It Backfired, Completely Backfired

Cold.

That was the first thing Shen Lumin felt after regaining consciousness. Not the kind of cold from sleeping without a blanket on a winter night—it was a cold that seeped out from the marrow of her bones, as if someone had replaced her bone marrow with shards of ice.

She opened her eyes.

Above her head, there was no roof beam, no canopy—only a stretch of gray sky. Calling it "sky" didn't seem right either—there were no clouds, no sun, just a chaotic expanse of gray, like a pot of burnt porridge overturned and pressing down from above.

Shen Lumin lay on the ground, her back pressed against the cold, muddy earth. Slowly, she sat up and found herself standing on a road.

The road was very narrow, only wide enough for two people to walk side by side. On both sides stretched a grayish-white wasteland, barren of anything—not even a single blade of grass. The road surface was pitted and uneven, crunching underfoot like stepping on dry, cracked bones.

"...What kind of place is this?"

She rubbed her temples, trying to clear her mind. Her last memory was—Liu Ruyan stuffing a packet of medicinal powder into her hands, instructing her to "take it with warm water, you'll collapse within the hour." She had yawned and said, "Got it." Then she returned to her own room, poured a cup of water, and tipped the powder into her mouth.

The powder was a bit bitter. She frowned, then drank two more gulps of water to wash it down.

And then—nothing.

"Wait," Shen Lumin stopped in her tracks. "Collapse within the hour... I collapsed, and then what?"

She was supposed to collapse, play dead, wait for Liu Ruyan to come get her, and then escape the palace through a secret passage.

So where was she now?

Shen Lumin looked down at herself—she was still wearing the plain white inner robe she used for sleeping, barefoot, her hair loose. She subconsciously touched her face. The skin was cold, completely devoid of warmth.

Her heartbeat.

She pressed her hand to her chest.

No heartbeat.

Shen Lumin's fingers lingered on her chest for a few breaths. She pressed again. Still nothing. She shifted her hand to a spot slightly below the left side of her chest—back when she used to fall asleep on the stone table in the imperial garden, her heart would pound fiercely; she remembered the exact spot clearly.

Nothing at all.

"...No way."

She started walking forward. This road had no forks, no signposts—only grayish mist wrapping around everything. After walking about the time it takes to finish a cup of tea, she saw a stone tablet standing by the roadside.

The tablet was very old, its corners worn smooth. It bore three carved characters.

Road. To. The. Underworld.

Shen Lumin stared at those three characters for a long time.

"The Road to the Underworld," she read aloud. Her voice was muffled in the mist, unable to carry far. "Road—to—the—Underworld?"

She read it again, this time louder, tinged with absurd disbelief.

"The Road to the Underworld?!"

The echo rolled twice through the gray mist before dissipating, as if swallowed by something.

Shen Lumin stood frozen before the stone tablet. A wind blew past, and she shivered—not from cold, but from that primal fear that crawled up from the soles of her feet.

She was dead.

She was really dead.

She had taken the fake death drug, but instead of waking up, she had—died.

"Liu Ruyan!!" she shouted into the gray mist. "What kind of drug did you give me?! That wasn't a fake death drug, was it?! Did someone trick you?!"

No one answered her. The gray mist churned silently, like a pot of boiling rice porridge.

After shouting a few times, her voice went hoarse. She bent over, hands on her knees, gasping for breath. No—she didn't have any breath to gasp anymore. She had no heartbeat, no breath, yet she could still pant. What kind of logic was that?

"What a pain," she muttered, straightening up and rubbing her face vigorously.

Alright. Calm down. First, stay calm.

She was dead. That was a fact. Standing on the Road to the Underworld, with no heartbeat in her chest—that was a fact. No matter what went wrong with the drug Liu Ruyan gave her, no matter whether the secret passage would have worked—she was already dead.

So what now?

Shen Lumin thought it over and decided to keep walking forward. There was only this one road anyway; if she didn't walk, there was nowhere else to go.

