The sound of a lamp shattering startled Su Xianjin awake. She opened her eyes, and only after regaining her senses did she let out a breath. Pulling out her phone, she saw the time—it was still early, her alarm hadn’t even gone off. She had an elective class that morning. Attendance wasn’t strict, but she didn’t want to be late. It happened to be a literature‑related course.
Su Xianjin stepped into the classroom and sat in a corner seat by the window. She had come early, which was why she managed to claim a good spot. If she had arrived later, she would have been stuck in the front row.
At this hour, the classroom wasn’t crowded yet, and the teacher hadn’t arrived. Since it was the first class of the morning, lateness was common for both students and teachers.
After setting down her books, she glanced around. When she turned back, her eyes lingered on a boy sitting two rows ahead. Though she could only see his back, there was something strangely familiar about him.
Perhaps she was overthinking. After all, in four years of university, the few male classmates she knew were already out on internships by senior year. And those younger students who had once shown interest in her wouldn’t be sitting in the same classroom now.
When most of the students had arrived, the literature teacher finally walked in. She wore high heels, a long skirt with a white coat draped over it, and her waist‑length hair half tied up. Her brows and eyes were gentle, her bearing elegant.
Soon, the projector lit up with a PowerPoint. The lesson topic was online literature.
Su Xianjin was taken aback. Almost instantly, she thought of Endless Moon. Was it just coincidence?
When the dismissal bell rang, she remained seated, still a little dazed. The students dispersed quickly, but the teacher lingered, unhurriedly packing up her materials.
“Teacher, may I ask you a question?” Su Xianjin hesitated, then quickly walked up to the podium.
“Of course, go ahead,” the teacher looked up and smiled at her.
Su Xianjin asked what sounded like a foolish question: “Earlier in class, you said that every world created in literature is an independent world. So, could the world of a novel actually exist? Like a parallel space, where at some point, readers might cross over through dreams or something, in consciousness?”
As soon as she finished, her scalp tingled with embarrassment. But the teacher didn’t mock her for her fanciful, adolescent imagination. Instead, she smiled and said: “Perhaps. At the very least, thinking this way is romantic. After all, in worlds created by consciousness, none of us can prove yes or no, can we?”
Seeing Su Xianjin dazed, the teacher blinked playfully. “Maybe you should ask the physics department about that question too.”
By the time Su Xianjin came back to herself, the teacher had already left. She sighed, turned back to her seat to pack her books, and suddenly noticed that the boy she had glanced at earlier hadn’t left either. He was sitting there, head bent, writing something. Curious but unfamiliar with him, she didn’t dare greet him. She simply picked up her books and prepared to leave. As she passed his desk, the boy suddenly lifted his head and looked straight at her.
Su Xianjin accidentally met his gaze for two brief moments, and her heartbeat inexplicably quickened. But it lasted only an instant. The boy lowered his head again, as if that look had never happened.
Su Xianjin said nothing and went straight back to the dormitory.
At dawn, Jing Lin stood outside the study in Cheng Yun’s courtyard and spoke softly: “My lord, last night Minister Qin hanged himself in prison.”
Seated behind the long desk, Cheng Yun was momentarily stunned by the news, but showed little reaction.
After a long silence, he asked, “And Qin Xiao?”
Jing Lin replied, “He was tortured all night. His condition is not good.”
Cheng Yun rose and walked to the window. Through the carved lattice, he gazed at the courtyard, where snowflakes whirled endlessly. His eyes saw only a vast whiteness.
“This snow… who knows when it will stop.”
Jing Lin looked at his back with concern.
“My lord, within an hour at most, word of Minister Qin’s death in the imperial prison will spread throughout the court. It will not be a small matter.”
“Mm.”
“My lord, will you enter the palace today?” Jing Lin hesitated, then added, “A few days ago, people from the Eastern Palace escorted Minister Xu’s two children out of the capital. But Minister Xu’s wife chose to die with her husband—her death was tragic, and it has stirred great resentment among the officials. I fear…”
“Do you think I’m afraid of their resentment?” Cheng Yun turned to look at him, his gaze calm. “The more they pin their hopes on the Crown Prince, the more it plays into my plan. Now that Qin Xiao and Qin Shi are still in the imperial prison, instead of blocking me at the palace gates, they should go plead with the Crown Prince. Perhaps they might save two lives.”
“The Crown Prince may be willing, but he is powerless. Word from the Eastern Palace says he was punished to kneel before the Taihe Hall, and afterward, he burned with fever for two days. His body has not yet recovered.”
“If he truly had resolve, even if fever drove him mad, he should crawl from his bed, stand before the officials, and steady their hearts.” Cheng Yun’s tone was merciless. “In the current situation, if he still refuses to grow up, he is not only naïve but foolish.”
Jing Lin said, “In truth, the Crown Prince once dared not even argue a single word before His Majesty. Now he can kneel in the snow outside the Taihe Hall and refuse to admit fault—that is growth. Cruel as your methods are, they are effective.”
“Not enough.” Cheng Yun’s eyes held only faint emotion. “My teacher instructed him for years, yet he made no progress, and he is still so timid. I sacrificed the lives of those closest to him to pave his way, and all he dares is kneel outside the Taihe Hall.”
Instead of rising, storming into the hall, scattering the emperor’s debauchery, and laying his sword across the emperor’s neck to demand abdication and the title of Retired Emperor. But alas, such a thing—no one could force him to do it but himself. Even if he truly did it, there would be no resistance. The officials would cheer without hesitation for his usurpation. And yet, he still would not dare.
Cheng Yun fell silent for a moment, then changed the subject. “How goes the selection of consorts?”
“The Six Ministries have been informed, the regulations set, and notices sent to the relay stations. But with the heavy snow these past days, the weather is too harsh. I fear the couriers haven’t carried the news far.”
