After being reborn, the aloof prime minister was once again forced by a tyrant.

On the table was a new volume of the Nanyue edition of the *Nanhua Jing* (Commentary on the Nanhua Classic). Xie Qinglan opened it and glanced at it. The title page bore the seal of the Nanyue Royal Library, indicating that it had been transported all the way from Nanyue.

The next day, a set of Nanyue celadon tea set appeared on the bookshelf. The glaze was lustrous and the body was as thin as paper, exactly the same as the set he used in the Prime Minister's Mansion in Nanyue.

He picked up the teapot and examined it for a moment. The bottom of the pot was engraved with the character "谢" (Xie)—not newly engraved, but an old design. This tea set was the one he used in Nanyue, which Xiao Jingyuan had somehow managed to transport from his old residence.

On the third day, the dishes served at lunch were all from Nanyue—Nanyue sour soup fish, Nanyue steamed assorted preserved meats, and Nanyue braised duck.

The nanny serving them said that His Majesty had invited a chef back from Nanyue, and from now on, that chef would be in charge of the adults' meals.

He picked up a piece of sour fish soup with his chopsticks. It tasted authentic, exactly the same as the one made by the old cook in the Prime Minister's Mansion in Nanyue.

He put down his chopsticks and remained silent for a long time.

The fourth day, the fifth day, the sixth day. Every day something new appeared in Lanyue Pavilion—sometimes a book, sometimes a pot of flowers, sometimes a box of pastries from Nanyue.

No more, no less, the same every day, without a signature, without a note, without a single word. Yet Xie Qinglan knew who sent them.

He said nothing. He flipped through a few pages of the book and then put it down; he glanced at the tea set and then put it away in the cabinet; he would occasionally eat a piece of pastry. He accepted everything that was delivered every day, never returning it, but never mentioning it either.

He still ignored Xiao Jingyuan. He didn't speak to him, didn't look at him, and didn't give him any response.

But he didn't run anymore. The gold chain on his ankle had long been removed and now lay quietly in the corner under the bed, covered in dust. The imperial guards at the palace gate had also withdrawn; if he wanted to leave, no one could stop him.

But he didn't leave.

He himself didn't know why he didn't leave.

Perhaps it was because his body was still too weak in the days following the fever's recovery that he couldn't walk far. That's what he told himself.

But once he recovered, he found himself still not leaving. He told himself that this was to plan for the long term, to wait for a more suitable opportunity. But that "opportunity" never came.

On the tenth day, a crabapple tree appeared in the yard.

When he pushed open the door, he saw several palace servants digging a pit. The crabapple tree stood crookedly in the courtyard, its roots tightly wrapped in soil, but its branches and leaves were already withered—the leaves were curled at the edges, withered and yellow, and a few flower buds that should have bloomed were drooping on the branches.

The tree trunk was still wrapped with thick hemp ropes, the marks of which were deeply embedded in the bark, oozing a little milky sap that had been dried by the wind during transport.

Xie Qinglan glanced at it and immediately knew it wouldn't survive.

The palace servants dug holes, filled them with soil, and watered them, working for most of the hour. Xie Qinglan sat on the veranda, flipping through a book, but her gaze kept drifting over to the ground.

He had a crabapple grove in his mansion in Nanyue. One of the crabapple trees was planted by him when he was sixteen years old. It had grown for ten years and its branches were strong and gnarled. Every spring when it bloomed, the tree was covered with pink and white flowers like clouds. The petals fell on the stone table, and he would sit under the tree to drink tea and sit there for an entire afternoon.

The one in front of me does look somewhat similar. The shape is similar, the angle of the branches is similar, even the old scar on the trunk from being struck by lightning is similar.

For the first few days, the tree showed no improvement. The leaves turned from curled edges to withered yellow, and they would fall down with a rustling sound when the wind blew. In just three to five days, only a few half-dead, withered leaves remained on the branches.

Xie Qinglan would glance at it every day as she passed under the corridor, then look away and continue with her own business.

He didn't say anything, but in his heart he had already sentenced it to death.

On the seventh day, Gao An came to deliver the meal. Upon seeing the tree, he shook his head and said that the tree probably wouldn't survive. Should we report to His Majesty and replace it with a different one?

Xie Qinglan put down her teacup and said in a nonchalant tone that it wasn't necessary. After a pause, she added, "The roots are already damaged; replacing ten trees wouldn't make a difference."

Gao An dared not say anything more.

But Xiao Jingyuan clearly didn't think that way.

The next morning, the old head physician of the Imperial Medical Academy personally came to Lanyue Pavilion—not to examine Xie Qinglan, but to treat the tree.

