The More You Endure, The Angrier You Get

After finishing his words, Gu Chengyin did not linger too long.

He withdrew his hand, turned around, and strode out of the hall.

His pace was calm and steady, exactly as it had been when he entered, showing no trace of emotion.

He indeed still had matters to attend to.

Although Cui Zhenji's resignation memorial had been sent to the Grand Secretariat by Shangguan Yunying, sending it there was only the first step.

Approval by the Grand Secretariat was not a hundred percent guaranteed.

Countless overt and covert struggles would revolve around this memorial.

But Gu Chengyin was not heading to the Grand Secretariat; he was going back to find Lin Qingyan.

Any conspiracy or scheme was but a fleeting cloud before absolute power.

At this moment, it became clear just how important Lin Qingyan was to him.

That was also why both hypnotic methods had to be used.

As for Luo Zhao, Gu Chengyin glanced back as he walked out the hall door.

Luo Zhao remained motionless, still seated in that posture.

Sunlight streamed in from outside the hall, casting a warm glow on her profile.

Her expression was still frozen in disbelief—her phoenix eyes slightly wide, her lips slightly parted, making her look both dazed and aggrieved.

Gu Chengyin averted his gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly.

Then he stepped down the stairs.

Luo Zhao sat there, staring blankly as Gu Chengyin’s figure disappeared from the doorway.

He left decisively, without turning back, without pausing, without even slowing his pace.

His robes fluttered in the sunlight for a moment before being cut off by the doorframe into a fleeting shadow, and then he was gone.

The great hall was empty.

Luo Zhao stared at the vacant doorway, utterly still.

In her mind, the scene from moments ago replayed.

Gu Chengyin leaning down.

His hands braced on the desk, his smile playful as he said, "I just want to have complete control over Auntie."

Then he straightened up, looking down at her from above, saying, "So just behave and stay my heir apparent."

Next, his hand landed on her head, rubbing it with a firm but gentle touch, adding, "At least like this, I’ll really like you."

Arrogant.

Too arrogant.

How could a person be so arrogant?

He admitted he wanted to control Auntie, admitted he had ulterior motives, then used the words "there’s nothing you can do about it" to silence her, and finally patted her head, telling her to obediently be his heir apparent.

What was this?

A handout?

A blessing?

Every time Luo Zhao recalled Gu Chengyin’s smug, brazen demeanor, fury swelled inside her.

Her right hand shot up, grabbing a memorial from the desk.

She raised it high, ready to hurl it at the doorway.

But the memorial stopped mid-air.

Her arm was suspended, the edges of the memorial trembling slightly, making a faint rustling sound.

Luo Zhao’s arm was shaking—not from fatigue, but from rage.

She could feel the anger rushing from her chest to her throat, then from her throat to her arm.

Down to her fingertips, into the memorial, making the entire document quiver in her grasp.

But she didn’t throw it.

Because just as the memorial was about to leave her hand, a thought flashed through her mind.

If she threw it, the memorial would scatter all over the floor.

She would have to pick it up herself, reorganize it, and have it sent to the Grand Secretariat.

If anyone saw a heap of scattered memorials in the heir apparent’s chambers, word would spread of unbecoming conduct.

If Gu Chengyin found out...

He would probably smile.

Not a loud laugh, but that faint, infuriating smile that made her even angrier.

Luo Zhao took a deep breath.

She inhaled deeply, so deeply it felt like she was storing this rage in her entire chest.

Then she compressed it, pressed it down, compacted it into a small, hard stone, sinking it to the very bottom.

Her arm slowly lowered, her fingers loosening one by one.

The memorial fell back onto the desk with a soft thud.

Luo Zhao’s gaze rested on the cover of that memorial.

It was an ordinary regional report, concerning the autumn grain harvest in some area, entirely unrelated to the earlier quarrel.

But its edges were slightly warm from her palm, and the cover bore a faint crease.

The mark left by her excessive grip.

Luo Zhao stared at that crease for a long time.

Then she lifted her head and looked back at the empty doorway.

Sunlight poured in through the frame, spreading a golden carpet across the floor.

At the edge of that carpet lay a withered leaf, carried from who knows where.

It spun gently in the breeze, like a lazy, lingering period.

Luo Zhao’s lips moved.

"Gu Chengyin! You Red Egg!"

As the words left her mouth, the corners of her lips twitched slightly.

Whether because she felt childish for uttering such an insult or because it accurately expressed her current mood, she couldn’t tell.

"Just you wait!"

Luo Zhao’s voice rose a few notches, stirring faint echoes in the empty hall.

Her gaze pierced through the doorway, past the corridors, past the layered eaves and flying corners.

It fixed on some figure she deeply loathed.

That figure was probably walking unhurriedly toward the Grand Secretariat now, pace steady.

His expression calm, the corner of his mouth likely still wearing that smile she wanted to punch off his face.

"Sooner or later,"

Luo Zhao ground out through clenched teeth, each word squeezed out with relentless determination:

"I’ll make you pay! I’ll give back every bit of anger you’ve caused me!"

Luo Zhao looked down and picked up the memorial she had creased.

Her fingers gently smoothed over the crease, pressing it flat bit by bit.

Her movements were careful, as if using this action to calm the last stirrings of agitation.

When she lifted her head again, her expression had already returned to that cold, aloof demeanor befitting the heir apparent.

Her brows were composed, her lips pressed slightly, her eyes carrying a calm resolve that said, "I will prove myself in my own way."

She picked up the brush, dipped it in ink, and wrote a few words of approval on the memorial.

Her handwriting was neat and precise, each stroke penetrating the paper.

Horizontal lines were straight, vertical lines steady, slants and flicks graceful. Every character sat squarely within its box, betraying no trace of emotion.

As she reviewed the third memorial, Luo Zhao’s hand stopped.

The brush tip hovered above the paper, a drop of ink slowly gathering, poised to fall.

Just before it dropped, she abruptly lifted her wrist and drew it back.

That drop never landed on the memorial; instead, it was flicked onto the desk’s edge, blooming into a small black flower.

Luo Zhao stared at that ink stain for a moment, then suddenly tossed the brush onto the brush rest.

With a sharp snap, the white jade rest shook several times. The purple-tipped brush bounced on the rest, rolled off, and dragged a crooked ink trail across the desk.

It finally stopped beside the pile of yet-unreviewed memorials.

Luo Zhao propped her forehead in both hands, her palms covering her brows, her fingertips buried in her hair.

Her eyes squeezed shut, her brows twisted into a knot.

The more she endured, the angrier she grew.

The more she backed down, the more she felt the loss.