Chu Xiangtian walked over and stood beside him, but the young master didn’t even flinch. So he simply lifted his robe and sat down next to him, waving a hand in front of his eyes.
“What are you spacing out for?”
Startled, Wen Tian jumped, his eyes going wide like a frightened rabbit, nearly falling over.
Chu Xiangtian steadied him, helping him crouch properly again. Watching the furrow between Wen Tian’s brows deepen, he decided to change the subject.
“Wanna go for a walk?”
Wen Tian didn’t even look up. Mimicking Chu Xiangtian’s posture, he sat cross-legged, lifted his robe, and got straight to the point.
“Did you catch up to him? Where did my father go?”
For once, Chu Xiangtian was at a loss for words. He studied the boy’s face and finally nodded.
“I caught up to him.”
Wen Tian lowered his eyes, staring at the lake’s surface. His voice stayed calm.
“Where did he go?”
Seeing him like this tugged at something soft in Chu Xiangtian’s chest.
He sighed, reached over to ruffle Wen Tian’s hair, and said, “Wait here. I’ll tell you everything when I get back.”
Before Wen Tian could react, Chu Xiangtian had already stood up and walked away. He made a grab for him, but it was too late.
Annoyed, he tossed a pebble into the water. It skipped twice, then sank, leaving behind a series of ripples—just like the anxious turmoil in his chest.
After a while, Chu Xiangtian returned, holding a skewer of candied hawthorn and two flasks of wine.
He shoved the hawthorn into Wen Tian’s hands, set the wine down in front of them, and began to speak.
Wen Boli had, in fact, gone to Hongfa Temple.
He’d been cautious, arriving just before noon, bathing, burning incense, and having a discussion about Buddhist teachings with the abbot.
Chu Xiangtian had watched for hours. From the time Wen Boli entered the prayer hall to when he exited, there was nothing suspicious—until near dusk.
That’s when Wen Boli dismissed his attendants and returned alone to the hall to chant sutras.
That’s when things got interesting.
Once inside, Wen Boli changed into a plain robe, slipped out a side door, and quietly left the temple. Chu Xiangtian followed.
Instead of heading toward the town, Wen Boli went to a charity house managed by the temple.
The charity house had been set up to care for orphaned women and children.
Most of the women worked for the temple—sewing robes, making shoes, or crafting trinkets to sell in the marketplace. It wasn’t a luxurious life, but it kept them fed and clothed.
One of the caretakers was a woman named Bai Ruihe. Rumor had it that years ago, she and her husband were attacked by bandits while traveling.
She got separated from him while heavily pregnant and ended up in Lehe Town. The monks of Hongfa Temple took her in out of compassion, and she’d lived there ever since.
Now, her son was old enough to take the imperial exams.
Wen Boli didn’t enter through the front. Instead, he went around to the back gate, pulled out a small bird whistle, and blew two short notes.
A plain ox cart circled around from the side entrance.
Wen Boli climbed aboard, and the driver took them down the mountain.
The road led to a series of scattered farmsteads, spaced far apart.
Chu Xiangtian watched as Wen Boli got off at one of the houses, helped a woman down from the cart, and the two of them entered the estate—shoulder to shoulder, intimate as could be.
Chu Xiangtian memorized the location, then rushed back before nightfall.
He’d seen plenty of men keep mistresses before. In Qingyang City, that kind of thing was practically a sport among the wealthy and noble. Compared to them, this affair was mild.
But somehow, when he looked at the tight line of Wen Tian’s mouth, even something so commonplace became difficult to speak of.
Wen Tian, however, took it calmly. He just started mentally calculating which estate it could be. The Wen family owned property near Lehe Town too—if he remembered correctly, they had two estates near Hongfa Temple.
His fingers tightened around the bamboo skewer of the hawthorn. He turned to Chu Xiangtian and thanked him quietly.
“Don’t be upset,” Chu Xiangtian muttered, frowning.
He’d grown up with half-brothers, and his mother had never had any illusions about his father, so he didn’t really understand how Wen Tian felt right now. His attempt at comfort was clumsy at best.
