The downfall of the Su family came without warning—a sudden nightmare none could foresee. As an influential family with ties to the Empress Dowager, the Su clan had always held a position of privilege, their actions tolerated even when they crossed lines. Yet on a bitter winter night, the Empress Dowager succumbed to a sudden illness, and the Su family was exiled in its entirety.
Only Wu Chuyu’s branch was spared, but the discovery of an enormous fortune hidden within the Su family’s private treasury implicated them as well. The Wu family’s foundation was irrevocably shaken. Throughout it all, the Yè clan stood silently, watching without intervention.
Mo Hehuai next encountered Yerong at a private imperial banquet. During the gathering, Roga subtly broached the subject of a betrothal, but Mo evaded the discussion, his heart weighed with unease. After several cups of wine, he excused himself and slipped away unnoticed.
Outside, snow fell gently—white as feathers drifting from the dim amber sky, landing upon the barren branches of the garden’s trees. He stood quietly amidst the snowfall, and in a fleeting moment, his gaze was drawn to a figure clad in black.
Her dark cloak, raven-black hair, and wrists paler than the snow extended gracefully amidst the skeletal branches. Sensing his presence, she turned and smiled, her eyes dark as obsidian yet warm as a spring breeze, tranquil as a deep pool. Her smile, faint and fleeting, was interrupted by a sudden gust of wind. Snowflakes danced wildly around her, enfolding her slender figure in a flurry of black and white, an inexplicable allure emanating from the vision.
In that moment, the walls Mo Hehuai had built within his heart collapsed with a resounding crash. All he could see was her—the delicate figure standing amidst the storm. The world around him faded; only she remained, her image seared indelibly into his memory.
Mo clenched his fist tightly, the pain in his palm grounding him, though his heart skipped a beat before plummeting into an ache so vivid it stole his breath. For the first time, he understood the madness that had consumed their common adversary, Jǐn’ōu.
That fleeting beauty, that instant of vulnerability, ignited an insatiable desire within him—a yearning to possess her, to hold her gaze forever. Yet it was an impossible dream.
He let out a cold laugh, then a bitter one, his expression darkening as he turned to leave. But as he stepped away, her voice, clear and tremulous like the plucking of strings, stopped him in his tracks.
“Am I so terrifying that you must flee upon seeing me?”
He ignored her and kept walking, determined to erase her image from his heart.
A soft cry broke the air. Without thinking, he turned and rushed toward her, catching her as she stumbled. His arms instinctively tightened around her, and for a moment, he was enveloped by a warmth that made him loath to let go. Her presence, her scent, her very being—it was all he could want, and he wished to hold her forever.
But she pushed him away, her slender frame retreating as her black cloak, embroidered with golden ephemerals, fluttered in the wind, revealing glimpses of her frailty beneath. Her teeth bit into her pale lips, staining them a vivid red. She smiled faintly, her expression both gentle and mocking.
“Congratulations on your upcoming marriage, General.”
“Your Majesty is well-informed. Nevertheless, I thank you for your blessing.”
His breath grew heavier as he collected himself.
“So it’s true? I had heard rumors but dared not ask…”
Lowering her gaze, her lashes cast a shadow that concealed the glint of sorrow in her eyes. When he looked closer, a single tear clung to her lashes, glistening like crystal.
This was the second time she had wept before him. The first had been for someone else. Was this time for him?
With that tear tracing her pale cheek, she gazed at him with her sightless eyes—so cold, so lonely, yet impossibly proud.
“Hehuai, how strange you are. You have the courage to defy the heavens, yet why… why can’t you admit it? Is it so hard to confess that you love me?”
“And you? Do you not already have someone you love?”
His voice, usually calm and composed, slipped out in a question he could not restrain. As the words left his lips, his brows furrowed in frustration at his loss of control—why was it that he could not contain himself in her presence?
“Right now, I love you, Hehuai. In this moment, I love you.”
Her voice carried a soft sigh, lingering with a sorrowful melody. Her expression remained cool and distant, yet a profound loneliness and a haunting beauty emerged from the calm.
She was breathtaking.
Without another word, she stood silently, her figure slender and fragile.
