A flicker of candlelight wavered across the lower half of his face.
Lizhu’s gaze unconsciously fell upon the two slightly curved thin lips before her.
He carried a trace of a smile, the curve teasing. As the candle flame trembled, Lizhu grew dazed, as if she had returned to the study in the Princess’s Manor.
The next moment, he would toss aside the inkstick in his hand, turn his head, and kiss her.
His breath would be hot, his lips cool. He would unhurriedly sip and taste her lips and tongue, his body leaning over hers; she would bend at the waist and fall into the depths of scrolls and the scent of ink.
Lizhu’s breath tightened; she hurriedly turned her gaze away.
A drop of ink fell onto the bamboo slip. She came back to herself and used the book knife to scrape it away bit by bit, slowly.
“…It doesn’t count as deception,” she said softly, head lowered, the skin of her neck faintly red. “Because I could tell.”
The hand playing with the inkstick stopped.
The wick crackled; firelight leapt in his eyes.
“You could tell even that?”
“I’ve wanted to say this for a long time—” Lizhu looked at him with a kind of eyes that dared to be angry but not to speak, “Can you restrain yourself a little? Don’t, at every time and place…”
“At every time and place what?”
Lizhu held back for quite a while before spitting out three words.
“Go into heat.”
She seemed to think those three words carried great power.
Pei Zhaoye’s expression was calm. “Can’t help it. Men are just like that.”
“Who says so? Not everyone is like that.”
Lizhu instinctively retorted, but Pei Zhaoye seemed to seize on her words like striking a snake with a stick, his voice low and sinister as he pursued:
“Who isn’t like that? That fiancé of yours who draped a cloak over you?”
Lizhu, who was copying text with her brush, frowned slightly.
“What does it have to do with him?”
He said lightly, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Hearing him say that, Lizhu for some reason felt a little guilty, her tone softening without meaning to.
“In any case, don’t lie to me anymore, all right?”
When she said this, the corners of her eyes drooped slightly, carrying a helpless, pitiful air.
Pei Zhaoye’s fingers, hidden beneath the desk, had just brushed the edge of one of the books, and suddenly paused.
“You really like hearing the truth?”
“Who would like hearing lies?”
“That may not be true. Some people always think they like hearing the truth, but in fact, they only want to hear something that is both true and pleasant. Most truths are hard to listen to.”
Lizhu fell silent for quite a while upon hearing that.
She couldn’t help but think, what he said… seemed to make some sense.
In her previous life, she had been kept in the dark. Someone had done his utmost to play the role she could accept.
At that time, she had never thought of uncovering any truth, only feeling that she lived happily and contentedly.
If she had known from the start that he was not some upright scholar from a poor family, but a murderous bandit who had taken another man’s name—
Could she really have let down her guard and accepted him so easily?
It seemed… hard to say.
“Then let me ask you a question.”
Lizhu suddenly put down her brush, her expression solemn.
“If you went to Luoyang and became a high-ranking official, one of the Three Dukes, but had to abandon all your bandit habits—you couldn’t wield a blade or a spear anymore, at least on the surface you’d have to look refined and cultured—would you be happy?”
Pei Zhaoye’s face was expressionless. “Happy my ass. You still haven’t given up on that amnesty idea, have you?”
Lizhu: “…No one’s granting you amnesty! You went to Luoyang to be an official on your own!”
“Absolutely impossible.”
“Then suppose! Suppose you did?”
“No such supposing.”
Lizhu stared at him without speaking.
After a moment of stalemate, he averted his gaze and said coldly:
“Other than being the mountain lord of Yushan, I have no interest in anything else. Don’t even mention being like those soft-boned men who spend all day holding fans and tails of fly whisks pretending to be gentlemen. Take away my blades and swords, and it’s like taking away my soul. A man without spirit and soul, what difference is there between him and a walking corpse?”
After he finished speaking, he caught sight of Lizhu’s face turning suddenly pale.
“I told you, the truth isn’t pleasant to hear.”
Lizhu lowered her head and picked up her brush again, continuing to flip through the pile of books.
“Why aren’t you talking?”
She murmured, “It’s almost dawn. I have to finish reading these quickly.”
“I rarely say anything from the heart, and that’s your reaction?”
“Then what kind of reaction do you want?”
The eyes looking at her seemed to have gone through a late autumn rain, damp and desolate.
Lizhu only suddenly realized that the three years of marriage which had been so blissful to her in the previous life did not hold the same meaning for him.
The splendor of Luoyang, the glory of high rank—none of it was what he desired.
Even on the days he was married to her, he had to hide his true self every single day, never truly at ease.
