Chapter 137: The Round Prison (II)

Xiang Zhishi was busy ordering the banquet and buying clothes, but many details of his disguise as Xiang Zhijie had yet to be addressed.

Qiu Sinian led him into an empty cell within the round prison, brought him a mirror without a word, and then shut the door as he left.

Xiang Zhishi gazed at his reflection in the mirror.

In this life, Xiang Zhishi had played the role of his sixth brother before Le Wuya more times than he could count.

Each time, his purpose was different.

He wanted to get a rise out of Le Wuya, to steal Little Stutterer's thunder halfway through, to...

To take him away, to a place known only to him.

But Le Wuya really couldn't care less about him.

Every time, after just a couple of glances, he'd flash a sly smile and then mercilessly call him out in a few words.

If there were others around, Le Wuya would make a show of patting his head: "Seventh Prince, this humble official isn't here to play games with you. Go find your little friend, now, alright?"

If it were just the two of them, he'd drop all the formalities and give his forehead a light flick with his fingertip: "I'm busy, alright? Go off and play."

Once, when Xiang Zhishi was thirteen, he trailed after Le Wuya, demanding a definitive answer: "Don't I look convincing enough?"

Le Wuya stated flatly, "No."

"What's not convincing?"

Le Wuya turned around and tugged at his ear.

Xiang Zhishi had carefully dusted powder over the plum-blossom scar so that it blended almost perfectly with his skin tone.

When Le Wuya pinched it, his fingers came away dusted with fragrant powder.

Le Wuya wiped his fingertips with a handkerchief, without giving a direct answer: "How'd you get that scar there, huh? Forget already? And you still dare to play Xiaoliu in the palace? Not afraid the Emperor will give you another one just like that?"

Xiang Zhishi couldn't have cared less: "It's already disfigured anyway. My body and hair were given by my parents, so let it go. At worst, I'll just piss off the Emperor again and have him send me off to get tattooed."

As he spoke, Xiang Zhishi quickened his pace, running a few steps ahead of Le Wuya, walking backward alongside him, his dark eyes gleaming with a bright light.

He traced a gesture on his own fair, handsome cheek: "Teacher, if the Emperor were to have me tattooed, what should I get drawn to look good? A goldfish? A peony?... Or maybe a crescent moon, then."

Le Wuya glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then gave his head a knuckle-rap: "Get lost. You think you're Bao Zheng, with a crescent moon? Only criminals get the facial tattoo. What crime have you committed?"

Xiang Zhishi pretended to look wronged: "If I've committed no crime, then why is Teacher in such a rush, refusing to stop and talk to me?"

Le Wuya laughed, half-annoyed: "I'm going to see your father! If I'm late, then I'd be the one in trouble."

"Getting in trouble's fine," Xiang Zhishi said carelessly. "Teacher's so handsome, you'd still look good with Bao Zheng painted on your face."

Le Wuya scoffed at him: "Quit following me. I'll come find you later and see how your archery on horseback is coming along."

Xiang Zhishi obediently came to a stop, staring at his retreating back for a long moment, then suddenly raised his voice and asked: "Teacher, you haven't told me! What exactly makes my disguise unconvincing?!"

Without turning back, Le Wuya said: "Next time, take that ring off! Don't think you can get away with it just because the color isn't flashy—that sheen is clearly high-quality jadeite. Since when has Xiaoliu ever had a ring that nice?"

After Le Wuya left, Xiang Zhishi pushed up his sleeve, looked at the glossy jadeite thumb ring, and grumbled: "But this is the worst ring I have."

...

Shaking himself free of his memories, Xiang Zhishi smiled silently at his reflection in the mirror.

...Thank you for the tips, Teacher.

He slid the jade bracelet off his wrist, removed the flower decal from the back of his hand, and put on a thumb ring with an antique style.

That ring was the birthday gift Teacher had given to Little Stutterer.

Xiang Zhishi had secretly had a replica made, even sending it out every year to be aged artificially, all the better to imitate Xiang Zhijie.

