Chapter 82 Part 1

That night, Liu Yuanxun slept alone.

Ling Ting had no idea about the conflict between them. After helping him wash up, he retired to the adjoining room.

Liu Yuanxun lay on the bed, eyes fixed on the intricate patterns carved into the bedpost. Suddenly, it hit him: from now on, he might always be sleeping alone.

He rarely felt lonely. People who preferred quiet usually enjoyed their own company, treating themselves as their own best friend—able to voice any thought inwardly and even respond to it.

But in this moment, lying there on the bed, a strange sense of emptiness crept into his heart. He wasn’t sure if it qualified as loneliness, but with the spot beside him vacant, the entire room felt hollow.

In the previous days when Gu Lianzhao hadn’t returned, he hadn’t paid it much mind. He had always known Gu Lianzhao would come back eventually—whether in two days or four made little difference.

But now, he felt certain that Gu Lianzhao wouldn’t be coming back.

With Gu Lianzhao gone, the whole bed was his. Yet when he climbed into it, he instinctively took the inner side, as always.

He turned his head to the right, toward the empty space beside him, just as vacant as his heart. It felt like something irreplaceable had been lost. But when he considered the consequences of trying to keep Gu Lianzhao there, that faint pang of loss seemed utterly insignificant.

He turned away and gently closed his eyes.

Everyone had their own path to follow. To meet a companion for the final stretch of one’s journey was already a stroke of great fortune. He just felt a bit guilty toward Gu Lianzhao. After all, he was the one who had called them friends, and he was also the one who hadn’t cleared up the misunderstanding, letting Gu Lianzhao leave with a heart full of resentment.

Gu Lianzhao was the only friend he had ever treated as an equal. And he seemed to be the only one Gu Lianzhao had truly let close enough to entrust with anything.

As darkness enveloped his vision, the memories flickering in his mind grew dim. When he thought of Gu Lianzhao’s name, he suddenly realized he could scarcely picture his face.

It was a novel sensation for him. He didn’t have a photographic memory, but his recall had always been sharp—especially for faces and figures, thanks to his frequent painting. Yet he couldn’t summon Gu Lianzhao’s visage.

Whenever he thought of him, only his eyes came to mind.

Beyond those eyes, Gu Lianzhao’s features blurred into a vague outline. Perhaps it was because they always gazed intently into each other’s eyes while talking; over time, only that pair remained vivid.

Those eyes were dark and fathomless, like bottomless pools where something always seemed to churn beneath the surface—repressed, intricate, profound. They belonged to someone who carried many burdens in his heart.

Liu Yuanxun had thought he would lie awake all night, but somehow, he drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke, aside from his hands and feet feeling icy cold, he was surprised to find his fever completely gone. His body felt much lighter, too.

As dawn broke, the melancholy of the night faded. Liu Yuanxun easily came to terms with the fact that Gu Lianzhao wouldn’t be appearing again.

After eating and taking his medicine, he picked up a book and flipped through a couple of pages. For a fleeting moment, he even had the illusion that Gu Lianzhao had never been there at all.

“Master,” Ling Qing ventured cautiously, noting his improved spirits, “did you quarrel with Attendant Consort Gu?”

Ling Ting paused in his tasks upon hearing this and looked toward Liu Yuanxun alongside her.

It hadn’t really been a quarrel—no one had raised their voice. His own attitude had been cold, Gu Lianzhao’s voice weak. Even the atmosphere hadn’t been a tense standoff. If anything, Gu Lianzhao had seemed more heartbroken than angry.

Liu Yuanxun pressed his lips together and murmured, “We didn’t quarrel. Now that he’s been reinstated, his primary role is as North Pacification Commander. His focus naturally has to shift—he can’t stay here forever just to take care of me.”

Ling Ting picked up on the undercurrents and blurted out, “So, will I be the one taking care of you from now on?”

Liu Yuanxun curved his lips into a faint smile and looked at him. “Yes, I’m afraid it’ll be hard on you again.”

“It’s no hardship.” Ling Ting’s heart pounded wildly. He had never dreamed a day like this would come. Gazing at Liu Yuanxun’s serene smile, he felt a surge of joy, like having something lost returned to him.

Gu Lianzhao’s departure left no apparent trace in the prince’s mansion. He hadn’t taken Black Thunder with him, only Broom Tail. Apart from a few changes of clothes left in a cabinet in the side room, all that remained was an empty doghouse.

Ling Qing, who had once whimsically declared she wanted to raise a dog, had forgotten all about it once Black Cloud arrived. The doghouse had sat empty ever since—three days now.

…

Over those three days, Gu Lianzhao returned to the barracks room he had occupied for four years.

The young servant who handled the cleaning froze upon seeing him. Just that afternoon, Gu Lianzhao had mentioned assigning the room to someone else, and now, before full darkness had even fallen, he was back.

Fortunately, the Embroidered Uniform Guard barracks weren’t heavily occupied, so the room was just as he had left it.

Gu Lianzhao had finished handling his pending matters, and Liu Xun had further divvied up his authority—even the task of interrogating prisoners had been handed off to others. Though he remained within the Embroidered Uniform Guard, he had effectively been sidelined.

