“You couldn’t pile them up even if you wanted to. This isn’t a battlefield—where would you find so many heads to stack into a mountain?” Ethan Cooper poured himself another glass of fine wine, half-reclined on the wooden plank, and recited in a clear voice,

“Lotus-leaf skirts all cut from the same cloth,

Lotus blossoms open on either side of the face.

Lost among the pond, unseen by the eye,

Only upon hearing song does one sense someone’s arrival.”②

Owen Reed said, “Where are there lotus leaves? Lotus leaves don’t even bloom at this time.”

Ethan Cooper: “Though there are no lotus leaves, I do see a lotus-like face.”

He pointed to a handkerchief floating not far from the boat. “If I’m not mistaken, that handkerchief should be embroidered with a portrait of a lady.”

Owen Reed picked up the oar and fished out the handkerchief. The silk was smooth to the touch, not sticky even when wet. Owen Reed squinted, and after seeing the pattern clearly, gave a meaningful smile.

Ethan Cooper asked curiously, “Is it a portrait of a lady?”

“No,” Owen Reed smiled chillingly, “it’s a dragon pattern.”

*

While reviewing memorials, Brian Clark suddenly felt a chill down his back.

He frowned. The attendant promptly replaced his hand warmer and brought hot tea, stoking the brazier in the hall to burn even hotter. For someone in good health, the temperature was already quite warm; the palace maids and eunuchs inside were sweating, but Brian Clark felt it was just right.

He tightened his grip on the exquisitely carved hand warmer. With a wave of his brush, he finished the last memorial and stood up, signaling for the table to be cleared.

The young emperor was frail, looking as if he hadn’t even reached adulthood. Brian Clark had often been tempted to satisfy a man’s physical needs, but every time he saw that tender, sparse, pink fuzz, he lost all appetite.

The color and shape were pleasing—clean, even exquisite. But on Brian Clark himself, it was a blatant blow to his masculine pride.

So tender that a single touch would turn it red; no matter the desire, it would wilt.

Brian Clark stood by the window and let out a deep sigh.

Samuel Grant had been sent out by Brian Clark; the attendant nearby was a young eunuch, who asked cautiously, “Your Majesty, is something troubling you?”

Brian Clark was about to speak when a commotion erupted outside the palace. He frowned. “What’s happening out there?”

No sooner had he spoken than someone rushed in to report, “Your Majesty, an assassin has been captured outside.”

Brian Clark’s face darkened instantly. The only one looking grimmer was the captain of the guards standing nearby.

*

By the time the memorials were finished, night had fallen. The assassin, dressed in black, moved with uncanny stealth. If Brian Clark hadn’t already purged the inner court, and if the imperial guards and personal attendants weren’t so diligent, this person might never have been discovered.

Brian Clark sat high behind his desk, his voice as cold as a December wind. “Who sent you?”

The assassin was pressed to the ground, face against the floor, wailing his innocence. “Who would send a flower thief to be an assassin? Your Majesty, please see clearly—I was just blinded by lust and, emboldened, snuck into the palace for a look.”

Brian Clark: “You came to pick flowers in my palace? Which flower in my palace caught your eye?”

The emperor’s tone was heavy. There were no concubines in the palace; the only ones who could be called flowers were the palace maids.

The assassin strained to look toward the emperor. The young sovereign, angered, had lips flushed red, earlobes tinged with blood, eyes cold and furious—a sight so dazzling that one couldn’t bear to look away.

The assassin’s mouth fell open in shock as he stared at the emperor. His face suddenly flushed bright red, and he lowered his head, saying nothing.

The captain of the guards strode forward and kicked the assassin hard. The assassin grunted, then suddenly burst forth, throwing off several guards, only to be pinned down by even more.

A pair of bright yellow dragon-embroidered boots appeared before his eyes. Brian Clark lifted the assassin’s chin with his foot. If not for the blood, this face would be quite handsome—bright eyes, good features, the face of a nobleman.

The assassin blinked away the blood at the corner of his eye, gazing up at the emperor with full attention. Now that he was close, even the emperor’s slender wrists were in view. He said sincerely, “Your Majesty, I truly was just blinded by desire for a moment.”

The emperor’s lips curled slightly. “You think I’ll believe that?”

Every part of him was like jade—no, more precious than jade. This pampered body, even its sweat must be fragrant.

The assassin felt a tickle in his heart, even the dragon-embroidered boot lifting his chin seemed fragrant. He protested, “I caught a glimpse of you outside the palace, never thought you’d enter the palace, and even less that you’d be the emperor.”

Brian Clark looked down at him, then after a moment gave a cold laugh. “Take him to the dungeon and interrogate him thoroughly.”

The guards dragged the man away. The assassin was still smiling, his eyes darting around the hall, but his gaze never left the emperor.

Brian Clark coughed a few times, watching his smiling face coldly.

Once the man was dragged off, the captain of the guards led the others in kneeling before Brian Clark. Brian Clark glanced at them but did not let them rise. After a long moment, he spoke, suppressing his anger: “This must not happen again.”

To think that in the heart of the palace, a mere thief had made it all the way to the Hall of State.

Are the palace guards all useless?

The assassin’s shameless words were an insult. Brian Clark considered who could have sent him, but just then, a headache began to throb in his mind.