She walked barefoot on the bumpy road, each step stinging the soles of her feet. The gray mist grew thicker. In the distance, she could faintly hear the sound of water—a rushing, roaring sound, like a great river.

As she walked, she began to notice that she wasn't the only one on this road.

Not far ahead, an old man in gray plain clothes was shuffling along with a hunched back. Farther still, a young woman carrying a bundle walked with her head down, her shoulders trembling as if she were crying. Even farther away, a few more shadows were visible, vague and blurry.

All of them were ghosts.

Shen Lumin shuddered. She used to think the word "ghost" was as distant from her as "sacrificial burial." And yet, sacrificial burial had come, ghosts had come, and she herself had become one.

"What is this," she grumbled, "when I entered the palace, no one told me there'd be this part too."

She quickened her pace, wanting to catch up to the old man and ask for directions. But strangely, no matter how fast she walked, the distance between them remained the same—she could see him, but she couldn't catch up.

"Hey—" she tried calling out.

The old man didn't turn around.

"Hey! Old—old sir!"

Still no response. The old man seemed unable to hear her, just kept his head down and walked his own path.

Shen Lumin gave up. She slowed down and began observing her surroundings. Occasionally, things appeared on the wasteland beside the Road to the Underworld—a withered tree, half a broken stone pillar, a toppled stone lantern. Everything was gray and dusty, as if soaked in water for centuries, then fished out, dried, and tossed aside.

She walked for who knows how long. The sound of water grew louder.

Finally, the gray mist parted somewhat, and a river appeared before her.

The river was very wide, its opposite shore invisible. The water was a dark red, flowing unhurriedly, with a thin layer of mist floating on its surface. By the riverbank grew a patch of flowers—flowers so red they looked black, their petals resembling something soaked in blood. No leaves, only blossoms. Clusters of them bloomed along the riverbank, glaringly conspicuous in the gray world.

Red Spider Lilies.

Shen Lumin recognized these flowers. She had seen illustrations in the palace's books; the painter had used cinnabar to mix the color, painting them a vivid, dripping red. But the pictures were nothing like the real thing—real Red Spider Lilies were redder than any painting, so red they made your heart uneasy, as if beneath every flower lay an unwilling soul.

"The River of Forgetfulness," she murmured, staring at the dark red river.

She didn't know how she knew, but the moment she saw this river, the words "River of Forgetfulness" sprang into her mind automatically, like a memory carved into her bones.

By the river stood a pavilion, ramshackle and broken, half its roof tiles missing, revealing gray rafters. Inside the pavilion was a stone table, on which sat a few coarse ceramic bowls filled with a murky soup.

Meng Po's Soup.

Shen Lumin stood on the riverbank, staring at those bowls. Suddenly, her legs felt weak. Not truly weak—she was already dead, her legs couldn't go weak—it was that spiritual, drained feeling of having all her strength pulled out of her.

She was really dead.

Not a fake death, not a dream—really dead.

She could never go back. Never see Liu Ruyan again. Never lie down on the stone table in the imperial garden. Never eat osmanthus cakes again.

Shen Lumin crouched down and buried her face in her knees.

She didn't cry. Not because she was strong—but because she hadn't fully processed it yet. Like a drowning person who doesn't struggle at first, only starting to thrash when water fills their lungs.

"I clearly took the fake death drug," she said in a muffled voice. "So how did I end up really dead..."

Was it the drug's fault? Or had she taken it wrong? Liu Ruyan said to take it with warm water—she had used warm water, no problem. Liu Ruyan said she'd collapse within the hour—she had collapsed, no problem either. So where was the problem?

Shen Lumin thought back carefully. When she tipped the powder into her mouth, it seemed... it seemed like she had poured a bit too much?

No, not a bit too much. The amount of powder in that packet was itself significantly more than what Liu Ruyan had shown her.

She had been too sleepy at the time to look closely. She just took the packet and poured it straight into her mouth without even checking the dosage.

