Although she didn’t understand why, having two dreams in a row that felt so vivid and strange, once she reminded herself they were only dreams, everything became easier to accept. If the unconscious man before her was Cheng Yun, then this must be the secret chamber he used to torment himself.
According to the novel’s plot, Cheng Yun was not truly a villain. He only pretended to be one, though in pursuit of his goals, he did commit many acts that drew heaven’s wrath and people’s hatred.
Su Xianjin didn’t know much about Cheng Yun’s inner world, because the author was stingy with words—at least ninety percent of the novel was never told from his perspective. The author cleverly led everyone to believe Cheng Yun was evil, only to deliver a shocking reversal later.
Su Xianjin disagreed with comments calling that chapter a “whitewashing.” Once you knew the truth and looked back with that godlike perspective, you realized the author had been planting foreshadowing all along.
For example, Cheng Yun’s body often bore inexplicable wounds. Or the loyal ministers and generals he supposedly targeted—most of them were “dead without a corpse.” Outsiders assumed Cheng Yun was a demonic butcher, torturing them to death in secret prisons before dumping their bodies in mass graves.
In reality, Cheng Yun had only hidden them away. Later, when the male lead’s power rose, Cheng Yun cleverly arranged for him to “rescue” these people, earning their gratitude and loyalty—decisive support for the male lead’s future reign of peace and prosperity.
This chamber appeared in a side story. At the end, after Qin Shi raided Cheng Yun’s residence and confiscated all his property, he accidentally discovered the hidden room. Expecting to find unspeakable secrets, he searched thoroughly but found nothing.
In that side story, through Qin Shi’s recollections, the author added a conversation they had in prison that night.
Qin Shi asked Cheng Yun: even if his reasons were noble, so many innocent lives had perished by his hand—did he feel even a shred of regret?
Cheng Yun lowered his head, glanced at his scars, and gave a bitter smile: “I remember them all. Don’t worry—I’ll go to hell.”
Reading this, Su Xianjin suddenly understood. Each time Cheng Yun vanished after killing someone, he wasn’t indulging in bloodlust—he was entering the hell he had built for himself, acting as his own judge.
She had once guessed, like most readers, that such an extreme character must have been savoring the thrill of murder. But the truth was the complete opposite.
Thinking of this, Su Xianjin’s gaze returned to Cheng Yun’s unconscious face before her. His brows were tightly furrowed, his black hair disheveled, his face deathly pale as he curled up, trembling. Cold sweat streamed down, dripping onto the stone bed and spreading into a dark patch.
In this state, Cheng Yun had none of the aura of life-and-death authority, none of the ruthless, merciless image of a demonic judge. It was hard to connect him with the youngest Prime Minister who once stirred storms in the treacherous imperial court.
The candle flame flickered, nearly extinguished.
Su Xianjin rose on tiptoe and used the last bit of firelight to ignite the wall-mounted candlestick. Dust lay thick around it, as though no one had cleaned it for a long time.
The wick sputtered with sharp crackles before finally burning steady.
Standing in the glow, she turned and gazed at Cheng Yun, swallowed by darkness. Twice now, he had refused to light a lamp—she couldn’t fathom how a person could adapt to such pitch blackness.
Cheng Yun let out a muffled groan, as if in pain. Su Xianjin snapped back to awareness, noticing the metallic tang of blood in the air had grown stronger. She walked over and sat at the bedside, following the scent as she slowly lifted the black crane cloak covering him—the sight before her made her freeze.
He wore only a white inner garment. Though the light was dim, she could just make out the blood soaking through it, dark red staining the entire sleeve.
Perhaps stirred by her movement, Cheng Yun flinched and murmured faintly: “You… who are you?”
“Me?” Su Xianjin blinked, about to answer—yet realized he wasn’t truly awake. She hesitated, then gently rolled up his bloodstained sleeve. Beneath it were dozens of wounds: some scabbed over, some just beginning to heal. Near the shoulder lay a particularly deep gash, nearly to the bone, still bleeding steadily.
