Su Xianjin blinked, adjusting to the darkness. As expected, she sighed. A wish was only a wish. The darkness before her was not the dormitory with its lights turned off. Once she realized this, she couldn’t help but feel a little helpless. This whole matter had left her afraid to sleep at night.
Still, there was one small comfort: the dreams didn’t overly affect her daytime energy—aside from the wandering thoughts they stirred.
Though the dreams felt real, their impact was no more than that of ordinary dreams. Fortunately so. Otherwise, she really ought to burn that sketchbook and make an offering at the nearest temple.
A sound came from behind.
Su Xianjin turned, unsurprised, to see Cheng Yun entering, his body covered in wind and snow. Her gaze slid past him, searching the space behind, but there was no trace of light.
“I didn’t light a lamp inside,” Cheng Yun’s voice was cold.
Su Xianjin nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her nod in the dark. She felt along the wall and lit a candle.
Holding the flame aloft, she illuminated him. “You don’t look well.”
Even in the candlelight, Cheng Yun’s face was pale, devoid of healthy color. A faint scent of blood seeped from beneath his dark fox‑fur cloak.
“Is it snowing?” she asked, while frantically trying to recall which part of the novel this was.
“Yes. Heavy snow.” Cheng Yun brushed past her, opening the door to the dark chamber. “My horse fell, so my clothes were dirtied.” He spoke as he descended.
Su Xianjin immediately followed.
The candlelight could not pierce the path ahead of him; his dark cloak swallowed what little glow there was. He walked deeper into the shadows, as though step by step into an abyss.
Su Xianjin suddenly thought of Cheng Yun’s fate, and her steps faltered.
The man ahead had already gone down, but his voice drifted back softly: “What is it?”
“Nothing.” Su Xianjin descended with the candle, its glow lighting her bright face, every strand of hair gleaming. She explained, “Just burned myself with wax.”
Cheng Yun reached out, took the candlestick from her, and studied her face.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You people… aren’t afraid of fire?”
“Afraid of fire?” Su Xianjin blinked, then realized and laughed. “I already told you—I’m not a ghost.”
“Then how do you explain slipping past all the guards, appearing here without a sound?”
“I’ve explained. You just don’t believe me.”
“This is a dream? Your dream?”
“Yes.”
Cheng Yun entered the chamber, set the candlestick on the stone bed, and turned to her, frost between his brows. “Why do you think this is a dream?”
If not a dream, then what…?
Su Xianjin had no answer. She sighed. In this vivid, lucid dream, it was the only explanation her limited understanding could offer. She stepped forward and touched his hand. It was cold as ice.
“See? At least I’m not a ghost. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to touch me.”
Cheng Yun slowly sat down. “A person who appears out of nowhere, disappears just as suddenly, and cannot leave the chamber.” His gaze never left her.
Seeing his pallor, Su Xianjin asked, “You hurt yourself again, didn’t you?”
A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes.
“You don’t have to look at me like that. I know everything.” She sat nearby. “I remember, in my second dream, you had lost too much blood and fainted. That time you hurt yourself so badly—was it because you killed someone?”
She searched her memory of the novel. “Was it the Vice Minister of Rites, or the Minister of Justice?” Those were early plot points.
“What are you saying?” Cheng Yun’s eyes were like a bottomless well.
“It should be the Vice Minister of Rites… the Minister of Justice hanged himself, I think.” She murmured.
“Who are you? How do you know this?” His tone sharpened with menace, and Su Xianjin shivered. Her hair stood on end. She backed away, instinctively shielding her neck.
“Cheng Yun, don’t treat me as an enemy. I don’t know why we meet, but I’m not here to harm you, nor to disrupt your storyline.”
On the contrary, she pitied him. But facing his icy gaze, she couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud. Even so, her eyes betrayed kindness and sympathy, along with curiosity and inquiry—though she herself didn’t realize it. She truly wasn’t good at lying.
The chamber’s temperature seemed to plummet. Su Xianjin rubbed her arms. The realism was unnerving—was the novel’s atmosphere being recreated in her dream?
Suddenly, the chill dispersed. She looked up and met Cheng Yun’s gaze. His killing intent had receded.
“What else do you know?” he asked, his voice calm again.
“I…” Su Xianjin hesitated. She didn’t dare spoil the plot. This wasn’t an ordinary dream. So she said only, “Cheng Yun, I know your plan will succeed.”
“My plan?” His lips curved faintly, almost mocking. “What plan?”