The old magistrate squatted under the tree, touching the bark for a long time, turning over the leaves, and pinching the soil at the roots. Finally, he came up with a prescription: something about soaking deer antler powder in water and watering the roots, something about mixing eggshell ash with soil and mounding it around the base of the tree. He wrote down a lot of bits and pieces on a large sheet of paper.

The next day, an old gardener came. He was said to have spent his whole life tending to the flowers and trees in the Imperial Garden. He bent over and circled around the tree several times, asking people to wrap the trunk with a thick layer of straw rope, saying it was to prevent frost damage, and that the dead branches should be pruned so that nutrients could be supplied.

Xie Qinglan sat by the window, watching the group of people bustling around the half-dead crabapple tree in his yard, and felt it was all absurd.

It's just a tree, is it really worth making such a fuss over?

But he didn't chase him away. He just stood there watching, not turning a single page of the book in his hand.

Half a month has passed. The tree is still half-dead, all its leaves have fallen, and its bare branches stick out in the spring breeze like a pair of withered hands reaching towards the sky.

Xie Qinglan noticed that the tips of those branches seemed to be a bit darker in color than when she first arrived—from withered white to dark brown, and then from dark brown to dark red.

He pretended not to see it.

A few days later, he got up early to practice his sword in the courtyard. As he sheathed his sword, he glanced at the tree. Then his gaze stopped—a tiny green dot, no bigger than a pinhead, had appeared on the thinnest branch.

It was a tender green, glistening slightly in the morning light, like a dewdrop that hadn't yet been wiped away.

Xie Qinglan stood in the courtyard, staring at the green dot for a long time, so long that she forgot to put down the sword in her hand.

He walked over, reached out, and touched the tender sprout very, very lightly. His fingertips touched something cool, soft, and moist. He withdrew his hand, turned, and went back into the house.

That morning, he drank half a bowl more porridge than usual for breakfast.

Two weeks later, the tree seemed to suddenly wake up from hibernation and began to grow wildly.

First, seven or eight tender buds sprouted from the tips of the branches, and then those buds unfurled and turned into small, tender green leaves.

The leaves were initially only the size of a fingernail, light green with a faint blush around the edges, like a touch of nail polish on a young girl's fingertip.

Then the leaves grew bigger and greener day by day, until finally the whole tree was covered with a layer of new green, swaying gently in the spring breeze and rustling softly.

Xie Qinglan stood under the tree for a long time. He reached out and touched a new leaf with his fingertips. The leaf was soft and slightly cool, trembling slightly at his fingertips, like a newly hatched chick, or a heart that had begun to beat again.

He withdrew his hand, lowered his eyes, and said nothing.

But he knew in his heart that this tree was the one in his backyard. The old scar from being struck by lightning, the angle of the branch, and the dent at the base of the trunk that he had accidentally made with a hoe when he was sixteen—there was no mistake.

He didn't know what method Xiao Jingyuan used or how many people he mobilized to transport the tree all the way from Nanyue to the capital.

The man did not come to see him, but instead did all these clumsy things in places where he could not see him.

That morning, Xie Qinglan was awakened by a faint floral fragrance.

The fragrance was extremely faint, carried by the morning breeze, seeping in through the cracks in the window. It was neither strong nor loud, yet impossible to ignore.

He opened his eyes, put on his clothes, got up, and pushed open the window.

Then he froze.

The crabapple tree that was half-dead a month ago has blossomed.

It wasn't just a few scattered blossoms, but the whole tree was covered in them.

The pinkish-white buds unfolded one after another in the morning light, their petals as thin as cicada wings, their edges tinged with a faint blush, like a young girl's blushing cheeks. The tender yellow stamens, glistening with morning dew, shimmered in the sunlight.

The trees are full of blossoms, just like always.

Xie Qinglan stood motionless by the window. His hand rested on the windowsill, his fingertips slightly white. A morning breeze blew in, lifting a stray strand of hair from his forehead and ruffling his robes.

He stood there for a long time, so long that the morning light moved from one window pane to another.

The wind suddenly picked up. The branches full of blossoms swayed gently, and petals fluttered down like a silent snowfall.

A petal was caught in the wind, swirling and flying over the window to land beside his hand resting on the windowsill.

The petals were soft and pinkish-white, with faint red edges, glistening with morning dew, and trembled slightly on the back of his hand.

Xie Qinglan lowered her head and looked at the petal. It was so light and soft, as if it had no weight at all.

But the moment it landed on the back of his hand, he felt as if his heart had been struck hard by something.

His lips twitched involuntarily, that slight curve like the first begonia petal of spring falling on the water's surface, so light it was almost invisible, yet it rippled outwards in concentric circles.