Chapter 80: C80. Lie With Me For a While.

Chapter 80

On the sixth of February, the cabinet, with shrewd precision, penned the imperial decree in flawless alignment with Emperor Qianxing's spoken will.

That same night, under the dark cloak of Haishi, the young Emperor Qianxing—just thirteen years old—surrendered to his sickness in the tender arms of Empress Dowager Cao. The walls of the palace wept, but Empress Dowager Cao's world shattered in silence, her grief devouring her completely. Yet even in this sea of sorrow, the ministers, sharp and steady, had already prepared for what was to come. The edict was crafted the day before; all that remained was the consultation with the mourning Empress Dowager to decide who would take on the weighty task of bringing the new emperor to his rightful throne.

With the steel of wisdom cutting through her grief, Empress Dowager Cao made her choice. Two eunuchs were dispatched—one from the revered Cining Palace, a man trusted beyond question, and the other, an aging hand who once stood as a confidant to Emperor Yuan Qing.

First Assistant Xia Jin, though eager to steady the government, was bound to the capital, so the duty fell to Second Assistant Liu Ji. By her command, Minister of Rites Ren Jingyi was summoned—his presence a silent affirmation of the gravity of their mission.

Meanwhile, the capital itself demanded a guardian. The responsibility fell on Cao Xun, the emperor’s steadfast uncle, while the younger uncle, Cao Shao, was tasked with receiving his newly crowned nephew.

But who else could bear such a sacred burden? The nobles of Beijing left the decision to the judgment of the mourning Empress Dowager. The choice was undeniable—Duke Ningguo, Li Yong, stood out like a tower of loyalty.

This was no ordinary task. The imperial edict—the final breath of Emperor Qianxing's authority—had to be delivered to the Li Palace in Guizhou. And from that moment forward, the new emperor would need the kind of unwavering protection that only Duke Ningguo could provide. At this perilous turning point, when the new emperor's very life hung in a delicate balance, who could match the ferocious loyalty of Duke Ningguo and his son, Li Xian?

It was whispered across the capital: that if it cost Li Yong his life to bring the new emperor back to Beijing, he would pay that price without hesitation.

With no time to waste—no room for delay—Li Yong and the others, still raw from Emperor Qianxing's death, knelt in solemn grief, their shoulders heavy with duty. Through the long hours of the night, they mourned as warriors do, before rising in the cold edge of dawn. Five thousand elite soldiers from the Beijing Guard awaited, steel and sinew primed for the march. And so, with unshakable resolve and the weight of a crumbling empire pressing upon them, they set forth into the pale horizon, carrying the future of a dynasty on their shoulders.

*

Emperor Qianxing's casket lay solemn and untouched within Fengtian Hall, the air thick with the weight of mourning. For three long nights, Cao Xun kept his dutiful vigil, his form nearly succumbing to exhaustion. Only when Empress Dowager Cao intervened did he finally relent, allowing himself to be taken to Dingguo Palace in a carriage.

That morning, Yunzhu had paid her respects at the palace—her mourning complete for the day. When word reached her that Cao Xun had returned, a swirl of confusion stirred within her. It wasn’t as if she’d expected him back so soon.

For days, their encounters had been fleeting—sharp, fleeting glances exchanged across the vast, formal spaces of the palace. Cao Xun was always at Empress Dowager Cao's side, and Yunzhu was left to silence. No conversations. No words. Only the unspoken tension vibrated in the air between them.

Yunzhu found herself tongue-tied, her mind swirling with questions she dared not utter. Had he truly orchestrated the Emperor’s end? A question like that—dangerous, razor-sharp—should never be spoken aloud. Even if the truth clawed at her, it belonged in the darkest, most hidden corners of her mind. Some truths were meant to rot quietly, unspoken, and buried deep for the safety of everyone involved.

But there was no denying the brutal, inescapable reality: with the Emperor gone, she would no longer have to endure his predatory advances. Her days of shrinking beneath his entitled gaze were over. If King Li rose to power, her family’s fortune would hold steady; the Li family’s favor would persist, perhaps even grow. Whether by design or not, it seemed Cao Xun had done her—and her entire family—a dangerous, calculated favor.

