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

The setting sun cast its rays through the window, casting the shadows of the two figures onto the plain white curtains, creating a quiet, overlapping silhouette.

When Xie Qinglan woke up again, dusk had already fallen on the horizon.

Orange light streamed in through the windows, bathing the entire palace in a warm, twilight glow.

He opened his eyes, his whole body felt sore and weak, as if he had been taken apart and put back together, and his lower back and abdomen felt particularly sore, swollen and sticky.

He turned his head and saw Xiao Jingyuan.

The man was still holding him, his arm around his waist, his chin resting on the top of his head, his breathing even and steady, he was fast asleep.

But the other person was only wearing a haphazardly draped outer robe, with loose and disheveled inner garments. A clear tactile sensation could be felt where their legs were pressed together, and the damp stains on the fabric clearly indicated the absurdity of what had just transpired.

Xie Qinglan's mind went blank, and her temples throbbed.

In the past, no matter how unrestrained this person was, he would at least clean him up afterward, and do a thorough and thoughtful job of wiping his body and changing his clothes.

But when he woke up this time, he felt sticky and uncomfortable all over, his lower back was sore and heavy, his legs were wet, and even the mattress under him was soaked.

He raised his hand—with all his might—and slapped Xiao Jingyuan across the face.

A sharp "snap" rang out, particularly jarring in the quiet twilight.

Xiao Jingyuan's head was knocked to the side by the blow, and five bright red finger marks instantly appeared on his face. The marks were deep and heavy, showing that the blow had shown no mercy.

He suddenly opened his eyes, not fully awake from his sleep, and met Xie Qinglan's eyes burning with anger.

But his body reacted faster than his brain—his blood surged from the blow, and the heat that had just subsided returned, pressing against Xie Qinglan's leg through the thin fabric.

Xie Qinglan sensed the change, her face turning from crimson to ashen, and then from ashen to deathly pale with shame and indignation.

He suddenly raised his foot and kicked Xiao Jingyuan in the side with all his might.

This kick was even more vicious than the previous slap. Caught off guard, Xiao Jingyuan was kicked off the bed, rolled twice on the floor tiles, and his back hit the short legs with a dull thud.

Xiao Jingyuan was so dizzy from the fall that he lay on the ground in a daze for a while.

The back of my head throbbed from hitting the low table leg, the slap mark on my face was still burning, and my side was also throbbing from the kick.

He pushed himself up from the floor tiles, rubbing the back of his head where he had bumped it. Just as he was about to ask, "What happened?", several images suddenly flashed through his mind—

In another palace, he crept into the man's bed, only to be kicked in the waist and tumbled off the bed. The man, with his back to him, wrapped himself tightly in the brocade quilt, his voice as cold as ice: "Get out."

There was also the scene at the desk where he was trying to be affectionate with the person he was holding, when he was kicked in the stomach and knocked over the pen holder behind him, spilling ink from the inkstone all over the floor and soaking the corner of his black robe.

There was also the bathtub. He had just picked the person up when he was kicked and fell directly into the water. He choked several times before scrambling out in a disheveled state.

Those images came one after another, blurry and fleeting, like old silk pieces crumpled by time, rising one by one from the depths of memory.

In each picture, there is a figure with his back to him, wrapped in a brocade quilt or draped in an outer robe. The figure is slender with straight shoulders, and even the force and angle of the kick are exactly the same.

Xiao Jingyuan sat on the ground, stunned for a long while. The fragments in his mind gradually subsided, leaving only Xie Qinglan's tense back and cold, hard profile in front of him.

Xie Qinglan sat with her back to him, her moon-white inner robe loosely draped over her body, the belt tied haphazardly, and fine red marks still remaining on the back of her exposed neck.

His voice was icy, as if it had been chilled to the bone: "Put your clothes on and get out."

Xiao Jingyuan looked down at his disheveled appearance, his clothes wide open, and then at the stiff back on the bed. He finally realized that he had indeed gone too far this time.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Xie Qinglan didn't even turn his head. Just from the tense lines of his back and the fingers gripping the blankets, you could tell how angry he was.

He had no choice but to swallow his words, silently got up, picked up his outer robe scattered on the ground and haphazardly put it on, tying the belt crookedly, and walked towards the door, looking back every few steps.

As he reached the door, he turned back for a glance. Xie Qinglan was still facing away from him, not moving an inch.

He whispered, "Qinglan, I..." but before he could finish, he was cut off by a cold "Get out."

Xiao Jingyuan had no choice but to lower his head, open the door, and walk out.

The palace doors closed behind them with a dull thud.

Xie Qinglan listened to his footsteps gradually fade away before slowly loosening her grip on the bedding. Her palms were sweaty, and her knuckles had left several white marks from pinching them.

He took a deep breath, lifted the quilt, and glanced down—his legs were damp and disheveled, the fabric clinging to his skin.

He stood up, bracing himself against the edge of the bed, but his legs gave way and he almost fell back down. He bit his lip and steadied himself by holding onto the bedpost.

The sensation was aroused, and a sticky, warm sensation flowed down my leg, soaking the thin fabric of my underpants. It felt cool and uncomfortable against my skin.

He took a deep breath, walked to the cabinet, found a clean handkerchief, fetched a basin of water from the bath, placed it beside the couch, and then knelt on the couch with his back to the palace door, biting his lip, awkwardly cleaning himself bit by bit.

Every movement aggravated his sore spots, causing him to furrow his brow and redden his eyes.

He cursed Xiao Jingyuan a thousand times in his heart, from "bastard" to "scoundrel," from "beast" to "lustful devil," hating him to the core.

The more he cursed, the more vividly the images of being pressed against the guqin surged into his mind—the chaotic zither music, the burning breath, the man's low, hoarse panting, and the repeated calling of his name.

He bit his lip and cleaned up the last bit of mess, threw the handkerchief into the basin, and collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in the brocade quilt, letting out a muffled breath.

Outside the hall, Gao An had just carried dinner to the corridor when he saw Xiao Jingyuan standing disheveled at the entrance of Tingxue Pavilion, with a bright red handprint on his face, his hair in a crooked bun, looking as if he had just rolled down from a battlefield.

Gao An nearly dropped the food box from his hands: "Your Majesty—what are you doing—"

Xiao Jingyuan raised his hand to touch the palm print on his face and gave a wry smile: "I made him angry."

"Then you—this servant will go to the Imperial Hospital to get some ointment to reduce swelling."

"No need." Xiao Jingyuan rubbed his aching side from the kick, then rubbed the swollen bump on the back of his head, and limped over to snatch the food box from Gao An's hands. "I'll take it over myself. You may leave."

After taking a couple of steps, she turned back, lowered her voice, and stubbornly said, "It doesn't hurt, Qinglan didn't use any force."

Gao An opened his mouth, almost blurting out "Really?", but quickly swallowed the words back, bowed and replied "Yes", then bowed and retreated, his shoulders trembling slightly—he was holding back laughter.