Su Xianjin had never seen such a sight. She gasped sharply, even feeling phantom pain in her own arm.
Cheng Yun slowly opened his eyes. With sudden force, his other hand seized her wrist. His voice remained cold, though weak: “…Who are you? How did you get in here?”
Startled, Su Xianjin quickly calmed herself. This was only a dream—she could not truly be in danger. His grip lacked strength; she easily pulled free. Her gaze shifted from the wound gushing blood to his deathly pale face.
“It’s because I dreamed of you—that’s why you’re here.”
The lone candlelight flickered behind her, making her face blur indistinctly.
“Dream…” Cheng Yun murmured, his gaze growing unfocused. “You’re in my dream?”
“On the contrary—it’s you who are in mine.”
“Who… are you?”
“Su Xianjin.”
“Su… Xianjin…” Cheng Yun’s eyes closed wearily. From blood loss, his body grew cold, and he instinctively curled deeper beneath the crane cloak.
Su Xianjin looked around, puzzled as to why this dream had not yet ended. But the thickening stench of blood made it hard for her to keep her thoughts steady. After a moment’s hesitation, she untied the ribbon from her ponytail and, suppressing her discomfort, used it to make a simple bandage to staunch his bleeding. She hadn’t expected the first-aid lessons from class to work—even in a dream.
Cheng Yun’s pale, parched lips trembled from pain, cold sweat soaking his dark hair. Su Xianjin pulled the cloak higher over him, her gaze drifting toward the void beyond the chamber. Since this was her dream, surely she could go anywhere she wished. What lay outside? Would it be the world she had imagined while reading the novel? At that thought, she almost rushed out eagerly. Her figure quickly vanished into the darkness.
Cheng Yun struggled to lift his eyes, dimly watching her departing silhouette, before his consciousness sank once more into the abyss.
When he awoke again, he didn’t know how much time had passed. Opening his eyes, clarity returned to his gaze—yet framed by a bloodless face, they looked like a bottomless dry well in the snow. The chamber was pitch black, not a hand’s breadth visible. Sitting on the stone bed, he vaguely recalled the shadow and candlelight he had seen while unconscious—both dissolving like a dream, leaving no trace.
Cheng Yun rose, pulled the crane cloak around himself, and walked out. The darkness did not hinder his sense of direction. The sound of the stone door turning echoed, and a shaft of dim light seeped in. Standing in the airtight chamber, he closed his eyes to adjust before stepping outside.
“Master,” Jing Lin awaited respectfully at the door.
“What time is it?” Cheng Yun’s voice was hoarse, his face pale, yet his expression had already regained that cold, forbidding air that kept others at a distance—concealing any trace of weakness.
“Just reached the hour of Si.”
Cheng Yun nodded slightly, then suddenly asked: “Has anyone entered this room?”
Jing Lin stiffened and immediately replied: “I have been guarding the surroundings at all times. Absolutely no one has entered, my lord.”
Cheng Yun frowned, then, after a pause, said: “Let’s go to the imperial prison.”
“Yes.” Jing Lin answered, then hesitated.
“Speak.”
“Assistant Minister Xu of the Ministry of Rites passed away in prison last night.”
Cheng Yun was silent for a moment, then said calmly: “I understand.” He brushed his sleeve, his gaze shadowed. “Make preparations. We won’t go to the prison—I will enter the palace.”
“Yes.”
The Northern Dynasty had stood for eighty-nine years. It began when Emperor Taizu, Yang Xin, led fifty thousand troops to storm the imperial city, beheading the last ruler of the previous dynasty and hanging his head upon the southern gate wall. It was a coup drenched in violence and blood—but effective.
The last emperor of the former dynasty was a cruel, lustful tyrant. For seven or eight years, he ignored governance, preferring to seize boys and girls from among the people, imprison them in the harem, indulge in debauchery, and then torture them to death.