Still, Yunzhu couldn’t flatter herself into believing that the Emperor’s death was some grand gesture for her sake. No, Cao Xun was not the type of man to sacrifice everything for a woman. He was too clever for that. Too focused. Too ruthless. He was playing his own game, prioritizing his survival, his influence—his rise to power.

Once, Cao Xun had confided his ambitions to her—his desire to anchor himself as a dominant force in the court, a powerful minister with the Emperor firmly under his thumb. But a young ruler—cocky, covetous, and barely thirteen—had stood in his way. That same boy dared to hunger for Cao Xun’s wife and, with shameless audacity, dispatched him to Fujian under the pretext of war against the Japanese. A move designed not only to remove Cao Xun from Beijing but to separate him from her. The Emperor had overstepped, using his authority like a blade drawn cleanly from its sheath.

It was a reckless, petty gamble. Though Cao Xun was a formidable force on the battlefield, the Emperor’s authority was absolute. Had Cao Xun marched to Fujian and remained indefinitely, the boy could have kept Yunzhu closer—his desires unchecked and cruelly prolonged. It would have taken nothing short of war, bloodshed, and pure force for Cao Xun to return to Beijing and reclaim his place.

It was clear then, as it was now: the Emperor’s bloodlust was no match for Cao Xun’s ambition.

The truth was sharp and damning—there was no room for two centers of power in a single realm. If the Emperor refused to yield, Cao Xun would take matters into his own hands. And he had. The boy-Emperor had been bold enough to lay claim to Yunzhu, but Cao Xun had outplayed him, not just as a warrior but as a strategist.

Yunzhu saw it clearly now—she had become the tinder that ignited the rift between them, whether she’d meant to or not. If the Emperor had never looked at her with such possessive lust, Cao Xun might have been left to live a quieter, unchallenged life.

Perhaps the boy would have lived long enough to sire an heir. And then, oh, how much easier it would have been for Cao Xun to cradle his power—shaping and manipulating a young, impressionable ruler into the palm of his hand. An uncle with absolute influence, unchallenged and unthreatened.

Instead, the Emperor’s hunger for Yunzhu had accelerated his own undoing. It was his undoing—and Cao Xun’s opening.

And she, Yunzhu, was at the very center of it. Unwilling. Unintended. Yet undeniably pivotal.

Naturally, as husband and wife, it fell upon Yunzhu to greet Cao Xun after his long, grueling absence—whether she liked it or not.

With Lian Qiao trailing her, Yunzhu moved to the front yard just as Ah Jiu supported Cao Xun under the eaves.

He was a mess—a man hollowed out by sleepless nights, dark shadows beneath his eyes, and a rugged, neglected beard that made him look every inch the wolf who'd prowled through storms.

When his gaze locked on her, Yunzhu’s instincts kicked in, forcing her eyes downward. The truth was undeniable: after everything she had endured, she feared him.

It wasn’t just the fact that this man—her husband—had brazenly dared to assassinate an emperor. No, what twisted in her chest was the suspicion that Cao Xun already knew the truth of her past—that she had been willing, at her lowest, to sell herself to the Emperor for the sake of her family.

She’d made peace with the shame of it, though it brought her no comfort. She couldn’t expect Cao Xun to understand, nor did she want him to. How could he not be furious, not resent her for it? His anger, his disdain—they were only natural. All she could hope for was that when everything was done, he would let her go.

Ah Jiu eventually guided Cao Xun into the second room, settling him on the couch before leaving to fetch water.

Yunzhu stood before him. When she dared to look up, she caught him staring—so sharp, so unyielding—that her gaze faltered once more.

“You haven’t rested these past few days,” she ventured, her voice carefully even. “Nor have you eaten much. Shouldn’t you rest first? I’ll have the kitchen prepare something for you.”