"I knew it..." She lifted her face from her knees, her expression twisted. "I knew cutting corners would get me into trouble..."

In her two years in the palace, she had cut corners countless times—she cut corners on learning etiquette, cut corners on competing for favor, cut corners on memorizing routes, cut corners on recognizing people. Every time she cut corners, nothing big ever happened—at most, she'd get scolded by the matron, or her monthly allowance would be short by two packs of osmanthus cakes.

This time, the price of cutting corners was her life.

Shen Lumin stood up and took a deep breath—even though she no longer needed to breathe, the gesture made her feel a little better.

"Alright," she said, brushing the dust off her clothes. "Dead is dead. What else can I do."

She walked slowly along the riverbank, looking for a place to rest. She didn't want to touch the Meng Po's Soup in the pavilion—what if drinking it really did make her forget everything? Even though she was dead, she still wanted to keep her memories. It was the only thing she had left.

Besides the Red Spider Lilies, a few withered trees grew sparsely along the riverbank. Their trunks were grayish-white, their branches bare, like outstretched finger bones. Shen Lumin walked to one of the withered trees and sat down, leaning against its trunk.

The trunk was freezing, but she didn't care anymore. She closed her eyes, trying to sort through her thoughts.

First, she was dead. That was the fundamental premise. Unchangeable.

Second, she was in the Underworld. Was there a way back from the Underworld? She didn't know, but she had to try to find one. When she was alive, she had been too lazy to bother with anything. But now that she was dead, if she stayed lazy, she'd have no choice but to be reincarnated—and she hadn't lived enough yet. Sure, living hadn't been very interesting, but at least she could still bask in the sun.

Third, she needed to figure out the rules of the Underworld. Was there someone in charge here? Were there any taboos she shouldn't break? She didn't want to die again right after dying.

"Better find someone to ask," she muttered to herself. "Can't just sit here doing nothing."

Just as she was about to stand up, she suddenly heard footsteps.

Not the soft, rustling steps of small feet—steady, unhurried footsteps, each one landing on the muddy ground with a dull thud.

Shen Lumin instinctively shrank back, hiding behind the withered tree, only half her face peeking out.

The footsteps drew closer.

A figure emerged from the gray mist.

A man.

Very tall—taller than any man she had ever seen. He wore a white inner robe made of fine cloud-patterned brocade, but carelessly, the collar loose and untied, revealing part of his collarbone. His hair was unbound, cascading over his shoulders, black as spilled ink.

He walked to the riverbank and stopped.

Shen Lumin watched him from behind the withered tree. The lines of his profile were hard, the angle of his jaw as if carved by a knife. His brow bone was prominent, his eye sockets slightly sunken. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the River of Forgetfulness, as if lost in some heavy thoughts.

This posture—she felt like she had seen it somewhere before.

Shen Lumin narrowed her eyes, studying the man's profile carefully.

Sword-like brows, starry eyes—no, not starry eyes. They were very deep, like eyes that concealed something. A high, straight nose bridge, lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightly set.

She had seen this face before.

At a palace banquet, from far away, across several rows of people—she had seen this face.

That was—

Shen Lumin's mind went blank.

The Emperor.

Xiao Yan.

The Emperor of Great Liang, the one who had died and left a decree ordering her to be buried with him as a sacrificial burial, the one she had only seen a handful of times in total.

What was he doing here too?

Wait.

He had died. He was dead. Of course he was in the Underworld.

Shen Lumin pressed herself flat against the withered tree, not daring to breathe. She didn't know why she was so nervous—the Emperor was already dead, and she was a ghost too. What could he still do to her? Issue a decree ordering her to die again?

But fear like this didn't follow logic. She had spent two years in the palace, and although she had never spoken a word to the Emperor, that instinctive terror of imperial authority had been carved into her bones. It was like a mouse fearing a cat—no reason needed.

Xiao Yan stood on the riverbank, motionless.

Shen Lumin stayed motionless too.

