emperor and the young lord—only to have her schemes ultimately fail, leaving her betrayed and meeting a tragic demise.
Gu Jiao touched her nose, feeling honored, and decided to make time to visit the Hanlin Academy, hoping to share and appreciate it with the talented Grand Tutor.
It would also allow her to unearth this hidden genius for the court’s benefit.
As she pondered, her eyes caught a few names in the text, and Gu Jiao’s gaze deepened. She was oddly familiar with these two main characters.
The fate-tossed young lord, forced into the imperial capital, who could not escape the emperor’s entanglements—Xie Chongning—was almost her own fiancé.
The brooding and ruthless emperor, uninterested in governance and only wishing to hold the young lord in his arms—surname Jun, single name Heng—happened to be her… current husband?
Tch.
Quite the story.
Family feuds, national enmity, and forbidden romance—wasn’t this far more compelling than trivial romantic dramas?
Just as she was marveling, the hall suddenly carried the rustle of footsteps.
Slightly startled, Gu Jiao lifted her gaze from the page. At this hour, who could be visiting? Moreover…
A small palace maid peered through the window, cautiously speaking: “Your Ladyship, it seems Eunuch Huai’an has come.”
Huai’an?
“Quick, put out the lights.”
Her thoughts froze for a moment. Realizing the urgency, Gu Jiao jumped up and moved to latch the door. Just as she reached it, a gust of wind blew, and the door creaked open, leaving a narrow gap.
Through the gap, the eunuch in a dark teal robe met her gaze. Both fell silent.
After a moment, the eunuch smiled slightly, bowing politely to her.
Regretting that she hadn’t latched the door sooner, Gu Jiao suppressed her frustration and composed her expression, showing just the right amount of elegance.
She smiled gracefully: “Ah, what a coincidence. Eunuch Huai’an, you came without giving notice? I nearly blocked you by mistake.”
Huai’an’s expression was humble: “I came at an inopportune hour, Your Ladyship. Sorry to disturb your rest.”
Gu Jiao waved a hand: “Not at all. I had only been asleep for about an hour.”
Her words implied—indeed, you did disturb me!
Being a top imperial attendant with unparalleled skill in reading people, Huai’an surely understood her meaning.
Gu Jiao smiled, waiting for him to take his leave, which he did as she wished.
“Since Your Ladyship is already awake, may I take you to Longzhang Palace?”
Gu Jiao: …
“I—” she began, intending to decline politely.
“The emperor’s cold is acting up.”
“The imperial physician—”
“Physician Zhou has already examined him and prescribed medicine, but His Majesty refuses your service and will not take the medicine.”
Huai’an seemed to have anticipated her words, responding at a measured pace that left her no room to refuse.
Gu Jiao looked up at the dark sky, then back at him.
Her voice was sincere yet helpless: “Huai’an, tell me honestly—have I offended you in some way?”
“Your Ladyship, what are you saying?” Huai’an raised an eyebrow, feigning confusion.
She sighed, offering a gentle reminder: “Do you remember the last time I visited Dongyi Hall? His Majesty—then the Seventh Prince—told you to send the guests away. How did he speak?”
“No need to persuade me. From now on, Dongyi Hall shall not allow idle people in,” she said, clearing her throat and lowering her voice, mimicking the emperor’s tone perfectly.
She remembered it clearly, fully aware of her idle status. To avoid displeasing the emperor, she had barely stepped out of Nanye Palace this past month.
“Perhaps, you should ask someone more skilled?” she sincerely suggested to Huai’an.
The emperor now simply refused medicine. If she went, she might even break the medicine container. Besides, she wasn’t some miracle healer.
“Your Ladyship,” Huai’an said gently, eyes lowered, “although His Majesty does not speak of it, he has always been concerned for you.”
Gu Jiao blinked—really? But hadn’t she heard he forbade even mentioning her name?
She truly felt the sting of being so disliked by him for the first time.
“Physician Zhou says, if His Majesty continues tormenting himself, his cold will worsen in the future,” Huai’an added, his concern growing.
…
Alright, this was the sympathy card.
Under Huai’an’s worried gaze, Gu Jiao resignedly lowered her head.
“Very well. I will go to Longzhang Palace.”
…
The sound of footsteps crunched on the thin layer of snow, crisp and clear in the quiet palace.
Longzhang Palace was brightly lit. As Gu Jiao and Huai’an stepped onto the stairs, a young eunuch hurriedly ran to meet them.
He looked even more anxious than Huai’an, with a hint of worry about being scolded. Bowing his head, he reported: “The medicine was just delivered once after warming. His Majesty doesn’t allow anyone to disturb him. I’m not sure if he has taken it yet.”
Huai’an nodded slightly. “Understood. You may leave now.”
After the eunuch departed, Huai’an turned to Gu Jiao, his tone slightly more earnest: “Your Ladyship—”
“I know,” Gu Jiao rubbed her temple, already guessing what he was about to say. “I’ll do my best, but if he refuses to see me…”
Then there was nothing she could do.
Huai’an shook his head gently, a small sigh hidden in his words: “You still—”
He paused, leaving the sentence unfinished, and added, “I will wait right here for you. Don’t worry.”
