Chapter 152: Chapter 151. Extra 9.

Chapter 151: A Dream from a Past Life – Entwined with Him

Today, His Majesty seemed...off.

Xue Shu narrowed his eyes at the Emperor, scrutinizing him with a mix of curiosity and caution.

Yin Chengyu had never been one to indulge in desire—his restraint was as legendary as his power. Yet since that fateful encounter at Wanghe Pavilion, when a sinister poison had invaded his veins, things had changed.

The toxins were long purged, but the aftermath lingered, a silent, shameful weakness known only to the two of them. Yin Chengyu wielded this vulnerability like a blade, forcing Xue Shu to bend, to yield, to submit—though only when his judgment was clouded by the haze of desire.

But tonight? Tonight was different.

His actions were too deliberate, too lucid. His boldness didn’t stem from mindless longing.

This was calculated.

Xue Shu's hand darted out, capturing the Emperor’s wandering fingers. His own calloused thumb grazed the tender, satin-smooth skin of Yin Chengyu’s wrist, tracing upwards with languid precision. His voice was low, rich with challenge. “What game does His Majesty wish to play tonight? Whatever it is, I’ll see it through.”

A faint tickle teased along his inner arm, like the ghost of a feather against a place too sensitive to ignore. Yin Chengyu’s lashes quivered; then, in one fluid motion, he stood, his deep purple robes cascading like liquid silk, brushing against the edge of the bed where Xue Shu’s dark red attire lay in stark contrast.

Yin Chengyu leaned down, his fingers tipping Xue Shu’s chin upward. The Emperor’s voice was a silken whisper, deliberate and laced with provocative ambiguity, every syllable a hook to reel him closer. “That’s a promise, isn’t it? Don’t think of fleeing halfway through.”

Xue Shu’s lips curled into a wry smirk, his hand tightening on the slippery fabric that threatened to slip from his grasp. He said nothing as the Emperor’s gaze flicked down, lingering just long enough before the imperial sleeves slipped free from Xue Shu’s grasp.

Barefoot, Yin Chengyu stepped onto the intricately woven carpet beneath them, a stark contrast to his regal elegance. With an air of casual command, he reached for the bronze bell resting nearby, ringing it once. The distant sound summoned servants, who waited just beyond the screen, obedient shadows at his beck and call.

“Fetch me the ivory and gold dice set. And the matching dice cup,” he ordered, his tone sharp but calm.

The servants scurried away, returning moments later with the requested items. Yin Chengyu took his seat on the low chaise, legs folded beneath him with effortless grace. His pale hand reached for the ebony dice cup, giving it a nonchalant shake. The muffled clatter of dice inside filled the room.

“We’ll keep it simple,” he said, his gaze a razor’s edge as it met Xue Shu’s. “High roll wins. The loser removes a piece of clothing. Do you dare?” His lips curved into a sly smile, his robe slipping open just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of alabaster skin and a collarbone that drew the eye.

Xue Shu’s dark eyes flickered, narrowing slightly. He clenched his jaw but matched the Emperor’s smirk. “If Your Majesty loses, I hope you’ll hold your tongue and accept the consequences.”

Yin Chengyu let out a soft laugh, the sound dripping with both amusement and challenge. Without another word, he slammed the dice cup down onto the table, tilting his chin in invitation. “Let’s begin.”

Xue Shu settled across from him, rolling his dice with practiced ease. He unveiled them with a deft flick of his wrist. “Twenty-six.”

The Emperor’s brows lifted as he revealed his own roll. “Thirty. Strip.”

Xue Shu’s expression barely shifted, though there was a flicker of irritation in his eyes. With measured movements, he shrugged off his outer robe, letting the deep red fabric fall away.

Round two.

Yin Chengyu rolled first, lifting the cup with an almost theatrical flair. “Still thirty,” he declared, his voice smug.

Xue Shu glanced at the untouched dice cup before him, then, without even bothering to reveal his roll, stripped off another layer. He was now down to a single white undershirt, the thin fabric clinging to his sharp frame.

The Emperor’s gaze lingered, tracing the careful way Xue Shu secured the last piece of his modesty. There was a flicker of something primal in his expression, but he disguised it with a casual shake of the dice cup. “Another round?”

Xue Shu leaned back, his posture deceptively relaxed. “Let’s see what His Majesty rolls first,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with challenge.

Yin Chengyu gave the cup a final shake, the sound echoing in the tense, heated room.

Yin Chengyu revealed the cup with a casual flick, and, unsurprisingly, five dice landed face up—each showing six.

Leaning her chin on her hand, her lips curved in a sly smile, she tilted her head to him. “Your turn.”

