Chapter 115 Part 1

Ji Yuheng collapsed in front of the coffin, frightening the palace servants guarding the mourning hall. They hurriedly carried him to a side hall and summoned the imperial physicians for diagnosis.

Fortunately, Ji Yuheng had merely fainted from exhaustion and excessive grief; there was nothing seriously wrong with him. The physicians prescribed a few calming formulas and handed them to the East Palace steward, instructing them to prepare the medicine according to the prescriptions. However, the medicine could only alleviate his symptoms—the most important thing was that Ji Yuheng needed to rest properly.

Ji Yuheng slept for a long time, until he jolted awake from a nightmare.

When he woke, he was drenched in sweat, his undergarments soaked through with cold perspiration. His face was as pale as paper, and he gasped for breath incessantly.

The nightmare, naturally, had been about Qixue.

In the dream, he returned to the moment the dreadful news arrived. All around him were desolate cries of mourning. The world spun before his eyes, everything shrouded in a hideous crimson haze, before plunging into prolonged darkness and emptiness. He couldn’t even sense his own existence.

…

The scars on his arm itched.

Ji Yuheng knew this itch was merely an illusion. The wounds he had personally carved had long since healed, but because of the gloom in his heart, they lingered like festering sores, becoming a chronic torment.

He ignored the itch, changed into a fresh set of clothes, and returned to the mourning hall.

The chanting had not stopped, though a new group of Daoists had taken over. Ji Yuheng’s expression was dazed as he listened quietly for a moment, then suddenly asked softly, “Do you think Mother’s soul can hear the scriptures you’re chanting? Can these scriptures really summon his soul back?”

…

The Daoists exchanged glances. One paused the chanting to reply to Ji Yuheng, “Rest assured, Your Highness. This poor Daoist and my fellow brothers will do our utmost.”

He neither confirmed nor denied it. In truth, even they couldn’t be sure if Qixue’s soul could return. They were merely following Xie Shu’s orders, taking turns to chant these soul-summoning scriptures.

Ji Yuheng withdrew his gaze, unable to hide his pain. “…This palace understands.”

To have enough energy the next day to handle court affairs, Ji Yuheng forced himself to return to the East Palace to rest.

Another day passed.

After court, he returned to the East Palace to transcribe the soul-summoning scriptures. The text wasn’t long, and from listening day after day, he had memorized it unconsciously. He thought, if Mother couldn’t hear the chanting, then he would burn more copies of the scriptures—perhaps that way, Mother could see them.

Ji Yuheng set down the first stroke on the rice paper.

At first, his handwriting was neat and elegant, each character written with utmost care, lest a single mistaken stroke prevent Qixue’s soul from finding its way home.

But the further he wrote, the more erratic and frenzied his script became. Each stroke was like a knife twisting in his heart, relentlessly reminding him that Qixue was dead—that they couldn’t even retrieve his soul, and they didn’t know if it was suffering somewhere.

Would Mother resent them? Would he hate their incompetence for failing to protect him, leading to his death in the flames?

Ji Yuheng’s heart ached as if carved by blades. By the end, tears shimmered in his eyes. In his grief, every stroke he made on the paper was heavy-handed, the ink bleeding through to the other side and leaving dark stains on the desk.

He transcribed the scriptures over a dozen times. When he finished, his hand trembled uncontrollably, and he accidentally dropped the brush, splattering ink across the carpet like congealed black blood.

Ji Yuheng stared blankly for a moment, gathered the scriptures, and headed to Chenglu Palace. By the time he arrived, Helan Ji had already been waiting in the mourning hall for quite a while.

His injuries had not yet healed, and he still couldn’t stand. Dressed in plain white robes with his white hair unbound, he sat in a wheelchair, his dangling sleeves empty. His eyes held no light; though his face remained young and handsome, he resembled a man on the verge of death, emanating a faint aura of demise.

“Father Emperor.”

Ji Yuheng approached Helan Ji, bowed lightly to him, then went behind the wheelchair and pushed him to the front of the coffin.

Next, Ji Yuheng lit the mourning brazier and burned the handwritten scriptures one by one. The orange-red flames reflected in their eyes, yet carried no warmth at all. For a long time, neither spoke.

The flames devoured the paper, fine ashes swirling above the brazier, sparks bursting forth—like the firelight from that day.

Helan Ji closed his eyes.

“Yun Qi.”

His voice was hoarse; the thick smoke had ruined his throat, and he had become even more taciturn than before.

Ji Yuheng responded, “This son is here.”

“Stroke Yuan Yuan for Us,” Helan Ji said.

He had no hands, couldn’t stand, and couldn’t even touch the coffin. Ji Yuheng’s heart filled with sorrow as he complied, placing his palm on the pitch black coffin.

