Chapter Twenty-One: Lin Tang

“You… you’re always so careless, getting hurt this badly again… How am I supposed to play with you like this?” The man sat by the window of the little brother’s room, muttering to himself.

The person on the bed lay with eyes closed, his features delicate as jade. The man seated at his side leaned down, a mischievous smile on his lips, his face drawing nearer.

Just as he was about to kiss him, the one on the bed opened his eyes and pressed a hand to his face. The man’s smile widened as he gently removed the hand, then swiftly captured his lips in a kiss. Finding no resistance, he deepened it until he was pushed away. He feigned a look of rapt intoxication, his voice tinged with grievance as he softly called his name.

“Lintang…”

Lintang, blushing, murmured, “Your Majesty… please restrain yourself.”

The man before him looked every bit the roguish libertine, nothing like an emperor, yet he was indeed the Emperor of Mukuo—styled Emperor Jizhun of Mukuo, named Mu Ziyan.

“Call me Ziyan.” He clasped Lintang’s hand.

Lintang turned away, refusing to look at him. Ziyan grew serious, slipped an arm under Lintang’s shoulders, and gently helped him sit up, pulling him into his embrace.

Lintang, gravely wounded, was limp in his arms, unable to move. Holding him close, Ziyan realized he had never seen Lintang so weak before.

His tone was slightly reproachful. “How did this happen, with your skills…”

Lintang caught his breath and replied, “They didn’t seem to be from Mukuo. Their weapons were strange… like a sickle attached to a chain.”

Ziyan frowned. “Vanhe.”

Lintang looked up, puzzled at how he knew.

“There’s a small farming and herding nation bordering Mukuo called Vanhe. The people there wield such weapons—they’re called flying sickles.”

Lintang nodded. “I chased them as far as the Ten-Mile Pavilion, where we clashed. I was outmatched and only made it back because someone saved me.”

“Who?” Ziyan asked.

“His name is Yu Hualiang… I think he’s an artist recruited by the Seventh Prince.”

“Mu Zicheng…” Ziyan repeated softly, glancing down to find Lintang’s eyes closed once more.

A dull ache thudded in his chest. He touched Lintang’s forehead, feeling the fever burning again, and instinctively held him tighter.

He muttered under his breath, “Don’t sleep… You’re all I have left…”

“No…” Lintang forced his eyes open and whispered, “Your Majesty… you still have your throne… If one day…”

“There is no ‘if’!” Ziyan roared. Lintang shrank in his arms, so he steadied himself and said more gently, “It’s all right. I’ll take you home.”

He wrapped his cloak around Lintang and carefully lifted him up. Outside, a dozen men stood motionless in the accumulating snow.

“To the palace.”

At Ziyan’s command, they sprang into action, quickly escorting the carriage away into the dusk, leaving no trace behind.

In the drifting snow, the beat of wings could be heard now and then. The Seventh Prince stood in the courtyard, gazing at the endless white. Snowflakes landed on his shoulders, making him look even colder and lonelier.

Ye Fang draped a cloak over him. The sound of wings grew closer. The Seventh Prince raised his hand, and a white snow dove alighted on his palm.

He carried the dove inside, untying the message from its leg as he mused to Ye Fang, “Tell me, why hasn’t Ziliang returned yet?”

Ye Fang pondered. He had no idea—the shadow guards sent to protect Yu Hualiang weren’t answerable to him. Seeing the prince’s growing unease, he tried to comfort him. “Perhaps the snow is too heavy, and he’s sheltering somewhere safe.”

The prince nodded, accepting the explanation. “If he’s still not back in a while, send someone to look for him.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Ye Fang replied.

The Seventh Prince’s mood had been good, but after reading the letter, his smile froze.

He sighed. “We failed…”

“Shall I…” Ye Fang began, but was cut off.

“You and Ye Mo together wouldn’t be a match for him anyway… And my brother, where did he get that monster… Rather interesting.” The prince let out a dark chuckle.

Ye Fang tried to offer advice. “What should we do… Should we recruit more experts?”

“No need. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Yu Hualiang winced at the pain in his injured arm. He’d stopped at a random clinic for some medicine before hurrying back, worried he’d be locked out after curfew.

“Young master, shall I carry you?” Mo Cai asked, seeing his struggle between urgency and exhaustion.

Yu Hualiang waved him off, unwilling to be embarrassed. He caught his breath, bracing himself against the wall. “Let’s go… let’s go.”

When they finally burst back into the courtyard, Yu Hualiang dove under the blankets and refused to come out.

Mo Cai brought him a bowl of ginger soup, but after a sip, Yu Hualiang mumbled that it didn’t taste as good as Alyu’s.

“Young master, please have some more,” Mo Cai urged.

Yu Hualiang shook his head. “Mo Cai, I want dumplings.”

Mo Cai was dumbfounded. “Young master… what are dumplings?”

Yu Hualiang sighed. There would be no dumplings tonight. “Just make some noodles then.”

“Yes, sir.” Mo Cai set off to roll out the noodles, only to find there was no flour left. He decided to fetch some from the kitchens.

Luckily, Ye Fang had shown him the way before, so he soon found the kitchen court.

Though it was night, the place was bustling—pastry-makers, cooks, and the air thick with the aroma of food. Most of those inside were women.

When they saw Mo Cai, none gave him a second glance; some even looked at him with open dislike. Mo Cai was baffled—had he somehow wronged them?

He took a deep breath. “Excuse me, sister, could I have some flour?”

No response. He raised his voice. “Excuse me!”

“What is it? What do you want?” One woman glared at him, her attitude harsh.

Mo Cai was startled by this tigress of a woman. He shrank back and said, “Sister, just a little flour, please.”

She grudgingly handed him a bowl. He looked—barely enough to make broth, let alone noodles.

He pleaded, “Sister, this isn’t enough…”

Her face twisted with anger as she slammed her rolling pin down. “What, am I making things difficult for you? Are you going to have your young master gouge out my eyes too?”

Mo Cai protested, invoking Yu Hualiang’s name. “My young master has never gouged out anyone’s eyes. Sister, you must be reasonable.”

The woman’s fury exploded as she slammed the table, raising a cloud of flour. The others quickly tried to restrain her, but she struggled and shouted, “Let me go! I just want to know! What did that dog of a young master do to our Wang Guard?”

“Insult me if you want, but d