The Shattered Dream of Rouge

In the second year of Kangnian, on a stifling afternoon in July, the summer heat seemed to ignite the very air. The vast halls of the Qianhan Palace were draped with bamboo blinds, and the ice in the buckets melted, creating a peculiar, sticky sensation on the skin, which brought a hint of coolness.

He grew weary of reviewing the memorials and leaned back on the bed for a brief rest. The scent of dragon musk wafted through the bronze incense burner, swirling like smoke, like gossamer, and filled the palace.

In his drowsy state, Luo Jia felt as if he were enveloped in a cloud, his thoughts adrift. Wisps of mist gathered from all directions, wrapping around him.

Then, he vaguely saw a woman in a blue robe standing beneath a hibiscus tree. He could clearly see the moonlight like silver in the sky, the hibiscus petals falling like scattered snow, brushing against her.

Yet he could never see her face clearly, nor hear her voice distinctly. All he knew was that her slender, almost skeletal fingers were raised, gently brushing across his face. He could even feel the coldness of her touch against his skin.

This dream, almost real, should have startled and frightened him, but instead, an inexplicable joy rose faintly within him.

He opened his mouth, but he could not call out her name. A deep sadness filled his heart, an emotion so tangled he couldn't describe it, a swelling in his chest that was almost unbearable—as if something inside were about to break free and spread forth.

She parted her lips, her voice light as mist.

"The flowers of the forest have fallen; spring's beauty fades too quickly, cold rain in the morning, evening winds relentlessly. Rouge tears, memories, lingering intoxication—when will they return? Life's sorrows flow as endlessly as the eastern waters. Luo Jia, will I never wait for you again? Have you truly forsaken me?"

Even though he could not see her clearly, he could still sense the heaviness of her sorrow, like dark clouds gathering before a storm.

In that instant, a wave of unease surged through him, and he reached out to embrace her. But though she was within reach, his arms grasped nothing but emptiness.

When he looked again, she was already fading away like morning dew, dissipating into threads of mist.

Who are you? Who are you?

But just as he reached the edge of remembering, he woke with a start, the memory slipping away. Yet the faint whisper seemed to still echo in his ears.

Leaning against the pillow, Luo Jia gasped softly, his hand clutching his chest, waiting for the strange sense of agitation to subside.

Even knowing it was just a dream, he could not suppress the emotions surging from the depths of his soul, feelings even he could not put into words.

He wearily lifted his head and saw He Qian pacing outside the curtain, circling endlessly.

"Enter." His heart tightened, knowing something had happened. "What is it?"

"Your Majesty, the Regent King is critically ill."

"Oh?"

His heart skipped a beat, a wild surge of joy flooding up from the deepest part of his being.

Since the late emperor's death three years ago, Xie Liulan's health had always been poor. He would fall ill every few days but always managed to recover.

But this time, was he finally unable to hold on? Finally...

"To the Regent's Manor."

He rose, stretching out the broad sleeves of his bright yellow robe, allowing He Qian to arrange his attire. Luo Jia kept his tone steady, though the corners of his lips were already faintly curved.

By the time the imperial procession reached the Regent's Manor, it was already twilight. Luo Jia knew the place well, so he needed no one to guide him as he walked straight to the study in the inner courtyard.

For reasons unknown, Xie Liulan had never resided in the main chambers of the manor, preferring instead the inner quarters of the study.

Since Luo Jia's ascension to the throne at fifteen, he had frequently visited this manor to seek his mentor's counsel on the affairs of the kingdom, for Xie Liulan's health had always been frail, yet his power had been immense.

Thus, the positions of ruler and minister were reversed, and Luo Jia had to bend to the authority of the Yè clan.

And now, all of it was finally coming to an end.

Luo Jia entered the study in contemplation. It was just as he remembered; the corridor lined with grasses brought from the western regions, unlike those in the Central Plains. Their fragrance was rich and pleasant, and in the humid warmth of summer, the scent grew even more intense.