The two of them stood frozen like that—one watching the river, the other watching the one watching the river.

After who knows how long, Xiao Yan suddenly moved. He turned around, his gaze sweeping across the riverbank—

It swept past the withered tree where she was hiding.

Shen Lumin's breath stopped. Oh, right—she didn't have any breath to stop in the first place.

Xiao Yan's gaze lingered on her for a brief moment.

Just a moment.

Then he looked away, turning back to the River of Forgetfulness as if he hadn't seen anything.

Shen Lumin breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't see me. Thank goodness. She had hidden—

"Come out."

Two words. Not loud, but they landed on her head like a muffled thunderclap.

Shen Lumin's legs went weak, and she nearly toppled out from behind the tree.

She steadied herself against the trunk, hesitated for a moment, then stepped out from behind it. There was no choice—when the Emperor tells you to come out, you come out. If you couldn't refuse when you were alive, it seemed you couldn't refuse even after death.She lowered her head and slowly walked to a spot a few paces behind Xiao Yan, then stopped.

"A common woman…" She opened her mouth, instinctively wanting to bow as was customary, but then remembered she was already dead and wasn't sure if the Underworld followed such formalities. So she simply skipped the礼节 and only said, with her head bowed, "…Shen Luming, presents herself before Your Majesty."

Xiao Yan did not speak immediately.

Silence lay like a thin sheet of ice between them.

Then he turned around.

Shen Luming dared not raise her head; she could only see the hem of his white inner robe and his bare feet—just like hers, whatever you died wearing was what you wore into the Underworld.

"Shen Luming." He spoke her name, his voice low, as if confirming something.

"Yes."

"Junior Consort Shen Luming."

"…Yes."

Another stretch of silence.

Shen Luming clenched the hem of her robe, her knuckles turning white. She didn't know what the Emperor wanted to say—scold her? Blame her? Or issue an order for her to get lost? She braced for the worst.

Then she heard a sound she had never expected.

Xiao Yan sighed.

It was not an angry sigh, not a disappointed sigh—it was a complex sigh, like he was letting something go.

"You're here too."

Three words.

Shen Luming was stunned.

You're here too? What did that mean? Was he saying—she had come to accompany him?

Her mind raced two quick circles, and then it hit her.

The edict. Burial with the dead. Sacrificial burial.

The Emperor thought she had come as a sacrificial burial.

"I—" Shen Luming opened her mouth to explain, but the words caught in her throat.

Explain what? That she hadn't come for a sacrificial burial, that it was a failed faked death? That she'd taken a fake-death potion trying to escape and messed up? That in her two years in the palace she'd never once thought of him, only wanted to coast through life eating and waiting to die?

She looked into Xiao Yan's eyes.

There was no imperial coldness in those eyes, no anger or reproach as she had expected. There was only something she had never seen before—like a lamp suddenly lit in the darkness, faint and flickering, but undeniably shining.

"You…" Shen Luming's voice stuck in her throat. "Your Majesty is not angry?"

"Angry about what?"

"I…" She bit her lip. "I mean… Your concubine came late."

The moment she said it, she startled even herself. She had meant to say "I didn't come for a sacrificial burial," but her tongue slipped and what came out was "came late."

But when Xiao Yan heard this, the cold, hard shell between his brows seemed to crack open.

"Not late," he said, his tone a touch lighter than before. "I arrived not long ago myself."

Shen Luming stood there, her mind a churning mess.

She should explain. She should tell him the truth—she wasn't here for a sacrificial burial, she had botched a faked death. But the explanation stuck in her throat, refusing to come out.

Because she had seen that glimmer of light in Xiao Yan's eyes.

That glimmer was faint, like a candle flame in the wind, snuffed out with a single breath. If she told the truth, that light would go out. She didn't know why, but she didn't want it to go out.

"What a pain," she cursed herself inwardly.

When had she become so soft-hearted?

