Chapter 82: Extra 10
The Second Prince was named Li Min. Among the four princes of the Great Yu dynasty, he had the most outgoing and unrestrained temperament.
From a young age, he had been different from his brothers. While the others busied themselves with studying books, he was passionately devoted to practicing martial arts.
However, the emperor disliked seeing his son behave like those rough military men, constantly wielding blades and spears. As a result, he never sought out a proper master for him, only arranging for someone to occasionally teach the brothers some basic self-defense skills.
When children were young, they had very few choices and could only follow the arrangements made by their elders, step by step, moving forward along the path laid out for them.
But as they grew older, the so-called authority of elders gradually lost its power.
By the time Li Min was around ten years old, he was no longer easy to control and often ran off to associate with martial artists.
Strictly speaking, these “martial artists” were nothing more than the sons of the capital’s military generals.
Inside the imperial training grounds, military officers taught these children martial skills every day. Li Min and his brothers came by every few days to practice the most basic forms, but Li Min was clearly dissatisfied with such infrequent visits. Later on, he often sneaked over in secret to learn on his own.
Imperial Tutor Ji Wencheng had always advocated teaching students according to their individual strengths, and he never opposed his pupils having interests beyond reading. Although Li Min’s academic studies were inferior to those of his brothers, his temperament suited Imperial Tutor Ji very well. The two were both teacher and friend, and Imperial Tutor Ji often made special allowances for him, which gave Li Min more opportunities to slip off to the training grounds.
Unfortunately, Li Min was sneaking there without official permission from the emperor. Although the instructors at the training grounds dared not drive him away, none of them were willing to risk their positions by actively teaching him.
As a result, even though Li Min went there frequently, his progress was mediocre.
Left with no other option, Li Min began befriending the children who practiced martial arts there. He offered them gifts and coaxed them into sparring with him. At first, none of them dared to truly fight him, but once they saw that he put on no airs, they gradually became less restrained during their matches.
Li Min had a stubborn personality and never accepted defeat. He often lost several rounds in a row.
It could be said that nearly every child at the training grounds who had received formal instruction was stronger than he was.
One day, Li Min pulled four or five children into sparring with him. He was knocked to the ground several times in succession, yet he still refused to stop. Everyone feared he might truly get hurt, but he stubbornly refused to quit. In the end, the children grew frightened, and someone could not help but mock him.
“Second Prince, you’re too precious and delicate. You really aren’t suited for martial training. Please stop making things difficult for us—if something happens, we won’t be able to explain it,” a boy about Li Min’s age said. “Even those who came later than you and have only trained for a few days can take more hits than you.”
After saying this, the boy returned the gifts Li Min had given him, clearly signaling that he did not want to spar with him anymore. Seeing this, the other children followed suit, and none of them were willing to continue playing along with Li Min.
Li Min was too addicted to finding people to spar with, yet his aptitude was ordinary. Over time, it became unbearable for others. The children dared not truly strike him, but they also did not want to hold back, so every time they had to carefully knock him down without hurting him. The whole experience was extremely unpleasant.
The children scattered in a rush, leaving only young Li Min sitting alone on a stone bench by the edge of the training grounds. His thin, small figure looked somewhat forlorn.
“Do you know why you can’t beat them?” a young voice suddenly spoke.
Li Min turned around and saw a youth of fourteen or fifteen standing not far away, looking at him.
“My skills aren’t as good as theirs,” Li Min replied.
The youth froze for a moment, clearly not expecting Li Min to be so straightforward and not argue stubbornly.
“Do you want to try sparring with me?” the youth asked.
“You?” Li Min stood up and took a few steps toward him. He was not yet eleven years old, and his body had not grown much. Standing before a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy, he looked especially frail. “I probably can’t beat you either,” Li Min said honestly.
“Are you afraid?” the youth asked.
Li Min shook his head and said, “Then let’s do it.”
As he spoke, he placed all the items the children had returned to him onto the ground, then assumed a fighting stance toward the youth.
“Go ahead and strike me,” the youth said. Without hesitation, Li Min launched an attack. The youth calmly grabbed his arm, pulled and pushed, and sent Li Min to the ground. However, his movements were very gentle—when Li Min fell, he even supported him slightly, ensuring he did not actually hit hard.
“I really can’t beat you,” Li Min said as he climbed back up.
“Did you remember what I just did?” the youth asked. “Now let me attack. Try using the same method I just showed you.”
As the youth imitated Li Min’s attack and struck, Li Min paused briefly, then immediately understood. He grabbed the youth’s wrist, pulled and pushed—his strength was insufficient to do anything to the youth, but the youth deliberately cooperated and exaggeratedly fell to the ground.