“You want to throw the Northern Dynasty into chaos, force rebellion, and when a new emperor ascends, rebuild a clear and prosperous age.”
For the first time, she caught sorrow in his eyes. It vanished in an instant, replaced by calm. But she knew she hadn’t imagined it.
She had the god’s‑eye view. She knew Cheng Yun too well.
“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “I am a villain, condemned by all, a traitor whom ministers wish to tear apart. Everything I do is for selfish desire.”
Su Xianjin fell silent. The cramped space sank into stillness.
Suddenly, the candle sputtered and went out. Darkness surged like a tide, swallowing them whole.
After an unknown time, Cheng Yun’s weary voice broke the silence: “…Are you still here?”
With his words, a spark flared in the air, revealing her bright smile.
“Of course.” Su Xianjin lit the chamber’s lamp with a fire‑starter.
“Cheng Yun, tend to your wounds,” she said gently. “You came from the imperial prison tonight, didn’t you? Was it Vice Minister Xu?”
“It was Minister Qin.”
Minister Qin… Su Xianjin drew a deep breath. So the male lead’s path of vengeance had begun.
She remembered: by dawn, Qin Ze would be found hanged with strips torn from his prison clothes, tied to the cell door. His two sons asleep nearby, he had embraced death without waking them, silent and resolute.
Before dying, he had written in blood a single verse: “Though shattered to dust and bone, I fear not—so long as my purity remains in the world.”
Cheng Yun kept destroying loyal ministers—those who tried to save the collapsing dynasty, those who fought alone to prevent its fall. They had been the pillars of the Northern Dynasty. But Cheng Yun believed it was beyond saving. The only way was to overturn it. So he killed them, one by one, reducing resistance and building hatred toward Emperor Yang Sheng.
Whether his method was right was debatable. But in this novel’s world, it was deemed right. And Su Xianjin knew exactly what path he was walking. His persistence would bear fruit.
Cheng Yun removed his cloak. Beneath it, blood seeped from countless wounds, new layered upon old. Though Su Xianjin had known the truth, seeing the cold words turned into visceral reality shocked her. She realized what she had seen before was only a fraction of his scars.
Noticing her stunned gaze, Cheng Yun said lightly, “It’s nothing. Just a fall.” He rose, cleaned his wounds with strong liquor, then heated a dagger in the flame and pressed it to the fresh cuts.
The sizzling sound rattled Su Xianjin’s nerves. She gasped, unable to look directly. The novel had never described how he treated his injuries—only mentioned in passing the burns on his body. So this was how…
“No medicine?” she heard herself ask, trembling.
“Sometimes. But this is faster.” His voice remained calm.
She stole a glance at him. Standing in the candlelight, sweat beaded his brow. In this world, the characters truly felt everything. The searing pain of the blade was real, endured without flinching. He was only twenty‑five.
“Did I frighten you?” Cheng Yun lowered his sleeve and tossed the dagger aside.
Su Xianjin nodded honestly.
“Sorry,” he said.
The sincerity in his tone surprised her. Even in such a moment, he considered her feelings. Clearly, he no longer saw her as an enemy.
“Today… do you want to try going up again?” he suddenly asked.
“Hm?” She blinked, then nodded eagerly. “Yes!”
Since she was here, she might as well.
Cheng Yun draped the fox‑fur cloak over his shoulders and said to her, “This time, you walk ahead, I’ll follow behind.”
So Su Xianjin stepped out of the dark chamber. Turning back, she saw Cheng Yun take a lamp from the wall and follow after her. He was much taller than she was, holding the lamp high in his right hand so it lit the path before her as she climbed.
Su Xianjin’s heart stirred. Cheng Yun never used light—he was accustomed to moving through darkness. The lamp was lit for her sake.
Their footsteps echoed along the stone steps. Su Xianjin passed smoothly through the first stone door. She stopped before the second door, hesitated, then turned to look at Cheng Yun behind her.
“This door leads to my quarters,” Cheng Yun said. “There’s no one else inside.”
“I know.” Su Xianjin drew a deep breath.
Cheng Yun moved to the side, turned the hidden mechanism of the lamp, and the door before her slowly opened.
His quarters were unlit, the doors and windows tightly shut, so not a trace of light seeped through.
From darkness into darkness.
Su Xianjin felt as though the chamber’s shadows had surged outward with them, flooding into another world.
Cheng Yun held the lamp out to her. “If you’re afraid of the dark, take this with you.”