Meng Qing watched the carriage depart before turning back to enter the estate, where Deshun greeted him with a warm, loving smile.
“The Prince Consort is back! Did everything go smoothly?”
“Everything went smoothly. I was quite nervous, but fortunately, there were no mistakes.”
Deshun walked ahead holding a lantern and smiled upon hearing this.
“With His Highness around, there won’t be any mistakes.”
“Is the Prince Consort hungry? There are pastries in the room to tide you over, and the dumplings will be ready soon.”
Meng Qing shook his head. “Let’s wait for His Highness to return before dining. I’ll go change my clothes first.”
Although this court dress was opulent and exceptionally striking, wearing it felt far too cumbersome.
After bathing, Meng Qing felt completely refreshed, and the scent of incense ash was washed away. In high spirits, he skipped all the way back to his room, filled with joyful anticipation as he awaited Ji Yanche’s return.
Yet, to his utter surprise, an uninvited guest had arrived in his room.
The snowy hem of a robe draped casually by the rosewood heated couch, and a pair of jade-sculpted fingers were leisurely toying with Ji Yanche’s writing brush. Hearing the movement, the visitor slowly raised his eyes, the smile on his lips half-hidden in the play of light and shadow, flickering indistinctly.
“The Imperial Preceptor?”
“Hello, little.” The tail end of the sentence looped in his throat before being deliberately suppressed into a light cough, “Meng Qing.”
During the sacrificial grand ceremony, Meng Qing had caught a glimpse of him from afar. At that time, dressed in blue sacrificial robes, his features were hazy and indistinct.
Now that the distance had closed, he could see him clearly. The man had changed into a snowy-white robe with his hair half-loose, a silver-threaded tassel hanging from his jade crown and resting lightly on his shoulder. A single red mole gleamed between his brows like an immortal descended to the mortal realm, radiating an ethereal, otherworldly aura.
Meng Qing was puzzled. “Imperial Preceptor, why are you here? No one announced your arrival.”
“Naturally…” The Imperial Preceptor leaned forward abruptly, moving so swiftly that Meng Qing instinctively recoiled, his back crashing heavily against the back of the chair.
“Walked in through the front gate.”
Watching his reaction, the Imperial Preceptor chuckled inwardly. He was still as foolishly naive as ever, perhaps even a bit more simple-minded than before.
Meng Qing was utterly bewildered, a vague sense of unease stirring in his heart.
“You two look exceptionally affectionate,” the Imperial Preceptor teased with a smile. “This matchmaker of a preceptor has tied this knot wonderfully!”
The blood flush that had steamed to Meng Qing’s cheeks from his bath surged upward, but the moment he heard the preceptor’s next sentence, all the color drained from his face in an instant, turning as pale as snow.
“Only.”
The preceptor put away his playful expression, his demeanor turning abruptly solemn.
“You are fated to have no future together.”
“H-Ha, what are you talking about, Imperial Preceptor?”
Meng Qing only felt as though his heart was being tightly gripped by an invisible hand, his smile stiffening on his face.
“Though His Highness the Prince of Ning’s body currently appears vastly improved, the bone poison within him has not been eradicated. He-”
The preceptor paused slightly, his deep voice spitting out the second half of the sentence:
“Will still die.”
Boom—
It felt as though a boulder had crashed down upon his heart, leaving him suffocated and unable to breathe.
“W-What?” Meng Qing heard his own choked, dry voice.
“Do you want him to live?” The preceptor asked straightforwardly, as if ignoring Meng Qing’s grief.
In an instant, even Meng Qing, whose mind usually moved slowly, understood the profound implication behind the preceptor’s words.
“It requires me to do something, right?”
A crystal-clear tear slipped down his cheek, dropping with a pat onto the wooden table and blooming into a watery stain.
“I am willing to do anything, as long as His Highness can live.”
Meng Qing knew very well that there was no such thing as a free lunch in this world; the gifts of fate were already secretly marked with a price.
“The Fate-Swapping Contract.”
The preceptor snapped his fingers, and a sheet of talisman paper materialized out of thin air.
“Sign this contract, and your fates will be swapped. You will take the disaster upon yourself, exchanging it for a lifetime of peace for him.”
Without a shred of hesitation, the words slipped past Meng Qing’s lips:
“I am willing.”
He loved Ji Yanche and was willingly prepared to give up everything, including his life.
What was more, his husband was the finest person in the entire world, working for the welfare of the common people and saving the entire world. His living was far more useful than his own.
The preceptor raised an eyebrow, thinking to himself that it was just as he had expected, but he still asked:
“Have you thought it through? Your fate is exceptionally fortunate; you could have enjoyed boundless glory and wealth.”
Meng Qing interrupted him, his gaze resolute and his tone absolute.
“I am willing!”
When Ji Yanche returned to the estate, he had expected to be greeted right at the entrance by that big, warm embrace. Instead, the scene before him carried an inexplicable strangeness, though for a moment he couldn’t quite pinpoint what was wrong.
“Where is the Prince Consort?” he asked Deshun, who came forward to greet him, his voice deep.
“The Prince Consort is resting in his room, Your Highness. What’s the matter?” Deshun replied with a puzzled look.
Ji Yanche didn’t answer. With hurried steps, he strode swiftly toward the bedroom.
Pushing open the door, he found Meng Qing asleep with his head pillowed on the table, and half of the anxiety hanging in his heart instantly settled. He walked over, wrapped an arm around Meng Qing’s waist, and unconsciously softened his voice as he spoke gently:
“Qingqing, why are you sleeping here? You’ll catch a cold.”
“Nn…” Meng Qing raised his head, his tear-misted eyes struggling to focus. His head felt heavy and foggy, so he simply leaned against Ji Yanche’s shoulder to steady himself. “Husband, you’re back.”
Seeing Ji Yanche frown, the man reached out to lift his chin, his thumb brushing across the corner of an eye. “You’ve been crying.”
“What happened?”
“I cried?”
Meng Qing looked completely blank, utterly failing to understand what Ji Yanche was talking about. Subconsciously, he raised a hand to touch his cheek, his fingertips brushing against the undried tear on his eyelashes and the damp, cool moisture on his skin.
Strange, what on earth just happened? Why couldn’t I remember a thing?
“Maybe I was just too sleepy and yawned too much.” Meng Qing didn’t take it to heart, closing his eyes to rest against Ji Yanche’s shoulder once more.
Meng Qing had never been one to harbor secrets successfully. Ji Yanche carefully observed his expression, and seeing that he truly didn’t look like he was burdened with worries, he finally let go of his remaining tension.
“Are you hungry?”
“Not really, but I’m so sleepy.” Meng Qing rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself up a little.
“Then shall we eat the dumplings before we sleep?”
Ji Yanche spoke with a gentle, smiling coax, reaching out to stroke Meng Qing’s earlobe.
“Otherwise your ears are going to freeze off.”
If anyone else had heard this, their impression of the dignified and composed Prince of Ning would have shattered completely; who would have ever imagined such child-coaxing words could come out of his mouth?
Meng Qing couldn’t help letting out a soft chuckle, opening one eye halfway to look at him. “Wenjin, you’re so childish.”
Ji Yanche didn’t think there was anything wrong with that, lowering his head to press a kiss to Meng Qing’s lips.
“I’m only childish with my wife.”