Mo Hehuai’s hand trembled, veins bulging as he finally spoke in a hoarse voice.
“It’s not that I don’t love you—I can’t. He is my brother. I may plot against his throne, scheme for his kingdom… but I cannot steal his wife. And I cannot love a deadly viper steeped in poison!”
He flung his sleeve and turned sharply, walking away. Yet with every step, the image of her tear-streaked face haunted him, compelling him to glance back.
She remained beneath the barren tree, her usual detachment replaced with sorrow—profound, heart-wrenching sorrow. Her slender frame trembled in the wind, appearing so fragile it might shatter.
He realized, painfully, that she loved him.
Truly, she loved him.
His hand reached out unconsciously, his heart pleading for the first time with a demand so fierce it burned through his soul. He wanted her—needed her. Only she could heal the wounds he carried.
For so long, he had passively accepted everything: his mother’s legacy of hatred, the North’s brutal training, the unyielding belief that he must seize the throne of Liguo.
But now, for the first time, his heart voiced its own desire.
With immense effort, he forced his hand to lower, the pain within him as raw as an open wound.
He recalled the words from months ago, spoken by the Northern King Peirong during a midnight meeting at Qingzhou’s border: to claim the world, he must abandon Yerong.
Turning away, he walked decisively, never looking back.
Yet as he left, his heart tore open, leaving a wound that would never heal.
Beneath the tree, the cold wind whispered past, and Yerong instinctively wrapped her arms around herself. Yet her lips, a delicate cherry red, curved into a faint smile.
A bird caught in a net, no matter how it struggles, cannot escape.
It was February, the early days of spring. Within the courtyard of Qianqian Palace, a few apricot blossoms had begun to bloom, their faint fragrance mingling with the brisk winds. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Roga found himself thinking of Yerong, and so, he made his way toward Ningye Palace.
At that moment, there was no ulterior motive—he simply wanted to see her.
Halfway there, he heard the faint strains of a qin in the distance. The melody, cool and ethereal, carried a wistful depth, its lingering notes drawing him in. He followed the sound without realizing, his steps guided by the music.
In the depths of the courtyard, amidst a cluster of blossoming apricot trees, Yerong sat serenely. Her dark hair was adorned with a single golden phoenix hairpin, its jeweled surface shimmering faintly. Her black brocade gown, woven with gold threads, glowed softly under the sunlight, and for a moment, Roga felt as though she were wrapped in a delicate mist—a beautiful illusion.
Yerong cradled a pipa in her lap, her gaze fixed on someone unseen. Her expression was tender, even poignant, as though caught between indifference and yearning. The springtime beauty around her seemed to blur, enchanted by her presence.
Roga paused, unable to take another step. He had never seen this expression on her face before. He simply stood there, watching, captivated by the woman he thought he knew.
She said something, her words too soft for him to catch, before lifting her chin with a subtle smile. Though her features remained as striking as ever, a beguiling allure emanated from within, an elegance that made even the air around her shimmer.
Her smile was radiant, yet beneath its brilliance lay an inexplicable sorrow. The deeper her pain, the softer her gaze. It was a purity, untouched by schemes or ambition, that pierced Roga’s heart like an arrow.
In that instant, he realized that Yerong had bared something profoundly precious to the person before her—an emotion he could never hope to attain.
A faint dizziness clouded his mind. Roga blinked, trying to clear his vision, yet his eyes remained fixed on her.
When Yerong suddenly cast aside her pipa, a pair of slender, graceful hands emerged from between the vibrant apricot blossoms. They reached through the tender green leaves as if to grasp something, then hesitated, curling back slightly.
Roga could sense the hesitation in their owner, the wariness that lingered. But eventually, the hands moved forward, gently drawing her into an embrace.
In the crystalline sunlight, Roga watched as the scene unfolded, stunned by what he saw. For a moment, he couldn’t even hear the sound of his own breathing.
Summoning his strength, he took a step forward into the apricot grove. The light around him seemed to dim, shadows deepening across the ground as tree branches stretched their silhouettes. He pressed on, each step accompanied by the crackle of dry twigs beneath his feet.