…Then why, in their previous life, had he suddenly decided to assume Pei Yinzhi’s identity and enter officialdom, heading to Luoyang?
Unfortunately, even if she were to ask the man before her now, he would not know the answer either.
Seeing her suddenly droop her brows and look so downcast, Pei Zhaoye felt a sudden tangle of irritation.
“Since it’s all hypothetical, can’t you add a little wager to it?”
“What wager?”
Lizhu frowned. “You’re already a grand official ranked among the Three Dukes, isn’t that wager enough?”
“Who cares about those Three Dukes or Six Wives.”
Lizhu took a deep breath.
The Three Dukes were the Chancellor, Grand Commandant, and Imperial Censor. Couldn’t he at least read a bit more?
Pei Zhaoye tilted his head, propping his temple, gazing at her under the candlelight.
“The wager I’m talking about would at least have to let me marry a princess… or something like that.”
“If you could marry a princess, you’d be willing to become an official?” Lizhu asked tentatively.
“No.”
Pei Zhaoye answered with great decisiveness.
Lizhu didn’t want to pay him any more attention.
“But wasn’t your hypothesis that I’d already gone to Luoyang and become an official? Even though that kind of life sounds like pure dogshit—”
Hearing him describe it with a faint smile and the word dogshit, Lizhu’s eyes widened in shock.
“But, if I could sleep with a princess every day, then I suppose that would be fine.”
As his words fell, the inner room went silent for a moment.
“You—”
Lizhu gripped her brush as if holding a sword, pointing at him in astonishment, the skin showing at her collar completely flushed red.
At the same time, Pei Zhaoye’s ink-stained fingers moved beneath the desk, flipping to a certain page in one of the books and smearing out a line.
His movement was quick and clean, without a trace of expression on his face.
“The words are crude, sure, but isn’t that the heartfelt truth you said you wanted to hear?”
“Stop talking. I don’t want to hear it.”
“See? I told you you don’t like hearing the truth. No wonder people lie to you. You’re just like one of those emperors who pretend to be open-minded—say you want your officials to speak freely, but once they do, you get upset.”
Lizhu was struck speechless by his retort.
She… was she really such a hypocritical person?
“You’re just twisting words!”
“If you won’t even let a man speak the truth, then who’s the one twisting, and who’s the one arguing without reason?”
“I’m only telling you not to speak indecently, who said you couldn’t tell the truth?”
Pei Zhaoye gave a short laugh, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee.
“Then I suppose I really have nothing left to say.”
“……”
A knock sounded outside the door.
“Princess,” came Xuan Ying’s voice, “I’ve set up another desk and mat in the courtyard. Why doesn’t the Princess move there for now? Once I’ve finished cleaning here, you may return inside.”
Lizhu, who wasn’t eager to continue this conversation with Pei Zhaoye, immediately agreed.
In the courtyard, Xuan Ying placed two portions of late-night food on the table, along with the sweet soup Lizhu liked.
“Staying up late harms the body, Your Highness. Please have something to eat first before you continue reading.”
“All right. You’ve worked hard tonight.”
“This is nothing. It’s Your Highness who—”
“By the way,” Lizhu suddenly asked, “how is Tan Xun’s condition?”
Xuan Ying glanced at Pei Zhaoye, who was seated nearby.
“…The physician has examined him. A few ribs were injured inside, but fortunately, no internal organs were harmed. He mustn’t move around; with rest, he’ll recover.”
Lizhu nodded in relief.
“Good thing it isn’t serious. After all, he was injured because he was saving me.”
Xuan Ying once again cast a glance toward Pei Zhaoye, who was calmly picking up dishes beside them.
…Forget it. If anyone was going to report this matter, it was better that Tan Xun and the others tell the Princess themselves.
Taking advantage of the brief rest, Lizhu handed over the notes she had copied and organized.
“Although I’ve only finished about forty percent, I more or less understand the situation. Take a look.”
Xuan Ying skimmed carefully through Lizhu’s notes.
Compared to the confidential records that were fragmented and arranged only by dates, Lizhu had reorganized those scattered incidents by individuals and years, sorting them into a coherent summary.
“The ones involved are mostly officials and noble families from Yiling, Wan County, and Suinan. The most frequent interactions are with the officials of Yiling Commandery.”
Holding her sweet soup, Lizhu took small sips as she spoke:
“Setting aside the minor bits, the Pei family mostly worked on behalf of the Xue clan in Suinan and the Tan clan in Wan County. What they did was nothing more than helping the Xue clan conceal reports of displaced people, helping—”
