Chapter 85: Blinded by Desire
The sound of rain continued endlessly outside.
Fu Xun said, “Years ago, I planted agents in those fifteen towns. A few years from now, if they rise in revolt, taking them will be easy.”
Han Min looked up at him, hesitating: “But we’d have to wait years. It’s nowhere near as quick or as timely as this opportunity.”
“No matter. Implementing reforms also takes time. Taking them in a few years is just as good.”
The words were spoken lightly, but everything would have to be carefully planned anew.
Rain still fell, clouds hung gray and heavy, and outside the sky was pitch black.
Han Min probed, “You haven’t eaten yet, right? Maybe you should just go back?”
Fu Xun looked into his eyes: “You want me to go back?”
“I mean… when I left, my mother was in the kitchen making noodles. Would you like some?”
Han Min glanced back. His eyes were clear and bright, as if he had no other intention, just asking—
Go back and eat something, alright?
But indeed, Fu Xun had no way to resist him.
After a long silence, he finally said, “Then we’ll go back.”
The plan to deal with Zhao Cun had originally been for Han Min’s sake. Now that Han Min wanted to eat, naturally he would come first.
He stood, ready to go downstairs.
Han Min followed, his wooden clogs making a loud thump-thump on the wooden floor.
He tested again: “Will you come again tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Then…”
“Stick to the original plan. Come back during the autumn hunt in September.”
Han Min was satisfied, stroking his chin and smiling.
Fu Xun asked finally: “Do you hate him?”
Han Min paused, then nodded firmly.
“I see.”
He still prioritized the bigger picture—a loyal minister, a wise ruler.
Fu Xun’s affection for him deepened, growing even more with each small detail, each passing day.
The two descended the stairs. Wei Gui and a few guards were waiting below.
Wei Gui asked, “Your Majesty, what is this?”
Fu Xun replied, “We’re going back for dinner.”
“Huh?”
“You lead the men back. Today is just a drill. The army will be granted wine, meat, and cloth; tomorrow, you’ll have a day off.”
Unexpectedly, he really had changed his mind. Wei Gui was delighted and ordered the guards to relay the instructions.
Han Min curiously asked, “What if the people at the inn notice? Wouldn’t it alert them?”
Wei Gui quickly replied, “No. The Xuanhu army is used to marching in the desert. If they can stay hidden there, they can stay hidden here. Besides, the Song envoys are nothing but pillow princes—they’ve never even been on a battlefield. How would they understand any of this?”
Thus, Zhao Cun, at the center of the storm, unknowingly escaped this disaster, prolonging his life by several months.
Han Min nodded: “Good.”
Fu Xun glanced at him, then said to Wei Gui: “The Xuanhu army wasn’t led out by you. He doesn’t need to ask you.”
“I spoke out of turn.”
Saying this, he walked over to Han Min and touched the collar of his heavy cloak.
“Why so bundled up? Cold?”
“Not really.” Han Min sniffled and asked, “Do you want to come eat at my place?”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Noodles.”
Wei Gui recalled some unpleasant incidents and waved it off: “No, no.”
He watched them leave.
Han Min, wrapped in his pomegranate-red cloak, hurried over, hair still unbound. He had just recently resumed wearing his crown, still unaccustomed.
Fu Xun, in his tight-sleeved black attire, walked beside him. Taller than Han Min, close enough that turning slightly could brush Han Min’s temple with his lips. He did this deliberately or not, it was hard to tell.
Looking like this, they even seemed a bit compatible.
Wei Gui suddenly remembered what he had said completely—
If these two reconcile, I’ll stand on my head and eat noodles, even drink the soup.
Today, Han Min invited him to eat noodles at home—was this a hint from heaven?
The carriage was lined with several layers of blankets. Once settled, Han Min’s cheeks were faintly red.
Fu Xun touched his face with the back of his hand: “Cold?”
Han Min shook his head, sniffled; the fox fur on his collar covered half his face.
Fu Xun lifted his sleeve and took his hand—it was indeed a little cold: “Made you run all the way.”
“Then I’ll hide behind Your Majesty when my family scolds me later,” Han Min teased.
As he said, Han Min was scolded at home afterward. He had gone out on his own without informing anyone, in the rain no less.
But it was fine—Han Min simply hid behind Fu Xun and coaxed his way out of trouble.
The whole family, together with Fu Xun, sat around the hall for dinner. Han Min could only hold his porridge bowl and sip quietly.
As night fell, everyone dispersed.
Candlelight flickered; Han Min, hands wrapped, walked alongside Fu Xun in the corridor.
“I haven’t asked, are you returning to the palace?”
“You followed me all the way here, and only now are you asking if I should go back?”
Han Min awkwardly touched his nose with his sleeve.
He had a small selfish desire, just a little—tonight, he wanted to sleep with Fu Xun, to ensure a proper rest.
He was still sick; a little indulgence was allowed.
“By the way, did you take my longsword?”
“Yes. It was in your room. I used it to stab Han Li twice and got it dirty. I’ll forge another for you tomorrow.”
“Alright.” Han Min paused. “But my brother said that was Your Majesty’s first sword.”
Just then, they arrived at the room. Han Min pushed the door open; no reply from Fu Xun was needed.
The brazier was gone, but the room was warm.
During the day, Han Min had moved the clothes Fu Xun brought to make a nest while sleeping and returned them afterward—thinking Fu Xun hadn’t noticed.
After washing, Han Min wrapped himself in a blanket, holding the cat, sitting on the small bamboo bed.
The emperor, of course, had to have the main bed; Han Min wanted it too.
Lost in thought, someone knocked on the door.
Little Jizi carried a thick quilt: “The lady said the small bed in your room—come help lay it out.”
“Good.”
Han Min held the cat, unwilling to sleep in the small bed—he wanted to sleep with Fu Xun.
He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Little Jizi quickly prepared the bed. Fu Xun returned.
Han Min, afraid of the dark, had a lamp left outside.
Candlelight flickered. Han Min lay on the small bed, expressionless, white cat on his chest, blanket pressing him slightly.
Old symptoms flared again—he couldn’t sleep.
He opened his eyes, glanced at the wardrobe outside, then at the opposite bed.
Hands unconsciously stroked the cat’s back.
He thought: should I secretly bring out Fu Xun’s clothes, or just climb into Fu Xun’s bed?
Clearing his throat, he whispered, “Your Majesty?”
Fu Xun didn’t answer. Han Min tried again: “Fu Dog?”
Still asleep.
Han Min quietly moved the system off the blanket, gathered the quilt, got out of bed silently, went to the other bed, called again—Fu Xun was indeed asleep.
Sleeping near the edge, Han Min carefully placed the quilt inside, then climbed in from the foot of the bed.
As soon as the quilt was in, he heard Fu Xun: “Cold on the floor?”
Han Min looked; Fu Xun was watching, his deep eyes black in the candlelight.
He didn’t know when Fu Xun had woken—perhaps he never slept, and had seen all of Han Min’s small movements from the start.
Han Min chuckled nervously: “Quite cold… thanks for your concern.”
Fu Xun continued to watch him silently. Han Min laughed twice more, retrieving his quilt: “Worried Your Majesty would catch cold, thought I’d add a blanket, but now seems unnecessary.”
Bending over, reaching out, his inner garment lifted, revealing two small hollows at his waist.
Fu Xun’s breath caught. He restrained himself: “Get in.”
Han Min eagerly climbed in, then blushed: “Too cold… really too cold.”
Finally, he wrapped himself snugly, lay next to Fu Xun, sighed comfortably, and closed his eyes to sleep.
He unconsciously leaned toward Fu Xun—turning his head, facing him.
But Han Min’s eyes were closed, so he didn’t see.
He sniffed, like a rogue teasing flower girls on the street: “Fu Dog, you smell so good. I can’t sleep without you.”