Xiao Yan didn't speak again. He turned around and looked back at the River of Forgetfulness. The dark red water flowed slowly, and Red Spider Lilies bloomed silently along the bank.

Shen Luming stood behind him, also watching the river.

Two people, one in front and one behind, standing by the River of Forgetfulness like two gray stone statues.

Wind blew from the river's surface, carrying an indescribable scent—not fishy, not rotting, but a very old smell, like the odor of turning the yellowed pages of a book.

"Your Majesty," Shen Luming suddenly spoke, "in the Underworld… is there a way back?"

Xiao Yan did not turn around.

"You want to go back?"

Shen Luming hesitated, then nodded. Remembering he hadn't turned around and couldn't see her nod, she added, "Mm."

"No."

Two words, crisp and decisive, like a door slamming shut in her face.

Shen Luming's heart sank. No way back? Then what was she supposed to do? Stay in this gray place forever? Oh, right—she was already dead, so there was no "forever."

"Never?" she pressed, unwilling to give up.

Xiao Yan was silent for a few breaths.

"I don't know," he said flatly. "I've only been in the Underworld for three days. I haven't figured out the rules here yet."

Three days. He had been in the Underworld for three days.

Shen Luming did the math in her head—the Emperor had died three days before her. Meaning from the time she took the potion to her "death," three days had passed? No, she didn't know exactly when she died. Maybe she died right after taking the potion, or maybe she was unconscious for a few days before dying. She only remembered that after swallowing the powder, she knew nothing.

"Three days…" she murmured. "Your Majesty has been here all this time?"

"Mm."

"Alone?"

"Mm."

Shen Luming looked at Xiao Yan's back. He stood there, shoulders and back straight, like a solitary peak. His white inner robe billowed slightly in the wind, making his frame look even thinner—thinner than she remembered from the imperial banquets, by a whole size.

Three days. Alone. On the gray Road to the Underworld, facing a dark red river.

Shen Luming suddenly felt a little sorry for him.

Wait, no—he was the Emperor, what was there to feel sorry for? She was the one who'd been wronged—she never asked for the sacrificial burial edict, she never meant for the faked death to fail, she was the pitiful one, okay?

But looking at Xiao Yan standing alone by the river, she just couldn't muster that "I'm the victim here" energy.

"Your Majesty," she spoke again, "you… what have you been thinking about these three days?"

Xiao Yan didn't answer right away.

After a long time—so long Shen Luming thought he wouldn't answer—he finally spoke.

"Thinking about my life."

Shen Luming waited, but he didn't continue.

"Then?"

"Then I realized there wasn't much to think about." His voice was very soft, as if talking to himself. "I did what I should have done, and I did what I shouldn't have. In the end, it's nothing more than this."

Shen Luming didn't know what to say. She wasn't familiar with the Emperor—really not familiar. She didn't know what he had done in his life, nor what he felt he shouldn't have done. She only knew that he had issued an edict ordering her to be buried with him, and then she died.

But she didn't say that.

She just stood behind him, watching the water of the River of Forgetfulness flow slowly, watching the Red Spider Lilies sway gently in the wind.

She didn't know how long passed in the gray sky—the Underworld had no sun, no way to tell day from night. When Shen Luming's legs grew sore from standing, she crouched down. When she got tired of crouching, she sat. Xiao Yan remained standing, as if he never grew weary.

"Your Majesty, aren't you tired?" she couldn't help asking.

"No."

"…You don't have to tough it out. There's no one else here."

Xiao Yan turned to look at her.

It was a very faint glance, but Shen Luming inexplicably felt he was smiling. Not that kind of imperial restrained smile, but a very subtle, almost imperceptible trace of laughter, like a crack in the winter ice letting out a sliver of warmth from beneath.

"You're right," he said, finally—finally—sitting down, leaning against a large rock by the riverbank. "There's no one else here."

He paused, glancing at her.

"Except for you."

Shen Luming's heart fluttered at that look. She quickly lowered her head, pretending to study the mud on the ground.