The wind swept in, and Cheng Yun pulled his fox‑fur cloak tighter.
“Then begin within the capital.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Oh, and help me replace the secret chamber’s lamp mechanism with a new one.”
After giving the order, Cheng Yun’s gaze returned to the endless snow, his mind replaying the image of Su Xianjin vanishing before his eyes the night before. He reached out to catch a snowflake. It melted quickly in the warmth of his palm.
Like ice dissolving—Su Xianjin had disappeared before him in just that way.
His eyes darkened. Was she truly not a ghost? Then how could it be explained?
Cheng Yun’s carriage stopped before the palace gates. Along the way, snow had piled thickly atop its roof.
The carriage should have gone straight through the gates, but several men blocked its path.
Cheng Yun lifted the curtain and saw a group of officials standing beneath the gate: Crown Prince’s Tutor Song Xi, Grand Tutor Di Enguang and Yi Shao of the Wenyuan Pavilion, Fu Wanqing of the Ministry of Personnel’s Selection Bureau, and several clerks from the Ministry of Justice and Ministry of Rites.
Though snow fell heavily, none carried umbrellas or wore winter coats over their official robes. Snow clung to their hair and shoulders, making them look like frozen statues.
Cheng Yun stepped down from the carriage, his warm, luxurious fox‑fur cloak accentuating his pale complexion and deepened brows.
“So it’s the esteemed academicians,” he cleared his throat. “Were you waiting here especially for me?”
Grand Tutor Di Enguang strode forward and barked: “Cheng Yun! You dared drive a first‑rank minister to his death in the imperial prison! A traitor such as you—if men do not kill you, Heaven surely will!”
Yi Shao glared fiercely. “That’s right. We are here to enter the palace and petition His Majesty together, to impeach you! Remember this—you are the enemy of all under Heaven. Sooner or later, you will die without a grave!”
Cheng Yun remained calm. “Then go on into the palace, my lords. If you are to petition His Majesty, why wait here?”
“Don’t play dumb! Today, even if it costs our lives, we will demand justice for Minister Qin and Minister Xu. You beast, don’t think you can twist truth and lies before His Majesty with your silver tongue. If you won’t let us into the palace, then you won’t enter either—unless you dare to slaughter us here at the palace gates!”
Cheng Yun looked at Song Xi. “Grand Tutor, at your age, you’re still standing here in the ice and snow? Aren’t you afraid of falling ill?”
Song Xi lifted his clouded eyes beneath his graying brows. “A minister who cannot die for his country is ashamed before his sovereign.”
“What noble spirit,” Cheng Yun chuckled. “But you gentlemen aren’t barred from the palace because of me. The guards obey only His Majesty’s orders. Still, I’m willing to play the good man and oblige you.” He turned, climbed back into his carriage, and leaned half his face out from behind the curtain.
“The weather is cold, the snow heavy. As Prime Minister, I won’t walk with you into the palace. If you wish to see His Majesty, then follow behind my carriage.” He dropped the curtain. The carriage rolled steadily toward the palace gates, showing no sign of slowing or swerving as it approached the officials.
At the last moment, the ministers yielded. Di Enguang pulled Song Xi aside and said, watching the carriage, “As long as we can enter the palace, all else can be discussed. Teacher is elderly; he shouldn’t walk this snowy road with us.”
Song Xi was about to protest, but a clerk from the Ministry of Justice, eyes red, urged him: “Grand Tutor, go to the Eastern Palace. See the Crown Prince. They say he is ill. In life, Minister Qin cared most for the Crown Prince. As long as the Crown Prince endures, the snow will one day cease.”
Song Xi stood silent for a moment, then sighed deeply and walked away into the snow.
The dark chamber’s door opened, and Cheng Yun entered, wind and snow swirling in with him. Darkness followed at his heels. But the lamp mechanism on the chamber wall had already been lit.
Standing beneath the light, Su Xianjin turned to look at him. “You’re covered in snow.”
Cheng Yun glanced at his shoulder, gave a quiet acknowledgment, and shook himself. The snow on his fox‑fur cloak fell to the ground and melted instantly.
“When you opened the door just now, I thought I saw light outside.”
“It isn’t dark yet. It’s the second quarter of Shen hour.”
“Shen hour… Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit…” Su Xianjin muttered, calculating. “Ah, that’s three‑thirty in the afternoon.”
She looked up at him. “Did you just come back from the palace?”
“Yes.”
“I remember now…”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Su Xianjin took down the lamp and stepped closer, trying to confirm her memory wasn’t mistaken.
But when she reached out, Cheng Yun caught her wrist, frowning as he lowered his gaze. “What are you trying to do?”
Su Xianjin met his eyes. “I want to see the wounds on your back.”
She remembered this part of the story: the court officials confronted Cheng Yun directly in front of Emperor Yang Sheng. With tears and cries, they threatened death to press their case. Though Yang Sheng was deeply irritated, he could not ignore them entirely—after all, the one who had died was not only a first‑rank minister but also the Crown Prince’s uncle.
Cheng Yun, well-versed in the emperor’s temperament, took the initiative to shoulder the blame himself: “negligence in supervision, resulting in Minister Qin’s accidental death.” He accepted dozens of court floggings and promised to release Qin Ze’s two sons so they could return home for proper consolation. In this way, Yang Sheng was able to quickly give the officials and elder statesmen an explanation, dismissing them from the palace.
Yang Sheng, eager to indulge in pleasure, considered the matter settled and paid it no further mind.
Cheng Yun, however, endured all the punishment under the furious gaze of the ministers before finally returning by carriage to his residence.
“Why would you know this?” Cheng Yun’s face was bloodless, his dark eyes swallowing light like a black hole.
Su Xianjin met his gaze without fear. “I just know.”