The touch beneath his palm was ice-cold and rough. This was the outermost casket, appearing as a single large black coffin, but its surface was etched with intricate patterns. Lifting the outer lid revealed another layer inside—seven layers in total. At the innermost was Qixue’s Noble Consort attire and porcelain urn.

The coffin was thick and heavy, yet in the face of life and death, it seemed so flimsy. A mere small casket had to bear such immense weight of death and longing, completely separating them. Outside the coffin was the world of the living; inside was the world of the dead.

Ji Yuheng traced the patterns, his body heat warming the wood momentarily before it dissipated, leaving it cold once more.

Helan Ji watched as he caressed the entire casket from top to bottom, then spoke. “After I awoke, I reviewed the memorials and reports you handled. You’ve done very well. It seems it’s time for Us to pass this position to you.”

Startled out of his grief, Ji Yuheng looked up. “Father Emperor?”

“Yuan Yuan is no longer in this world. I have nothing left to cling to.”

Helan Ji changed his self-reference, his tone calm. “I don’t want to live, but I cannot die. This life was saved by Yuan Yuan—he surely wants me to live on, so I will live well in his stead.”

“Since Yuan Yuan loved freedom, while I can still move, I will take his remains and travel the world. When I can go no further, I will write to you to bring us back to the palace. After I die, bury us together.”

He paused, gazing into Ji Yuheng’s eyes. “If you wish to be buried with Yuan Yuan as well, you may. No matter what, don’t let Yuan Yuan be left alone. He fears loneliness greatly.”

Ji Yuheng had been about to say something, but in that moment of eye contact, he was stunned by the profoundly complex look in Helan Ji’s eyes. In the end, he offered no remonstrance, merely replying, “This son will remember.”

Helan Ji nodded. “Go back and rest well. Tonight, I will keep vigil over Yuan Yuan.”

…

The moonlight shone like water.

Helan Ji leaned gently against the coffin and fell asleep. The Daoists lowered their chanting voices, filling the mourning hall with a serene and tranquil atmosphere.

For Helan Ji, the mourning hall was no place of terror. How could it be frightening? The one lying in the coffin was the person he loved most. He only wanted to spend more time with Yuan Yuan, to say a few more words to him.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted outside the mourning hall.

A tiger’s roar thundered like lightning, echoing through the Imperial Palace. The palace servants outside scattered in panic as the massive, ferocious White Tiger burst into the mourning hall. Its snow-white fur was matted with dark red bloodstains, and a low growl rumbled from its throat. But when its gaze fell on the coffin, its fierce eyes instantly welled with tears, and the growl turned into pitiful whimpers.

Wei Huai, likewise covered in blood, dismounted from the tiger’s back, his armor clanging with metallic sounds.

His face was smeared with gore, stubble shadowing his jaw, bloodshot eyes glaring from beneath disheveled hair clumped by blood. All the blood on him came from the man-eating demons, reeking of a foul stench.

Fresh from the battlefield, he had learned of Qixue’s death and raced back to Shangjing from thousands of li away without rest or even wiping his face.

Along the way, he encountered two waves of man-eating demon tides, but time permitted no detour. He single-handedly carved through them, traversing mountains of corpses and seas of blood. Without time to replenish food or water, he had even devoured the demons’ flesh and blood raw to sate his hunger and thirst.

Wei Huai stormed into the mourning hall without a word, striding straight to the coffin and reaching out to shove the lid aside.

Creak…

Though the lid wasn’t yet nailed shut, it was immensely heavy, normally requiring four strong men to lift. Yet Wei Huai pushed it with one hand—and swiftly at that. By the time others reacted, he had already removed the first layer.

“Boom!”

The lid crashed to the floor, cracking the tiles.

“Great General, stop! You can’t do this!”

The palace servants snapped to action and rushed to block Wei Huai, but he didn’t even glance back, shoving them aside effortlessly. They tumbled like dominoes; their strength was no match for Wei Huai, who teetered on the edge of madness.

The Daoists, seeing this, left two to continue chanting while the rest moved to stop him. They had been ordered by Xie Shu to guard Qixue’s remains—no matter what, they couldn’t let Wei Huai damage the coffin.

Though Xie Shu had yet to explain his demonic form, leaving Cloud Moon Temple unstable, his prestige remained high. Even after his exposure, his position held firm in the short term, and most disciples still obeyed him unquestioningly.

As they blocked Wei Huai from the coffin, the White Tiger charged to block them. It bared its fangs ferociously, clashing with the Daoists. Unwilling to harm it, the Daoists dodged, but the tiger showed no such restraint. It sank its teeth into one Daoist’s thigh, tearing through flesh and muscle.

“Ah!”