"Your concubine… your concubine doesn't count as someone else," she said quietly.

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. What did she mean, "doesn't count as someone else"? What was she to him? A Junior Consort who hadn't even met him a few times, a palace woman whose name he probably couldn't even remember—

"Shen Luming."

"Here."

"I remember you."

Shen Luming looked up and met Xiao Yan's gaze.

His eyes were deep, like the water of the River of Forgetfulness—dark and murky, without a visible bottom. But at this moment, there was light in those eyes—that same faint, candle-flame-in-the-wind light from before.

"I remember you," he said again. "The imperial garden. The stone table. You were lying on it, sunbathing."

Shen Luming's mouth fell open and wouldn't close.

He remembered? He remembered her dozing off in the imperial garden?

"You said something," Xiao Yan's gaze shifted toward the River of Forgetfulness, his voice growing very soft. "You said—'The sunlight is so nice, even dying would be worth it.'"

Shen Luming was completely petrified.

She had indeed said that. She often mumbled all sorts of things while dozing in the imperial garden—"so sleepy," "don't want to move," "this sunlight is so nice"—that kind of stuff. But she had never imagined anyone would hear her—let alone the Emperor.

"Your Majesty… you heard that?" her voice was as thin as a mosquito's whine.

"I heard it."

"Then… then why didn't you have someone drag me out for a beating?"

Xiao Yan glanced at her, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

"Why would I have you beaten?"

"Lèse-majesté," Shen Luming's voice grew smaller and smaller, "saying 'even dying would be worth it' in the imperial garden, that's practically cursing—"

"I thought you were right."

Shen Luming's mouth fell open again.

Xiao Yan wasn't looking at her; his gaze rested on the distant Red Spider Lilies, his voice very soft.

"The sunlight really was nice. Dying… really would have been worth it."

Shen Luming didn't know how to respond. She felt that today's absurdity had already surpassed the sum total of her nineteen years of life—she died, arrived in the Underworld, met the Emperor's ghost, and the Emperor remembered her dozing off in the imperial garden and said she was right.

What kind of plot twist was this?

She rubbed her temples, feeling like she might not have woken up yet. Maybe she hadn't died at all, just having a particularly outrageous dream, and when she woke up, Liu Ruyan would be standing by her bed scolding, "How can you sleep so long?"

But the cold mud beneath her feet was real, the wind was cold, the sound of the River of Forgetfulness was real, and the silhouette of Xiao Yan sitting on the rock was real.

Not a dream.

Shen Luming took a deep breath, sat down hugging her knees, and looked at the gray sky.

"Your Majesty," she spoke, her voice calmer than before, "does the Underworld have osmanthus cakes?"

Xiao Yan turned to look at her, a momentary blankness on his face.

"Osmanthus cakes?"

"Mm. When I was alive, osmanthus cakes were my favorite," she said earnestly. "If the Underworld doesn't even have osmanthus cakes, then my determination to go back is even stronger."

Xiao Yan looked at her for two breaths, the corners of his mouth twitching—this time Shen Luming saw it clearly, he really was smiling.

"No," he said.

"Then that's too bad."

"But there's wine."

"What wine?"

"Wine of Forgetfulness. Drink it and you forget things."

Shen Luming thought it over, then shook her head. "I don't want to forget things. Even if there's nothing worth remembering in my life, it's still mine."

Xiao Yan didn't reply. He turned back and continued watching the River of Forgetfulness.

Wind blew from the river's surface, and the petals of the Red Spider Lilies trembled gently, like countless red butterflies perched on the stems. Gray mist surged in the distance, and the Road to the Underworld stretched to where it could no longer be seen, leading to who knows where.

Shen Luming sat on the ground, Xiao Yan sat on the rock, a few paces between them, and neither spoke again.

But strangely, Shen Luming didn't feel awkward.