His response was swift, unbothered by her soft propriety. “I’ll bathe first. Then you can help me tidy up—and then I’ll eat.”

The gruffness in his tone, the raw edge of him, drew her eyes to the rough stubble on his chin. This was the first time in their brief, fractured marriage she had seen him look so… undone. Less like the polished man she remembered, more like something primal. And yet, it made her throat tighten.

Her voice was a whisper when she finally said, “I’ve never done this before.”

His gaze pinned her where she stood. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll guide you. It’s not hard.”

There was no mistaking the weight in his words, the unspoken expectation. And Yunzhu didn’t dare refuse him. “Of course.”

Moments later, Ah Jiu brought the water. She adjusted the temperature, murmuring a quick instruction to her master before slipping away.

Cao Xun stood, and his deep voice rumbled through the space. “Fetch me a simple change of clothes. Something casual. There’s no need to go anywhere today.”

Yunzhu inclined her head, her movements graceful and obedient.

While Cao Xun strode off to the west bathroom to bathe, she moved to his wardrobe. Her fingers lingered on the soft white silk of a plain jacket before she picked it up and followed him.

From behind the screen, she could hear the water as he scrubbed himself clean, the rhythm of it punctuated by glimpses—unavoidable, fleeting—of the silhouette cast by his broad, muscular form.

For just a moment, Yunzhu’s breath hitched. This man—tired, unkempt, stripped down to the essentials—was something different entirely.

Without so much as a glance, she draped the undergarment lazily over one side of the hanger, before sinking with deliberate ease onto the couch by the window. On the tray nearby, a slender razor glinted next to an ornate box of fragrant white razors, accompanied by a smooth paste—its silky sheen reminiscent of the precious oils women would dab on their faces.

Yunzhu had never touched these tools herself, though she'd seen her brother shave countless times. She understood the purpose of the white paste well enough—it softened the coarse stubble, coaxing it to yield beneath the blade while leaving the skin soft and soothed. Her brother, a man rough in manner but polished by privilege, never suffered through discomfort. Their mother made sure he had the very best—tools sharp enough to glide, creams smooth enough to caress. He’d often mention how painless shaving was with that white ointment, as though indulging in luxury was his birthright.

Yunzhu studied the razor, its edge precise, as her thoughts meandered.

The sound of water spilling gently in the tub broke the quiet. A flicker of movement caught her attention—Cao Xun, relaxed in the steaming bath. Her gaze lingered only for a breath before retreating, her fingers absently running along the cool handle of the razor.

Time passed languidly, the kind that stretches thick and slow—enough for a cup of tea to cool. When Cao Xun finally emerged, water clinging to his skin, he wrapped himself with practiced nonchalance in a clean undergarment. Behind the screen, he combed his dark, damp hair, securing it with a gleaming golden hairpin.

The weariness on his face lingered, shadows that told the story of sleepless nights. But the bath had restored him—at least most of him. The soft folds of his garment lent him an unexpected air of calm, like he had settled into himself.

Yunzhu caught it then—the faint whiff of sandalwood. It suited him, always had. That was the scent he chose to carry on his skin, subtle yet rich.

He moved toward her, crossing the space between them with the slow ease of someone accustomed to being obeyed. Settling into the seat opposite her, Cao Xun took the white ointment and spread it over the stubble at his chin with deliberate strokes. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he reached for Yunzhu’s hand. Firm, but guiding, he showed her how to hold the razor—how to angle it, how to let the blade kiss the skin without biting. Satisfied she had learned, he leaned back into the couch, closing his eyes as if the burden of trust cost him nothing at all.

Yunzhu watched his face, her gaze sharp and searching. If this were before—when she loved him with the fervor of youth—she would never have allowed herself to care for him like this. To be useful in a way so intimate yet so detached. Something had shifted within her, and for a moment she wondered what it was.

Soon, the family would claw its way back to prominence, and Yunzhu would leave this house, this man. She could cast off this lingering version of herself, finally standing tall again. Yet Cao Xun… he remained the exception. He always saw through her. He knew her thoughts, her silences—he understood the bitter edge in this quiet loyalty. To him, it was nothing less than betrayal.

