Two dawns later, tucked within the scroll rack where his practice brushes lay, Shen Li found a small, folded slip of mulberry paper. Its edges were soft, yielding beneath his thumb. “Might you grant a moment of your time in the auxiliary archive, before the morning's drills?” For an instant, a fleeting, foolish thought pricked his mind: a secret admirer, perhaps. But the absurdity of it quickly sobered him. This was the Azure Imperium, a realm of rigid protocol, where even a whisper of such intimacy outside sanctioned bonds could shatter a reputation. Such open expressions were unheard of, especially for one of his station. His origins, forever a shadow clinging to his robes, reminded him of his place. He dismissed the notion, chiding his own romantic folly. Indeed, the missive had entirely slipped his memory until the chimes signaling the imminent start of morning drills echoed through the academy halls. His calligraphic implements, usually the focus of his attention, felt heavy in his hand as he prepared to join the other young scholars for their physical regimens. He navigated the labyrinthine corridors, his steps light on the polished flagstones, towards the auxiliary archive. A flicker of curiosity stirred within him, a desire to know who might have sent the note, though he assumed it would be a trivial matter—a request for a specific ink stone, perhaps, or a borrowed text. Nothing significant. However, the one awaiting him proved an unexpected figure: Ming Ze, a junior scholar from the House of Lin, known for his timid demeanor and perpetually downcast gaze. His dark hair lay pressed flat, almost apologetic, against his brow. “Ming Ze?” Shen Li’s voice carried a note of mild surprise, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. Ming Ze’s small head, which had been bent low, his teeth worrying at a thumbnail, snapped upwards. A wavering smile, much like the one he had worn upon his first arrival at the academy, bloomed on his face. That smile, innocent as it might have been, chafed Shen Li, stirring a familiar unease. “What is it? Why the sudden summons?” Responding to the query, Ming Ze nervously twisted his plump fingers, his gaze darting about the dusty chamber. “Ah, I… I have a matter to impart…” “Speak, then.” Shen Li wanted this encounter concluded swiftly. His unease stemmed from the whispers such a private meeting might ignite, especially with someone of Ming Ze’s modest standing. He carefully cultivated an image of polite, distant helpfulness—no more, no less—never risking entanglement. Unaware of Shen Li’s internal turmoil, Ming Ze continued to gnaw at his thumb, his eyes wide as he surveyed the rows of stacked scrolls. His face was a canvas of indecision warring with some nascent resolve. Each time he seemed on the verge of speech, his mouth clamped shut once more. A tightening sensation began in Shen Li’s chest. Ming Ze’s hesitancy, usually so innocuous, now pricked at a raw nerve. Perhaps it was the gnawing anxiety that had recently taken root in his gut, a disquiet that no amount of meditation or meticulous brushwork seemed to banish. His stomach, always sensitive, had been a knot of discomfort for days, leaving him restless and prone to irritation. “Forgive me, but the drills commence soon. Can you not simply speak your mind?” His voice, though still composed, held an edge. He felt a desperate urge to lash out, to displace the tangled frustration that coiled within him, a frustration born not of Ming Ze, but of his own precarious position in the unforgiving currents of court life. While Shen Li battled his thoughts, Ming Ze at last seemed to find his courage. A small, stammering voice broke the silence. “Uh, Shen… I… you see, I…” “Yes?” Shen Li murmured, a hand rising to lightly rub his neck. The respite before drills was evaporating. He yearned for Ming Ze to simply articulate whatever weighed on his heart. For a dark moment, he even imagined gently prying the words from the younger scholar’s mouth himself. Then, without warning, the heavy wooden door to the archive swung inward. Both Shen Li and Ming Ze turned, their eyes meeting those of Lord Bao, who stood gasping for breath on the threshold. No, not Shen Li – Lord Bao’s fierce gaze was fixed solely on Ming Ze. “Hmph, hmph…” His ragged breaths echoed in the still air, a testament to his haste. Shen Li’s chest constricted with a suffocating empathy, picturing the young lord racing through the academy, searching frantically for Ming Ze. Lord Bao exhaled a long, measured breath, then strode purposefully into the archive. Unconsciously, Shen Li’s hand dropped from his neck. Lord Bao’s eyes flickered between Ming Ze and Shen Li, his expression unyielding, fraught with a barely contained fury. “What are you doing here with him?” His voice was a low growl, ambiguous in its target. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. Beneath Shen Li’s carefully maintained composure, a tempest brewed. After a drawn-out silence, Lord Bao finally turned his full attention to Shen Li. That gaze, however, was unbearable. “By the Ancestors, Lord Bao…” Please, Shen Li’s silent plea resonated, do not look upon me with such animosity. Blame Ming Ze, for it was he who summoned me. Why cast such a resentful gaze upon me, whom you once called friend? I am but a pawn in this unfolding drama. Even as these thoughts raced, Lord Bao’s burning eyes remained locked on Shen Li. He recognized the look: not of passionate ardor, but of raw jealousy, of a possessive rage bordering on madness. It was the visage of a man consumed by an obsessive devotion, a sight Shen Li found both pitiable and deeply unsettling. “Why are you here with him!” Lord Bao, you appear so wretched. So utterly forlorn. Shen Li met his gaze with a defiant glare. Yet, a chilling realization seeped into his bones: perhaps the truly pitiful one was not Lord Bao, but himself. Before he could fully comprehend, Lord Bao’s long strides had carried him directly before Shen Li. The moment his features sharpened, the world seemed to tilt. “...!” The impact stole his breath. He could not process what had occurred. His body crumpled to the ground, and only then did his mind retrace the swift, brutal movement. “Impossible…” He had been struck. Lord Bao had struck him. Lying prone, Shen Li raised trembling fingers to his cheek. Disbelief warred with a searing pain. How could this be? How could Lord Bao have done this to him? “Sh-Shen Li!” Ming Ze, eyes wide with horror, rushed forward, but Lord Bao’s shriek, sharp as a blade, halted him. “You wretch! I told you to address me by my title! No, do not speak my name at all, you insufferable fool!” Lord Bao’s face, contorted with rage, caused Ming Ze to pale further. “I-I beg your pardon, I am truly sorry.” “You gave your word! You swore it, damn you!” Ming Ze stumbled back, tears welling in his eyes. But no, Shen Li thought, it is not he who should weep. It is I. A surge of hot tears threatened to overwhelm him. Mercifully, before he could fully break, Lord Bao uttered a guttural curse, seized Ming Ze by the arm, and dragged him from the archive. The entire episode concluded with a shocking swiftness. Left alone, sitting on the cold stone floor, Shen Li stared at the half-open door. A sliver of morning light sliced through the gap, illuminating the swirling dust motes. Within him, something irrevocably shattered. The dam holding back his emotions burst, and tears streamed freely down his bruised cheek. He hated everything. Ming Ze, who had, however unwittingly, ensnared him in this sordid affair. Lord Bao, who had resorted to violence. A desperate wish for them both to simply vanish consumed him. He felt a profound misery, reduced to a mere, ignominious bystander in their twisted entanglement. Rising stiffly, he bypassed morning drills, instead making his way directly to the Imperial Bureau’s antechamber to request an early dismissal. His swollen, reddened face lent credibility to his plea of sudden ill health. The supervising Master, seeing his distress, seemed to understand without prying, granting his leave with a sympathetic nod. --- Arriving at his humble residence, Shen Li collapsed onto his sleeping mat and fell into a fitful slumber. When he woke, his face felt puffy, a dull throb accompanying the visible bruise. Out of ingrained habit, he reached for his communication scroll, seeing a message from Jian Li. They rarely exchanged direct messages, but due to their occasional joint duties concerning Lord Bao, a record of contact existed. The thought of Lord Bao’s name, even tangentially, made his stomach clench. Damn it all. Were it any other acquaintance, he would have ignored the missive. But Jian Li was not merely anyone; he was Lord Bao’s closest confidante, a man whose influence rippled through the academy’s informal hierarchies. To disregard him would be unwise. “Greetings, when did you depart so suddenly?” Shen Li clicked his tongue, a faint sound of irritation escaping him. He composed a belated reply to the message, which was already three hours old. “Haha, a sudden indisposition befell me.” He deliberately kept the tone light, almost flippant. The thought of anyone discovering Lord Bao had struck him, and for such a reason, was a humiliation he could not bear. And all because of Ming Ze, a scholar he barely knew, a person whose existence now brought him only shame. “Are your humors balanced? Is all well?” Jian Li, expressing concern? An unfamiliar ripple of disquiet ran through Shen Li. He quickly rolled up his scroll, ending the communication. Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Even Jian Li’s message, though ostensibly kind, felt stifling. Other scholars, those with whom he shared lessons, had also sent inquiries, but none of it was what his aching heart yearned for. No message from Lord Bao. No sign of him searching. He must be mad, Shen Li chastised himself. Yet, he consoled himself, this was the grim fate of those consumed by a love so deranged. Even knowing the painful truth, he lay there like an idiot, doing what he did best—closing his eyes and turning a blind eye to the stark reality. “...I am not alone in this.” Perhaps Ming Ze and he shared a similar, wretched plight. That strange, twisted, grotesque thought clung to him. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. While lying on his mat, staring at the patterned ceiling, another message arrived. It was from an unfamiliar number of characters, indicating an unregistered sender. “Shen, are you gravely ill?” Shen Li frowned. Who among his acquaintances would address him so familiarly, with such an unceremonious shortened name? Jian Li? But this was not his registered scroll number. Before he could ponder further, a follow-up message arrived, relentless and infuriating. “My sincerest apologies. Truly, I am sorry. This is all due to my failings.” “I am sorry.” “Please, extend your forgiveness.” Whether three words or four, each character felt like a stone striking him. He hurled his communication scroll onto the rush matting in frustration. How had this commoner, this simple scholar, obtained his private number? And how was someone who purportedly possessed no such device sending him messages? Then it dawned on him. Ah. He had once, out of a moment of politeness, used his own scroll to send Ming Ze a minor reference for a textual query. He had called him, briefly. His own foolishness. He cursed his idiotic memory and let out an angry sigh, a gust of wind through a broken window. To vent his fury, he pounded his fists against the matting for a long while until exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted back into sleep. Just before his thoughts completely faded, one last message lingered in the recess of his mind. “Please, do not harbor hatred for me.” How amusing, Shen Li thought. He had hated him for months. The next morning, when he woke, his face felt swollen like a steamed bun. --- He skipped his courtly duties. However diligent a scholar he was, he possessed insufficient fervor for his studies to present himself with such a disfigured countenance. The housekeeper, a kindly woman named Old An, prepared a light midday meal for him. As he ate, she could not resist offering a gentle scolding, advising him to be more careful in his movements. The meal itself was simple fare—soft rice porridge and delicate, seasoned greens. He swallowed it without much chewing, his appetite muted by his internal turmoil. Setting down his lacquered spoon and reaching for a cup of fragrant tea, Old An returned to clear the dishes. With a porcelain bowl in one hand, she said, “Young Master Shen, a friend awaits your presence.” “What?” “Shall I admit them?” A friend. His heart fluttered, a tiny bird trapped in his ribs. Before he could even name the emotion, his mind had already begun to conjure an image of who might be standing at his door. Could it be… Lord Bao? It seemed a wild, improbable fancy, yet not entirely impossible. Few among his peers ever visited his modest courtyard residence. Among his many acquaintances, only a handful even knew its exact location. If it were Lord Bao, then surely he had come to offer an apology, the weight of his actions finally settling upon him. Lord Bao had never before raised a hand against him, not once in all their years. Yes, he must be wracked with worry and remorse. “Yes, Old An, please admit them.” The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Even as he chastised himself for such naïve hope, a small measure of satisfaction bloomed within him. Despite everything, he remained important to Lord Bao in some profound way. That thought filled him with an inexplicable, fleeting warmth. He quickly turned toward the front door, his pace quickening with an unexpected eagerness. But the person awaiting him was not who he had so desperately hoped to see. “Yo, what troubles you?” A sharp-featured face, belonging to Jian Li, greeted him with a playful smirk, a scroll of dried preserved fruits clutched in one hand. As soon as Jian Li’s eyes fell upon Shen Li’s bruised cheek, his casual demeanor vanished, and he asked in an uncharacteristically serious tone, “What in the Ancestors’ names happened to your face?” His knees almost buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. How did Jian Li even know the precise location of his humble dwelling? “...I merely stumbled,” Shen Li replied flatly, the lie tasting like ash. Jian Li’s brow furrowed, his lips twisting in that characteristic way he did before delivering a cutting remark. “You truly are a clumsy fool, aren’t you?” Shen Li offered no argument. He simply rubbed his swollen face, a dull ache settling near his cheekbone. Embarrassment surged, hot and bitter, as he recalled his earlier, foolish anticipation. He was an idiot. Lord Bao did not consider him important. And here he was, wagging his tail like a hopeful little dog—like a complete moron. “Here, take this.” Jian Li extended a small, intricately carved box. Shen Li accepted it, lifting the lid to reveal its contents. “...It is Imperial Jadeite ink paste.” “Is it? Did not pay much heed,” Jian Li shrugged. “Figures. Why would you care?” “Damn, that’s harsh, Shen Li.” “What is your purpose here?” “What do you imagine? I came to ensure your well-being. Do you mind if I enter?” “Hey, wait!” Without an ounce of hesitation, Jian Li’s long legs carried him across the threshold and into the small main hall. “Where are your private chambers?” “Hey, where are you going?” “Where else? There are no other appealing destinations in your modest dwelling.” “...” Shen Li had no retort. Jian Li was right, in his own callous way. Residences, at their core, were all the same. Feeling an awkward self-consciousness, Shen Li followed Jian Li, who seemed intent on inspecting every corner of his home, his gaze unnervingly keen.

A Serpent's Sting