Xue Shu didn’t bother unveiling his own cup. Instead, he picked up an ivory die trimmed with gold, rolling it idly between his fingers as a scoff escaped his lips. “Your Majesty cheats.”

Unbothered, Yin Chengyu’s expression stayed placid. “Who said cheating was off-limits?”

His palm pressed firmly against the low table as he leaned toward him, shadowed eyes locking onto his with a predator’s precision. “So, Jiu Qiansui Xue, shall I strip… or will you?”

Xue Shu held her gaze, silent but burning, his jaw tense.

Yin Chengyu’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint playing in their depths. His fingers teased along the edge of his collar, hooking lazily onto the loose sash. Yet, no force followed. “Regret already? Or will you own up to the rules of the game?”

His hand shot out, gripping Yin Chengyu’s mid-motion. The tension between them thickened as his Adam’s apple bobbed, betraying a surge of emotion he dared not voice.

His grip tightened, as did his in response, neither yielding. Their locked stares spoke volumes—an unspoken battle of wills.

In the past, Yin Chengyu might never have dared to push this boundary, unsure of the storm lurking in Xue Shu’s depths. But now, he knew better than anyone: he was Xue Shu’s boundary.

A smirk tugged at his lips as Yin Chengyu’s leaned closer, free hand sliding up to capture Xue Shu’s wrist. His lips ghosted Xue Shu’s, the barest whisper of a touch as his voice, low and teasing, spilled into the charged air. “Xue… Jiu Qiansui … Play fair, or pay up.”

Xue Shu’s lashes dipped, his breath uneven as his hold slackened.

With deliberate grace, the sash slipped free, and his robe parted, revealing hints of delicate skin. But Yin Chengyu’s sharp gaze caught on something—scars etched across his chest and abdomen, faint but unmistakable reminders of old battles. His smirk faltered, the weight of unspoken pain settling between them.

“Turn around,” he murmured.

Xue Shu hesitated, the stiffness in his posture betraying his reluctance, but after a beat, he complied, exposing his back to Yin Chengyu.

Yin Chengyu’s breath hitched.

Beneath the thin fabric lay a grotesque lattice of scars—angry, raised ridges snaking from the nape of his neck to the curve of his waist. These were no ordinary marks; they screamed of brutality, of wounds left to fester and heal without care.

For a moment, he simply breathed, fighting the storm rising in his chest. His fingers hovered before tentatively brushing against the uneven skin. The texture beneath his touch sent a tremor through his hand, but he steadied himself, tracing the cruel evidence of the past that had shaped the infamous and ruthless man before him.

Sliding around the table, he wrapped his arms around Xue Shu from behind, pressing his lips to the mangled canvas of Xue Shu’s back with a reverence that made his voice crack as he asked, “Does it hurt?”

His body was stiff, his voice rough. “It’s been too long. I don’t remember.”

He didn’t want to remember, to relive those humiliations.

His chin rested on Xue Shu’s shoulder as his voice dipped lower, just for him. “I want you.”

Grasping his hand, he guided it back to the undone sash, an unspoken challenge passed between them.

Perhaps it was the sting of old wounds dragged into the open, or perhaps it was the rare vulnerability Yin Chengyu displayed. Whatever it was, this time Xue Shu was relentless. His intensity bordered on punishing, as though seeking to carve something permanent between them. Yet no matter how rough his touch, how feral his movements, he met him with unyielding surrender—a matching ferocity tempered by tenderness.

It was raw, consuming, unlike anything either had known before.

Before sleep claimed him, Yin Chengyu stirred, dragging himself from the edge of exhaustion to murmur a question, “Do you… care for me?”

Foreheads pressed together, their gazes collided, his voice barely audible above the silence.

Xue Shu hesitated, his stormy eyes betraying a battle within. Finally, he gave the smallest nod, a reluctant concession that unraveled his lingering doubts.

Satisfied, he smiled, a mix of triumph and affection as his nose brushed Xue Shu’s. “Then let our hearts beat as one.”

Only this once, he allowed himself to believe.

As his words sank in, Xue Shu stared at him, his pulse pounding in time with hers. For the first time in a long while, the barren wasteland of his heart felt alive.

*

When Xue Shu woke from his dream, the faint curve of a smile lingered on his lips.

The room was steeped in the calming scent of incense meant to steady the mind. As he sat up and took in the familiar furnishings around him, the smile that once graced his face slowly faltered. His expression tightened, his lips pressed into a firm, unyielding line.

Since Yin Chengyu’s death, dreams of him had become a rarity, and such sweet visions were nearly impossible to come by.