Maybe it was because the Underworld was too quiet—so quiet that any sound seemed precious. Maybe it was because, for the first time in this gray place, she had met someone she knew—even if that someone was the Emperor, even if she wasn't close to him at all, at least he wasn't a stranger.

At least, he remembered the words she had spoken in the imperial garden.

Shen Luming rested her chin on her knees and looked at Xiao Yan's profile.

He looked exhausted. Not physically exhausted—ghosts don't get tired—but the kind of mental, long-accumulated weariness. There was a faint vertical crease between his brows, like a permanent mark from years of frowning. The line of his jaw was tight, but occasionally it would relax, revealing a hint of tiredness.

"Your Majesty," she suddenly said, "in these three days in the Underworld, were you ever afraid?"

Xiao Yan was silent for a moment.

"No."

"Liar."

He turned to look at her.

Shen Luming met his gaze without flinching.

"You spent three days alone in the Underworld without a single person to talk to—how could you not be scared?" she said, her voice not loud but earnest. "When I was walking alone on the Road to the Underworld just now, I was scared to death—oh wait, I'm already dead, scared to life—no, that's not right either…"

She stumbled, bit her lip, and rephrased: "Anyway, I was very scared."

Xiao Yan looked at her for a long time.

"You're quite honest."

"I don't have many virtues, but honesty is one of them," Shen Luming said. "That, and being lazy."萧衍的嘴角又动了一下。

"朕不怕，"他说，声音低了一些，"朕只是……"

他顿住了。

"只是什么？"

萧衍没有回答。他转回头，看着忘川河，过了很久才说了一句——

"朕只是没想到，会有人来。"

这句话落在灰蒙蒙的空气里，像一颗石子投进忘川河，无声无息地沉了下去。

沈鹿眠愣住了。

她忽然明白了什么。

皇帝在黄泉等了三天，不是在等什么规矩或者指引——他是在等人。等一个来看他的人。等一个愿意陪他的人。

而他以为，她就是那个人。

沈鹿眠的手指无意识地拽紧了衣角。

她应该说出真相的。现在就说。趁事情还没变得更复杂，趁他的眼中那点光还微弱到可以熄灭，趁她还没有陷得更深——

"陛下，"她开口，声音有些发紧，"其实我——"

"嘘。"

萧衍忽然抬手，示意她别说话。

沈鹿眠一愣，顺着他的目光看去——

忘川河面上，不知什么时候飘来了几盏灯。

不是寻常的灯，是莲花形状的，每一盏都亮着微弱的光，在暗红色的河面上缓缓漂流。灯光映在水里，拉出长长的倒影，像一条条金色的丝线。

"那是什么？"沈鹿眠问。

"引路灯。"萧衍的声音变得很轻，"阳间的人点的，给黄泉的亡魂照路。"

沈鹿眠看着那些莲花灯在河面上漂过，一盏接一盏，像一条光带。每一盏灯都代表阳间的某个人在想念某个亡魂——有人在为亲人点灯，有人在为爱人点灯，有人在为朋友点灯。

她忽然想：有没有人给她点灯？

柳如烟大概以为她诈死成功了，不会给她点灯。宫里其他人更不会——她就是个隐形人，活着的时候没人注意，死了也不会有人惦记。

沈鹿眠把脸埋进膝盖里，闷闷地说了一句："一盏都没有。"

"什么？"

"没什么。"

萧衍看了她一眼，没有追问。

莲花灯渐渐漂远了，忘川河又恢复了暗沉沉的模样。灰雾重新聚拢过来，把一切都裹在里面。

沈鹿眠抬起头，看着那些远去的灯光，忽然觉得鼻子酸酸的。

她没有哭。她只是觉得——死这件事，比她以为的更孤独。

"走吧。"萧衍站起身来。

"去哪？"

"前面。"他朝黄泉路的方向抬了抬下巴，"黄泉路上不能久留，得在天黑之前赶到奈何桥。"

"天黑？"沈鹿眠看了看头顶那片永远灰蒙蒙的天，"这天还能更黑？"

