The So-Called Backup
After that day, Xiao Han quickly adapted to his new, awe-inspiring identity.
Never been an emperor? No problem, there’s a script.
Can’t handle official documents? No problem, there’s a script.
Don’t know how to govern a country, master imperial strategies, expand territories, or balance court factions? None of that matters, as long as you can navigate romance!
Everyone has fantasized during their school days about having a magical cat that could instantly fill their brain with knowledge using wondrous gadgets. Xiao Han was no exception. Although he seemed to have realized this childish wish to some extent, he couldn’t find any joy in it.
Thus, in the eyes of ministers, eunuchs, and concubines, the Emperor’s capricious nature became even more pronounced, making him more intimidating than ever before.
Snowflakes occasionally danced in the air, covering the entire imperial palace in a silver cloak.
Xian Fu, holding a lantern, hurriedly ran to the front of Changqing Hall, paused to tidy his attire, and then walked in slowly. The tall red lacquered doors kept the wind and snow outside.
He bowed and entered the inner chamber, where he saw the Emperor reclining with his eyes closed on a pearwood couch. The couch was covered with a warm, thick white tiger fur, and a brazier burned brightly nearby. In the center of the incense table, a blue and white porcelain vase held a few plum blossoms sent by Vice Minister Zhuo Fan the previous day.
Upon hearing footsteps, the Emperor slowly opened his eyes. Xian Fu quickly offered hot tea, discreetly observing the Emperor’s expression while softly expressing concern, “The snow outside is heavy, Your Majesty. You should be careful not to catch a cold while sleeping like this.”
The Emperor lazily rose from the couch, letting the fox fur cloak slide off his shoulders to reveal a well-tailored black robe with gold embroidery. His broad shoulders and narrow waist accentuated his tall and handsome figure.
“It’s snowing again?” Although he asked, Xiao Han didn’t look toward the window. His gaze fell on the plum blossoms in the vase, which already showed signs of wilting after just one day.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Noticing the Emperor’s gaze, Xian Fu quickly added, “I just ran into Vice Minister Zhuo, who asked if these plum blossoms had wilted so he could pick fresh ones for Your Majesty to enjoy.”
Not long ago, Zhuo Fan had been appointed as Vice Minister of Rites. While no one dared to openly discuss it, rumors circulated that Zhuo Fan had quickly risen to this position by serving the Emperor with his looks.
Though the words were harsh, they were true.
Zhuo Fan was inherently reserved and proud. Elevated too high and too quickly by the Emperor’s favor, he became the subject of jealousy in court. Apart from sycophantic flatterers, only his fellow scholar Shao Ze was close to him. Zhuo Fan disdained associating with flatterers, and Shao Ze, despite their camaraderie, strongly opposed Zhuo Fan’s entanglement with the Emperor, constantly advising him not to be foolishly infatuated. This naturally angered Zhuo Fan, who then avoided further conversation with him, leaving Zhuo Fan isolated during court sessions.
Until recently, when the Eldest Prince, Wen Muyan, returned to the capital to receive the Emperor’s conferment.
Thinking of this, Xiao Han’s heart felt a cold disdain, though his gaze softened as his fingertips brushed the soft red plum petals, as if caressing a lover’s cheek: “His body is frail, how can he withstand such heavy snow? Summon him into the hall.”
Xian Fu bowed and withdrew.
Once the door was closed, Xiao Han flicked his long sleeves, causing the red plum petals to scatter across the floor, leaving only a few lonely petals on the branches.
Zhuo Fan arrived quickly.
In fact, the day after that night, he was appointed as Vice Minister of Rites. Just as he was basking in his career success, the Emperor seemed to gradually lose interest in him, no longer favoring him nightly. Although he occasionally showed affection, it felt more like the Emperor was treating him as a pet, glancing down to play with him when in the mood, then tossing him aside, forgotten.
People in love often lose their rationality. While it was clear to everyone else that Zhuo Fan was falling out of favor, he remained hopeful, anxiously waiting each day. But the Emperor summoned him less and less, while the number of beauties in the palace grew. Realizing he was about to become one of the many forgotten concubines, Zhuo Fan finally found it unbearable.
“Your Majesty, may you be at peace,” Zhuo Fan greeted, kneeling before the Emperor.
Xiao Han slowly turned to look at the Vice Minister kneeling before him. Today, Zhuo Fan hadn’t even worn an outer robe, and his shoulders were covered in snowflakes. Having stood in the snow for a long time, his face was slightly blue from the cold, his nose red, and his eyes filled with a mix of resentment and longing. His long black hair, like silk, hung down his back, making him appear even more slender and fragile.
“Rise,” Xiao Han said indifferently, his brow furrowing slightly with a hint of mockery. He couldn’t understand the script’s bizarre preference—why was it so appealing to see a national pillar, instead of serving the court, wallowing in misery over who the Emperor favored?
Did he think he was acting in some palace drama?
“Your Majesty, these plums—” Zhuo Fan began, holding a few freshly picked plum branches. But when he looked up, he saw that the blue and white porcelain vase now held a few budding orchids.
Following his gaze, Xiao Han looked at the orchids in the vase and smiled meaningfully, saying nonchalantly, “Those were just delivered by Mo Lan. I saw the plum blossoms had fallen, so I had them replaced. The scattered petals were quite dispiriting.”
Hearing Mo Lan’s name, Zhuo Fan’s heart trembled. Wasn’t Mo Lan the new palace favorite who had just entered the palace? In just two days, he had already won the Emperor’s favor?