The study stood beside a lotus pond, and a breeze blew in through the open window, carrying with it the scent of herbs, faintly dispersing the heavy aroma of medicinal concoctions.

Xie Liulan lay unconscious on the couch. The imperial physician, attending at the bedside, hurriedly bowed to the ground when he saw Luo Jia enter.

"Your Majesty, the Prince can hold on only until midnight at most."

"I understand. You may leave."

Then Luo Jia sat by the bed, looking at the man who had given up half his life to support the Li Kingdom, his heart a tumult of mixed emotions.

The man before him bore little resemblance to the once celestial elegance he remembered—his face gaunt, his frame emaciated, his pallor as white as snow, and the hair at his temples already streaked with gray.

Such frailty...

Yet whether it was due to illness or the torment of longing, Luo Jia could not tell.

Unable to bear looking at him any longer, Luo Jia turned his head, letting the light from the eight-branched candelabrum illuminate the room. He studied the study he had seldom entered. The walls were adorned with Xie Liulan's poetry and paintings, the strokes graceful and poised. If not for his current status, Xie Liulan might have been a reclusive scholar, enjoying chrysanthemums by the eastern fence.

But a love that would not be tolerated by heaven or earth had trapped him, leaving him melancholy for the rest of his days.

This man—Luo Jia feared him, guarded against him, perhaps even hated him—yet he could not help but feel pity for him.

Suddenly, an excited voice came from outside the room: "The Princess has returned!"

The Princess? He assumed they meant the daughter born to his father and the woman who once held the highest power within the Yè clan.

He vaguely remembered meeting her three years ago, and even now, he recalled the scene vividly, though he could not remember her face.

Three years ago.

At that time, he was still the Crown Prince of Li, only fifteen, having just completed his coming-of-age ceremony.

That year too, it was July, hot and windless in the afternoon. He sat in the Imperial Garden, within the Imperial Academy, and through the gauzy vermilion silk window, he could see the golden-glazed tiles of the Qianhan Palace roof, shining so brightly under the sun that it hurt his eyes.

The season was in full bloom, flowers vibrant, willows lush, the Imperial Garden adorned with ancient pines, cypress, and bamboo interspersed with ornamental rocks, creating a picturesque scene, lush and flourishing with greenery.

Faintly, the cicadas' cries resumed, but for some reason, Luo Jia still felt that this vast imperial city was lacking a certain vitality, the silence striking an eerie chord.

Suddenly, the crystal beaded curtain was roughly pushed aside, and He Qian, the palace attendant, burst in, disregarding the presence of the Grand Tutor, dropping to his knees before Luo Jia.

"Your Highness, Your Highness... a message has just arrived... His Majesty is critically ill."

Hearing the news, Grand Tutor Fu slumped heavily into his chair, sighing softly. His aged, deep-set eyes revealed no trace of emotion, and the meaning behind them remained elusive to Luo Jia, even to this day.

The eaves and ridges of the palace roofs layered upon one another, the rows of guardian beasts crouching at the corners all seemed shrouded in a solemn weight. He crossed the royal pathways and stairs, his heart pounding anxiously in sync with his hurried steps, a sensation indescribable spreading through his body.

Seeing his rapid approach, the palace servants opened the two heavy, vermilion wooden doors of Qianhan Palace in advance.

When he stepped into the inner hall, he saw the imperial physicians, helpless before the sudden illness that had befallen Emperor Jin'ou of Li. At the sight of Luo Jia, they all retreated to one side.

As expected, he saw Regent Xie Liulan standing at the bedside of Emperor Jin'ou.

In his crimson robe embroidered with gold, sunlight filtered through the gossamer silk windows, flowing like a fiery stream over his official attire, with an air of poignant melancholy.

He appeared haggard, his once bright eyes now dulled, filled with a deep, painful gaze as he looked at Luo Jia's father.