Besides, now wasn’t the right time for him to leverage connections and turn the tables on Liu Xun. The matter with Liu Yuanxun still hung unresolved; Liu Xun’s stance reflected Hong Fu’s intentions. Without settling that, no one would risk defying the emperor to mediate for him.

And so, Gu Lianzhao suddenly found himself with nothing to do.

When things had been close with Liu Yuanxun in recent days, he had been too busy to even sleep. Now that their relationship had shattered, he was so idle he could only sleep—and even lacked the motivation to pick up a blade and practice.

Broom Tail lay quietly on the floor, utterly indifferent to being back in its “old home.” As long as Gu Lianzhao was there, it seemed not to care where they were.

After a long silence, perhaps sensing its master’s low mood, it padded over to the bed and gently tugged at the hem of Gu Lianzhao’s sleeve dangling over the edge, twice.

Gu Lianzhao glanced down at it and patted its head. “I’m fine. Just tired. I’ll rest a bit, and it’ll pass.”

He truly was exhausted.

Perhaps the relentless pace of the past few days had drained him completely. Now that he had stopped, he couldn’t even be bothered to lift a finger. Yet sleep eluded him. Beyond the fatigue, what gnawed at him was an inner void.

That emptiness robbed him of interest in everything—martial practice, power struggles. The things that had once driven him now seemed like faded ink paintings: dull, even faintly tedious.

Gu Lianzhao let his hand drop. Without looking, he felt Broom Tail nuzzle its head into his palm. He absently stroked it and sighed. “You stay put. I’m heading to the Imperial Prison.”

He needed something to stir his energy—hatred, bloodshed, anything to shatter this stagnant lethargy.

When he entered the Imperial Prison, the Interrogation Room echoed with a prisoner under torture. The executioner was Wang Ben, Liu Xun’s recent favorite and the man who had nearly claimed the Pacification Commissioner seat in his place.

Wang Ben neither acknowledged nor glanced at him, treating him like thin air, but the force of his blows grew heavier.

The prisoner’s body was bound to the torture rack, ropes winding around him like a caterpillar forced onto its back with its head reared up. Compared to his grotesquely twisted face, even a caterpillar would seem delicately handsome.

As Wang Ben turned the gear on the side of the rack with a light twist, the prisoner’s contorted body arched further back, his spine grinding perilously close to his tailbone—like dry timber on the verge of snapping.

“Eighth Lord, Eighth Lord, make it quick… please, make it quick!”

Wang Ben’s lips curved into a smile, as if moved by the plea. He actually eased his grip on the lever, letting the prisoner exhale in shaky relief.

But the moment that breath escaped, Wang Ben yanked hard, wrenching the upright torso back another full foot.

A beat of silence, then a shriek so piercing it could shred eardrums erupted. The prisoner’s flushed face turned ashen purple, veins bulging on his forehead as if ready to burst.

Wang Ben laughed triumphantly amid the wails, shooting Gu Lianzhao a provocative glance—as if flaunting the power Liu Xun had bestowed upon him.

His experience outstripped Gu Lianzhao’s, his skills surpassed him, and he was far more obedient. After Liu Qianyuan’s death, the position should have been his, only for Gu Lianzhao to swoop in and steal it.

He had hated Gu Lianzhao for far longer than a day or two, and with Liu Xun’s tacit approval, he itched to crush him right there in the Imperial Prison. So what if Gu Lianzhao had married into the prince’s mansion? He was just a consort. If he were truly favored, Liu Xun wouldn’t be taking this stance.

“Too noisy,” Gu Lianzhao drawled from the stool behind the desk, his voice flat. “Quiet down.”

“Hear that? Ninth Lord Gu wants you to quiet down.” Wang Ben smirked in challenge, slowly turning the gear. The prisoner, who had fainted from pain, jolted awake and let out another agonized howl, neck craned back.

“I meant you,” Gu Lianzhao said. Most of his body was shrouded in shadow, the dim candlelight illuminating only half his face. That spellbinding countenance now wore a profoundly gloomy cast, enough to make even Wang Ben flinch.

But the calm tone emboldened Wang Ben, who straightened up. “If Ninth Lord finds it noisy, he can go back to his barracks. It’s qui—”

“I said you’re the noisy one!” Gu Lianzhao exploded, slamming his foot into the desk. He hadn’t channeled internal force, but the sudden rage carried through. The sturdy wooden desk flipped over with a resounding crash, splintering against the floor.

Wang Ben instinctively staggered back two steps, incredulous. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I said… you’re… noisy.” Gu Lianzhao remained seated. The extinguished candle plunged the last gleam from his face, leaving only a hazy silhouette—but for the chilling glint in those dark eyes.

Wang Ben was no nobody; though momentarily cowed by Gu Lianzhao’s aura, he recalled the Embroidered Uniform Guard watching from inside and out, all waiting for his response. Fury boiled over, and he struck out with a palm strike whistling through the air. “Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t call the shots in the Embroidered Uniform Guard!”

Gu Lianzhao reacted with blinding speed, springing up and swinging the chair beneath him in a vicious arc, dark and lethal.

Wang Ben hadn’t anticipated the swift counter. In haste, he retreated two steps and chopped at the incoming chair with his hand as a blade. With a thunderous crack, the solid wood chair shattered, sending splinters flying.