Xuanyuan Yang · Chat

<scenario>Yin hour, third quarter. East side hall of Changle Palace. Inside the bedchamber that has remained unopened for ten years, the curtains hang low as they once did. Moonlight seeps through the gaps in the window lattices, staining the room's furnishings in a leaden gray. There are no candles in the hall. Only a single ever-burning lamp sits on a sandalwood stand; the oil is nearly dry, and the flame is as thin as a thread, its flickering casting two shadows upon the wall, shifting in the dim light. The air carries a faint scent of ambergris and aged wood, beneath which lies another, older scent—like the deliberately preserved traces of a specific person.</scenario><narration>This chamber has not been disturbed for ten years. The bed curtains are the crow-green Shu brocade of yesteryear, the hooks are the white jade dragons of old, and even the half-worn sachet by the pillow has not been moved an inch. The palace attendants all know that this hall is not to be entered lightly, its furnishings are not to be changed, and its windows are not to be opened for ventilation for too long. Every seven days, a specialist burns incense using ancient methods to maintain the scent in the hall at a specific concentration—the concentration from ten years ago when the master of this hall was still present. And every three to five days, the Emperor comes alone. He does not review petitions, nor does he call for attendants. He simply lies upon this bed, closes his eyes, and breathes, like a drowning man clinging to the last piece of driftwood. Sometimes for an entire night, sometimes for only half an hour. The attendants wait outside the hall, never daring to peek. They only know that when the Emperor leaves, his face is paler than when he arrived, and his steps carry an exhaustion that borders on self-destruction.</narration><narration>At this moment, Xuanyuan Yang is lying on his side on the inner part of the bed. His black inner robe is half-open, revealing a section of his thin chest below the collarbone; the outline of his ribs is faintly discernible under the moonlight. His ink-black hair is unbound, scattered across the pillow, with a few strands clinging to the side of his neck, rising and falling slightly with his breath. Even in sleep, his brow is not relaxed, twisted into a shallow furrow like a scar carved by a blade. His right hand rests by the pillow, fingers slightly curled, the joints thin and distinct; there is an old callus on his ring finger—worn there by years of holding a brush to review petitions. His left hand hangs by his side, palm upward, half-clutching something. Upon closer inspection, it is a piece of old silk cord, its color faded until it's impossible to tell if it was originally crimson or dark red. Most of the tassels at the end of the cord have unraveled, and the remaining threads are tangled between his fingers, as if he had gripped them all night without letting go. His breathing is long, and in deep sleep, his face has lost the sharp edge and overbearing pressure of the daytime, revealing the layer beneath—a pale, thin face marked by ten years of unhealed weariness. The dark circles under his eyes are heavy, and the skin over his cheekbones is so thin it's almost transparent, showing the tiny veins underneath. His lips are cracked and pale, like someone who has not eaten or drunk well for a long time. A twenty-seven-year-old monarch, yet his sleeping posture is like that of a teenager repeatedly crushed by nightmares—curled up, defensive, his body maintaining a tension that could spring at any moment even in the deepest sleep.</narration><narration>And beside him—on the outer side of the bed—another person is slowly opening their eyes. Consciousness returns like a tide. First is the sense of touch: beneath them is a familiar yet strange brocade mattress, soft in texture, carrying a dry warmth from repeated steaming. Next is the sense of smell: ambergris, sandalwood, and a deeper scent belonging to another person—cold, with a hint of bitter medicine, the unique scent of someone who has taken sedative decoctions for years. Finally, the sense of sight: in the moonlight, a face inches away. The contours of that face are as sharp as if cut by a knife, with a high brow bone, a straight nose, and thin lips tightly pressed. Even in sleep, that face carries a heart-stopping sense of pressure. It is like a sharp blade returned to its scabbard; its edge is temporarily hidden, but the chill remains.</narration><narration>This is the East Wing of Changle Palace. Ten years ago, the master here was—the former owner of the body currently before him. Ten years ago, a meticulously planned death trap, a coffin carried out of the palace gates, an old matter never mentioned again after the Emperor's enthronement. Everyone in the court knows that the struggle for succession among the sons of the late Emperor was extremely tragic, and the ultimate victor was the Seventh Prince, Xuanyuan Yang. As for the Eldest Prince—or Eldest Princess—who was once seen as the indisputable choice for heir, only one line remains in the history books: Perished in the chaos. Three words to seal the coffin. No posthumous title, no honorary rank, no mausoleum. It is as if this person never existed. Only this bedchamber was sealed by the new Emperor with a secret decree. Untouched for ten years. Unmentioned for ten years. For ten years, the Emperor has come alone, lying where the deceased once lay, breathing the lingering scent of the deceased, falling asleep clutching the old belongings the deceased left behind. This is the most hidden, the most pathological, the most unspeakable secret of the entire Xuanyuan Dynasty.</narration><action>Xuanyuan Yang moves in his sleep. The furrow between his brows deepens for a moment, and a very low, muffled syllable escapes his throat. The sound is too soft to tell if it is a name or a mutter. His right hand leaves the pillow and reaches outward unconsciously—reaching toward that position beside him that should not have any body heat. When his fingertips touch the warm fabric of the clothing, his movement freezes. His five fingers hang in mid-air, as if burned, or perhaps frozen. His eyelashes flutter once. Twice. The rhythm of his breathing breaks. The frequency of his chest's rise and fall suddenly changes from the long draws of sleep to short gasps. His Adam's apple bobs. He does not open his eyes. His fingertips remain suspended there, less than half an inch from that warmth. His entire being has stiffened into a stone statue.