Whether Fu Xun smelled good or not—likely not, maybe just the scent of clothes—he knew one thing:
This cheeky little flirt daring to tease the emperor was finished.
But before that, Fu Xun had his own pressing matter.
Sleeping together, Han Min’s insomnia was gone—but now he couldn’t sleep again.
He stared into the dark, hearing the breath of the person he liked—the only sound in the world.
Next morning, the two, originally with separate blankets, ended up under one; the other was tossed aside.
The innocent-looking Fu Xun acted as if unaware—he had slept early and well.
The emperor couldn’t stay long in a subject’s house. Fu Xun would return to the palace in a few days.
Palace staff and guards stayed at Han Min’s home. With his subtle hints, the box of clothes remained.
Fu Xun also sent a longsword, reforged from the original, still his first sword.
Unfortunately, all these expenses had to be covered by Han Min, deducted from his stipend—another year of debt.
Han Min had recovered from illness over nearly a month. He finished the final two volumes of his story drafts.
This morning, the weather was good; he went to Bai Shi Bookstore to deliver the manuscript.
Meanwhile, in Funing Palace, a few young eunuchs were cleaning. One accidentally knocked over a stack of scrolls.
The books weren’t damaged but scattered. A young eunuch scrambled to pick them up just as Fu Xun returned from the training ground, sword in hand.
The eunuch knelt immediately. Fu Xun didn’t mind, just looked down. The book covers seemed unfamiliar.
Not his. His books were in the study, made with fine paper and ink. These were rough, like those circulated in the market.
He stared: “Who sent these?”
The eunuch recalled: “General Wei Gui sent them. I received them, placed them on the shelf, then forgot. Your Majesty, forgive me.”
Fu Xun bent to pick up the scattered books.
The covers were embroidered with gold thread. The large title: “The Emperor and the Censor: A Few Stories”; bottom right: “Pine Smoke Ink Guest.”
He had asked Wei Gui to send them before but hadn’t cared much later, since he’d spent those days with Han Min. Han Min’s sweetness had made him dizzy—just writing a couple of story volumes? Fine, as long as Han Min was happy.
Blinded by desire.
The young eunuch picked up the scattered books, accidentally glancing at them—his face went pale.
Fu Xun noticed: “You’ve read these?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Then you are free from guilt. Speak the truth.”
The eunuch swallowed and whispered, “Pine Smoke Ink Guest wrote many volumes. I’ve read several, borrowed from Little Eunuch Xia who lives nearby.”
Little Eunuch Xia was present, hurriedly adding: “Your Majesty, we only read for fun.”
Fu Xun asked: “Which ones did he write?”
“Many: the Censor, the Top Scholar, the Chancellor.”
Fu Xun’s sharp eyes soon spotted one labeled “Imperial Record Officer”. He tossed aside The Censor and picked this up.
He smiled. Han Min had some conscience after all.
Before the eunuchs could speak, he said: “Put these away. I’ll look at them today.”
They arranged the volumes in order. Fu Xun spent the morning flipping through them.
The first few he glanced at briefly, finding them dull, then focused on the Imperial Record Officer.
This one was lively, vivid.
The eunuchs cautiously refilled his tea. Fu Xun asked cheerfully: “How many have you read?”
“Five or six.”
“Which is best?” He added: “And among the characters, who’s best?”
The eunuch thought: “I like the Censor best.”
Fu Xun turned a page: “Really? I think the Imperial Record Officer is the best.”
Unexpectedly, the eunuch said: “I like the Imperial Record Officer best too. It fits with Your Majesty. But Imperial Record Officer wasn’t written by Pine Smoke Ink Guest. It came with the Chancellor book.”
Fu Xun’s face immediately darkened. Checking the cover, indeed, Pine Smoke Ink Guest’s name was absent.
He clenched the pages, crumpling the corner: “Send an order to Han Mansion. Once Han Min recovers, he must return to duty immediately. No slacking.”
After a pause, he added: “Have him come this afternoon.”
Author’s note:
Tragic, tragic, tragic… ultimate danger… end of the world…
