Chapter Seventy-Nine: Turmoil in the Ancestral Hall

Wang Ji’s voice trembled as he said, “Yes.”

He lifted his brush and, swallowing his shame, began to sketch. Yet today, the Fourth Prince was simply too much. Wang Ji’s brow furrowed, his hand quivering so violently that he could not put brush to paper.

The Fourth Prince, still in the throes of pleasure, turned to see Wang Ji had yet to draw a line. “Qingyi, paint,” he commanded.

Wang Ji clenched his eyes shut and sank to his knees. “I beg you, Your Highness, grant me death instead!”

The Fourth Prince halted abruptly, gazing at him with icy calm. “What did you say?”

“I beg Your Highness to grant me death!”

The Fourth Prince withdrew from the woman and said coldly, “Leave us.”

The woman was stunned—she could not understand why, halfway through, he suddenly stopped. The Fourth Prince glared at her and spat, “I said get out!”

Clutching her clothes, she fled without a backward glance, leaving only Wang Ji and the Fourth Prince in the room. The air was taut with tension.

Naked, the Fourth Prince crouched before Wang Ji, gripping his chin with a mocking, mirthless smile. “Qingyi, you’ve ruined my mood. What should I do with you?”

Wang Ji, tense and afraid, stammered, “I… I don’t know.”

Suddenly, the Fourth Prince seized him by the hair and hurled him onto the bed with a growl. “Then I’ll use you to finish what was begun!”

Wang Ji had never imagined things would come to this. He struggled desperately, but after two blows from the prince’s fists, he could resist no longer. For the first time, his body was taken by another man.

His pride as a man was ground to dust, his clothes torn apart. Feeling the prince’s lips on his skin, Wang Ji retched, powerless to resist.

Once satisfied, the Fourth Prince treated him like a rag—dragging him to the bath, washing him perfunctorily before sending him back. Marks of the prince’s passion were scattered across his body and face.

For three days afterward, Wang Ji was in such pain he could not rise from bed. The Fourth Prince visited him, pinching his chin and warning, “Qingyi, I am quite pleased with your body. If you dare disobey me again, this will be your punishment. What do you think?”

He smiled as he spoke.

Wang Ji’s eyes were empty, his expression puppet-like. “Yes, Your Highness. I wouldn’t dare.”

The Fourth Prince laughed, seized his chin, and kissed him again. Wang Ji made no response; only silent tears slipped down his cheeks.

Ji Yuzhe arrived at the Seventh Prince’s residence, only to be stopped at the gate by the guards. Upon inquiry, he learned that Yu Hualiang had perished on the foreign battlefield. The Seventh Prince, plunged into grief, refused all visitors. The guards advised that, for the prince’s sake, Yu Hualiang’s name should not be mentioned, lest it cause him further sorrow.

Stunned, Ji Yuzhe’s mouth fell open in shock. Suddenly, darkness closed in and he fainted dead away. The guards panicked, and Ji Yuyun quickly had him given medicine and sent to the Hall of Tranquility.

After consulting with Doctor Wang, Ji Yuyun relayed the news to Wang Ruosheng as well. The smile faded from Wang Ruosheng’s face—after all, he and Yu Hualiang had been such good friends. Now, just like that, he was gone.

He almost wanted to laugh at the irony—Yu Hualiang, the harbinger of ill-fortune, had come to him seeking a prescription. And now…

It wasn’t until eight days later that news reached the Yu Painting Association and the Qionglin Painting Society. Yu Ming nearly collapsed from grief—he had but one son.

Gone, just like that. How were he and his wife supposed to go on living? White-haired parents mourning a black-haired child, Yu Ming wept so bitterly in the mourning hall that his cries tore at the heart.

“My son! Why did you leave before us? What are your father and mother to do now?”

With tear-streaked face, Liansheng supported him, sobbing, “Master… My senior brother’s spirit would not want to see you like this.”

“Give me back my son!” Yu Ming suddenly lost all reason, seizing Liansheng by the collar and shaking him violently.

Zhou Yibai hurried over to pull them apart. “Master Yu, please calm yourself!”

Yu Ming pointed at him and shouted, “If it weren’t for you, my son would have taken his rightful place as an official! He would never have followed the Seventh Prince to the battlefield!”

Meng Liansheng would never forget that day—how Yu Hualiang, in order to protect him, had driven a brush into a bandit’s eye. Since then, he had not touched a brush himself.

Looking back, had he never encountered Liansheng, perhaps Yu Hualiang’s life would have been smooth and honorable.

Kneeling before Yu Hualiang’s coffin, Meng Liansheng knocked his head three times in deep sorrow. “Senior brother… rest assured… I will take care of Master and Mistress in your stead, for all my life.”

Madam Yu stormed out, her eyes swollen from weeping, her face seeming to have aged ten years overnight. From somewhere, she found the strength to hurl a vase, smashing it beside Liansheng.

With a crash, shards flew everywhere. One even grazed his face, leaving a cut. Zhou Yibai wanted to pull him up, but Liansheng refused to rise, remaining on his knees before the coffin. Madam Yu clung to Yu Ming, sobbing, “I told you long ago—he’s a bringer of misfortune! I told you to send him away to the Yu family, but you wouldn’t listen!”

“My dear, it was Hualiang—he insisted…”

At that, all those present understood. Madam Yu choked out, “What sins has my son committed?”

Liansheng bowed his head, voice trembling, “Master, Mistress… I beg you, let this unworthy disciple keep vigil for my brother’s spirit for seven days.”