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Finally, the man came into view—a figure clad in a blue brocade robe. His face was handsome, as if painted by an artist’s brush, with black hair bound by a golden crown. His cat-like eyes were half-closed, somewhere between drowsy and sharp.
Roga wanted to shout, but the words caught in his throat, suffocated by the weight of his emotions.
The man held Yerong by her shoulders. She clung to his wide sleeve, her lips trembling as though to speak, but before she could, he pulled her into his arms, bending down to kiss her softly. Yerong closed her eyes, her arms tightening around him.
Roga could hear the steady rhythm of his own heart, each beat measured and calm, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions raging within.
At that moment, the ever-composed Roga swayed, leaning against a tree trunk for support as his vision darkened. He struggled to steady himself, pressing his fingers against his brow as though trying to shake away the dizziness.
The two figures remained entwined, unmoving, as if they were a natural part of the springtime splendor around them.
Finally, they separated, and Yerong gazed at the man with an indescribable tenderness, her eyes like pools of water—so gentle, it felt like a caress.
The pain was unbearable—an agony that defied description, as if all logic and reason had been stripped away.
Betrayal and heartbreak surged like waves, each cresting higher until they swallowed him whole. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see; his world, his very being, lay in ruins.
Roga raised a trembling hand to halt He Qian from approaching, clutching his chest as he gasped for air.
His thoughts drifted like tides, recalling the day he first met Mo Hehuai. Then, a youth of ethereal beauty, Mo had vowed unwavering loyalty.
“I will stand by your side forever,” he had said, smiling. “I am your sharpest blade, Your Majesty. I will never betray you.”
A strange red light flickered at the edge of Roga’s vision. He blinked hard, hoping it would vanish, wishing it were merely an illusion.
But the scene remained—his beloved wife in the arms of his most trusted brother.
Everything shattered.
It was a long while before Yerong and Mo Hehuai noticed him standing there. Mo recoiled instinctively, stepping back as he steadied himself.
“Your Majesty…” he stammered.
Had Roga seen everything?
Yerong, meanwhile, gripped Mo’s sleeve tightly, as though seeking refuge from Roga’s gaze.
Her gesture brought a startling clarity to him: he was utterly alone.
“I saw everything,” Roga said at last, his voice low but steady.
His hands, clenched at his sides, opened and closed repeatedly as he forced himself to maintain composure. After several long moments, he managed to summon a faint smile—the detached, knowing expression of a ruler accustomed to the world’s darkness.
“Your Majesty?” Mo’s voice quivered with unease.
“Guards! Take Mo Hehuai to the imperial prison!”
The words, though spoken softly, carried the finality of a winter leaf trembling in the wind before falling.
Everything Roga cherished had crumbled. The woman he loved, the brother he trusted—both had turned to ash before his eyes. The despair of losing what was most precious was a pain so profound, it left him hollow.
The guards surrounded Mo Hehuai and bound him tightly.
Beneath the dense lashes framing his jet-black eyes, there was no trace of panic or fear—only an unyielding, fierce determination.
“Rouge, don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
Among the blossoming flowers, she stood quietly, sightless, gazing in the direction of his voice. Her resolute expression, as unbreakable as iron, softened with a gentle warmth when she heard him speak.
That beauty, however, was reserved for another man.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
The guards escorted Mo Hehuai closer to Roga. Slowly, the distance closed, until they stood near enough to see their reflections in each other’s eyes. Roga’s gaze followed Mo Hehuai’s every move, growing colder and sharper with each step.
Roga spoke, his voice calm but commanding, as he fixed his eyes on Mo Hehuai, framed by the wind and falling blossoms.
“Stop,” he ordered, and the guards halted immediately.
“Mo Hehuai, I know you won’t yield,” Roga said, his tone cutting like a blade.
Mo Hehuai straightened his back, meeting Roga’s penetrating gaze without hesitation.
“You’re right. I won’t.”
For the first time, he addressed the emperor not as a subject but as an equal, using "I" instead of "your servant."
In the clear daylight, Roga studied him, momentarily dazzled by the swaying apricot blossoms behind him. His gaze returned to Mo Hehuai’s fierce, contemplative eyes, framed by his dark hair and golden crown. The striking elegance of his aquiline features clashed harshly with the tranquil blue brocade he wore, intensifying Roga’s silent disdain.
