Su Xianjin did not answer. Cheng Yun wasn’t angry; instead, he asked again: “Oh? Then what else do you know?”
“I know a lot,” she said, “but I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t give spoilers.”
“Spoilers?”
Su Xianjin paced a few steps, spreading her hands. “Cheng Yun, even now, I don’t understand how we meet like this. But I feel it’s not as simple as just a dream, so…”
So she couldn’t disrupt the plot. If this world truly was the kind of parallel space she imagined, what if her spoilers destroyed it?
“So what? Hm?”
“So, why don’t you treat it as a dream too?”
“I’m not one for daydreams.”
Su Xianjin knew he was mocking her, but she didn’t mind. She returned to the point: “Do you have injuries on your back?”
“Yes.” He admitted frankly. “Twenty court floggings. The guards showed no mercy.”
Su Xianjin saw his expression was calm and couldn’t help but click her tongue. “You people… your kind of setting really is different. In reality, no one could endure that.”
“My people?”
“I mean your body’s foundation is strong.” As she said this, Su Xianjin’s eyes suddenly lit up—even in the darkness, it couldn’t be hidden. “So that means you really do know martial arts, right?”
She remembered Cheng Yun once shooting an arrow straight through an assassin’s throat.
Cheng Yun replied, “No. Only a little horsemanship and archery.”
A *little*—more like an *immense* amount, Su Xianjin thought. Then something else occurred to her, and she quickly asked: “But Jing Lin does know martial arts, doesn’t he?”
As Cheng Yun’s subordinate and bodyguard, Jing Lin was practically invincible. The novel had described him as a top‑tier master.
Cheng Yun looked at her in surprise again. “You know Jing Lin?”
Su Xianjin laughed. “I told you, I know everything.”
Cheng Yun stared at her for a long while. “You truly do know a great deal.”
“Yes. Oh, right…” Su Xianjin pointed at the lamp in her hand. “You replaced it with a new one?”
“Mm.”
“Sorry for breaking one of your lamps.” She smiled apologetically.
“It’s nothing. Just a lamp.”
“A lamp, but it’s the only source of light here. I don’t like the dark chamber below. If it weren’t the only place I could see you, I’d really be afraid.”
“How are you so certain you’ll always see me there?”
Su Xianjin’s gaze met his, her voice soft: “Because this is the hell you built yourself. Of course you’ll be there.”
Cheng Yun was taken aback, then shook his head lightly. “For someone like me, going to hell is only fitting.”
Su Xianjin sighed inwardly, then asked him: “Aren’t you going to treat the wounds on your back?”
“The imperial physician will come to the residence later.”
“Oh.” Su Xianjin nodded, unsure what else to say.
To her, Cheng Yun’s fate was already sealed. She felt like a higher‑dimensional being in his world, able to see from his beginning straight through to his end, without the slightest chance of escape.
So even if he suffered the gravest injuries, she knew he would not die.
Cheng Yun walked to the candlestick and opened the door behind it. The door slowly swung wide, and in the faint glow of snowlit dusk, Su Xianjin saw a finely crafted screen.
Cheng Yun moved the screen aside for her, allowing her a clear view of the room within. Standing at the doorway, she nearly lost her breath. The antique furnishings inside carried an overwhelming, indescribable sense of reality that engulfed her at once.
“This is my study.” Cheng Yun’s voice brought her back to herself. She steadied and said, “It’s about what I imagined.”
Perhaps because when reading the author’s descriptions, she had already formed vivid images in her mind. But imagination was one thing—seeing it with her own eyes was another.
Cheng Yun stood outside the door, gazing at Su Xianjin holding the torch in the darkness. The candlelight seemed to cast a golden halo around her, making her appear almost divine.
He said softly: “I don’t understand why you cannot leave this dark chamber.”
Su Xianjin looked at him. “I don’t understand either.”
She thought for a moment, then nervously stood just behind the door. Slowly, she stretched out her hand. Her pale arm passed through the doorway—and nothing happened. She exclaimed with delight: “Maybe this time it will work.”
She returned the candlestick to the wall’s niche. “Better not break another lamp of yours.” Then she walked back to the doorway.
She glanced at Cheng Yun. He was watching her with interest, as though expecting something.
Taking two deep breaths, she suddenly lifted her leg and strode boldly out of the dark chamber.
Su Xianjin was stunned for a second, and Cheng Yun raised his brows in mild surprise. But before she could say anything, the next moment she vanished into thin air right before Cheng Yun’s eyes.
Just before opening her eyes again, Su Xianjin thought: *At least I didn’t waste another lamp.*
Daylight flooded in.
Her roommate Chen Qing opened the door and came in. Seeing Su Xianjin still lying down, she laughed: “Wow, this is rare—you actually slept until noon. Usually by now you’re already at the library.”
“You’re back?” Su Xianjin yawned and climbed out of bed. “Was that old town fun?”
“Not bad. All the old towns in the country look the same anyway.”
Chen Qing opened the window, and a blast of cold wind rushed in. Su Xianjin immediately dove back under the covers.
“Why is it so cold?”
“They say it’s going to snow this afternoon.” Chen Qing left the window slightly ajar for air, then sat on Su Xianjin’s bed, excited. “Hey, tell me—what’s with that transmigration dream? You’re not just reading too many novels and having some kind of spring dream, are you?”
Su Xianjin rolled her eyes helplessly. “You’re the one having spring dreams.”
“I have a boyfriend. I don’t need spring dreams.”
“…” Su Xianjin was speechless.
