Duan Zhufeng’s gaze landed heavily on Xiao Huaiyan, as tangible as a physical weight. Seasoned by countless battles, his instincts—forged in mountains of corpses and seas of blood possessed a beast-like sensitivity to danger and murderous intent.
Even though Xiao Huaiyan’s aura was restrained to near-perfection at that moment, Duan Zhufeng could still sense an extremely obscure yet razor-sharp hostility lurking beneath that calm surface, utterly out of place within this resplendent imperial palace.
It instantly reminded him of the silent youth who had stood beside Tuoba Xiong, the renowned Liao general, on the battlefields of Liaodi years ago.
Back then, friction between the two armies was frequent. Following a small-scale skirmish, Duan Zhufeng had been inspecting the battlefield and had caught a distant glimpse of Xiao Huaiyan.
In his youth, Xiao Huaiyan’s frame had not yet fully matured, yet he already resembled an unsheathed blade. Covered in blood, he had silently pulled a curved saber from the corpse of a Jin soldier with crisp, decisive movements and without the slightest hesitation. Tuoba Xiong had burst into loud laughter nearby, clapping him on the shoulder.
“As expected of the future king of our Liao nation!”
From that single glance alone, Duan Zhufeng knew this young man was destined for greatness; his nature was like a wolf and his heart like iron. If given the opportunity, he would surely become a grave hazard. Seeing him again now, that internalized edge was even sharper than before, yet it happened to appear right by Yan Song’s side. How could this not arouse his vigilance?
Seeing Duan Zhufeng blocking the doorway with no intention of making way, Xiao Huaiyan turned slightly, preparing to bypass him.
“You shouldn’t stay by His Majesty’s side.”
Xiao Huaiyan’s footsteps halted. “Since Your Majesty keeps me here, Your Majesty has their own reasons. There is no need for General Duan to trouble yourself.”
Duan Zhufeng let out a cold snort, stepping closer as the oppressive aura of a veteran general who had survived a hundred battles abruptly intensified: “Reasons? What reasons? The reason to keep a Liao hostage and Tuoba Xiong’s nephew by his side? Xiao Huaiyan, you know very well what kind of person you are. His Majesty is young and may be temporarily blinded by you, but my eyes are not blind.”
Xiao Huaiyan was not cowed by his imposing aura. Instead, he raised his chin slightly, a trace of faint mockery flashing across his dark eyes: “Since the General sees things so clearly, why not go directly before His Majesty to offer earnest remonstrance, lay out the pros and cons, and ask His Majesty to execute or banish me immediately? Instead of standing here… blocking the path with warnings?”
His tone was gentle and unhurried, yet every word struck straight to the heart: “Is it because you feel His Majesty will not heed you, or does the General himself lack solid evidence and wish to act in place of the sovereign based solely on conjecture?”
“You!” Duan Zhufeng’s pupils constricted, choked into a temporary loss for words. He indeed lacked solid evidence that Xiao Huaiyan posed a threat to His Majesty, and protecting the imperial carriage during the ancestral worship had been an act of unmitigated merit. To offer remonstrance rashly would only make him appear narrow-minded, no different from those pedantic old ministers. “As a noble imperial prince of the Liao nation, you are now willingly willing to debase yourself beneath a man. Xiao Huaiyan, you truly have quite the temperament.”
Xiao Huaiyan replied, “Not quite as brave as General Duan, who so effortlessly orchestrated the mass burial of tens of thousands of surrendered soldiers in the Northern Frontier.”
“You!” Duan Zhufeng’s face flushed crimson, his hand instantly pressing onto the hilt of the saber at his waist.
Although the mass execution of surrendered troops had been meant as a deterrent, it remained an unspeakable, hidden pain in his heart. To have it so nakedly exposed and mocked by a prisoner of state made a rush of hot blood surge straight to his head.
Their gazes clashed in mid-air. Though they appeared calm, undercurrents of blades and swords flashed between them as neither gave ground.
“Xiao Huaiyan, come in.” Shen Chaoqing’s voice drifted from the inner hall, breaking the tense standoff.
Xiao Huaiyan withdrew his gaze, no longer looking at Duan Zhufeng at all, and said only indifferently: “General, please make way.”
Duan Zhufeng’s chest heaved violently as he stared fixedly at Xiao Huaiyan’s expressionless face, before finally letting out a heavy, cold snort, violently flicking his sleeves, and striding away.
Without even looking back, Xiao Huaiyan stepped into the Zichen Palace.
The medicinal scent inside the hall had not yet completely dissipated, but it was now blended with a wisp of refined ink fragrance.
Shen Chaoqing stood behind the wide sandalwood writing desk, lowering his gaze to wield his brush. A sheet of xuan paper was spread across the desk, the wet ink swirling to outline not imperial dragon figures, but the misty rain-shrouded landscapes of the Jiangnan region—small bridges over flowing streams, and distant solitary boats amid distant mountains.
Hearing the sound of Xiao Huaiyan entering, he did not raise his head, but casually lifted his chin toward the inkstone, his voice still retaining a trace of post-illness languor: “Grind the ink.”