Too bold, Roga thought grimly.
Then, he smiled—a cold curve softening his sharp features.
“Listen carefully. I’ll say this only once…”
Though their heights were similar, the sheer weight of Roga’s presence bore down on Mo Hehuai, filling the air with an oppressive tension.
“If you want her, come and take her from me. Steal her with your own hands if you can!”
With that, Roga flicked his bright yellow sleeve, and the guards resumed leading Mo Hehuai away.
As they passed, Roga caught a fleeting glimpse of Mo’s faint smile—a smile brimming with confidence.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
To Roga’s surprise, he felt an eerie calm descend upon him. At least now, he knew what had to be done. Strangling them both on the spot was no longer the plan.
Once the guards had escorted Mo Hehuai out of sight, Roga stepped forward, slowly and deliberately. His shadow, stretched long by the sunlight, moved in tandem with the black silhouettes of tree branches.
With measured grace, Roga reached for Yerong’s hands, trembling as they clutched her chest. He delicately unfurled her fingers one by one, his touch both gentle and possessive. Then, in a low voice devoid of emotion—free from sarcasm yet carrying a familiar menace—he whispered near her ear,
“Is this what you wanted?”
“If that’s what Your Majesty believes, then yes,” she replied.
Yerong raised her head, her voice even and calm, her eyes betraying no fear, no shame, not even hatred. Instead, a fleeting smile graced her lips—cold and indifferent, almost vacant.
Watching her, Roga felt a bitter laugh rise in his throat, but it froze on his lips, emerging as a dry, lifeless curve.
She didn’t even fear him.
All she left for him was indifference.
Uncontrollable rage roared through his veins, a hatred he had never felt for anyone before.
She had his love, the most honored position in Liguo, and the unshakable backing of the Yè family. Was that not enough? What more could she possibly want? Would she only stop when she had pushed him to the brink of ruin?
Fine. Let’s see who reaches the edge first.
His hand trembled as he violently shoved her away. Yet in the moment his madness subsided, a glimmer of contempt flickered in his eyes.
She stumbled, but quickly straightened her back, maintaining her proud posture. Her voice, slow and tinged with a dryness born of some unspeakable emotion, broke the silence.
“Your Majesty, you’re blocking the sunlight.”
For a long moment, Roga didn’t move, her words striking with unexpected force. Then, wordlessly, he shifted his body aside, his gaze never leaving hers.
“There was a time,” she said, her voice smooth and melodic, each word laced with inherent nobility, “when your shadow falling upon me felt warmer than sunlight. There was a time when just your presence would make me tremble. There was a time when I thought seeing you again would drive me mad. But now… how strange. I feel nothing. Now, we are the closest of strangers in this world.”
Her voice softened into a whisper, though her words echoed like a solemn decree. “Roga… I no longer love you. I don’t love you anymore.”
Roga stood frozen, her dark, night-like eyes seeming to pierce through him. They were deeper than water, fiercer than fire—a tempest of chaos and despair.
The tender apricot blossoms could not mask the cold and anguish gripping his heart. With a sudden, furious motion, he struck the tree beside him. The sharp crack of bark splitting echoed through the air, and red streaks of blood marred the jagged wood.
Staring at Yerong—so breathtaking yet so untouchably cold—he realized she wasn’t cold at all. To Mo Hehuai, she was tender and loving. This coldness was reserved entirely for him.
Roga’s heavy breaths filled the silence. His bloodied hand remained pressed against the tree, the growing stain of crimson vivid against its pale bark.
After a moment, he straightened, his eyes void of all emotion. The fiery chaos that had consumed him moments before had transformed into an icy resolve.
“I considered Mo Hehuai my brother, yet you lured him into your schemes, setting a trap that forced me to destroy my own mother. Yerong, I must commend your cunning.”
