Rong Shuang felt a tingling sensation down his spine. 

It spread from that small patch of skin that had touched the fabric throughout his entire body; soon even the top of his head felt numb.

Ying Wujiu exuded such an overwhelming presence—both in terms of his physique and demeanor—that he completely dwarfed Rong Shuang. Not to mention that Rong Shuang was currently in this humiliating kneeling position, as if he were picking up soap. 

He didn’t know whether to look up or turn his head, so in the end, he shakily crawled forward a step, trying to put some distance between them. Crawl—

No reaction. Another step. One more.

Huh? Huh??

He couldn’t move. Rong Shuang strained inwardly but found himself as if nailed to the ground. It took him a while to realize—

Ying Wujiu was stepping on his official robes.

It felt good stepping on it, didn’t it, bro?

Haha.

Bitter at heart, Rong Shuang kept his eyes tightly shut, buried his head, and shuffled backward again.

Haha.

Rong Shuang felt bitter inside. With his eyes tightly shut, he lowered his head and inched backward again. 

He tentatively shifted his hips backward, finally returning to his original position, then lay motionless on the ground.

Ying Wujiu lowered his gaze to the figure on the ground, his long boot pressing down on the bright red official robe, twisting it. 

He twisted it hard and slowly. 

It was as if he were trampling the person before him underfoot, pressing down on his slender, fragile neck—life and death hanging on a single thought. Out of Rong Shuang’s sight, murderous intent churned in the emperor’s eyes.

However, Rong Shuang simply couldn’t see it—not that he couldn’t guess it.

Fearing that Ying Wujiu might be plotting some underhanded scheme without a word, he quickly answered the question in a guilty whisper: “Actually, Your Majesty, this humble subject is fine either way.” 

He hadn’t really practiced it much—it was all guesswork. Anyway, Rong Shuang was quick at elementary school stuff, so he figured he’d be fine whether he was on top or on the bottom. 

What’s so hard about that?

He heard some faint movement behind him, and soon the footsteps passed right by him.

Rong Shuang felt a wave of relief wash over him. He quietly exhaled, not forgetting to take the blame himself: “Oh, right. This humble subject accidentally stumbled into liking men—it has nothing to do with Your Majesty.” 

Ying Wujiu: “Hmph.” A slip-up. 

Rong Shuang: “?”

What was that “hmph” for?

Before he could process it, that towering figure came to a halt right in front of him again. Stunned, he looked up to see a massive hand clamping down on him like an iron vice.

Rong Shuang’s back instantly tensed up; his hands hung nervously at his sides as he stammered in fear: “Your, Your, Your Majesty, this humble subject, I—I—…please don’t catch it from me…” 

“Is it infectious?”

Tears welled up in Rong Shuang’s eyes as the man’s grip squeezed him; the air kept escaping from his lungs, and soon all that remained was a rasping whisper.

A faint, gasping whisper.

“It’s… um… contagious…”

Yes, gay men are contagious!

If it spreads to you, your Great Liang dynasty will die out!!!

Ying Wujiu’s large hand moved gently, yet his grip did not slacken in the slightest. Tracing the warm, slender nape of his neck, his fingers—covered in thin calluses—cupped that beautiful face.

A beautiful face—one that filled him with loathing, a face so rare in this world. 

The scars on his knuckles brushed against the pale side of the ear, his palm filled with the soft, fleshy sensation this face offered him. The lips were moving.

“Your Majesty…”

His lips were soft. 

His eyes remained impassive as he watched the movement. The young man’s face was like a flower bud blooming amidst withered vines and fallen leaves—the tighter it was bound, the more vibrant the bud became. Ying Wujiu’s voice carried a hint of a cutting smile: “So that’s how it is.”

Rong Shuang: “?”

What? What is it? What’s going on?

“I wonder if you, Lord Rong, the minister, have heard any of the palace’s secrets?” 

Rong Shuang blinked, wanting to shake his head, but he couldn’t move.

“Rumor has it in the palace that you once served the Emperor with your beauty. Because you mastered the art of the bedchamber, the late Emperor, in his later years, scarcely set foot in the chambers of his other consorts, leaving only you to attend him by his bedside.” 

Rong Shuan:：“???”

Brother, can’t you tell this is clearly a rumor?

Rong Shuang can personally attest that this absolutely never happened. Rong Zhihuan even wrote this down in his little notebook—it’s pure slander!

