The Purest Obsession

When Emperor Luo asked this question, the air in the warm chamber seemed to be seized.

All sounds, in that instant, were compressed to their utmost limit.

Then gently crushed, dissolving into a profound silence.

The incense smoke from the Boshan burner had long since dissipated, leaving only a faint, lingering warmth deep within the censer, spiraling lazily above the golden brick floor.

Lyu Fang's breath had been held to its breaking point.

His gaze remained lowered, fixed on the ground three feet in front of his toes.

There, a hairline crack between the golden bricks ran as thin as a strand of silk.

He stared at that crack as if it held his very fate.

Because this question was too complex and too blunt.

Complex in that Emperor Luo had dispensed with any euphemistic circumlocution, any roundabout indirection, any ambiguous probing.

Instead, he had asked it outright.

This was not the emperor’s usual style.

Emperor Luo always spoke in veiled clouds and winding mountains—one sentence could hide three layers of meaning, one glance could convey ten messages.

But now, with the most direct, the most unadorned, the most inescapable phrasing,

he had hurled this question at Gu Chengyin.

What are your true feelings toward Zhao’er?

Because Emperor Luo knew that only by asking this way could he eliminate any possibility of evasion.

Had he asked about anything else, Gu Chengyin would have had countless ways to respond.

He could flatter, he could modestly deflect, he could steer the topic toward state affairs.

He could muddy the waters with those watertight bureaucratic platitudes.

But this question was like a blade, slicing straight through every conceivable mask and retreat.

Not actions. Not attitudes. Not stances.

Feelings.

The truest, most primal, most unspeakable thing hidden beneath those respectful memorials, rigorous teachings, and that carefully maintained distance.

And this question had no standard answer.

To say "utter loyalty" was too perfunctory; to say "absolutely no ulterior motives" was too pale.

To confess fondness for Luo Zhao was suicide; to deny it was treason—still suicide.

So Emperor Luo’s eyes were fixed on Gu Chengyin, like a sheathed blade.

The sheath was silence; the edge was waiting.

But Gu Chengyin did not hesitate.

From the moment Emperor Luo voiced the question to the time his answer left his lips, less than two breaths had passed.

Not because he had reached a judgment in those two breaths, nor because he had weighed the pros and cons.

But because there was no need to hesitate.

For others, this question might require painstaking deliberation, weighing every word.

For Gu Chengyin, it did not.

Because, toward Luo Zhao,

from beginning to end, he had only ever had one thought.

“Your Majesty,”

Gu Chengyin said, his voice steady and firm:

“Your servant is the Junior Tutor to the Crown Prince.”

“My feelings toward Her Highness have always been but one.”

“That she may become a wise and enlightened ruler.”

“Nothing more.”

Every word Gu Chengyin spoke was weighty, like stones laid one upon another.

Not towering, not steep, but each block fitted tightly, unshakable, immovable.

This was no vague cliché, nor a vassal’s declaration of loyalty.

It was a teacher’s hope for his student.

This hope had nothing to do with power, nothing to do with advantage.

It bore no relation to the games of the court or the machinations of factions.

It was something pure—something so simple it could be called clean.

Like a craftsman gazing upon the vessel taking shape in his hands, hoping it would one day become a masterpiece for the ages.

Like a gardener looking at the sapling he had planted with his own hands, hoping it would eventually flourish with lush branches and dense leaves.

Not because the vessel could fetch a high price, nor because the tree could provide shade.

But because he had invested his heart, poured his effort, and watched it grow, bit by bit.

Therefore, she should become the best version of herself.

And as Gu Chengyin spoke these words, what surfaced in his mind was not Luo Zhao’s identity as crown prince.

Not her value at court, not what she could bring him.

It was the countless millions of people in the Great Luo Empire.

His influence on Luo Zhao would radiate invisibly to all of them.

So Gu Chengyin genuinely hoped Luo Zhao would become a wise and enlightened ruler.

Because he was the Junior Tutor to the Crown Prince, and because Luo Zhao was his student.

This thought had nothing to do with power, nothing to do with advantage.

It had nothing to do with the deeds done, the paths walked, or the schemes carried on his shoulders.

None of it.

It was the cleanest obsession at the bottom of his heart.

Emperor Luo did not speak immediately.

He merely looked at Gu Chengyin’s eyes, quietly observing.

In those eyes, which bore some resemblance to Luo Zhao’s but were unfathomably deeper, something flowed slowly.

As if he wanted to turn Gu Chengyin’s soul inside out and examine it thoroughly.

Gu Chengyin did not look away, did not even blink.

His spine straight, his gaze met Emperor Luo’s squarely—neither flinching nor deferring, neither arrogant nor servile.

Not defiance. Not confrontation.

But the calm of a clear conscience.

It was a delicate moment.

Light streamed through the gaps in the window lattice, illuminating the air between the two men into transparency.

In that air, minuscule motes of dust floated, spinning slowly in the light beams, like a host of invisible witnesses.

Gu Chengyin’s gaze remained fixed on Emperor Luo’s face, on those eyes that were scrutinizing him.

He could even make out the ring of brown around the edge of Emperor Luo’s pupils—the trace left by years.

The patina of countless late nights reviewing memorials by candlelight.

The reflection of countless court battles cast by the shadows of opponents.

The refraction of countless imperial edicts brushed with vermilion.

And along the edge of that brown ring, there was a barely visible fissure—not a crack in the pupil, but one in the iris.

A scar of time, something Emperor Luo’s body had recorded after sitting on this dragon throne for decades, watching for decades, enduring for decades.

Emperor Luo was also looking into Gu Chengyin’s eyes.

Very clean.

Not the cleanliness of one untouched by the world, but that of someone who had seen much, experienced much, and yet still managed to keep a limpid clarity.

Like the water of a deep pool: calm on the surface, turbulent beneath.

But the water itself was clear.

Not murky. Not sullied.

Not turned dark by witnessing darkness.

Right then, a thought surfaced from some corner of Gu Chengyin’s mind.

Now is the best time to hypnotize Emperor Luo.

The emperor’s attention was intensely focused on his answer—on judging whether he was sincere, lying, hiding something.

This state of deep concentration was precisely the easiest point of vulnerability.

Like a tightly shut door: when the person inside is wholly absorbed in peering through the peephole at what’s outside, they often fail to notice another window open behind them.

Gu Chengyin’s fingertips twitched slightly.

A mysterious spiritual energy moved slowly through his dantian, a power granted by the system.

It coursed quietly and obediently along his meridians, passing through Tanzhong, through Tiantu, through Lianquan.

Finally, it converged in his eyes.

This was the exit of the spirit’s awareness, the starting point for initiating hypnosis.

As long as eye contact was made, a connection could be formed in an instant.

No elaborate rituals needed. No superfluous movements.

Only five breaths of mutual gaze.