“I’m not upset!”
Wen Tian snapped, like a little bunny whose ears had been yanked. He glared fiercely.
“I’m not upset. I’m just trying to figure out how to tell my mother.”
He had long since seen through Wen Boli’s true face—he wasn’t heartbroken. He was just struggling to figure out how to break the news to his mother and sister.
Chu Xiangtian clicked his tongue. This little master was still a tattletale. Still, it was probably better to let the elders handle this sort of thing.
Seeing how tightly Wen Tian’s brows were knitted, he took the skewer from his hand, pressed a hawthorn to his lips, and coaxed, “Eat one. It’s sweet.”
Wen Tian: His just-settled cheeks puffed up again. He pushed the candied fruit away, grabbed one of the wine flasks, tore off the seal, and took a big swig.
His words came out muffled.
“I’m not a child. Who wants your stupid candied hawthorn?”
Chu Xiangtian clicked his tongue again, popped one into his own mouth, and immediately regretted it.
His face twisted from the sourness, and he stuck the skewer in the ground before grabbing the wine and chugging a mouthful to wash it down.
Wen Tian burst out laughing at the sight, giggling non-stop.…
Chu Xiangtian squinted at him, cheeks still puckered from the sour taste. Wen Tian was curled around the wine flask, laughing with abandon.
Suddenly, Chu Xiangtian shoved another hawthorn into his mouth without warning.
Wen Tian reflexively bit down. His tongue brushed the sticky-sweet coating, and his expression turned dazed.
Chu Xiangtian took the opportunity to poke at his puffed cheek and finally looked satisfied.
The sugar glaze melted quickly, and Wen Tian grimaced as he swallowed.
“So petty,” he muttered under his breath.
Chu Xiangtian raised a brow, clinked his wine flask against Wen Tian’s.
“Now we’re even.”
Wen Tian rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of wine.
It was just regular rice wine—nothing compared to the flower wine Wen Shuyue brewed—but the sharp burn of the alcohol rolling down his throat was enough to make his head buzz and his worries fade.
By the time he finished the flask, a flush had crept up both cheeks. He felt warm and weightless, holding the empty flask in his arms and thinking fuzzily: The ancients were right.
A good drunk really does cure a thousand sorrows.
Chu Xiangtian didn’t even realize he was drunk at first. It wasn’t until Wen Tian started tipping over and leaning against him that he caught on.
Half-lidded and mumbling, Wen Tian hugged the empty wine flask. Chu Xiangtian tried to sit him upright—only to be caught off guard as Wen Tian suddenly threw up all over him.
He froze. Only after the boy had finished retching did he half-carry the woozy drunkard to a cleaner spot, stripped off his soiled outer robe, and settled in his dark inner garments.
Thankfully, it was night and not easily noticeable.
While trying to wipe Wen Tian’s face, Chu Xiangtian had to wrestle to keep him still. But drunk people were irrational.
Wen Tian suddenly opened his mouth and bit him.
Before Chu Xiangtian could even shout, the boy collapsed into his arms and burst into tears.
Not just a few sniffles—he cried as if his heart were breaking. His arms clung tightly to Chu Xiangtian’s waist, his tear-streaked cheek pressing through the thin fabric of Chu Xiangtian’s shirt.
The heat of his tears soaked through to the skin.
Chu Xiangtian patted his back gently, looking lost and helpless.
Why is this little master made of water?
Crying at the drop of a hat…
Wen Tian sobbed in his arms, gutted and broken. The alcohol had stripped away all his defenses, leaving only raw, overflowing emotion.
Since his rebirth, he’d forced himself to grow up—to scheme, to calculate, to become the kind of man who could protect his mother and sister.
But deep down, he was still that pampered, delicate young master. When sober, he could hold it in.
But once drunk, everything he’d buried surged out.
And Chu Xiangtian’s chest—strong and steady—felt too much like safety.
So Wen Tian buried his face deeper into it, rubbing his tears and snot all over him.