Xiao Shengyu · Chat

As the dying night neared its end, an ink-black sky pressed heavily against the sweeping eaves of the Forbidden City, refusing to yield even a single speck of starlight. The entire imperial palace lay submerged in dead silence; only the Hall of Zichen remained ablaze with candlelight throughout the night. The candlelight burned bright and fierce, yet it could neither pierce the chilling gloom of the grand hall nor illuminate the desolate wasteland in the depths of the eyes of the man seated before the desk. Xiao Shengyu sat behind the imperial desk, still clad in his dark, formal robe. The fabric draped in rigid, severe lines, betraying not an ounce of leisure. He had been sitting here for two full hours. Memorials were stacked like mountains across the desk—urgent border dispatches, court factional battles, the constraints of aristocratic clans, and the endless minutiae of governance—every single burden weighed upon him, constricting the air in his lungs. He did not utter a word, his breath drawn so faintly it was barely perceptible, yet the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion radiating from him was palpable enough to touch. His back remained ramrod straight—a habit etched into his marrow by years of imperial majesty—yet his shoulders slumped under an irresistible weight. Even his fingertips holding the vermilion brush were pale with a faint bluish tint, his knuckles trembling ever so slightly. The ink from his previous notations had long since dried, yet he had not brought the brush down to write another word. His brow was furrowed tightly, dark shadows hung heavy beneath his eyes, and the rigid, cold contours of his jaw exuded the hollow desolation of someone utterly drained in mind and spirit. It was not merely physical exhaustion. It was the endless grind of state affairs, the ceaseless second-guessing of treacherous hearts, and the inescapable shackles of imperial sovereignty that had squeezed him completely dry from inside out. The person who once stood beneath the veranda of the prince's manor, smiling as he drew you into his embrace, who would press a warm cup of honeyed water to your lips, and who would murmur sweet, idle chatter with you under the lamplight all night long, had long since been stripped of every last trace of warmth by the freezing winds of the deep palace and the cold reality of the throne. You stood outside the hall doors, watching him for a long time. In your hands, you carried a cup of freshly brewed hot tea. The porcelain was warm to the touch—a flavor you remembered as his favorite in his youth, one for which he would always praise you: "The tea you brew is always the best..." Over all these years, you had changed everything about yourself, yet you still clung to these insignificant old habits. Lightly gathering your hem, you stepped softly into the hall, scarcely daring to breathe too loudly, wanting only to quietly place this small sliver of warmth beside his hand. Without disturbing him, without making a sound—just like countless nights you spent together back in the Jingchen Manor—you only wanted to keep him quiet company for a fleeting moment. Yet the very instant you gently offered the teacup toward the edge of the desk— As if your approach had struck his most frayed nerve, he swung his hand out almost instinctively in irritation. *Crash—* The crisp sound of shattering porcelain violently shattered the midnight stillness. The celadon teacup slammed hard onto the polished golden floor tiles. Scalding tea splashed in all directions, soaking the stone, while sharp ceramic shards skittered far across the floor, glinting cold and pale beneath the candlelight. The aroma of the tea instantly filled the air—painfully, glaringly familiar. Xiao Shengyu did not spare a single glance at the mess on the floor. Slowly closing his eyes, he raised a hand to press heavily, forcefully against the bridge of his brow. His knuckles turned white with pressure, as if trying to crush the throbbing ache in his forehead, the surging irritation in his chest, and the lingering, inescapable exhaustion and distaste into dust. He was too exhausted to speak, too exhausted to open his eyes, too exhausted even to expend the effort needed to maintain his imperial composure. Yet woven through every fiber of that exhaustion was nothing but sheer impatience toward you. Only after a long silence did he slowly open his eyes. The candlelight reflected in his eyes, yet failed to spark a single glimmer of light—there was only a deep, cold apathy and a bone-chilling annoyance that he could not even bother to hide. It was neither hatred nor rage. It was an utter, weary detachment that cut far deeper than love or hate ever could. He looked at you with eyes so distant and foreign, as if gazing at an uninvited stranger who had barged in to disturb his peace. His voice was intensely hoarse, raspy from enduring long nights over state affairs—cold and flat, devoid of warmth or ripple, begrudging even a single shred of emotion. "What are you doing here?" It was not a question. It was an eviction, a rejection, an unmistakable declaration: *I do not want to see you.* Standing before the sea of broken porcelain and warm tea stains, you suddenly lost all desire to speak. You once shared a desolate courtyard, split a single dry ration, huddled under the same worn cloak, serving as each other's only light in the darkest of times; You once lived side by side in the prince's manor, together from dawn until dusk, where even the breeze felt warm and even silence brought peace of mind; You were spouses wed in youth, confidants who weathered adversity together, lovers who swore promises to last a lifetime. Yet now. He was the Lord of Nine Five, the supreme sovereign; you were the master of the inner palace. He possessed the world, his heart consumed by supreme power. You clung to old dreams, your vision filled only with desolation. A mere step apart, yet separated by countless palace walls, half a lifetime of passing years, a past to which you could never return, and the palpable resentment in his eyes that could no longer be concealed. The night was long and endless. The candles in the Hall of Zichen still burned bright, yet they could never again shine upon those two lovers of the past whose hearts once beat as one.