He rose and carelessly threw on a robe, the loose fabric hanging from his broad frame. Crossing the room with deliberate steps, Xue Shu opened a hidden door, descending into the cold, shadowed depths below.

The underground palace lay directly beneath his bedroom, split into an inner and outer chamber.

The outer chamber was filled with blocks of ice, leaving only a narrow passageway through the chill. The inner chamber, however, was something else entirely—a room forged from the frigid ice of the northernmost mountains, crafted as an exact replica of Yin Chengyu’s former dwelling.

And at the heart of this frozen sanctuary stood Yin Chengyu’s crystal-clear ice coffin, a monument to a man gone too soon.

Xue Shu approached the coffin slowly, the cold air prickling his skin and raising goosebumps across his body. Yet he seemed unbothered, his focus entirely on the figure encased within. He leaned closer, his sharp gaze sweeping over every detail of the preserved form, ensuring that nothing had been disturbed. Only when he confirmed that all was as it should be did he allow himself the faintest exhale of relief.

“I slept well last night,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with a quiet satisfaction. “I even dreamed of Your Majesty.”

The memory of the dream pulled a faint smile to his lips once more, a wistful, almost bitter curve. “In the dream, you told me you loved me too.”

His voice turned softer, almost tender, as though speaking to someone who might respond. “It’s been too long since you’ve visited my dreams. I miss you, unbearably so. Just a few days ago, the first Reincarnation Tower was completed. And the moment it was done, you appeared to me. How could I not take that as a sign?”

His eyes traced every familiar contour of the figure within the ice—the pale face untouched by time, though faintly tinged with a bluish hue from the cold. The dark brows and lashes were dusted with white frost, and the once vibrant, ruby-red lips had faded to a pallid shade, bereft of life’s warmth.

“At the end... you must have felt even a flicker of affection for me, didn’t you?” His voice carried a heavy weight, the question one that had lingered in his heart for far too long. It was a desperate hope he scarcely dared to give voice to, and now, when he finally did, there was no one left to answer.

Leaning down, Xue Shu pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the icy surface of the coffin, his voice a velvet whisper against the frozen barrier. “You don’t speak, so I’ll take that as consent. If you disagree... come find me in my dreams and tell me yourself.”

*

When Yin Chengyu awoke once more, he found himself back in that familiar, ethereal state—a wandering soul. In his previous life, this moment in time had marked his death, his mortal body succumbing to illness.

By then, Xue Shu had already been appointed Regent Minister, dedicating himself entirely to aiding Yin Chengyue in upholding and carrying forward Yin Chengyu’s dying wishes.

Their relationship as ruler and minister had been fraught with clashes, fierce debates, and countless moments of stubborn defiance. Yet from the detached vantage of a mere observer, Yin Chengyu saw the truth.

For someone as proud and unyielding as Yin Chengyue to tolerate Xue Shu’s provocations and criticisms, it was tacit approval, even respect.

It should have been a comfort—a point of pride, even. Xue Shu had not disappointed him, had not allowed the empire to collapse into chaos. He had stayed true to the expectations set upon him in Yin Chengyu’s final days.

But late at night, when Xue Shu stood motionless by the window, his eyes heavy with solitude, Yin Chengyu felt an unfamiliar pang of regret.

He was alive, but only in the barest sense of the word. Aside from his duties to Yin Chengyue and Xie Yunchuan, Xue Shu had severed nearly all personal connections.

After finishing his work, he would retreat to the depths of the imperial mausoleum, where he spoke endlessly into the void, confiding in the cold, unhearing shadows that housed Yin Chengyu’s spirit.

This was a man who had once been stoic and reserved, not prone to idle conversation. Yet now, after death had stolen Yin Chengyu away, Xue Shu had become strangely talkative. He would share the trivialities of court politics, the petty dramas of his estate—details that once would have remained unspoken.

On rare occasions, when silence stretched too long and the mausoleum fell oppressively still, there was an unmistakable sorrow in his eyes, raw and unhidden.

Yin Chengyu finally understood: Xue Shu was terrified of loneliness.

So, in time, Yin Chengyu began to respond. Whenever Xue Shu rambled into the void, Yin Chengyu would mimic the gestures of a living man, nodding, engaging, feigning casual chatter. It didn’t matter that Xue Shu could neither see nor hear him. It was the effort, the illusion of connection, that mattered.

For the sake of Yin Chengyue, for the empire of Great Yan, Xue Shu gave everything. Yin Chengyu, unseen but ever-present, followed at his side, watching as the empire flourished day by day.