Her hand moved with surprising finesse, the razor gliding in smooth lines across his jaw. At first, she hesitated—conflicted and self-aware. But as the sharp stubble gave way to clean, refreshed skin, her focus sharpened, and something in her softened.

Cao Xun’s eyes fluttered open at some point, catching her in that moment of quiet concentration. She was lost in her task, head bowed, face unguarded—serene and solemn, just as she had been in the early days of their marriage.

The silence broke only when she finished. She paused, straightening to ease the stiffness in her neck. And then it happened—a moment, as fleeting as it was electric. Her eyes met his.

Everything—her focus, her calm—snapped. Her shoulders stiffened, and her gaze darted away, as though she’d caught herself teetering too close to something dangerous.

Cao Xun didn’t move. He dipped his hands into the warm water by his side, splashing it onto his face. The gentle sound of it filled the room, yet beneath it lingered something unspoken—something that neither of them dared breathe into words.

"The noodles are ready, Master, Madam," the servant announced, his voice a faint hum of reverence.

"Take it to the Dongci Room," Cao Xun instructed with casual authority, his tone leaving no room for delay.

Outside, footsteps whispered and echoed, trailing toward the designated room.

It was a time of national mourning, and the kitchen—respecting tradition—presented nothing more than a modest bowl of noodles.

Cao Xun dined slowly, savoring every bite with the unbothered ease of a man who owned his moments. When he’d finished, he rinsed his mouth with deliberate care, then turned toward Yunzhu. Without fanfare, he beckoned, his voice low and deliberate, "Come. Lie with me for a while."

Yunzhu hesitated for only a moment before slipping off her coat. Her movements were fluid yet reluctant, betraying the inner friction she dared not voice. She eased herself onto the bed beside him, where the lone brocade quilt waited—soft, inviting, and undeniably intimate.

When they lay down, Cao Xun’s arms folded around her, firm and possessive, his presence washing over her like heat seeping into skin.

Then she felt it—his desire, an unmistakable shift in the air, his body betraying its need.

Her muscles stiffened instinctively, but Cao Xun’s voice, smooth and teasing, curled into her ear with a knowing chuckle. "Sometimes, you really just can’t help yourself, can you?"

"During the national mourning…" Yunzhu murmured softly, an edge of protest lacing her words.

Truth be told, after so many years together, she had long surrendered to the reality of his cravings. If he wanted her once or twice, or even repeatedly for a stretch of weeks, she might’ve tolerated it.

But now, during this sacred period of mourning? Unthinkable.

What if—she couldn’t help but wonder—a child resulted?

Cao Xun held her tighter, his lips grazing the curve of her neck. "I know. Just kiss me a little, that’s all."

Left with no room to argue, Yunzhu turned to face him, her compliance silent yet unmistakable.

But as her lips met his, she kept her eyes closed, unwilling to see the exhaustion etched into his otherwise commanding face. It was easier that way. Easier to submit when she didn’t have to look at him.

The kiss was fleeting, and she thought—prayed—it might be over. But then she felt it: his fingers, deliberate and sure, tugging at the knot of her undergarment.

Her breath hitched, lashes trembling like fragile wings as the air around them thickened.

Cao Xun was a man cloaked in contradictions. During the late emperor’s death, he had worn the fatigue of mourning like a heavy shroud, his reverence for the departed unquestionable. Now, as the young emperor was laid to rest, his grief seemed more a performance—a show for the palace to consume while his true nature thrived beneath the surface.

Only Yunzhu knew. Only she could see through him, beyond his feigned sorrow and into the shadows where his ambition coiled and waited.

What plans did he have for her?

For himself?

Yunzhu didn’t know, but at this moment, his words rang true: sometimes, you simply couldn’t resist.

And yet… and yet… she couldn't deny the pull, the primal need that surged through her.

And now, her body, traitorous and compliant, answered his silent demand.