Rong Zhihuan is just greedy for power and money—his health is already so poor; how could he possibly be someone’s gigolo? 

His face was being pinched, and he struggled to speak: “Your Majesty, it’s truly not true. It’s just friendship… just friendship… the late Emperor was a particularly good person…”

“Oh, is that so?” Ying Wujiu’s voice was light and airy: “I thought this habit of liking men was something you’d passed on to my imperial brother.”

Rong Shuang: “……”

There was really no need to bring that up.

Ying Wujiu lowered his head again, his cheek pressed very close to the emperor’s, and asked, “I’ll ask you one more time: is it contagious?” 

Rong Shuangxin thought to himself, “That’s a load of crap. What a trap question.” Saying it’s contagious would be accusing the late Emperor Hui of Liang of being gay. Saying it isn’t contagious would be deceiving the emperor. 

Ying Wujiu was a ruthless, logic-obsessed monster. He’d already intended to kill him, and now the other guy had dug his own grave. Why did he have to open his big mouth?

“Wah, wah.”

Ying Wujiu raised an eyebrow.

“Wah, wah, wah. Your Majesty, I know I was wrong. Actually, I’ve already been taking Chinese herbal medicine to treat it…”

“……”

Hah.

Ying Wujiu suddenly let go, and Rong Shuang was flung away like a tattered rag doll. 

He lay on the ground, gasping for breath, cough, cough, cough, cough, cough. Talking to Ying Wujiu was just too terrifying.

He was still trembling with fear when, suddenly, a memorial was flung at him from ahead with a swish.

“Look.”

The emperor’s voice was completely stripped of any trace of youthfulness—it was deep, with a slightly low, magnetic hoarseness. That single word came crashing down, carrying a profound sense of command and compulsion.

Look, okay, I’ll look, I’ll look.

He scrambled to pick up the document and began reading from the beginning. Alright, Ji Changju, Censor of the Censorate. 

All right, the subject of the memorial: a ten-point indictment accusing Rong Zhihuan, Senior Grand Secretary of the Grand Secretariat, of forming factions, pursuing personal gain, and selling official posts and titles.

It was, once again, a “Petition Written in Tears.” 

The charges laid out in the memorial cut to the heart with every word; each one seemed to declare that if Rong Zhihuan, that corrupt official, were not beheaded, the petitioner would throw himself to his death in the main hall the very next day to appease the spirits of his ancestors.

Rong Shuang felt his heart attack coming on again and again and again.

One by one, these colleagues pretended to ask after his health, but behind his back, they were all cursing his ancestors for eighteen generations. He clutched his chest; before he could even speak, a pile of memorials came crashing down in front of him—swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. 

“Lord Rong, this is what my heart desires. What do you say I should do?”

Without even glancing at the other memorials, Rong Shuang knew immediately that they were surely calling for Ying Wujiu to have him executed.

Moreover, there were bound to be ministers who had proposed underhanded schemes to exploit loopholes in Emperor Hui’s edict granting him immunity. These old foxes were the most devious of all; every single one of them had plenty of power and cunning at their disposal.

Everyone was staring at him.

The imperial court—a grand stage. If you’re ordered to act, you must. There was no other choice.

Rong Shuang let out a couple of whimpers, planning to feign fainting by pretending he couldn’t catch his breath.

“Dare to faint, and I’ll have you beheaded right now.” 

Rong Shuang regained his breath and took a deep breath.

“No, Your Majesty, I wasn’t about to faint. I’m perfectly alert.”

Damn it.

Why is this turning out differently than he expected?

Ying Wujiu replied coldly, “Then speak.”

Rong Shuang: “……”

He shivered as he crawled forward a step, then decided to take a shot in the dark: “Your Majesty, why not give me three days? I promise to give you an answer.”

Ying Wujiu didn’t even look at him: “Six hours. Report to the palace at the Hour of You.”

Rong Shuan:“?”

That decisive, huh, buddy?

And who haggles like that anyway!! If you haggled like that at the farmers’ market, even you’d get chopped up into mincemeat by the old men and women there!! Rong Shuang held up a finger, trying to bargain for just one day, but the emperor merely lifted an eyelid.

“Or are you saying, Lord Rong, that you don’t even want these six hours?”

His lower three whites—fierce as hell.

Rong Shuang quickly nodded: “Yes, yes! This humble servant thanks, Your Majesty! I’ll come to the palace tonight to present Your Majesty with a perfect solution! I’ll make sure Your Majesty isn’t put in a difficult position!”