The command was as natural as if Xiao Huaiyan had been born to perform this task for him.
Xiao Huaiyan stepped forward and rolled up his sleeves, revealing his smoothly contoured forearms. He picked up the premium Huizhou ink stick, poured in clean water, and began to grind it with an even, measured rhythm. The friction between the ink stick and the inkstone produced a faint, steady rustling sound.
His gaze fell upon the painting, pausing slightly.
Shen Chaoqing’s brushwork was exceptionally superb, far beyond the reach of mere dilettantes. The texturing of the mountain rocks was crisp, the depiction of water ripples was lively, and the artistic conception was vast yet exuded an unspeakable sense of aloofness and desolation.
The power and emotion contained within those strokes were heavy and oppressive, as if seeking to subsume the very rivers and mountains on paper under an absolute grasp of control, or perhaps serving as a silent venting of emotion.
Xiao Huaiyan felt a flicker of surprise inwardly. This little tyrant calculated human hearts and acted with autocratic tyranny; yet in private, he possessed such near-literati elegance and profound skill. Had he not been born into the imperial family, he might truly have become a master calligrapher and painter of an era.
Suddenly, Shen Chaoqing spoke, as though making an idle observation: “You certainly have some nerve. Duan Zhufeng is hardly a man of gentle temperament. Aren’t you afraid he might actually hack you down with a single saber if you provoked him?”
His ears were sharp indeed; he had clearly heard every word of the dialogue outside the hall without missing a single syllable.
Xiao Huaiyan’s ink-grinding movements did not falter in the slightest. “His Majesty will not let me die.”
“Oh?” Shen Chaoqing outlined the silhouette of a distant peak with his brush. “Why do you think that? Do I look like the sort of person who would punish my grand general of the North to protect a mere hostage?”
The ink grew thicker, turning glossy and pitch-black.
Xiao Huaiyan stopped his movements, raised his eyes, and looked at Shen Chaoqing’s lowered profile. The candlelight inside the hall flickered, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across that pale face.
“If I were to die,” he said slowly, his voice low and clear, “would Your Majesty not miss out on a great deal of amusement? Who else would Your Majesty go to tease?”
Shen Chaoqing’s hand holding the brush paused slightly, a single droplet of ink nearly falling onto the painting. He abruptly raised his head to look at Xiao Huaiyan, stunned for a fleeting moment before breaking into a low chuckle, as if he had just heard something immensely amusing.
The laughter was not loud, but it caused his shoulders to tremble slightly, and the corners of his eyes flushed with a faint reddish tint brought on by coughing and laughter.
“Amusement? Teasing?” He repeated the two words, his gaze startlingly bright. “Xiao Huaiyan, oh Xiao Huaiyan, you certainly possess… quite the self-awareness.”
He laid down his brush, walked around the writing desk, and stopped right in front of Xiao Huaiyan. He still carried the faint scent of medicine and ink; the two contrasting fragrances blended together to form a peculiar, aggressive atmosphere.
He stood half a head shorter than Xiao Huaiyan, yet at this moment, he exuded a sense of condescending scrutiny.
“Bow your head,” he commanded, his tone tinged with undeniable intrigue.
Xiao Huaiyan’s dark eyes flickered slightly, and he obediently lowered his head.
Shen Chaoqing extended the hand that had just been holding the brush; his index finger was still stained with wet ink. With just that ink-stained fingertip, he gently tapped the center of Xiao Huaiyan’s brow.
A cool sensation accompanied by the dampness of the ink washed over his skin.
Xiao Huaiyan’s body tightened almost imperceptibly for a fraction of a second, but he did not dodge.
Seeming to find great amusement in this, Shen Chaoqing dragged his fingertip downward along the bridge of Xiao Huaiyan’s nose and across his cheek, smearing the ink wantonly as if he were painting on a canvas. His movements carried a sort of casual, intimate dalliance, akin to sketching out a specific pattern.
The icy trail of ink wound across the skin, carrying a trace of tickling warmth. The two stood exceptionally close, their breathing almost audible. Xiao Huaiyan could clearly see Shen Chaoqing’s long eyelashes and the mischievous yet distant glint of amusement hidden deep within his eyes.
He could feel his own heartbeat, at a certain moment, breaking away from its customary calm rhythm and abruptly, heavily striking against his ribcage. The sensation was unfamiliar and uncontrollable, prompting an instinctive urge to resist, yet he was pinned firmly in place by some invisible force.
Seeming quite satisfied with this “work of art” beneath his hands, Shen Chaoqing stepped back slightly to admire his masterpiece. He saw that Xiao Huaiyan’s stern, sharp face was now marked with several bold streaks of ink, making him look rather like a hastily sketched tiger.
“Mhm, not bad.” Shen Chaoqing nodded, the corners of his lips curling upward as his mood evidently turned exceedingly pleasant. “Indeed, teasing you when bored is rather entertaining after all.”
He withdrew his hand and turned to walk back behind the writing desk, as though he had merely finished an impromptu sketch a moment ago.
Leaving only Xiao Huaiyan standing in place, with the damp traces of ink still lingering on his face and an unfamiliar, uncalmed palpitation echoing deep within his chest.