“Yu Hualiang!” Chang Zihao burst in, and at the sight of the coffin, was struck motionless. He had always regarded Yu Hualiang as his role model, his goal. He hadn’t even lost to him yet—how could Yu Hualiang die first? In a fit of emotion, he rushed to lift the coffin lid. His two elder brothers quickly stopped him.

“Zihao! What are you doing?”

“Eldest Brother, Second Brother, don’t stop me! Yu Hualiang can’t be dead!”

“He is. The fall was sheer, the body shattered,” Ye Fang said quietly, standing behind the Seventh Prince.

As soon as the Seventh Prince entered, the hall fell silent. After the formal courtesies, the mourners covered their faces, sobbing softly.

But the Seventh Prince stared at Yu Hualiang’s coffin without expression, silent as stone. After a moment, he turned and left.

Everyone sighed at the prince’s coldness. After all, Yu Hualiang had died following him to war. Yet now, he acted as if nothing had happened. In a few years, the prince would forget Yu Hualiang entirely.

Ji Yuzhe, delayed by illness, arrived late. Kneeling beside Liansheng, burning paper offerings, he murmured, “Brother Yu… you know I won’t live long. How could you go before me? Very well… in a few years, we’ll share wine and joy again.”

“Brother!” Ji Yuyun scolded sternly, “Don’t say such things…”

“Master, Mistress, though I am but a servant, I have followed young master since childhood! Please, allow me to keep vigil as well,” Mo Cai pleaded, eyes red from crying, falling to his knees.

Madam Yu wailed anew, and Yu Ming nodded. Only then did Mo Cai join the mourners, kneeling behind Liansheng, his sobs rising and falling.

More people arrived, some sincere, some less so. For a while, the small mourning hall was unexpectedly crowded.

Once Yu Hualiang’s coffin was laid to rest, Liansheng knelt in silence before the grave. Zhou Yibai knelt beside him, softly urging, “Qingli, don’t grieve too much. Yu Hualiang died because of the Seventh Prince. Yu Ming cannot confront the prince and so takes it out on you…”

“Lord Zhou,” Liansheng interrupted, “please be silent before my brother’s grave.”

Zhou Yibai, upset at seeing him suffer and unwilling to leave him alone, knelt with a thud. “This is my friend’s vigil too. It is only right.”

Liansheng ignored him. If he wished to kneel, let him kneel. Liansheng touched the bracelet on his wrist, sighed, and straightened himself once more.

Yu Hualiang, perhaps, never imagined that though his time here was brief and he knew few people, it was not just Liansheng and Mo Cai who would mourn him.

“Zihao, get up,” urged his eldest brother.

Zihao brushed aside his brother’s hand. “Brother, I want to keep vigil for my senior.”

“But…” his eldest wanted to protest, but his second brother stopped him.

“It’s good that Zihao is loyal and true. Let him be…” They had never seen their younger brother like this before; he must truly have grown.

“Brother,” Ji Yuyun said quietly, “it’s time to go.”

Kneeling before the grave, Ji Yuzhe replied, “You go ahead. I’ll stay and keep vigil for Brother Yu.”

“But, brother, your health has only just improved—”

“He’s right,” Wang Ruosheng said from behind. He had been delayed, or he would have come sooner. At his arrival, a warmth spread in Ji Yuzhe’s heart.

“Doctor Wang…”

Wang Ruosheng, concerned, said, “Your illness has barely passed. You can’t push yourself like this. I’ll keep vigil for the artist Yu in your stead. He would want you to rest well.”

Ji Yuzhe wanted to argue, but Ji Yuyun suddenly lifted him up, saying, “Brother, let’s listen to Doctor Wang and go home.”

“Yuyun… Fine, but can you at least put me down?”

“Don’t try to be strong,” Ji Yuyun retorted, ignoring his protests and carrying him away. Ji Yuzhe felt thoroughly humiliated.

How old was he, to be carried by his own younger brother?

Wang Ruosheng hadn’t expected his words to be so helpful to Ji Yuyun. He let out a long breath, gazing at Yu Hualiang’s tombstone, so many things left unsaid.

Come to think of it, Yu Hualiang was the only one with whom he could really talk. A true kindred spirit is the rarest thing in life. Now that Yu Hualiang was gone, how could Wang Ruosheng bear to let go?

In the middle of the night, beneath the peach tree in the Fourth Prince’s estate—the very tree Yu Hualiang had once admired—small, fist-sized peaches were ripening.

A faint light flickered beneath the tree. Someone sat there, burning paper offerings, sheet by sheet. Suddenly, a shadow drifted down behind him.

He did not turn, nor was he startled, as if he had long grown used to such things. Ye Mo stood behind him and asked, “Who are you burning paper for?”

While burning each sheet, Ye Hao answered softly, “For the artist Yu.”

“He did you a favor?” Ye Mo inquired.

“No,” Ye Hao replied.

He was a bodyguard raised by the late emperor to protect the princes. He was not supposed to have such feelings. Except for the grief he felt when his former master, the Second Prince, died, he had felt nothing for anyone else.

Yet, upon hearing of Yu Hualiang’s death, that familiar pain swept over him once more.

Ye Mo said nothing further, but silently vanished into the night.

Perhaps Yu Hualiang could never have imagined that, after his passing, so many people would remember him.

Yet while others mourned and shed tears for him, he was somewhere else, enjoying chicken soup that Alyu had specially made for him, savoring every bite.