This was the second time Luo Jia had seen the usually graceful, composed man lose his characteristic calm.

The first time was when Luo Jia was just ten years old, making his customary visit to pay respects to his father.

In Qianhan Palace, his father stood behind the imperial desk, slender fingers holding a brush as he painted on fine rice paper, paying Luo Jia no mind, as he always did.

He appeared perfectly normal, betraying none of the madness that the palace servants whispered about.

On the desk, a blue-and-white incense burner exuded a faint mist, the air laden with the rich fragrance of dragon musk.

His father, the king of the Li Kingdom, kept his brows and eyes lowered, his beautiful features hollow, as if devoid of a soul.

He wrote, painted, occasionally instructing the elderly palace attendant He Dong, who looked as frail as a withered branch.

Yet he ignored the presence of his only son.

The fragrance of dragon musk was so thick it seemed to seep into Luo Jia's heart, and finally, unable to bear the neglect any longer, he began to cry out loudly. Still, his father remained indifferent, merely turning to look at the chrysanthemums blooming outside the window, as if nothing mattered more to him than those flowers.

And then, Luo Jia had screamed, "Madman! Madman!"

Just then, Xie Liulan entered Qianhan Palace, rushing up to Luo Jia, striking him hard across the face.

He clearly remembered Xie Liulan's usually gentle face, the vein throbbing at his temple, the fury akin to the thousandfold shadow of palace walls, pressing down, stifling, in an overwhelming wave of pain that seemed to swallow everything, leaving no escape.

Afterward, the palace attendants and caregivers around him were all beaten to death.

He knew that if he were not the Crown Prince, the only son of Emperor Jin'ou, he would not have survived that day.

And now, Xie Liulan, lost and bewildered like a child, seemed to notice Luo Jia's presence after a long while. His lips twitched slightly, creasing the fine lines etched by time, as he forced a smile.

"Your Highness, come, see your father."

For some reason, seeing Xie Liulan's vulnerable expression calmed Luo Jia.

"Your Majesty, Luo Jia is here to see you. Look, this is your son."

Xie Liulan's tone was like coaxing a young child, so tender that it almost made Luo Jia look twice, but he held back. At fifteen, he already knew the meaning of restraint.

The man lying on the bed, clad in a bright yellow dragon robe, had long lost his soul. In his final moments, it seemed he heard Xie Liulan's voice, struggling to open his eyes.

For the first time, Luo Jia felt himself being truly seen. For the first time in fifteen years, his image was clearly reflected in his father's gaze.

He then realized how beautiful his father's eyes were, like flawless dark jade, like the night sky shimmering with starlight.

Through those eyes, he seemed to catch a glimpse of the former glory of this man, whose life had been plagued by madness.

Then, he clearly felt Xie Liulan's hand holding his own, trembling so intensely that he couldn't tell whether it was his hand or Xie Liulan's.

The final flicker of life.

They both knew it well.

The emperor's lips moved, and for the first time, he spoke to Luo Jia, yet the name he called was not his own.

"Rong... Ye Rong..."

His heart clenched painfully, for he knew who his father was calling.

It was the daughter born to the woman with whom he had shared a forbidden love, a woman bound to him by blood—Luo Jia's half-sister.

"Your Majesty, I have already sent someone to fetch her. Please... hold on a little longer..." Xie Liulan's voice choked with emotion.

"Liulan, after I die, send her to Youzhou. That is where Ye Yan grew up, the place where... she experienced the happiest time of her life."

His father's face was pale as ice, weariness seeping from his very bones, his voice so feeble it seemed it could vanish at any moment. Yet those star-like eyes, even in their fading light, reminded Luo Jia of magnificent fireworks blooming only in the darkest night—dazzling, but heralding the end of life.

This realization pierced Luo Jia's heart like a blade, for no matter what, the man before him was still his father, even if those eyes had never truly seen him.

"Yes, Your Majesty... rest assured, I will..."