If any minister dared to remonstrate, the next morning a grotesque corpse would be delivered to his doorstep. It was the tyrant’s proud handiwork, a brutal reminder of supreme power. Under his rule, ritual collapsed, justice decayed, bandits ran rampant, natural disasters struck one after another, and regional lords rose in rebellion. Yang Xin was among them.
The tyrant had lost the people’s hearts. Wherever Yang Xin marched, city guards offered no resistance, allowing him to sweep forward like a blade through bamboo. Within months, he stormed the palace. When he sat upon the blood-soaked dragon throne, the first policy he decreed for the Northern Dynasty was the reduction of feudal lords. From then on, their power waned, military authority was centralized in the capital, and imperial power reigned supreme, bound by no restraint.
The Northern Dynasty had enjoyed decades of peace—but only on the surface. That superficial peace was enough to dull vigilance and magnify human desire. By the reign of the current emperor, Yang Sheng, signs of decline had already appeared.
Yang Sheng had been on the throne for thirteen years. For ten of those, he ignored governance, lost in the pleasures of the harem, indulging in extravagance and debauchery. All affairs of state were left to the Prime Minister and the Six Ministries.
Originally, local memorials were reviewed by the Six Ministries, then drafted or rejected by the Secretariat, before being presented to the emperor for final approval. The emperor would issue instructions to the Secretariat, which would draft edicts, pass them back to the Six Ministries for official seals, and then notify the provinces.
In Su Xianjin’s understanding, the emperor in this novel was like a chairman of the board, the Secretariat like a team of secretaries, the Six Ministries like executive departments, and the ministers of each ministry like department managers holding the official seals.
But with Yang Sheng neglecting state affairs for ten years, power gradually shifted to the Secretariat. Each successive Prime Minister held more authority than the last. By the time Cheng Yun’s teacher, Zhang Songqing, served as Prime Minister, he simultaneously held the post of Minister of Personnel, controlling both the approval of memorials and the appointment and dismissal of officials. His power reached its peak.
Unfortunately, Zhang Songqing’s life was short. He took office at forty-five, but died of illness at fifty. Before his death, against all opposition, he passed the position of Prime Minister to his youngest student, Cheng Yun.
At first, the officials thought Cheng Yun’s youth would make him easy to manipulate. Many schemed to erode and divide his power. But compared to Zhang Songqing, Cheng Yun was even more ruthless.
Zhang Songqing at least followed procedure—assigning charges before eliminating rivals. Cheng Yun simply ordered the imperial guards to raid households. Within half a year of taking office, he had exiled or executed more than a dozen officials of fifth rank or higher, and countless others were imprisoned or dismissed. His methods were brutal, striking fear into all.
At the same time, he had people constantly gather handsome men and beautiful women, rare treasures, antiques, and paintings, sending them in a steady stream into the palace. The emperor drowned in indulgence, unable to extricate himself. Civil and military officials could not even gain an audience with him. All matters of the realm were decided by Cheng Yun alone.
In the thirteenth year of the Northern Dynasty, winter had barely begun when two heavy snowfalls struck, freezing many to death. People believed heaven was angry: the emperor was no true ruler, the state was collapsing, treachery prevailed, and the people suffered.
The Cheng family’s carriage passed unhindered through the Wu Gate, crossed the Jinshui Bridge, entered the Taihe Gate, and finally stopped—against protocol—on the palace road before the Taihe Hall.
In the middle of the palace road knelt a boy of about ten, dressed in purple, his back straight as he faced the hall. His face was darkened with cold, his lips purple, his body trembling in the snow. Yet his eyes held unyielding defiance.
Cheng Yun extended his pale, slender hand, lifted the carriage curtain for a glance, then stepped down calmly. His black crane cloak swayed as he came to stand beside Yang Wangjing.
The sound of cracking ice rang out: “This minister greets His Highness the Crown Prince.”