Days passed one after another.

Su Ming began to truly study the court’s political situation, research water conservancy and grain transport, and study how to use a single memorial to delight the emperor.

Su Ming discovered he actually had quite a talent in this area. For many complex and intricate government affairs, he could always see the crucial points at a glance and propose insights that hit the nail on the head.

Su Ming recalled those obscure runes and those complicated spiritual energy circuits less and less.

Only occasionally late at night, in the deep quiet, when weary from reviewing official documents, he would subconsciously use his fingertip to trace a few simple, meaningless patterns on the desktop—the opening strokes of the “Gathering” and “Solidify” character runes he had practiced countless times.

Then he would freeze, shake his head with a self-deprecating smile, feeling he was probably just tired and confused.

The Yongchang Marquis Manor held a birthday banquet.

The Yongchang Marquis, who had once been high above, wanting to crush him like an ant, personally sent an invitation.

At the banquet, the Yongchang Marquis, holding a wine cup, walked up to Su Ming, a warm smile on his face: “Lord Su, there were some misunderstandings in the past. In the future at court, I will need to rely heavily on you, Lord Su, to put in a good word for me before His Majesty.”

Su Ming looked at that face which had once filled him with fear, now brimming with attempts to win him over.

He smiled slightly, raising his cup in return: “You flatter me, Marquis.”

At that moment, Su Ming felt an unprecedented sense of satisfaction.

This was the feeling of controlling fate.

Not by hiding, not by scheming, but by standing upright at the pinnacle of power, making all former enemies bow their heads.

This feeling was too intoxicating.

Su Ming began to grow accustomed to this life.

He grew accustomed to the smooth, silky touch of the official robe on his body, accustomed to the subtle fragrance of top-grade Huizhou ink wafting in his study, accustomed to returning to his manor after court and receiving his parents’ concerned inquiries.

Memories of cultivating immortality began to blur, like an absurd, nonsensical dream.

Until that day.

The heavy snow had just cleared.

Su Ming was summoned to the palace.

Inside the Imperial Study, the underfloor heating burned fiercely, making it as warm as spring.

The elderly emperor put down the vermilion brush in his hand, raised his head, and looked with gentle eyes at Su Ming standing below.

“My beloved minister Su.” The emperor’s voice was aged and kindly.

“Your servant is here.” Su Ming bowed in salute.

“You have been diligent and dedicated these years since entering court. I have seen it all.” The emperor picked up a memorial from the desk. “Especially the strategy for managing grain transport you proposed earlier. After its implementation, the national treasury has been enriched, and the people live in peace. You are the chief contributor.”

“This is due to Your Majesty’s great fortune. Your servant dare not claim credit.” Su Ming lowered his head in response, his reply fitting and proper.

“No need for such modesty.” The emperor smiled, stood up, personally walked to Su Ming, and handed him the memorial in his hand. “I have another major matter here, concerning the state and the livelihood of the people. After much thought, I feel only by entrusting it to you can I be at ease.”

Su Ming received the memorial with both hands.

The memorial was weighty, its cover embroidered with dragon patterns in gold thread.

“This is a proposal regarding promoting new paper to enrich the national treasury.” The emperor said gently. “I heard this new paper method originates from your hometown?”

Su Ming’s heart stirred slightly. He lowered his head and opened the memorial.

The handwriting on the memorial was neat and forceful, clearly and systematically listing the various wonders of the new paper and the methods for its promotion, even detailing the key points of several core improvement techniques.

Su Ming’s gaze followed the text downward.

He read very carefully, as if reviewing a crucial official document.

His gaze finally settled on those few lines describing the core formula of the “Su Family Special Bamboo Paper.”

Ingredient ratios, steaming and boiling time, pounding frequency, paper-forming technique…

Not a single detail was off.

It was precisely the optimal ratio he and Second Brother had determined after repeated trials.

But…

Something was missing.

Not an ingredient, not a step in the process.

But a mark.

A “security mark” that only he and Second Brother knew about, utterly useless in practice, purely a joke between brothers.

That winter, under the dim light of an oil lamp, he had taught his barely literate Second Brother how to draw a simple stick-figure smiling face in the corner of the paper recording the formula.

Second Brother had practiced for a long time, drawing it crooked and wobbly, but he was very happy.

“From now on, all the paper our family produces will have this smiling face.” Second Brother grinned. “No one can copy it.”

Although this “security” method was laughably childish, it was a secret belonging to the two of them.

And in this terrifyingly detailed royal memorial, there was the optimal formula, the most reasonable promotion strategy, the tax revenue numbers most likely to impress the emperor…

Only that crooked, wobbly “smiling face” was absent.

In its place was a cold, standardized, vermilion official seal symbolizing imperial authority.

Su Ming slowly closed the memorial.

His movements were very slow, slow enough to clearly feel his heart beating in his chest, thump, thump, steady and firm.

The Imperial Study was as warm as spring, the charcoal fire crackling.

The emperor’s breathing was steady and long.

The snowy light outside the window filtered through the transparent roof tiles, casting mottled shadows on the floor tiles.

Everything felt very “real.”

But Su Ming felt an extremely subtle, almost imperceptible chill creeping up from the base of his spine.

Not because this world was “fake.”

But because this “realness,” this perfection so stifling, this consideration so all-encompassing, precisely exposed its essence—it had only constructed “facts,” but overlooked “people.”

It overlooked those “emotions” and “memories” hidden in the cracks between facts, illogical yet immensely important.

It could replicate the optimal formula, but it couldn’t replicate that childish smiling face beside the formula.

Could it simulate a mother’s loving kindness, but could it simulate that complex expression unique to a mother, mixed with heartache and pride?

Could it construct a father’s stern dignity, but could it construct that almost inaudible sigh he let out while watching his back with hands clasped behind him?

Could it…

Su Ming raised his head, meeting the emperor’s eyes filled with expectation and trust.

In those eyes were appreciation, reliance, the dependence of an emperor on a capable minister.

Only that indescribable thing, carrying flaws and warmth, that exists when one “person” looks at another “person,” was absent.

“My beloved minister Su?” Seeing him silent for so long, the emperor called out in confusion. “Is there some difficulty? If so, speak freely.”

Su Ming took a deep breath.

The warm, fragrant air of the Imperial Study filled his lungs.

He bowed slightly, returning the memorial with both hands, his voice steady, betraying no hint of abnormality:

“Your Majesty’s great favor fills me with boundless gratitude. This strategy is excellent. If implemented properly, it will indeed greatly benefit the state and the people. I have some superficial knowledge of the paper-making affairs from my village days. I am willing to elaborate on its pros and cons for Your Majesty, for your wise judgment.”

He did not question the authenticity of the memorial.

Instead, he actively took up the topic, embedding himself even deeper into the logic of this world.

Like a stone falling into water, after stirring faint ripples, it chose to continue sinking, rather than float to the surface.

The emperor smiled with satisfaction, signaling him to elaborate.

Su Ming began to explain, his voice clear, his points well-organized.

But in the deepest recesses of his consciousness, an extremely faint, almost forgotten sense of “wrongness,” like an undercurrent beneath ice, began to stir quietly.

Like a spectator standing before a stage, suddenly becoming aware of the existence of the curtain.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep