Yun Qingquan said: “It’s said that yesterday, after Elder Song went to the Eastern Palace, the Crown Prince—though ill—went to the imperial prison himself. He personally accompanied the officials of the Ministry of Justice and the Ministry of Rites to return Qin Ze’s body to the Qin residence. Qin Ze’s two sons followed, though the elder was carried back.”
Cheng Yun had already learned these details from Jing Lin, so he asked again: “Did the Crown Prince go to the Ministry of Rites?”
“That he did not. Prime Minister, you were acting under His Majesty’s decree—how could the Crown Prince interfere?”
Cheng Yun lowered his lashes.
“In that case, the charge of storming the palace and frightening the emperor, along with deceiving the sovereign, is already established. It was decreed by His Majesty. You need only carry out the rites accordingly.”
Yun Qingquan replied: “By custom, such criminals—though not punished by exhumation or dismemberment—are unworthy of a funeral. Prime Minister, you showed mercy by allowing his remains to return home. That is already more than enough. The Qin household must not hold mourning rites, no ancestral hall, no incense or paper offerings, no sackcloth or mourning garb. Seven days of vigil will suffice, then bury him quietly.”
“Do as you say,” Cheng Yun answered coolly.
“My lord, it is not that I am unwilling, but that it is truly difficult.” Yun Qingquan’s face tightened. “Qin Ze was skilled at winning hearts. Many ministers revered him, and even the common people speak for him. I fear public outrage.”
Cheng Yun looked at him. “When Vice Minister Xu Yi was alive, you claimed it was impossible. I cleared the obstacle for you, yet you still say it is impossible. If it is so difficult, then you need not sit in this position. Let someone less troubled take it.”
Yun Qingquan was startled and immediately fell to his knees, trembling as he said: “Not difficult at all, not difficult in the slightest!”
As soon as he left Cheng Yun’s residence, he heard mocking laughter.
“Lord Yun, in the dead of winter, why are you drenched in sweat?”
Yun Qingquan saw a group of people waiting at the gates of the Prime Minister’s residence. His earlier embarrassment vanished at once. Straightening his back, he raised his voice.
“The Prime Minister’s residence burns enough charcoal. Of course, one sweats after such a visit.”
Vice Minister of Revenue Wang Lixin laughed. “Lord Yun is diligent indeed. The snowy roads are hard to travel. We left at dawn, yet still couldn’t match Lord Yun’s pace.”
Someone chimed in: “Perhaps Lord Yun waited outside Cheng’s gates all night. The snow was heavy last night—Lord Yun’s ‘Standing in Snow at Cheng’s Gate’—wasn’t he afraid of freezing?”
More voices joined in, teasing and jeering.
Yun Qingquan walked toward his carriage, saying: “Fortunately, before winter, the Prime Minister gifted me ample charcoal. Even if I waited all night, the carriage was warm. So waiting all night was no trouble.”
He climbed into the carriage, then lifted the curtain and sneered: “This winter will be hard. Every household lacks charcoal. I wish you all success in flattering the Prime Minister—say enough sweet words, and perhaps you’ll be rewarded with a few baskets of coal.”
Su Xianjin was efficient too. She went straight to the school system and booked an appointment at the psychological counseling office for Friday afternoon.
That day, light snow fell. The cold was biting, as though it seeped into one’s bones. Wrapped in a long down coat, Su Xianjin stepped through the counseling office doors.
The counseling room wasn’t large—more like a small office—but it was arranged with care. The air conditioner was running, and the moment she stepped inside, it felt warm.
When Su Xianjin entered, she saw an older female teacher sitting behind a computer. The teacher smiled and greeted her: “Hello, student. Please have a seat.”
Su Xianjin took off her long down coat and sat on the only bench by the window. Across from her stood a tall bookshelf filled with psychology books.
Seeing the teacher busy, she let her eyes wander over the titles. Suddenly, her gaze froze, and she exclaimed in surprise and delight: “Teacher—”
She pointed at a novel on the shelf. “You read novels too?”
Teacher Zhou leaned over to look, then stood up and handed it to her. “You read this as well?”
“Yes…” Su Xianjin stared at the cover, at the characters *Endless Moon*, her heart racing wildly.
Teacher Zhou said: “A student once came to me for counseling and mentioned this novel, so I bought it to read.”
What a coincidence.
Su Xianjin pressed her lips together, her eyes stinging. “Teacher, my problem is also related to this novel.”
“What a coincidence?” Teacher Zhou smiled, moving her chair closer. “Don’t tell me your name happens to match one of the characters too?”
Su Xianjin blinked, startled. “…No.” She quickly caught on and asked: “Teacher, you mean the student who came before—the one who mentioned this novel—his name matched a character’s?”
If even the names matched… could that person, like her, have also transmigrated into the book?
Thanks to Chen Qing’s “science lesson,” she was no longer unfamiliar with the term “transmigrating into a book.” In such stories, it was often those with the same name who crossed over.
“I’m sorry, I must keep every student’s privacy confidential,” the teacher said kindly. “Now then, let’s talk about your problem.”
Su Xianjin’s fingers tightened around *Endless Moon*.
When Su Xianjin left the counseling office and returned to the dormitory, it was about five‑thirty. Chen Qing happened to be there.
Seeing her come back, Chen Qing asked eagerly: “Well? Well? Did you reach any conclusion?”
“No.” Su Xianjin sighed.
She had spoken with the counselor for two hours, trying to convince her that the dream world wasn’t just her imagination. In the end, the teacher only said that perhaps she was under too much pressure preparing for graduate exams, had stayed up all night reading the novel, and was mentally tense—thinking by day, dreaming by night. The advice was to rest more, go out when she had no classes, and relax.
“So that’s it.” Chen Qing looked disappointed. “But honestly, your situation is too bizarre. It’s normal for others not to believe it. If you weren’t my roommate, I’d just listen and forget it too.”
“But I did get an unexpected clue.” Su Xianjin told her that Teacher Zhou had mentioned another student who had also come for counseling about *Endless Moon*.
“Same name?” Chen Qing’s eyes lit up. “Then we could try to find them.”
She quickly deflated. “But our school has tens of thousands of students. That’s too unlikely.”
“It’s fine. Maybe we really can find them.” Su Xianjin’s gaze shifted to the sketchbook. She stared at Cheng Yun’s face on the cover and whispered, “There are too many things in this world that can’t be explained. If there’s someone else with the same experience as me, then it proves this isn’t just a dream.”
Cheng Yun opened his eyes. Night had already fallen.
All day, ministers had come to his residence—some on official business, some out of concern for his injuries, each with their own motives. He avoided seeing them when he could, but the memorials and petitions they sent were enough to weary him.
“Jing Lin,” he called.
Jing lin immediately entered. Snowlight filtered through the lattice window, casting his shadow across the screen.
Cheng Yun ordered: “Go to the study and open the first dark‑room door. Take a look.”
Jing Lin paused. “Look at what?”
“You’ll know once you go.”
Jing Lin left and returned only after the time it takes to burn a stick of incense.
“My lord, I checked thoroughly inside and out. Nothing unusual.”
Nothing? So she hadn’t come.
Cheng Yun frowned.
“Cheng Yun?” Suddenly, a soft, familiar voice called his name. Startled, he immediately rose from the couch, walked around the screen, and stared in surprise behind Jing Lin.
Jing Lin turned to glance back, confused. “What is it, my lord?”
Cheng Yun looked past him—at Su Xianjin.
Su Xianjin waved at him. “I tried. He can’t see me.”
“It’s fine,” Cheng Yun said. “Light the lamp, then leave. Tonight you needn’t guard the inner courtyard.”
Jing Lin was slightly surprised. Cheng Yun rarely lit lamps indoors, except for a single one when reading memorials.
Once the bedchamber door closed, Su Xianjin smiled at Cheng Yun. “Thank you. It’s so much brighter now.”
Compared to Jing Lin, she understood Cheng Yun better. She knew why he disliked lighting lamps—and why he chose to light one now.
Cheng Yun wore only an inner robe, draped with a white fox‑fur cloak. In the candlelight, this foremost minister of power and death looked unexpectedly gentle.
Su Xianjin couldn’t help but glance at him twice more.
Cheng Yun raised his brows, questioning her.
Su Xianjin’s eyes curved with a smile, and she said bluntly: “Because you’re good‑looking.”
At this moment, Cheng Yun resembled Qin Shi from the sketchbook more than ever.
But Cheng Yun clearly didn’t appreciate it. He had heard enough flattery in his life. He asked the crucial question: “If you’re not a ghost, then why can’t Jing Lin see you?”
“I don’t know either,” Su Xianjin replied helplessly. She had finally managed to step out of that pitch‑dark underground chamber, only to find that still only Cheng Yun could see her. Yet when she saw Jing Lin, she had been delighted. The sketchbook had his likeness too, and indeed he looked much the same—she recognized him at once.
Besides, the only ones who could enter that secret chamber were Cheng Yun and Jing Lin.
“But it’s fine if no one else can see me. I don’t dare let others see me anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because I was never supposed to appear here.” Then, suddenly remembering something, Su Xianjin asked: “Cheng Yun, in your world, is there anyone with the same name as me?”
Cheng Yun said, “There are countless people with the same name under heaven. Surely there must be.”
“I mean someone with both the same name and surname, who actually has a role in the story—lines, plot, and presence. Or even someone who looks like me.”
Su Xianjin couldn’t help gesturing with her hands.
“A role in the story?” Cheng Yun studied her closely, surprise flickering in his eyes. Each time they met, her words and behavior were unusual.
“Ah.” Su Xianjin sighed. It seemed there were no clues after all.
But that was expected. If there really were a character with her name, she and Chen Qing would have remembered. She would just have to keep looking.
“Well, since I’m here, let me admire your bedchamber. You don’t mind, do you?” Setting aside these thoughts, her curiosity revived her spirits, and she grew lively again.
Cheng Yun chuckled softly and reclined on the couch. “As you wish.”
Su Xianjin wandered around, then returned and sat beside him without ceremony.
“Your room is so big. Just as luxurious as I imagined—and much warmer than the dark chamber. It feels like there’s an air conditioner.”
“Air… conditioner?” Cheng Yun was intrigued by the strange word she used.
“It’s for heating too, but without charcoal.” She turned her head, her gaze soft as a feather falling on him. She saw Cheng Yun casually draped in a white fox‑fur cloak, his black hair loose, reading by candlelight, his whole demeanor relaxed and languid. It was a rare side of him—one never described in the book. Looking at him now, it was hard to connect this man with the ruthless, bloodthirsty Prime Minister who stirred the empire’s storms.
Sensing her gaze, Cheng Yun lifted his eyes toward her.
The moment their eyes met, Su Xianjin blurted out: “Cheng Yun, do your wounds still hurt?”