Chapter 17: Sobbing
Two years ago, the Han family was accused of privately compiling the national history.
When a family was raided by court officials, the direct descendants were often imprisoned for investigation, while collateral relatives might be exiled to distant lands.
At that time, Han Min and his grandfather were locked in separate cells.
The window of Han Min’s cell faced an execution platform, a place where criminals were executed year-round. The platform was covered in blood and decayed flesh, attracting many crows.
Han Min stayed in the cell for several days. One day, he suddenly felt a small bamboo whistle hidden in his sleeve.
At that time, Fu Xun was still leading troops in the northwest. On one occasion, he returned briefly to report on his duties. Before leaving again, for reasons unknown, he had given Han Min this whistle.
Han Min used the bamboo whistle to summon Yanzhi, the gray eagle. Tearing off a piece of his robe, he bit his finger and wrote a single character for Fu Xun: “Help.”
He had no other option but to seek help from someone who had once been his rival.
The gray eagle flew into the midst of crows.
But Fu Xun didn’t come. Instead, a group of elderly eunuchs arrived.
“He’s only seventeen after the New Year—so tender, so tender.”
“I’ve heard the Second Young Master Han is clever and quick-witted. Serving a noble in the palace—that’s truly your good fortune.”
“Such a fine appearance… I want to take him as my godson. Don’t compete with me for him.”
Han Min’s throat was hoarse. He croaked, “The court raided our house, and the descendants were sent to the inner palace—not to become…”
Eunuchs.
An elderly eunuch grabbed his collar and yanked him off the ground: “You dream too big. Whatever the emperor wants you to do, you will do. Don’t think you can pick and choose.”
Eunuchs in the palace were usually brought in as children.
Before being trained, they were locked in a dark chamber for days and nights.
When the person was disoriented, they were given a full meal—food only, no water.
Afterwards, they were returned to the dark chamber for months, to recover from injuries in a daze.
Once fully healed, they would serve in the palace.
Han Min was moved to a different location, locked in a dark chamber.
The only one who could speak to him—the system—had been sent back to the control center for maintenance a few days ago.
He was alone in the dark room, unaware of the time, with meals delivered daily through the window.
Han Min couldn’t eat a bite. He hid in a corner. At first, he tried to think of a plan. Later, he gave up thinking entirely and just leaned against the wall.
His right hand, stepped on by the Duke of Gong, had not been treated; he didn’t know if the bones were misaligned. It ached faintly.
It was pitch dark. No one spoke to him.
Both body and mind hurt badly.
He felt he was about to die.
After some unknowable number of days, he was taken out.
Light made him tear up.
On a round table in the center of the room were many dishes—but no soup.
Han Min roughly understood the rules—after this meal, they would act.
Summoning unknown strength, he overturned the table, running blindly, flailing for a while, until a few men pinned him down on the table.
“If he won’t eat, and collapses later, we won’t be blamed. Just cut him down now and save the trouble.”
Han Min couldn’t even scream. Exhausted, he struck his head hard against the table.
He didn’t die or faint; only two lines of tears ran down his face.
Just as a knife was heated over fire, the door was suddenly pushed open.
The room erupted into chaos. Han Min rolled under the table to hide.
One person said, “Your Highness, this place is filthy. Please come elsewhere…”
Fu Xun kicked away a kneeling attendant, squatted at the table, and lifted the tablecloth.
Han Min saw him, neither crying nor shouting, and dazedly called: “Fu Xun…”
Fu Xun knelt, reaching out to lift him.
After who knows how many days of torment, Han Min was half-delirious. By the time he emerged, it was night.
He saw distant flames and asked, “What’s happening there?”
Fu Xun held him, pressing his forehead to Han Min’s, whispering comfort: “It’s alright. Sleep. You’ll be fine when you wake.”
the Duke of Gong – Fu Quan was behind, pleading with the emperor on his behalf.
It turned out Fu Xun had truly burned down the Gong Prince’s mansion. Han Min had only thought it was a dream because he had been in a daze.
—
Now in Funing Hall, Fu Xun lowered his gaze at him, likely piecing it together.
During those days in the dark chamber, Han Min had been terrified. From then on, he never slept well at night.
He hid too deeply, always appearing calm and indifferent. Even his family probably didn’t fully know.
Thinking back, Fu Xun realized that Han Min had occasionally shown cracks in his demeanor.
Not long ago in Liuzhou, late at night, Han Min sat at his desk writing instead of going to bed. Fu Xun had watched over him, making him sleep—though likely for only a short while before he got up. During the day, he slept longer and was accused by others of being spoiled due to favoritism.
In Tongzhou, they shared a room. Fu Xun would hear him tossing and turning at night, seemingly awake but unable to sleep, hiding it carefully.
And because Fu Xun had rescued him, whenever he draped his cloak over Han Min or touched his face, Han Min could relax.
Understanding this, Fu Xun waved Physician Liang away.
Fu Xun sat by the couch, holding Han Min’s hand to help him sleep peacefully.
Not long after, Han Min opened his eyes, red-rimmed: “Fu Xun…”
Fu Xun, lost in thought at the edge of the couch, immediately responded: “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer, pouting and crying.
Fu Xun panicked slightly, stroking his face and coaxing him as before: “It’s alright. Sleep. Sleep a little and you’ll be fine.”
Han Min, confused from fever, sobbed: “I won’t sleep. I want to write.”
“Alright.”
Fu Xun wrapped him in his cloak and carried him to the side hall study.
The room was brightly lit. Han Min sat on Fu Xun’s lap, unable to hold a pen steadily, scrawling a few strokes on a memorial submitted to Fu Xun by the court. Then he dropped the pen, leaned on the desk, and fell asleep peacefully.
Fu Xun’s heart sank. He reached out and stroked Han Min’s temples.
This is how he had slept.
For two years, this is how he had slept.
Author’s Notes:
Change the scene: readers of “The Emperor and Someone Else’s Two or Three Matters” have been eagerly awaiting.
Han Min: “I won’t sleep. I want to write.”
Readers: “The ink scholar is super diligent!”
Another scene: in the hibiscus-draped bed during spring night.
Han Min: “Wah, I don’t want to.”
Old Fu: “Write, understood.” (writing on Han Min’s back)