</action><narration>Outside the hall, the night wind sweeps through the corridor, swaying the copper bell under the eaves. *Ding*—a very soft sound, like the clinking of the door ring ten years ago on a certain morning when someone pushed open this palace door. In those days, people entered and exited this hall daily; someone would read at the desk, someone would prepare ink by the window, and someone would play chess on the couch with a visiting younger brother—or sister—until late at night. The sound of chess pieces hitting the board was as crisp as breaking jade. Back then, Xuanyuan Yang was still a youth, there was still light in his eyes. Sitting opposite the chessboard, he would press his lips together and remain silent if he lost, the tips of his ears turning red. Back then, he called the person opposite him "Elder Sister"—or "Elder Brother"—his voice carrying the unique, stubborn yet unhideable admiration of a young man. Those sounds, that light, that warmth—all are things of ten years past. For ten years, only one person's breathing has remained in this hall. Heavy, suppressed, medicinal breathing. And now—now there is a second breath in the hall.</narration><action>Xuanyuan Yang's eyelashes flutter a third time. This time, he opens his eyes. His pupils are as deep as ink, slightly unfocused from the sudden awakening. Moonlight falls into those eyes, reflecting a cold, almost hollow light. His gaze first stares vacantly at the top of the bed curtains, then slowly turns—turns toward his side. Toward that existence that should not be here, the one with body heat, the one who is breathing. He sees. His entire breath stops abruptly, as if someone had seized him by the throat. His pupils contract to the size of pinheads in an instant. Every muscle in his face goes dead. Even the color in his lips drains away in that moment. He does not move. He does not sit up, does not retreat, does not make a sound. He just lies there, head turned, in an almost absurd posture—locking eyes with the person beside him. The moonlight clearly illuminates the distance of less than a foot between them. His scattered ink-black hair, the other's sleeve by the pillow, separated by ten years of life and death, ten years of hatred, ten years of—the unspeakable.</action><message>"..."</message><narration>His throat moves. It's as if some word is stuck there, unable to come up, unable to be swallowed. His left hand still clutches that piece of old silk cord, his knuckles white from the force. His right hand has been withdrawn, clenched into a fist, resting on the mattress between them like a silent boundary line. His gaze, from its initial emptiness, gradually focuses, becoming sharp, becoming dangerous. It is the look of a cornered beast startled awake—vigilant, scrutinizing, carrying a tension that could strike or flee at any moment. He is identifying. Identifying if the face before him is real. Identifying if this body belongs to that person. Identifying if he is still in a dream—that dream he has had for ten years, which leaves only an empty pillow upon waking.</narration><action>He sits up. The movement is extremely fast, like being released by a spring. His back hits the bedpost with a dull thud. He leans there, looking down imperiously at the person on the bed. His scattered black hair covers half his face; the one visible eye seethes with emotions far too complex—as if someone had poured boiling oil into a frigid pool, the surface exploding, churning up everything from the depths. His chest heaves violently. The collar of his inner robe is wide open, and the veins in his neck can be seen throbbing. His hands are shaking. A very slight trembling that spreads from his fingertips to his entire arm. He grips the old silk cord tightly, as if grasping the last rope anchoring him to reality.</action><message>"...Who goes there."</message><narration>Three words. Forced out from between his teeth. His voice is so raspy it's almost tuneless, like the grating sound of a rusted blade being pulled from its sheath. He asks "Who goes there." Not "Who are you." It is "Who goes there"—a monarch's interrogation of one who has trespassed into a forbidden place. He is using these words to build a wall. He is using his identity as an Emperor to strip himself away from that fragile, pathological man who falls asleep clutching an old silk cord. He needs this wall. Because without this wall, he does not know what he would do in the next moment—whether he would strangle the person before him to confirm if they are a hallucination, or pull them into his arms to confirm if they have a heartbeat.</narration><action>The sound of the water clock comes from outside the hall. Yin hour, fourth quarter. The sky is still dark. The moonlight moves half an inch from the window lattice, falling on his clenched fist, illuminating the faded color of the old silk cord more clearly—it is a completely washed-out crimson. The crimson of that year. The crimson tied around someone's waist that year. His gaze moves back and forth between the face of the person on the bed and the old object in his hand. His Adam's apple bobs again. His lips move as if to say something, but in the end, no sound comes out. He just leans against the bedpost in an almost pathetic state, looking down—looking at the person he personally killed, buried, and mourned for ten years, who is now lying by his side.</action><message>"We are questioning you."</message><narration>The second sentence. His tone is lowered, carrying a trace of coldness. It's as if he is emboldening himself. As if he is reminding himself—he is the Emperor, this place is his domain, and whether the person before him is a human or a ghost, they should be kneeling at his feet to answer. His jaw is tight, the outline of his masseter muscles clearly visible in the moonlight. It is a face doing its utmost to maintain dignity. Its utmost. Maintenance. Like a piece of porcelain covered in cracks; it would shatter into powder with just one more gentle touch.</narration>