But the World

Lyu Fang was silent for a moment, then spoke:

“This servant... did not see it.”

A faint twitch tugged at the corner of Emperor Luo’s mouth, carrying a note of self-mocking and a trace of appreciation as he sighed:

“Nor did I.”

That sigh concealed something far more complex than the silent confrontation that had just taken place.

It held vigilance. It held scrutiny. It held an appreciation that could not quite be called appreciation.

And it held the kind of complexity that only a father felt when examining someone who might shape his daughter’s entire life.

Lyu Fang said nothing.

He stood with his hands at his sides, eyes fixed on the tip of his nose, his mind like a statue without breath.

But something stirred faintly inside him. He had spent so many years in the palace, seen so many perform before Emperor Luo.

Some acted well; others did not. But whether they acted well or not, Emperor Luo always saw through them.

Because Emperor Luo had a pair of eyes that could pierce the hearts of men.

But today.

Today, Emperor Luo had said, “Nor did I.”

This meant that Gu Chengyin’s performance just now was something even Emperor Luo could not judge as real or false.

Not because he had acted too well, but because it might not have been an act at all.

It might have been genuine.

And as for why Emperor Luo had deliberately revealed a weakness—

It was because as long as Gu Chengyin did not commit treason or rebellion,

as long as every action Gu Chengyin took stayed within the bounds of the rules,

no one could touch him any longer. Not even he, the Emperor of the Great Luo, could do so.

This was an iron law of sovereign rule, the game that any person sitting on the dragon throne had to follow.

Emperor Luo could probe, could harry, could create obstacles within the rules.

But he could not kill Gu Chengyin without cause, could not uproot him from the court without a crime.

If he did, Lin Qingyan would not allow it—that was the least of it.

Every power in the realm, from the great clans to the common scholars, would feel the chill of a warning.

If you could kill the Junior Tutor to the Crown Prince for no reason today, you could kill a Minister of the Six Boards tomorrow, and a provincial governor the day after.

No one would feel safe.

At that point, morale would crumble; the court would become chaos.

Emperor Luo’s power would not become more stable; instead, it would become the banner of righteousness in Gu Chengyin’s hands.

Once that banner was raised, the great clans would be the first to leap into action.

And all those neutral observers would rally to the side of “justice.”

Emperor Luo understood this better than anyone.

After all, it was not as if he had never tried to kill Gu Chengyin. He had simply never succeeded.

Note the distinction: never succeeded, not failed.

The difference between these two words was as vast as the distance between heaven and earth.

Failure meant you acted but did not achieve your goal.

Never succeeded meant you formed the intent, made the plans, dispatched the men, laid the traps—

and then, at the very last moment, you pulled back.

On the surface, it seemed because of Luo Zhao. But in truth, it was because of Lin Qingyan.

A qualified emperor would not revoke an order simply because the crown prince had intervened.

Emperor Luo’s mouth curved into a slight smile. He had genuinely wanted to kill Gu Chengyin.

But the moment Lin Qingyan volunteered to take the task, he knew Gu Chengyin could no longer be killed.

Since that was the case, he might as well go with the flow.

After all, Lin Qingyan liked Gu Chengyin—that was true—but she was also Luo Zhao’s own aunt.

This bond was stronger than any alliance in the court, and more complicated than any political game.

In the end, there were only two possible outcomes:

First, Lin Qingyan kills Gu Chengyin. Then all is well.

The threat vanishes, the court loses one restless variable, and everything returns to normal.

Second, Lin Qingyan does not kill Gu Chengyin—because she does not want to.

And that “does not want to” leads to another result.

One where, when Luo Zhao ascends to the throne in the future, even if she lacks ability by herself, nothing will go wrong.

Because Lin Qingyan will never abandon Luo Zhao. Of that, there was no doubt.

And if that was the case, then Gu Chengyin would have to take charge of Luo Zhao.

From the moment Lin Qingyan decided not to kill, Gu Chengyin was already bound to Luo Zhao’s ship.

He might not care about Luo Zhao, might not be concerned about her, might feel nothing for her.

But he had to care about Lin Qingyan. And Lin Qingyan cared about Luo Zhao.

So Gu Chengyin, too, had to care about Luo Zhao.

This chain of logic was more solid than any court alliance, more enduring than any exchange of interests.

Because it was not built on benefit—it was built on Lin Qingyan.

In comparison, what Emperor Luo truly worried about and was testing,

was not whether Gu Chengyin would threaten his throne, nor whether Gu Chengyin would grow too powerful in court.

Such things, Emperor Luo had ways to suppress.

He had sat on the dragon throne for decades, seen more schemers than he had eaten grains of salt.

What Emperor Luo genuinely feared was: after Gu Chengyin obtained Lin Qingyan,

would he also set his sights on his precious daughter?

But from the exchange just now, he could already be certain of one thing.

Gu Chengyin’s feelings toward Luo Zhao were exactly what a junior tutor should feel for a crown prince—nothing more.

In fact, Emperor Luo had seen something even deeper.

Within Gu Chengyin’s regard for Luo Zhao, there was something far grander.

Like a person standing on a mountaintop, gazing at the vast land below with a certain expectation.

He wanted to be responsible for Luo Zhao—not merely because he was her junior tutor.

But because Luo Zhao would one day be responsible for the billions of people in the Great Luo.

The end point of this chain of responsibility was not Luo Zhao, not any single person in the court.

It was the world.

It was the people living on this land: farmers, merchants, scholars, the sick and the dying, those who experienced joy and sorrow.

Strangers to Gu Chengyin, yet whose fates would be changed by his influence on Luo Zhao.

Emperor Luo did not know how someone so young as Gu Chengyin could possess such a vast sense of responsibility.

He did not even know where that sense came from—whether it was real or feigned, sincere or the most sophisticated disguise.

But Emperor Luo knew one thing. This sense of responsibility, whatever its origin,

regardless of whether it was real or fake—as long as it existed, as long as it did not collapse—then Luo Zhao was safe.

Because a person with such a vast sense of duty would not easily abandon his charge.

And Luo Zhao was Gu Chengyin’s responsibility.

Once he confirmed this, Emperor Luo actually felt relieved.

He put the black stone he was holding back into the bowl.

A crisp sound, clear yet muffled.

Outside the window, the sunlight had shifted again, falling from three shafts to two.

Those two rays of light landed on the chessboard, on the black and white stones,

illuminating the unfinished game in a play of light and shadow, as if the board had been split into two worlds.

One in the light, one in the shadow.

And that lone white stone pushed to the side belonged to neither world.

It lay alone in the shadow at the edge of the board, utterly still.

As though waiting for someone to pick it up and put it back where it belonged.