"Xiaoliu doesn't have that dimple when he smiles, and he doesn't scrunch his nose. You should rein that in."

"Xiaoliu has phoenix eyes, slightly more upturned at the corners than yours. Your eyes are rounder."

"Xiaoliu doesn't bounce with every step like he's about to take off into the sky."

"Xiaoliu..."

Xiang Zhishi measured himself against the differences Le Wuya had pointed out in his memory—differences even he had never noticed—focusing all his attention on disguising himself as the person he liked least, just to make Teacher happy.

"Guessing identities" had become an unspoken game between him and Le Wuya.

Xiang Zhishi lost every battle, yet he kept fighting, playing the "guess who" game with Le Wuya for years.

Through heat and cold, never once tiring.

By the end, even Xiang Zhishi himself was getting confused.

Why did he keep at it like this? What was the point?

Let alone outsiders—even many palace attendants and eunuchs couldn't tell the two of them apart, relying solely on the plum-blossom scar on his ear to tell them apart.

Why did he have to latch onto Le Wuya and test him in every way possible?

Xiang Zhishi's heart was full of endless doubts, but his hands never paused.

Outside, snow fell in utter silence; inside, it was bleak, cold, and dim, his only companions a bronze mirror and a single oil lamp.

He traced his brows and painted his eyes, grooming himself with meticulous care, even using tricks learned from young opera performers to tilt the corners of his eyes upward.

Even facing a man who was half-blind and half-dead, he still wouldn't let his guard down.

His care, his meticulousness—like a bride preparing for her wedding day.

...It was as if he were preparing for a wedding ceremony that only he would attend.

After meticulously grooming himself, Xiang Zhishi, with a heart leaping and bounding, carefully stepped back into the cell he had entered not long before.

Seeing Le Wuya's hair in disarray, lying on his back in that thin bedding, a wave of sour heat surged up in his chest, nearly making him choke on a sob.

When he'd come in as Little Seventh, he hadn't felt anything like this.

Xiang Zhishi was startled for a moment, pressed a hand to his chest, and thought: So this is what it means to get into character?

He moved to the bedside with a slight hesitation, his mind reeling, one wave of dizziness after another, thinking: If Little Stutterer were here, what would he be doing at this moment?

He tentatively reached out and gave Le Wuya's bedding a squeeze.

So thin.

He's grown so gaunt—how much pain must he be in from lying on that hard surface?

Perhaps it was the power of his words made real, for Xiang Zhi felt a dull ache creeping through every joint in his body, making his whole frame go rigid, and making his imitation of Zhi Jie's tone all the more convincing: "Teacher... Teacher?"

Le Wuya stared blankly at the pitch-black ceiling of the cell, saying nothing.

He tentatively placed his hand on Le Wuya's chest; at first, he could barely feel a heartbeat.

Earlier, when Xiang Zhi had come himself, he hadn't dared to look too closely or show too much care.

Now, wearing Zhi Jie's skin, he could finally let himself be a little reckless.

He mimicked Zhi Jie's halting way of speaking, stumbling over his words: "Teacher, no one... no one's sent you medicine or care? Father, didn't he say you're to live... until the execution..."

Those few words felt like a thousand needles piercing Xiang Zhi's heart.

He blinked, and a large, round teardrop slid down his cheek before he could stop it.

Startled, Xiang Zhi quickly wiped it away with his thumb, trying to take it back.

But it was already too late.

The hot tear landed on Le Wuya's cheek, splashing into tiny droplets.

"...Don't cry." Le Wuya seemed to come back to life at the touch of the tear, turning his head to look at him, his voice hoarse. "Don't cry."

Xiang Zhi, soothed by his words, felt a sudden surge of fury for no reason.

As tears streamed down his face, he thought with jealousy, He's so gentle with Little Stutterer.

He's about to die—why does he still have to comfort Little Stutterer with "don't cry"?

