Su Xianjin sat, staring at her phone in a daze, when her roommate, Chen Qing, suddenly called her with a voice message, startling her.
“A supernatural incident?” There was static on the line—Chen Qing was probably outside. Her tone was light, tinged with amusement. “No way, aren’t you the one least afraid of this stuff?”
“I don’t believe in it. That doesn’t mean I’m not afraid.”
“If you don’t believe, what’s there to fear?”
“…” Su Xianjin hesitated, then quickly asked, “Where did you buy that art album? Did you feel anything strange when you bought it?”
“Online… Strange? Hold on…”
A male voice came through faintly: “Your roommate? Is it urgent?”
“A little. You go ahead, I’ll finish the call.” Chen Qing’s voice lowered, then came back clearer: “If you’re scared, I can come back tomorrow. But that album should be fine—it was linked from the official account. I’ll send you the link.”
“Just send me the link. It’s nothing serious, just a nightmare.” Su Xianjin didn’t want to interrupt her roommate’s sweet trip, so she quickly shifted her tone to something lighter. “No need to come back. Enjoy yourself.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She laughed. “You’re right, I’m not afraid of these things.”
After hanging up, she received the link Chen Qing sent. It was indeed a normal purchase link that redirected to a Taobao shop. The reviews and photos matched the album she had. Nothing unusual was mentioned.
An hour later, she glanced at the deep night outside, picked up her food delivery at the door, and then sat back at her desk. She turned on the lamp, ate while watching her online course. Beside her lay the art album, with her half‑year‑old hair tie resting on it. The tie was printed with green bamboo leaves, echoing the figures in the album.
When the online class ended, she had almost finished her meal as well.
By then, the thoughts in her mind had gradually become clearer.
Before waking from the previous dream, she had been chatting idly with Cheng Yun inside it. Later, Cheng Yun returned her hair ribbon, which startled her, so she asked if they could leave the dark chamber to take a look around.
Cheng Yun did not refuse her request; in fact, he seemed rather intrigued. He walked ahead, and she followed behind—one leading, one trailing, step by step ascending the stone staircase. She smoothly climbed the steps and passed through the first stone door.
At that moment, Cheng Yun turned to look at her and said, “If I open the door behind me, light will pour in.”
Su Xianjin was puzzled. “So what?”
Cheng Yun said nothing. He twisted the candlestick, and the instant the door opened, a shaft of light pierced through like a merciless blade, stabbing her eyes so sharply that she couldn’t keep them open.
When she opened them again, what she saw was the canopy above her dormitory bed.
The strangest part of this dream was not its realism, but the fact that before sleeping, she distinctly remembered being unable to find that hair ribbon—yet upon waking, she was holding it in her hand.
Su Xianjin’s gaze shifted to the ribbon. Could it really be that Cheng Yun had returned it to her?
The reason she couldn’t find it was because, in the previous dream, she had used it to bandage Cheng Yun’s wound. The ribbon had been carried into the dream from reality, so it was missing in reality?
But how could that be possible? She could hardly believe this thought that refused to be suppressed.
After all, Cheng Yun was not someone who had ever truly existed.
That night, she forced herself to work on problems for another two hours. After washing up, Su Xianjin lay in bed, staring at the canopy, somewhat afraid to fall asleep. The dormitory lights were still on. She tossed and turned for a long time, glanced at her phone, and saw it was nearly 2 a.m.
Finally, she made up her mind and once again fell asleep clutching the ribbon. She wanted to see whether this strange matter was truly as bizarre as she imagined.
Darkness. Utter darkness.
Su Xianjin steadied herself and let out a breath of relief.
At this moment, she was standing, as expected, still at the doorway of the dark chamber. But her hands were empty—there was no hair ribbon. She touched her hair and seemed to feel some kind of bun there. That struck her as odd, yet on second thought, it actually eased her mind.
The more disconnected it was from reality, the more it proved this was only a dream.
Her tension and fear lessened. She felt along the wall and lit the candle once again. The candle was new, a detail that surprised her. In truth, she was becoming more and more uncertain whether this was really a dream. Could such a continuous, serialized dream truly exist?
The flame flared with a *pop*, brighter than in previous times.
She carried the candle around the chamber, circled once, and came to the foot of the stone steps. She thought Cheng Yun should appear soon, but after waiting until her patience wore thin, no second person emerged.
So she tried once more to leave the chamber.
The wind and snow had not ceased. The entire capital of the Northern Dynasty looked as though it were holding a funeral, blanketed in a ghastly white. Yet it was too deathly still—no cries could be heard.
Cheng Yun’s soles pressed against ice crusted with blood and filth, crunching with each step. He was wrapped in a noble black fox-fur cloak, its hem embroidered with dazzling golden threads, as he entered the dreaded imperial prison. The place was poorly ventilated. The stench of blood and rot had decayed over the years, fermenting into another indescribable odor, like a lethal poison seeping through every inch of air.
Sunlight could not penetrate here. Only dim candle flames flickered along the corners of the walls, so there was no distinction between day and night.
Time seemed frozen. The only sign it still moved was the endless cycle of the living entering, and the dead being carried out.
Qin Ze, Minister of Justice of the Northern Dynasty, still maintained the vigilance of decades. He slowly opened his swollen eyes, peering through the murk toward the outside of the cell. No one was there yet, but he heard familiar footsteps. He knew that in the next moment, the King of Hell who walked between life and death would arrive.
