Chapter 293 The Tyrant

One afternoon in late April, Xiao Jue was taking a nap in the East Warm Pavilion, while Zhou Heng sat by the window flipping through a newly compiled mathematics textbook.

The crabapple blossoms outside the window have all fallen, and the tender green leaves densely cover the branches, gleaming with an oily sheen in the afternoon sunlight.

The palace walls in the distance were bleached white by the sun, and the shadows at their base shrank into a narrow strip. A few sparrows hopped around in the shadows, pecking at crumbs of cakes that had fallen from the hands of some palace maid.

Xiao Jue was a light sleeper. He turned over and stretched out his arm, which landed right on Zhou Heng's knee.

Zhou Heng looked down at the hand. The fingers were long and slender, the knuckles were distinct, the nails were neatly trimmed, and a faint old scar was faintly visible on the cuff of the wrist.

He glanced at it for a few moments, then didn't move, continuing to flip through the book.

Xiao Jue's hands, however, became restless, his fingertips slowly drawing circles on his knee. Through the thin summer shirt, the heat felt like an invisible hand, tickling his nerves again and again.

"Get up if you're awake." Zhou Heng pushed his hand away.

Xiao Jue turned over and lay on his back, opened his eyes, and his gaze slid from Zhou Heng's profile to the book in his hand.

His gaze still carried the hazy light of someone just waking up, as if seen through a thin mist.

Zhou Heng felt a little uneasy under his gaze, closed his book, and moved half an inch to the side. "What are you looking at?"

Xiao Jue did not answer, but stretched out his arm, grabbed the back of his neck with his palm, and pulled him down.

Zhou Heng's forehead bumped into his collarbone. It didn't hurt, but the force was so strong that he struggled a few times but couldn't break free.

Xiao Jue's other hand reached out from under the blanket, wrapped around his waist, and pulled him into a tight embrace, like a snake coiling around its prey, slowly tightening until the prey gave up struggling.

"What are you doing?" Zhou Heng's voice muffled in the crook of his neck, carrying a helpless resentment.

"Nothing much." Xiao Jue's voice was incredibly lazy, with the last syllable drawn out, like a cat basking in the sun whose peaceful dream had been disturbed. He hummed lazily, "Just a hug."

Zhou Heng fell silent.

"If you continue like this," Zhou Heng's voice muffled and unclear in the crook of his neck, "you'll be called a tyrant sooner or later."

Xiao Jue's fingers slowly traced his name on his back, as if he were drawing some kind of pattern.

"A tyrant?" His voice held a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "How have I been tyrannical? The morning court sessions weren't delayed, the memorials didn't pile up, there were no disturbances at the border, and the people didn't riot. I simply delegated matters that weren't even my responsibility in the first place. Is that what you call being tyrannical?"

Zhou Heng was momentarily speechless at his question. He had to admit that what Xiao Jue said was true.

The matters he handed over should never have been personally overseen by the emperor—the appointment and removal of a county magistrate required the emperor's approval, as did the repair of a granary. The way the court operated was distorted from the beginning, and Xiao Jue simply corrected it back to its proper way.

"But you're too... irresponsible." Zhou Heng pondered for a long time before choosing a relatively mild word.

Xiao Jue's fingers stopped on a spot on his back. "Whether you manage things or not," he said, "is a different matter from whether you manage people."

Zhou Heng was stunned for a moment.

Xiao Jue isn't abandoning his responsibilities; he's simply changing his approach—no longer micromanaging, no longer taking on everything, and no longer trying to control everyone and everything.

He was teaching that massive, bloated bureaucratic machine, which had been operating for hundreds of years, to walk on its own, to think for itself, and to do its job well even without the emperor's pressure.

As for whether those people will stray from the right path after they learn to walk—he has enough eyes watching them and enough hands to steer them back on track if necessary.

Zhou Heng leaned against him, listening to his heartbeat, and didn't know what to say for a moment.

Xiao Jue did not speak again.

A bird chirped once outside the window, then fell silent again. The afternoon sunlight squeezed in through the cracks in the window, cutting a thin, dazzling white line across the ground.

They remained there for an unknown period of time until a cautious voice from an attendant outside the palace announced that the Privy Council had sent an urgent report.

Xiao Jue's fingers stopped. Zhou Heng sensed his displeasure at being disturbed, like a beast enjoying the afternoon sun being awakened from a beautiful dream. The first thing he felt upon opening his eyes was not wakefulness, but an intense, almost overflowing impatience.

"Bring it in," he said.

The eunuch entered carrying a tray, head bowed, not daring to look at the two figures intertwined on the couch. He placed the tray on the table and silently withdrew.

Xiao Jue released Zhou Heng, sat up, picked up the urgent report, opened it, glanced at the paper, his brows furrowed slightly, then relaxed.

He folded the urgent report, placed it on the table, leaned back on the couch, and stretched out his arm to pull Zhou Heng back.

"Not going to look?" Zhou Heng asked.

Xiao Jue shook his head. "Send it to the cabinet and let them discuss it. Once they've finished, bring me a draft, and I'll approve it."

When the first rain of May fell, Xiao Jue was painting under the eaves of Qianqing Palace.

He somehow acquired a roll of Xuan paper, a box of paints, and several brushes. He spread them out on the railing under the eaves, dipped them in water, mixed the colors, and began to carefully depict the banana tree in the courtyard, which had been washed green by the rain.