…
The fire in Longzhang Palace burned brightly. As Gu Jiao turned to close the door, she felt a thin sheen of sweat forming on her forehead.
Brushing the snow off her coat, she hung it on a nearby rack and lifted the beaded glass curtain, taking a few steps forward to see the person inside.
He lay quietly on the soft couch, a snow-fox fur draped over him, eyes half-closed, features serene. His black hair fanned out behind him, a ring of white fur around his neck. Candlelight softened his usually sharp features.
His lips were naturally pale, and his face carried a faint sickness. Yet the mole beneath his eye stood out vividly—more striking than any adornment many women deliberately paint on their eyes or brows.
The former Seventh Prince, now Emperor Chengxi—Jun Heng.
Though reluctant to admit it, every time Gu Jiao saw him, her gaze lingered just a little too long.
Just as she had written to her father before entering the palace: “It’s just marrying someone. No matter how he looks, I won’t truly lose out.”
Smiling faintly, she bent down to adjust the fallen fur on Jun Heng’s shoulders.
The mingled scent of dragon musk and faint medicine filled the air.
He seemed to sense something, eyelashes trembling, and slowly opened his eyes.
Their gazes met before she could retract her hand, and he instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, then quickly lowered it again. When he looked at her, his expression was dazed and bewildered.
“Gu Jiao?”
His voice was husky from sleep, uttering her name with confusion and a touch of lingering haze.
Gu Jiao hadn’t expected to wake him so suddenly. Her hand, resting awkwardly on his shoulder, felt trapped between retreat and lingering. She completely forgot all the polite words she had prepared.
She tried to remember—should she say something now?
Huai’an’s hopeful eyes before entering flashed in her mind.
The pressure was suddenly overwhelming.
Counting it all, this was already their third meeting.
The second time they met, he had transformed from the familiar Seventh Prince she had known into Emperor Chengxi, and she had gained the status of imperial consort.
On the way here, she had wondered how to address him—as an old friend, a subject, or… a consort?
The last thought barely surfaced in her mind before she dismissed it; she couldn’t imagine herself speaking to him tenderly as “Your Majesty.”
She was sure Jun Heng couldn’t accept it either.
Watching his eyes gradually clear, Gu Jiao gave up on recalling her planned words. Naturally, she continued the small action she had started—tucking the fox fur neatly around him and straightening him up.
“Huai’an lets you sleep on the couch like this?” she said lightly.
He already had a chronic cold and never took care of himself—luckily, Huai’an was meticulous.
Her eyes scanned the medicine left nearby; it had cooled long ago. If she had known, she would have had Huai’an prepare it in advance.
But now, under Jun Heng’s unwavering gaze, she couldn’t just leave.
Sighing again, she softened her voice: “Does it still hurt anywhere? Should I call the imperial physician?”
Jun Heng’s eyes briefly relaxed, then narrowed again, his brows furrowing little by little.
“Gu Jiao.”
This time, the tone was certain.
“Yes.”
She responded and sat by the couch, reaching out to touch his forehead.
He swatted her hand away abruptly, voice sharp and urgent: “If I die from illness, wouldn’t that be more to your liking?”
She had no time to avoid him, and the back of her hand bore a few red marks from his sudden block.
Jun Heng’s breath caught; he suddenly sat up, then abruptly stopped.
His hands curled slightly, then he lowered his eyelids, refusing to look at her.
“What are you saying, Your Majesty?” Gu Jiao rotated her wrist and smiled lightly. “You are the ruler of a nation. Naturally, you will have long life and good fortune.”
“Even if I must suffer, I’ll do it after I recover.”
Jun Heng tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Long life and good fortune?”
“When did even you start saying these words against your own will?”
“What do you mean, ‘against my will’?” Gu Jiao couldn’t help but argue—was even a compliment to him fake in his mind?
He closed his eyes, saying nothing.
Then he slowly sat up, brushing the loose black strands behind him. Candlelight cast soft shadows across his sharp profile.
As he moved, the fur she had just tucked in slipped again, and a few rebellious strands of hair fell along his temple, leaving faint rosy impressions on his cheeks.
Gu Jiao lost all patience instantly.
No matter when she saw Jun Heng, this face always made it impossible for her to be stern.
Finally, he lifted his gaze: “If you didn’t want to see me, why did you come?”
Hearing this, Gu Jiao laughed softly, a little wistful: “I thought… you’d use your emperor’s presence to intimidate me.”
“I”, not “We,” she realized—surprised, but somehow not too much.
Jun Heng clenched his fingers into a fist and turned his head, smiling wryly: “So you want to set boundaries, is that it?”
“Gu Jiao, in your heart, I’ve always been insignificant—before, now, and still.”
Gu Jiao pressed her lips, unable to resist: “Isn’t it you—”
She paused, rubbing her temple with a sigh of frustration.
“You say, Your Majesty… after all this time, why haven’t you improved at all?”
The same sharp-tongued gourd, hiding something in his heart, never willing to speak it—even if it kills him.
Truly, he’s worrying her.