“Huang Lian.”

The doors of Qide Hall finally opened, and the bright sunlight of the morning hour streamed into the hall.

“Escort Lord Rong out of the palace.” 

“This humble servant takes his leave.”

Rong Shuang’s legs had gone numb from kneeling, and he stood up unsteadily. Huang Lian flicked his flywhisk and gestured, “Lord Rong, please.” Rong Shuang gathered his official robe and walked toward the exit, letting out a long sigh.

He was truly amazed.

Seriously, I’m done.

Is he transmigrated into The Longest Day in Chang’an or something?

Walking slowly out of the imperial palace, the thought kept spinning in his mind. 

It was clear that his behavior today—acting as a “money-distributing boy” during the court session—had not satisfied Ying Wujiu. Or, to put it more bluntly, it wasn’t enough. Far from enough.

It wasn’t enough for Ying Wujiu; it wasn’t enough for the entire court, and it was certainly not enough for the common people of the realm.

Yes, he couldn’t keep a single copper coin for himself.

But how could he reasonably transfer the silver to the national treasury?

If he were to make a big show of handing over the money Rong Zhihuan had embezzled directly to Ying Wujiu, where would that leave Ying Wujiu’s face? Wouldn’t that be the same as announcing to the whole world, “Look, I’ve embezzled so much money—even the Ying family can’t do anything to me”?

He’d made Ying Wujiu look bad, so Ying Wujiu was definitely going to make him pay. 

“Lord Rong! Lord Rong!”

Just as Rong Shuang was feeling dejected, a voice called out from nearby.

“Meng Hei?”

“I didn’t see any carriages from the Rong household outside, so I figured they really did take your advice and didn’t come.”

Rong Shuang glanced at his horse and realized, “Oh, you were waiting for me!”

Meng Han nodded: “The Young Marquis told me you’d been summoned by Eunuch Huang, so I waited a little longer.” Rong Shuang was deeply moved: “I really misjudged you that day, buddy. You’re so loyal.” Meng Han went to lead the horse, and Rong Shuang followed him up onto the saddle. 

“Seriously, you’re so loyal. Even if you were a spy planted by someone else to watch me, I wouldn’t have said a word—oh, and I don’t mean ‘someone else’ refers to His Majesty.” 

Meng Han nearly fell off his horse. 

Rong Shuang: “Hehe.”

When they reached the East Market, Rong Shuang was hungry again. He tugged at Meng Hei and said, “I’m going to buy a steamed bun.”

Meng Han asked, “Did you bring any silver?”

Rong Shuang rummaged through his clothes for a while before finally pulling out a copper coin: “I did. I specifically asked Old Ge to set aside some of my food allowance.” 

Meng Han: “?”

Since when did he get so stingy? 

Rong Shuang had already jumped off the horse and was heading to the steamed bun stall to ask for a bun. 

He’d just taken a bite when that familiar, eerie sound rang out behind him again.

“Oh.”

“Pfft.”

“Tsk.” 

Rong Shuang took a bite, turned to face the person inside the carriage, and echoed, “Whoa!” 

Qin Tianyang pulled back the curtain and shouted, “What’s with all the ‘whoas’ again? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” 

Rong Shuang continued eating his steamed bun: “(Mmm, mmm, mmm)” 

Qin Tianyang glanced at Meng Han. Seeing the two of them riding together again after court, he sneered, “Lord Rong, you really don’t hold back at all. Do you really want the whole world to know you have a penchant for men?”

Rong Shuang: “That’s right, that’s right. Young Marquis, if you keep talking to me like this, be careful—people might get the wrong idea and think you have a thing for men too. They might even mistake us for having an affair.”

Qin Tianyang seemed to picture that vulgar scene in his mind; he shuddered and quickly lowered the curtain.

“Back to the mansion! Back to the mansion!”

Rong Shuang thought to himself, “You little punk.”

Once things had quieted down again, Rong Shuang turned to Meng Han, who was frozen in shock.

“Hey, buddy?”

Meng Han swallowed hard and asked in horror, “Lord Rong, do you really have… a thing for men?” 

Rong Shuang: “Yes.”

After saying that, he immediately looked troubled.

“But His Majesty has already cured me today.”

Meng Han was even more horrified: “???” 

Cured?

His Majesty cured it??