Unlike Xie Liulan, who had collapsed in grief at the emperor's bedside, Luo Jia remained composed, his sorrow masked by indifference.

His father had never mentioned him. Even in his final moments, he called for another.

In the midst of inexplicable pain and jealousy, Luo Jia watched as the girl his age, his sister whom he had never met, walked into Qianhan Palace.

The azure gown trailed across the black-brick floor, and the girl bore the stillness typical of palace women, showing no hint of anything extraordinary.

As her father fought his final battle for life, his pale, thin lips curved upward, revealing a smile both exquisite and gentle, like a weary bird returning to the nest, seeing its newly hatched young with tender affection.

Those slender fingers, raised with effort, gripped her fair, jade-like wrist tightly.

"Ye Rong... my poor daughter..."

His brows knit slightly, his eyes struggling open, the pupils momentarily gleaming like a dying butterfly, fluttering faintly on a frozen branch.

Then, the hand—pale, emaciated, veins visible beneath thin skin—fell to the bedside.

The vast air of Qianhan Palace still carried a faint scent of medicine, sunlight filtering through the green gauze windows, illuminating the figures kneeling in grief throughout the hall.

Yet amidst the drifting fragrance, enveloping shadows, Luo Jia could no longer see clearly. He stood there, stunned, unable to believe his father had truly lost his life.

Xie Liulan buried his face in the now lifeless palm, his body trembling, as though a great wound had been torn open in his heart. Tears flowed in large drops, slipping between Jin'ou's fingers, soaking the golden cushions, betraying his vulnerability and helplessness.

Luo Jia looked at the frail girl, yet she seemed to ignore his presence, just as his deceased father had—unaware of him, indifferent to his existence.

The girl quietly clasped her fingers into her wide sleeves, calmly approaching the quivering, sobbing Xie Liulan, her voice low, tinged with detachment:

"Father, please restrain your grief. His Majesty has already passed."

Even at the moment his father's life ended, the one closest to him was not Luo Jia, the one who could openly grieve was not Luo Jia. Yet in that moment, an inexplicable sense of solace washed over him.

The girl, with a serene and almost tranquil demeanor, comforted Xie Liulan in his grief, and in that same tranquil manner, seemed to console Luo Jia in his silent sorrow.

The man who had lost his life was still his father—after all, they shared the same bloodline...

Suddenly, a cold, lifeless hand rested on his shoulder, its icy touch spreading straight to his heart.

He turned to look, and his mother stood behind him.

Her gown was crimson, embroidered with golden phoenixes; atop her head, the dragon and phoenix crown shimmered, its pearls trembling with her words, luxurious, yet unable to conceal the sadness and loneliness they shared.

"My son, look—remember, that girl is your enemy. Remember, your enemy is not Xie Liulan, but the Yè clan. It is this girl who will soon take control of the Yè clan's power. Remember it well, hold it deep within you."

This woman, forever maintaining her pride—his mother—seemed unaware that she was now in tears, as though something dear to her had been lost, something she would never find again.

The gentle sunlight of afternoon—why did it seem to be fading, darkness enclosing his body?

And so, he trembled, yet he did not know why.

Gazing across the summer palace, he saw the sprawling pavilions and grand halls, the blue sky as if painted, clouds like silk, and the brilliant sunlight casting the girl's silhouette upon the lake, a solitary reflection amidst blue ripples.

Watching her, an unknown, bone-deep pain spread into a boundless emotion, quietly taking root in his heart.

Then, on the seventh day of the seventh month of the eighteenth year of Qingtan, his father, Emperor Jin'ou of Li, passed away in Qianhan Palace, posthumously titled Liyan Zong. As Crown Prince, Luo Jia ascended the throne, and under the guidance of Empress Dowager Su, he appointed Xie Liulan as his mentor.

The year following was the beginning of a new era, named the First Year of Kangnian.

Time passed like a fleeting horse, and three years had slipped away. He wondered what had become of the girl whose face he could barely recall.