Sure enough, Cheng Yun’s figure appeared. He stopped in front of the cell, gazing at the filthy, chaotic interior. In the middle lay a man sprawled among the tangled weeds like a beggar. Cheng Yun’s eyes held not a trace of pity.
“Minister Qin, who else but you could be guilty of showing such grave disrespect to His Majesty?” he suddenly asked.
Qin Ze closed his eyes again, lying on the ground and breathing in the stench of rot.
His silence brought a mocking curl to Cheng Yun’s lips. Cheng Yun’s gaze shifted to the neighboring cell, where two men were imprisoned—one about twenty-five or twenty-six, the other not yet of age, still a youth.
They were Qin Ze’s sons: Qin Xiao and Qin Shi.
Unlike their steady father, the two glared at Cheng Yun with eyes full of rage and hatred. If looks could kill, Cheng Yun would have died a thousand deaths already.
Yet Cheng Yun paid no heed to their murderous stares. He spoke lightly: “The eldest young master Qin just this year won first place in the imperial examinations, crowned as the top scholar. At such a young age, truly an extraordinary talent.”
Qin Ze’s eyes snapped open.
Cheng Yun continued, “Handsome and accomplished as well. What a pity…”
“Cheng Yun!” Qin Ze rasped, forcing out his voice. “He has not yet entered official service. My crime should never implicate my family. You have no right to trample human life!”
Cheng Yun’s lips curved upward. “Lord Qin, you’ve presided over justice for more than a decade. Naturally, you know better than I how sentences are measured. But I am, in your words, a traitor and rebel. And for a traitor to trample human life—that seems perfectly reasonable, doesn’t it?”
He raised his hand and flicked his fingers. Immediately, men sprang from the shadows. Amid curses and cries, they seized Qin Xiao from the cell and dragged him out with brutal force.
Qin Xiao was forced down onto the filth‑stained ground. Two jailers pinned him with both hands and feet, while at the same time casting cautious, ingratiating glances up at Cheng Yun.
“Father…” Qin Xiao’s face was buried in his disheveled hair as he cried out in despair.
“Xiao’er—!” From the pile of withered straw, Qin Ze suddenly burst forth with a surge of strength, hurling himself against the cell door so hard it rattled. His swollen eyes fixed on his eldest son, who was pressed to the floor, his mouth crushed beneath a jailer’s boot. Blood trickled from the corner of his lips onto the ground.
Clutching the bars, Qin Ze’s trembling voice forced out just two words: “Don’t be afraid.”
Cheng Yun adjusted his fox‑fur cloak, his gaze indifferent. “Lord Qin, tell me—when you forced your way into the inner palace at the start of the month and frightened His Majesty, did you have accomplices conspiring with you? What was your aim? To cloak regicide and rebellion under the guise of remonstrance?”
Before Qin Ze could answer, the youth Qin Shi, crouched by the cell door, ground his teeth and spat curses: “Villain! Traitor! Usurper! My father has lived his life upright and pure—you dare slander him! Even if His Majesty is deceived by you, the Crown Prince still stands. Though young, he is the heir. One day, he will carve you into a thousand pieces, avenging all those you have wronged!”
Cheng Yun tilted his head. “Oh? Then I shall await that day. But…” He turned his gaze back to Qin Ze, his words drifting like smoke into the minister’s ears: “Your son’s outburst reminds me—so you truly harbor thoughts of regicide. After all, your younger sister is Empress Jingxian, and your nephew is the Crown Prince. It seems you are eager to see him ascend the throne, so you may seize control of the court.”
At the mention of the Crown Prince, Qin Ze’s whole body shuddered. He cried out: “Cheng Yun! The Crown Prince is innocent and has not yet taken part in government. To slander the heir is treason itself. Even if His Majesty trusts you, he will never forgive such a crime! This matter is mine alone—I bear it myself. Forcing my way into the palace to remonstrate was my fault, but I had no accomplices!”
Cheng Yun shook his head. “Lord Qin still refuses to tell the truth.” He glanced at Qin Xiao, lying on the ground half‑dead and covered in blood, then ordered: “Bring the torture rack to face the cell. Tie him up there. Interrogate him for two days in front of Lord Qin—then the matter of guilt or innocence will be settled.”
With that, he turned and left, Qin Shi’s anguished cries echoing behind him.
The wind and snow were too heavy, drifting through heaven and earth like funeral paper money.
When Jing Lin saw Cheng Yun emerge, he drove the carriage forward. But Cheng Yun did not get in. Instead, he seized a nearby horse and swung himself up in one swift motion.
Jing Lin called out urgently: “My lord, the storm is too fierce! You can’t see the road—riding is far too dangerous!”
Cheng Yun only cast a glance into the boundless night, then said no more, spurring the horse into the frozen darkness.
Early the next morning, Su Xianjin rushed into the library, clutching a steamed bun in one hand and a book in the other. In her haste, she collided with someone, sending both bun and book tumbling to the floor.
“Sorry,” the person said. The voice sounded faintly familiar, though she couldn’t place it.
“It’s fine…” The words slipped out, but when Su Xianjin looked up and saw no one, she swallowed them back, quickly gathering her things and muttering, “It’s okay.”
Though a small mishap, she was lucky enough to still secure a seat. After sitting down, she rubbed her face to wake herself up a little more.
In last night’s dream—one without Cheng Yun—she still hadn’t managed to leave the dark chamber. But perhaps because nothing unusual had happened in that dream, she had slept fairly well.
May tonight be dreamless.