He witnessed the expansion of its borders, the rise of its prosperity, and the fierce arguments between Xue Shu, Yin Chengyue, and Xie Yunchuan. He watched as Xue Shu, stubborn as ever, poured the empire’s resources and manpower into building monumental towers of remembrance.

When the final tower was completed, Xue Shu personally oversaw the relocation of Yin Chengyu’s ice-cold coffin from the mausoleum to the newly constructed burial chamber beneath the tower. The chamber was a simple one—an unadorned crypt containing nothing but a dual coffin carved from gilded nanmu wood.

Dismissed craftsmen and soldiers alike left the chamber at Xue Shu’s command. Alone in the silent tomb, he gave one final order: to seal the entrance from the outside.

Yin Chengyue arrived too late, his furious shouts echoing through the corridor, his protests falling on deaf ears. Xie Yunchuan held him back, coaxing him into retreat as the massive stone door, too heavy to ever be reopened, fell into place.

Outside the sealed tomb, Yin Chengyue and Xie Yunchuan stood motionless, their grief etched in every line of their faces. Inside, Xue Shu, dressed in a vibrant crimson ceremonial robe, carefully lifted Yin Chengyu’s frozen corpse from the ice coffin and clothed him in imperial gold.

Then, he lay down beside the lifeless body, cradling it in the shared coffin meant for two. With a satisfied smile and unshakable resolve, he pulled the lid shut, closed his eyes, and embraced eternal rest.

After all these years, they were finally together, buried in the same tomb.

*

Yin Chengyu’s chest tightened, a jolt of unease tearing through him as he shot upright. The wolf-hair brush slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the desk with a crisp, metallic ring.

Hearing the noise, Zheng Duobao, ever-attentive at his side, stepped forward. "Your Majesty, do you wish to rest?"

The noontime sunlight filtered through the windows, its warmth finally banishing the bone-deep chill that lingered in the room.

For a fleeting moment, Yin Chengyu remained in a daze, his gaze falling on the stack of memorials piled high before him. Slowly, realization dawned—everything he’d experienced just moments ago was nothing but a dream. Yet even as he awoke, his chest felt hollow, like something vital had slipped through his grasp.

“Where is Xue Shu?”

Zheng Duobao opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, the door creaked open. Xue Shu entered briskly, bowing slightly.

“Your Grace, Duke Zhenguo, His Majesty has been asking for you.”

Xue Shu approached, taking in the Emperor’s furrowed brows and pallor. His hand instinctively reached out, testing the other man’s forehead for fever. "Your Majesty, have you overexerted yourself again?"

The burdens of state had been unrelenting of late, and ever since the morning court session had ended, Yin Chengyu had been immersed in reviewing petitions without pause.

He shook his head, a subtle dismissal that sent the palace attendants retreating without protest. His fingers reached out to brush against Xue Shu’s cheek, the pads of his fingers meeting reassuring warmth. Only then did the weight in his chest ease, his voice low and deliberate: "Just now, I had a dream. You were in it."

He recounted the fragments of the dream in slow, deliberate detail, his words casting vivid images. As Xue Shu listened, a strange look began to cloud his features. When Yin Chengyu described a dice game of all things, Xue Shu finally broke his silence.

“It wasn’t merely a dream,” he said softly.

Yin Chengyu’s gaze locked on his, startled and searching.

“In your dream,” Xue Shu continued, a sigh slipping from his lips, “those events… I’ve seen them before, long ago. In dreams of my own.”

The words hit like a thunderclap.

Memories, fragmented and timeworn, came rushing back to Xue Shu—dreams once dismissed as the wistful longings of a restless soul. But now, the truth was undeniable. They hadn’t been his alone.

A flicker of tension unraveled in Yin Chengyu’s chest as the silence stretched between them. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and took Xue Shu’s hand in his. His voice was steady, but beneath it lay a faint tremor as if something in his heart still ached. The memory of his dream’s final scene lingered—a smile of contentment tinged with bitter inevitability. But he buried it, choosing instead to steer the conversation to another pressing matter.

“The Ministry of Works has been instructed to begin constructing the imperial tomb,” he said, his tone as decisive as a blade. “The main burial chamber will follow the specifications for a double grave.”

Understanding dawned in Xue Shu’s expression, a quiet laugh escaping his lips. “If the court officials catch wind of this, they’ll throw yet another fit.”

“Let them,” Yin Chengyu said dismissively, his voice sharp and unyielding. “Let them raise all the noise they want—it won’t change anything.”

This lifetime would be different.

They would not part.

In life, they would rejoice together. In death, they would share a single resting place. Never again would they be separated.

—The End.