In anticipation, Luo Jia saw Ye Rong entering, supported by palace servants. Her dark robe, blending into the night itself, bore golden ephemerals embroidered on the sleeves. She kept her head slightly bowed, her glossy black hair cascading gently over her delicate white neck. Yet those eyes, glowing like colored glass under the dim candlelight, never once looked at him.

The girl, whose face had once been so indistinct in his memory, had become stunningly beautiful. On her left cheek, near her eye, was a small ephemeron delicately drawn in blue rouge.

Like an ephemeral goddess, her presence seemed to radiate a light as ethereal as moonlight, and merely standing there, she seemed to drain all color from the world.

The palace servant supporting her saw the man in his bright yellow dragon-embroidered robe, and startled, fell to his knees.

She, however, stood there as if unaware, her eyes curving ever so slightly, a smile that was almost not a smile—the embodiment of beauty itself.

Yet in his eyes, he saw also an unmistakable defiance.

"It has been a long time, dear sister. Do you no longer remember me?"

Upon hearing his voice, her brow twitched, and after a moment's hesitation, she slowly bowed, her manner calm and unhurried. "Your Majesty."

"Rise. Our father has been waiting for you, dear sister."

The girl in dark robes moved gracefully, led by the servants to the bedside.

Watching her tranquil and graceful figure approach, her flowing sleeves brushed against his body, carrying a subtle, sweet fragrance. On the floor, their shadows intertwined beneath them.

In his unconscious state, Xie Liulan seemed to sense her presence and slowly opened his eyes, his branch-like hands suddenly grasping hers with a desperate strength.

Xie Liulan coughed repeatedly, until finally, blood stained his slender fingers pressed against his lips.

"You have returned... Ye Rong..."

A frail face and weak body, yet still unable to obscure his inner radiance.

Xie Liulan, seemingly already aware of his impending death, wore an expression of serenity. His smile remained as elegant as moonlight, impossible to look away from, his wise gaze as if it could see through everything.

"You look more and more like the late emperor. I miss him dearly, and perhaps heaven has finally taken pity on me, ready to summon me to serve him once again..."

His expression was peaceful and calm, revealing the longing he had endured alone in his heart for many years, without any more restraint.

Longing, yet never able to meet, the pain of longing tore at his heart.

Looking at the frail, yet still incomparably elegant Xie Liulan, Luo Jia felt a chill snake up his spine—a cold shiver.

"Father, I am here, by your side."

Her gentle and elegant voice reached his ears, tinged with a faint rasp.

Xie Liulan's blood-stained fingers traced her face, leaving a crimson mark on her pale cheek, then slowly rested in her hand, trembling.

She remained motionless, as if the collapse of the world held no meaning to her.

"I am both worried... and glad you have returned, but there is nothing more I can do..."

Unlike Emperor Jin'ou, who had passed with dignity, Xie Liulan's brow remained furrowed even in death, the grace of his watery eyes extinguished, half-open, yet never closing.

He and he—like a drifting cloud and a soaring dragon—separated by an uncrossable sea. Only when the dragon rose into the sky could they glimpse each other, only to part again from afar.

No matter how deeply he yearned, he could never earn even a passing glance.

A drifting cloud and a soaring dragon...

In this lifetime, he had loved deeply and suffered greatly. Yet in the next, he still hoped to meet him again, only because he loved him so...

In that instant, Luo Jia could not distinguish whether the tidal emotions surging within him were joy, sorrow, hatred, or resentment. He only felt the pent-up emotion finally burst forth from his chest, and he let out a long sigh.

After a long pause, he looked at the girl, her features illuminated by the flickering candlelight, resembling a statue carved of white jade, and stepped forward to offer his condolences.

"Dear sister... be strong."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Her gentle voice echoed once more, but her enchanting eyes never looked at him. Such disregard left a heavy dissatisfaction within him.

Indeed, the Yè clan was inherently rebellious.