Le Wuya turned to him with difficulty, his expression clearer than before: "Xiaoliu. You've come?"

Xiang Zhi lowered his head, muttering, "Mm."

Perhaps because he'd been seen through so many times before, he now felt a pang of guilt, and he couldn't bring himself to look at him.

Le Wuya said softly, "It's dangerous here... You shouldn't be here."

Hearing that, Xiang Zhi was certain—he really thought he was Zhi Jie.

A bittersweet triumph welled up in his chest.

He had won the game.

Teacher, I've finally fooled you, I've won.

So you can't always tell us apart after all.

Yet, after the brief elation, Xiang Zhi's heart sank into an endless emptiness.

What did it matter whether he could tell them apart or not?

He was going to die soon.

What was the point of continuing this game?

Taking advantage of this brief moment of clarity, Le Wuya grasped his hand, breathing heavily, gathering his strength, and, just as he'd urged himself earlier, began to give him advice, one sentence at a time:

"Xiaoliu, be good to yourself... Don't be so hard on yourself."

"You're really a good kid."

"Don't get stuck on things; keep moving forward."

Xiang Zhi clenched his jaw, a mix of bitterness and heat churning in his chest, blurring his vision like a kaleidoscope.

He nodded mechanically, over and over, while making a bitter vow that he would never, ever tell Little Stutterer a single word of the teacher's last words.

...Let him stew in anger.

After giving his broken, halting advice, Le Wuya coughed violently for a moment, a trace of pale red foam seeping from the corner of his mouth.

His body went limp, leaning against him, breathing in ragged gasps.

He whispered, "Xiaoqi..."

Xiang Zhi's back went rigid, afraid he'd been found out again.

At the same time, a strange sense of relief washed over him.

...As if, as long as Le Wuya could still see through him, their game hadn't reached its final round.

There was still a chance. Still hope.

But Le Wuya, breathing in low pants, added the rest: "...Xiaoqi, he seems brash and wild, but deep down... he's still a child."

"He loves to compete in everything, just like me—if he doesn't fight for something, he thinks life is boring."

"So, if he ever competes with you, you absolutely must not let him win..."

"First, giving in to him all the time would be unfair to yourself..."

"Second, if he's left with nothing to do, he'll be miserable. I don't want him to be sad. Do you understand?"

Xiang Zhi stared at him, stunned.

His swagger was gone, his pride gone—nothing was left.

For the first time, he answered Le Wuya with such humility and gentleness: "This student... will remember."

Le Wuya tilted his head, looked at him, and gave a faint smile. He reached out, placed his hand on Xiang Zhi's forehead, and stroked it gently.

There was a flame in his eyes, a light that fell on Xiang Zhi's skin, so warm and tender that an old saying came to mind unbidden.

An immortal pats my head, binding my hair for eternal life.

That day, it was Xiang Zhi who felt like he'd almost died.

So many things he could no longer tell apart or remember.

After leaving the prison, he drifted aimlessly through the capital.

The world was like a city of white jade, and he moved through the swirling snow like a lost jackdaw with nowhere to land.

He drifted through the capital for half the night, lost and aimless.

After Xiang Zhi had restored his appearance to its former state and returned to the palace gate, the heavy snow had stopped and dawn had broken.

The palace gate creaked open.

He presented his token, wishing to enter the palace.

While he waited, a eunuch led a young man in coarse clothing with downcast eyes, who quickly verified his waist token with the guards before heading toward Zhaoming Hall.

Xiang Zhi, idly toying with his thumb ring, lifted his gaze, and frost settled over his eyes.

—The man the eunuch was leading wore a Yuan Prison guard's uniform.

He stared fixedly ahead, then, unconsciously, he took a step to follow them.

The guard at the gate, noticing his unusual behavior, hastily stopped him, saying, "Seventh Prince, please hold. Someone will come with word shortly—"

Xiang Zhi shot him a cold, sidelong glance.