“So Your Majesty doesn’t like plum blossoms. It seems I acted unnecessarily…” Zhuo Fan clutched the cold plums tightly to his chest, feeling his once fiery heart gradually grow cold. He hoped the Emperor would speak a few more words to him, but he said nothing.
It turned out that from the beginning to the end, it was all just his own wishful thinking…
Seeing Zhuo Fan’s desolate expression, Xiao Han felt little sympathy. He had no intention of hurting him, but neither did he intend to love him.
Xiao Han coldly repeated the lines from the script: “Do you have anything else to discuss? If not, you may leave.”
Zhuo Fan seemed to want to say something, but just then, Xian Fu’s voice came from outside the door: “Your Majesty, Mo Lan requests an audience.”
“Let him in,” Xiao Han said, losing interest in Zhuo Fan, and returned to the couch to rest with his eyes closed.
Zhuo Fan remained standing in a daze, knowing he should leave this cold palace, but hearing the door open and Mo Lan’s light footsteps, he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move.
Mo Lan was a very young and handsome boy, with a delicate and perceptive demeanor. He turned and gave Zhuo Fan a sweet smile, full of mockery.
“Mo Lan greets Your Majesty. I heard from Xian Fu that Your Majesty has been busy with state affairs, so I prepared some silver ear porridge for Your Majesty to taste.”
Although Mo Lan wasn’t Xiao Han’s type, at least he was perceptive. Xiao Han beckoned him over, and Mo Lan quickly nestled beside him, feeding him porridge with a teasing air.
“How does Your Majesty find it?” Mo Lan asked, his hand resting on the Emperor’s chest, drawing circles with his fingertips.
“It’s quite good.”
Receiving praise, Mo Lan wagged his tail like a pet dog, laughing gleefully.
Neglected on the side, watching the two’s intimate interaction, Zhuo Fan felt as if he had fallen into an icy abyss. He didn’t know how he left Changqing Hall. Outside, the wind and snow intensified, mixed with icy rain. Zhuo Fan stood under the eaves, soaked through in moments, his limbs cold and his face pale as paper. His black hair clung wetly to his body. No matter how Xiao Han looked, he couldn’t see the pitiful beauty described in the script: “wet clothes outlining a slender figure,” “skin pale as if transparent,” “a lonely silhouette exuding a stubborn, cold elegance like a high mountain flower.”
He looked more like a freshly emerged water ghost.
Xiao Han thought, somewhat speechless. It wasn’t that he wanted to mock Zhuo Fan, but the script’s tendency to heap pitiful victimhood on him while simultaneously adorning him with beautiful, endearing descriptions made Xiao Han want to gag.
Zhuo Fan felt cold, both physically and emotionally, but his head was hot, as if it would explode.
In a haze, he seemed to see someone approaching with an umbrella. The raindrops beat rapidly on the umbrella’s surface. His eyes couldn’t focus, but amidst the world of silver and white, a tall figure wrapped him in a warm cloak, shielding him from the rain and snow with a paper umbrella.
If only… it were the Emperor.
Thinking this, thinking this, Zhuo Fan fainted.
Of course, this person wasn’t the Emperor. Xiao Han was still hiding behind the window, watching the scene unfold.
This man had a tall and majestic figure, with a handsome and gentle face, especially his deep, dark eyes, which seemed to hold a pool of tenderness, inexplicably romantic.
He was none other than Wen Muyan, the Prince of Wen, who had inherited the only non-imperial princely title of the current dynasty.
In the wind and snow, the Prince held an umbrella in one hand and Zhuo Fan’s shoulder in the other, looking down at the man in his arms. The snowflakes and raindrops that the paper umbrella couldn’t block fell on his black cloak and long hair, creating a scene like a moving ink painting from afar.
Xiao Han finished the last sunflower seed, clapped his hands, and laughed. What a scene of snow covering one’s head, a semblance of growing old together.
Mo Lan didn’t understand what the Emperor saw through the window or why he was laughing, but he silently offered hot tea.
What others thought didn’t concern Xiao Han. His eyes followed Wen Muyan, who was trying to lift Zhuo Fan. Thinking about the ultimate fate of this perfect backup, who would eventually be kicked aside by the protagonist, Xiao Han wondered why he was so devoted. What was the point?
His fingertips brushed the warm cup, and Xiao Han took a sip of hot tea. When he looked up again, he saw Wen Muyan stumble and almost drop the unconscious Zhuo Fan.
Xiao Han was a bit surprised, and a bit amused. Who would have thought that the Prince couldn’t carry Zhuo Fan because he was too heavy? Hahaha.
Xiao Han watched them reach the corridor’s corner. Perhaps the Prince really wasn’t strong enough, or perhaps the snowy path was too difficult to navigate, but the Prince couldn’t carry this grown man any longer.
He had to put him down, look around to ensure no one was watching, and then squat down to rest. After rubbing his hands and shaking the snow from his cloak, he circled Zhuo Fan twice and came up with a good idea—he grabbed Zhuo Fan’s hands and dragged him away like a large sack…
Dragged him away…
Away…
Gone…
Mo Lan watched in shock as the Emperor, with a serious expression, suddenly sprayed tea all over, frightening him out of his wits. He quickly knelt down, trembling, and begged for forgiveness.
“Your Majesty, was the tea too hot? This servant deserves to die! Please forgive me!”
“This has nothing to do with you. Leave us,” Xiao Han said, placing the teacup aside and waving dismissively. When he looked out the window again, the corridor was already empty.
He stood quietly by the window, listening to the rain and wind, a faint, deep smile playing on his lips—this Wen Muyan seemed more interesting than in the previous life.