“Did you never suspect the Su family of embezzlement? Never harbor resentment toward Su Qingfu? Mo and I schemed, yes, but you merely seized the opportunity, didn’t you? Neither of us used the other—you knew exactly what you were doing,” she replied, her voice cold and steady. A glint of frost flickered in her eyes. “As for you and Mo Hehuai… ‘brothers,’ you say? Similar, perhaps. Resembling brothers, but never truly so. Isn’t that right, Your Majesty?”
Her words cut deeper than any blade, unleashing a storm of fury within Roga. It wasn’t the truth of her accusations that ignited his rage—it was the detached indifference laced in every syllable.
The beast within him, long restrained, finally broke free.
Without thinking, he seized her frail frame and dragged her away with brutal force.
He Qian and He Du exchanged a hesitant glance before silently following.
Blind and disoriented, Yerong stumbled behind him, falling several times, yet he never stopped to help her. He only dragged her onward, relentless.
They arrived at Ningye Palace, where Roga kicked the door open and threw her onto the bed.
Suppressing his seething rage, Roga coldly gazed at Yerong, who lay motionless on the bed where he had flung her. A chilling smile crept onto his face, unbidden, as the flames of fury burned even brighter within his chest.
“Roga? Don’t do something we’ll both regret,” Yerong said, her voice trembling as she sensed an impending terror that her sightless eyes could not discern. Groping hesitantly, she shrank backward, her brows knitting together as she drew a shaky breath before daring to speak.
Roga slowly removed his outer robe, the icy smile on his strikingly handsome face cutting like the chill of winter frost.
"I'm certain—I will never regret this. After all, I've done such things countless times. Why would I regret it? And besides... you're truly beautiful. My empress is truly exquisite."
With those words, he pressed his lips down upon hers, but the moment they touched, Yerong began to struggle violently, her resistance fierce and unrelenting.
Roga smiled again, his expression chillingly composed. In a heartbeat, before Yerong could react, he tore through her garments, her fury meeting his actions with desperate defiance, her teeth clenched as she fought against him with all her might.
Roga pressed her hands down with restrained force, his voice soft and fluid, like the gentle flow of water, yet rippling with an undercurrent of cold cruelty as it lingered in the air near her ear:
"Rong, think of Hehuai—do you want him to live?"
The moment the words escaped his lips, her entire body stiffened. Her snow-white teeth bit down hard on her ashen lips, mingling pale despair with anguished torment that twisted her expression painfully.
Observing her expression, a refined and elegant smirk curved Roga’s perfectly sculpted lips, unmasking the twisted pleasure born of his cruelty.
He released his grip on her wrists, his satisfaction evident as he gazed at the woman sinking into the brocade bedding. Her eyes closed in utter despair, silently awaiting the relentless inevitability about to unfold.
With delicate tenderness, Roga gently swept the stray locks of hair back behind her ear, his graceful smile unwavering. With an unsettling gentleness, he removed the last of her garments.
So, she loves Hehuai after all.
So, by using him as leverage, she would submit without resistance. How amusing.
Watching her wounded, seeing her in pain—and feeling that pain mirrored, amplified within himself—was a cruel irony, darkly fascinating.
His thin lips twisted into a sinister smirk, the curve chilling in its malevolence. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his kiss upon hers, deepening the wound already bitten and bloodied. Each repetition intensified the pain, his cold smile hardening into an even crueler arc.
"I love you..." he murmured as he leaned closer, his tone calm and detached, devoid of any tremor. It was the voice of a man utterly composed, his words chilling in their unyielding rationality. "I love you..."
Her gaze lowered, her soft form exuding an icy clarity, as though sculpted from snow. She quivered ever so faintly, a fragile presence just within reach.
His hand glided over a body as pale and cold as sculpted snow, his touch verging on cruelty as he kneaded and twisted. Gradually, faint blushes of pink bloomed across her chest, waist, and hips, marking the path of his relentless grasp.
Slender, pale fingers twisted feebly into the embroidered bedding, a silent testament to the depth of her anguish.
Only when the searing pain, sharp enough to rend flesh, surged through her again and again did a faint shift flicker across her expression.
Deep within her concealed gaze, a glimmer of triumph—dark and destructive—emerged, as though it sought to obliterate everything in its path.
A haunting allure lingered, seductive and steeped in an intoxicating shadow.