"能。"萧衍的语气很平淡，"天黑之后，黄泉路上会有东西出来。不是你愿意遇到的。"

沈鹿眠打了个寒噤，赶紧站起来。

"那走吧。"她拍了拍衣服上的灰，走到萧衍身后。

萧衍迈步往前走，沈鹿眠跟在后面。两个人的脚步声一前一后，踩在黄泉路的泥地上，闷闷的，像心跳。

哦对，她已经没有心跳了。

沈鹿眠跟在萧衍身后，看着他的背影。白色中衣在灰雾里格外显眼，像一盏不会灭的灯。他走路的姿势和活着的时候一样——脊背笔直，步伐沉稳，不紧不慢。好像就算到了黄泉，他也是那个掌控一切的帝王。

但沈鹿眠注意到了一个细节——他的手微微攥着，指节泛白。

他在紧张。

或者说，他在忍着什么。

沈鹿眠想起他刚才说的那句话——"朕只是没想到，会有人来。"

她忽然觉得，这个皇帝，比她以为的要孤独得多。

"陛下，"她快走两步，跟到他身侧，"黄泉的桂花糕虽然没有，但您刚才说有酒，对吧？"

"嗯。"

"那到了奈何桥，您请我喝一杯呗。"

萧衍侧头看了她一眼。

"你不怕忘了前尘？"

"一杯而已，哪有那么容易忘，"沈鹿眠说，"再说了，我前尘也没什么好记的。一杯酒换一个朋友，挺划算。"

萧衍的脚步顿了一下。

"朋友？"

"嗯，"沈鹿眠认真地点头，"您在黄泉没朋友吧？我也没朋友。两个没朋友的人凑一块儿，不就是朋友了？"

她觉得这个逻辑无懈可击。

萧衍沉默了几息，然后——

"朕从未有过朋友。"

"那现在有了。"沈鹿眠说，语气轻快得像在说今天天气不错。

萧衍没有再说话。但他走路的步伐好像比刚才轻了一点，攥紧的手指也松开了。

两个人并肩走在黄泉路上，灰雾在脚下翻涌，远处的忘川河水声渐渐听不到了。

沈鹿眠偷偷看了萧衍一眼。

他不知道在想什么，眉眼间的冷硬淡了一些，像冰面上覆了一层薄薄的雪。

她想：这个皇帝，好像跟她在宫宴上看到的那个不太一样。

宫宴上的皇帝是高高在上的，像一尊玉雕，完美但冰冷。而眼前这个——穿着松垮的中衣，光着脚，坐在河边发呆，被她一句话说得嘴角微动——更像一个普通人。

一个孤独的、疲惫的、以为没有人会来的普通人。

沈鹿眠抿了抿嘴唇，把那个卡在嗓子眼里的真相又咽回去了一点点。

再等等。等她搞清楚黄泉的规矩，等她找到回去的路，等她——

等她什么时候不那么心虚了再说。

黄泉路很长，灰雾很浓，但身边有个人走着，好像也没那么怕了。

沈鹿眠打了个哈欠。

"困了？"萧衍问。

"嗯，死了也困，这是什么道理。"

"鬼不需要睡觉。"

"那我这困算什么？"

"习惯。"

沈鹿眠想了想，觉得他说得有道理。她活着的时候最大的习惯就是困，死了改不掉也正常。

"陛下，"她揉了揉眼睛，"奈何桥还有多远？"

"不远。"

"您说的不远是多远？"

"走过就到了。"

沈鹿眠觉得这个回答跟没说一样，但她懒得追问了。反正路只有一条，走就是了。

她跟在萧衍身后，一步一步，踩着灰蒙蒙的泥地，往前方看不见的奈何桥走去。

身后，忘川河的水声渐渐远了。彼岸花在风中摇了摇，像是在目送两个离去的背影。

一红一白，一个活着的时候没人注意，一个死了之后才有人来。

黄泉路上，两个孤独的鬼，就这么走在一起了。