The guard shuddered, cursing his bad luck inwardly, and quickly changed his tune, saying, "It's freezing out here—please head inside and wait in front of Zhaoming Hall. When your token is delivered, you may go straight in. If anything happened to your health, I could never forgive myself."

Xiang Zhi hid the murderous look in his eyes and gave a sweet smile. "Then thanks for making an exception."

His smile vanished, his face going composed, and he sped up toward Zhaoming Hall.

Xiang Zhi sensed that something bad was about to happen.

He dared not think about it, yet his heart pounded with a nameless dread, his breath grew ragged, and his hands and feet went cold and numb, clumsy, as if they might tangle together.

He slowed, then stopped altogether, gazing at the ridge beasts on Zhaoming Hall's roof, gilded by the sunlight, his throat tightening as if he were being strangled.

On the snowy palace path, he walked a few steps, then stopped, as if pausing could delay the bad news.

...

But now, five years later, he felt neither panic nor urgency.

Xiang Zhi pressed close against Le Wuya, his arms looped around his teacher, whom he'd thought lost forever, listening to him huff and puff from exhaustion, and reached out to check his heartbeat.

He truly seemed exhausted, his heart thumping like a rabbit's, making Xiang Zhi's palm tingle with warmth.

"Don't go groping around," Le Wuya said, his chest sensitive, and he flinched slightly at the touch.

"My eyes are open—I'm not groping blindly." Xiang Zhi wrapped his arms around his neck and tugged him closer. "Hey, Prefect Wenren, can you really tell me and my sixth brother apart?"

Le Wuya nodded firmly. "Mm. I can."

Xiang Zhi rested his cheek on Le Wuya's shoulder, his voice carrying a strange mix of jealousy and pride, and said, "You're bragging."

Just as Le Wuya was about to speak, a Huangmei opera tune drifted faintly over the water.

He cocked his ear to the lyrics, then sighed, "Damn. Your show's starting."

Xiang Zhi narrowed his eyes lazily and whispered, "It's your show, not mine."

Le Wuya blinked. "What?"

"Shh. No talking." Xiang Zhi laid a finger across his lips. "Listen, it's this part."

The actor playing the female scholar Feng Suzhen sang in a clear, bright voice, drifting across the water and through the treetops.

"I've been to the Qionglin feast, I've ridden my horse down the imperial way. Everyone praises my Pan An looks, but the gauze cap hides a beauty fair!"

Le Wuya got the implication at once and couldn't help laughing.

"Chanjuan" could refer to a beautiful woman, or to the bright moon.

Back then, when little Zhi was reading Su Dongpo's "Water Melody Prelude," he acted like he'd discovered something amazing. He held up the book, trotted over to Le Wuya, and stood on his tiptoes to show him: "Teacher Yue! It's you!"

Le Wuya peered at it and saw the line "The moon waxes and wanes, now full, now dim."

"'The moon wanes'—isn't that you?" Xiang Zhi said with a grin. "So Teacher Yue is a 'chanjuan'!"

Le Wuya, caught between laughter and tears, flicked him on the forehead.

Back then, his fingers still had plenty of strength, and the flick made Xiang Zhi yelp, and he covered his forehead, fuming, "How dare you! You... why do you never flick Sixth Brother?!"

Le Wuya said, "Your sixth brother's always been well-behaved. Why would I flick him?"

Little Zhi, so mad his eyes welled up, said, "You're playing favorites! You patted his head yesterday!"

Le Wuya pointed at his own heart and said, deadpan, "Nobody's heart sits dead center. If it were perfectly centered, you'd be dead."

Xiang Zhi, furious at his nonsense, hopped around in a huff, only to get another flick on the head.

Le Wuya had always treated the kids he was fond of this way.

So, in his last moments in his past life, even though he was feverish and out of it, when he opened his eyes and saw Xiao Qi, dressed as Xiaoliu, crying at his bedside, his fingers still itched to give him a flick.

But in the end, he turned that ready flick into a soft caress.

...The kid was hurting; he couldn't flick him now.