She clutched her blanket, her mind filled with Cheng Yun’s face. If she really could date a man as handsome as someone who had stepped straight out of a painting, that wouldn’t be bad at all.
“Come on, tell me.” Chen Qing’s gossiping spirit burned bright as she poked her.
Su Xianjin cleared her throat. “It’s a long story…” She basically recounted the whole process to Chen Qing, who listened wide‑eyed and stunned.
When she finished, Chen Qing looked both shocked and certain. “Transmigration into a book! You’ve definitely transmigrated into a book!”
“Transmigrated into a book?…”
“You’ve read time‑travel novels, right?”
“I haven’t read many novels… but I’ve seen TV dramas, like *Scarlet Heart*?”
“That’s soul‑travel into the past. There’s another type called ‘transmigrating into a book’—you cross into the world of a novel! Oh my god, you should buy a lottery ticket!” Chen Qing grew more excited as she spoke, then suddenly covered her mouth, lowering her voice with nervous tension. “But… if anyone found out about this, wouldn’t they drag you off for experiments?”
Su Xianjin forced a smile. “Sister, if you went outside right now with a megaphone and shouted, ‘My roommate transmigrated into a book!’ do you think anyone would believe you?”
“You’re right…” Chen Qing slowly calmed down, regaining her rationality. “When you put it that way, even I don’t really believe it. Isn’t it just daydreaming at night about what you think of during the day?”
She studied her roommate. Logically, if you transmigrate into a book, you’d be inside it—not dreaming like this.
Su Xianjin put on her clothes, got out of bed to wash up, and mentioned that she had even asked her literature professor a silly question about parallel worlds in novels.
Chen Qing burst out laughing. “Your literature professor is so gentle. If it were me, I wouldn’t suggest you go to the physics department—I’d tell you to visit the psychology counseling office.”
*Psychology counseling office…* The thought struck Su Xianjin. She wanted to confirm whether she had a psychological problem. What if she had simply gotten too absorbed in novels, and all of this was just her imagination?
Her gaze fell on the hair ribbon on the desk. After all, everyone has had the experience of searching endlessly for something, only to find it right in front of them later.
“I’ll go tomorrow,” she said.
“What—you’re actually going?” Chen Qing was dumbfounded.
A night had passed, and the snow had stopped. The entire capital of the Northern Dynasty lay buried under a thick blanket of snow. Before dawn, households rose early to sweep snow from their rooftops with bamboo poles, lest the weight collapse them.
Jing Lin stood under the veranda, watching a servant knock icicles from the eaves with a stick. One fell and nearly struck a visitor, who stumbled back in alarm.
Jing Lin looked at the man and smiled. “Lord Yun, you’re the first to arrive.”
Minister of Rites Yun Qingquan hurried to smile apologetically and bowed to Jinglin.
“I wanted to visit the Prime Minister last night, but feared disturbing his rest. So I came at first light. Truly, I worried all night and couldn’t sleep.”
Jing Lin replied, “The snow was heavy last night, not convenient for travel. Even this morning, the snow hasn’t been fully cleared, yet you came—your concern is noted.”
Yun Qingquan’s smile broadened. “As long as Lord Jing Lin understands my sincerity.” He asked, “Has the Prime Minister risen? How are his injuries from yesterday?”
“Only minor wounds, nothing serious for him,” Jing Lin said, leading him inside. “He woke early, but must rest in bed. You may see him in his chamber.”
Yun Qingquan adjusted his official robes, clutching a stack of memorials in his sleeve, and followed into Cheng Yun’s bedchamber.
Since Cheng Yun became Prime Minister, his residence had been expanded several times. Its luxury was unmatched in the capital, and his bedchamber was naturally vast. Though large, it was warmed by ample charcoal fires, so the room felt like spring. Fresh plum blossoms sat on the windowsill, at first glance resembling peach blossoms.
As Yun Qingquan stepped inside, his feet sank into softness. Looking down, he saw carpets from foreign tribute laid from the doorway all the way to the inner chamber. He dared not linger, carefully skirting the screen to enter. A delicate fragrance filled the room, distinct from the incense outside.
Cheng Yun lay on a soft couch, draped in a whole tiger‑skin rug, reading. His hair was unbound, black as clouds, and he wore only a white inner robe. The sight carried an air of effortless elegance.
Yun Qingquan stepped forward, bowed, and lowered his gaze. “Prime Minister, are your injuries not serious?”
“No matter,” Cheng Yun’s voice was clear, showing no weakness.
Yun Qingquan spoke angrily: “Song Xi and those treacherous flatterers, relying on their ties to the Crown Prince, dared to insult and slander you. Such arrogance deserves death!”
Cheng Yun glanced at him. “Lord Yun speaks rightly. Has the Ministry of Rites prepared arrangements for Qin Ze’s posthumous matters?”
Yun Qingquan gave a bitter smile and drew out the stack of memorials.
“My lord, that is precisely why I’ve come.”
“Difficulties?”
“I was promoted to Minister of Rites thanks to your support, yet my colleagues refuse to accept me. Every step is hard. By rights, Your Excellency secured imperial favor—Qin Ze’s crime of regicide was not pursued, only treated as frightening the emperor, and his family spared. That was great leniency. But my fellow ministers are inflamed, insisting on petitioning His Majesty to grant Qin Ze a posthumous title and restore his honor. I’ve blocked them, but I truly don’t know how to handle this.”
Cheng Yun said nothing at first, thinking for a moment, then asked: “Has the Crown Prince intervened?”