Hot flashes

He spent nearly twenty days quietly surveying all the warehouses, granaries, and docks within a hundred miles of the capital, drawing a detailed defense map that included every alley, every wall, and every door. Based on this map, he then deployed manpower and set up ambushes in each location.

The situation of the aristocratic private soldiers inside the city was even worse than outside. They were trapped in several narrow streets and alleys, surrounded by imperial guards on all sides, with the eaves of civilian houses overhead, where archers squatted, their bowstrings drawn taut, the arrow tips gleaming coldly in the night.

They tried to escape by climbing over the wall, but as soon as they reached the top, they were shot down by an arrow, fell to the base of the wall, twitched a few times, and then lay still.

The clearing operation within the city lasted for nearly two hours. By dawn, the private armies of powerful families within the nine city gates had been largely eliminated.

Some died, some were wounded, and some were captured. Only a very few managed to sneak into civilian houses or hide in the sewers amidst the chaos, but those people didn't go far—the sewers in the capital had been blocked up half a month ago, with brick walls built every few dozen steps, so that even rats couldn't get through.

As dawn broke, the snow finally stopped. The wind died down, and the entire capital was covered in a thick blanket of white snow, looking utterly peaceful, as if nothing had ever happened.

The fire in the palace was extinguished before dawn. Most of the side halls were burned down, and the wooden structure of the corner towers was reduced to a few charred pillars, which leaned precariously in the snow like charred fingers.

The red lanterns under the eaves were burned down to just a few bamboo frames, hanging on the corners of the eaves, swaying gently in the morning breeze and making a soft creaking sound.

Xiao Jue stood on the steps. The soldiers of the Imperial Guard stood below the steps, their armor stained with blood, and their sword sheaths still dripping with blood that hadn't dried. Only their heavy breathing echoed in the empty palace.

Xiao Jue's gaze passed over the palace walls, over Chengtian Gate, over the snow-covered rooftops, and landed on the distant, hazy horizon.

Zhou Heng waited all night in the East Warm Pavilion of Qianqing Palace. Chen Shen came to report every half hour, and the last time he came, it was almost dawn.

Chen Shen was covered in blood, with several streaks splattered on his face, making it impossible to tell whether it was his own or someone else's.

He knelt outside the curtain, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible: "Young master, the private armies of the noble families in the city have all been wiped out."

Zhou Heng asked, "Where is he?" Chen Shen knew who he was referring to and lowered his head, "His Majesty is safe and sound, and has been in the main hall of the Qianqing Palace."

Zhou Heng nodded, stood up from the couch, his legs were a little weak, and he held onto the edge of the table for a while before he could steady himself.

He wasn't wearing an outer robe, only a thin nightgown, and he was barefoot on the cold blue bricks.

Chen Shen called out "Young Master" from behind, but he didn't respond. He pushed open the door of the East Warm Pavilion and stepped into the wind and snow outside.

The door to the main hall of the Qianqing Palace was ajar. When Zhou Heng pushed the door open, there were no lights on inside; only the faint morning light filtering in from the windows shrouded everything in a hazy, cold hue.

Xiao Jue sat on the throne, still in his armor, with his helmet beside him, revealing half of his face illuminated by firelight and blood.

He heard the door open, looked up, and saw Zhou Heng standing at the door, covered in snow and barefoot.

Xiao Jue frowned slightly as he looked at him.

He stood up, walked down the steps, his boots making a dull sound as they stepped on the gold bricks. He bent down, put one arm around Zhou Heng's knees, and supported his back with the other, lifting him up in his arms.

Xiao Jue carried him into the inner hall, placed him on the couch, and pulled the quilt over his cold feet.

Then he sat down on the edge of the tatami mat, lifted a corner of the blanket, and pulled those feet into his lap.

Xiao Jue placed his hand on the back of his foot, his palm burning hot, his fingertips rough, slowly caressing the skin that was almost numb from the cold.

"Who told you to run out barefoot?" Xiao Jue's voice was hoarse, as if it had been sanded on sandpaper.

Zhou Heng didn't speak. The morning light shone through the cracks in the window and fell on Xiao Jue's profile.

There was a small wound at the corner of his eye, which had scabbed over and gleamed a dark red in the morning light.

Zhou Heng reached out and gently touched the wound with his fingertips.

Xiao Jue grasped his hand and held it in his palm. His palm was wide and his fingers were long, completely covering Zhou Heng's hand, with only a few fingertips showing.

He lowered his head, his lips landing on the tips of those fingers.

Zhou Heng's fingertips trembled slightly. Xiao Jue pressed that hand to his cheek and closed his eyes.

The hall was so quiet that you could hear the sound of snow water dripping from the eaves outside the window, drop by drop, falling onto the blue bricks, breaking, and seeping into the cracks between the bricks.