“Hahahaha!” Li Min laughed loudly. “You’re letting me win, aren’t you?”
“You’re young, so of course you can’t beat me,” the youth said. “But I’ll teach you a few moves. When you go back and fight those kids, it should be enough.”
Li Min’s spirits soared. He never expected to stumble upon a ‘master’ just like that.
Only later did he learn that this “bargain master” was named Zhou Chu, a newly recruited young soldier at the training grounds.
Zhou Chu had noticed Li Min long ago. He could tell that Li Min did not lack talent—he simply had never received proper guidance. Coupled with his young age, he often relied on trial and error, which was why his martial skills had never improved.
But Li Min was able to endure hardship and had a solid foundation. Zhou Chu believed that as long as he took some time to give him guidance and practiced a few rounds with him, Li Min’s skills would improve significantly.
“Master Zhou, since they didn’t want these things, I’ll give them to you,” Li Min said as he was about to leave that day, handing over all the items the children had returned.
Zhou Chu lowered his head and looked over the pile of objects. He picked out a small jade jue and said, “Don’t call me ‘Master Zhou.’ That makes me sound old.”
“Then what should I call you?” Li Min asked. “Brother Zhou?”
Zhou Chu had handsome, well-defined features. Though he was only fourteen or fifteen, his build was already tall and upright. Li Min looked up at him with pure admiration in his heart. He felt that among all the people who had taught him martial arts, none could compare to Zhou Chu—neither in skill nor in appearance, which was even further behind.
“Just call me by my name,” Zhou Chu said.
“Alright, Zhou Chu,” Li Min replied at once.
Hearing this, Zhou Chu found the child exceedingly likable. He was straightforward by nature, without the oversensitivity or pampered fussiness of a child, and without the roundabout, overly cautious manner of a scholar. It suited Zhou Chu’s temperament perfectly.
From that day on, Zhou Chu became Li Min’s “master.”
Under Zhou Chu’s guidance, Li Min’s martial skills improved rapidly. In less than half a year, none of the children on the training grounds could defeat him.
In the years that followed, Li Min studied at the palace academy while continuing to practice martial arts under Zhou Chu.
When the emperor first learned of this, he was somewhat displeased. Later, however, after asking Imperial Tutor Ji about it, he found that Li Min’s studies had not suffered at all—on the contrary, he had become even more diligent than before.
From then on, the emperor turned a blind eye and no longer stopped Li Min from practicing martial arts.
Over the span of several years, Li Min gradually grew into a half-grown youth.
Zhou Chu, too, went from being a young lad to reaching the age of coming-of-age.
“I heard you got promoted again?” One day, Li Min brought a roast chicken to see Zhou Chu.
The two sat together in a corner of the training grounds, eating the chicken. Hearing this, Zhou Chu’s gaze paused slightly, and he instinctively glanced at Li Min.
“What’s wrong? Was my information wrong?” Li Min asked, looking at him in confusion.
“I was promoted by half a rank again. It’s not much,” Zhou Chu said.
“That’s still a good thing. You’ve been promoted several times over the past few years. Maybe you rose too fast before, so this time it was only half a rank,” Li Min said. Seeing that Zhou Chu looked a bit downcast, he assumed Zhou Chu was unhappy with the small promotion and tried to comfort him.
Zhou Chu smiled and said, “This time, I won’t be continuing to serve in the imperial city. I’m being sent to the Western Camp.”
“The WesternCamp?” Li Min thought for a moment. “Isn’t that the main garrison outside the capital?”
“Yes,” Zhou Chu nodded. “It takes about half a day on horseback to get to the capital.”
“That far…” The roast chicken in Li Min’s mouth suddenly lost its flavor. He asked, “Can you not go?”
Zhou Chu smiled faintly. “It should be possible, I suppose.”
“Forget it. How can a soldier just say he won’t go? If your superior pursues the matter, you could be punished,” Li Min said hurriedly. “You should go. The Western Camp guards the capital—if you’re there, it’s like you’re protecting… me too, right?”
Zhou Chu looked at him and said, “The Second Prince is a person of the capital. Guarding the capital naturally means guarding the Second Prince as well.”
“Then that settles it,” Li Min said. His sadness came quickly and left just as fast. He added, “I’ll ask around to see who your commanding general is. Maybe I can get acquainted with him later—it’ll make it easier for me to visit you.”
Zhou Chu laughed and said, “I thought you were going to put in a good word and ask him to look after me.”
“Why would you need anyone to look after you?” Li Min said seriously. “Once you get to the Western Camp, in a few years’ time, you might even become the commander yourself!”
Li Min had never been stingy with his praise and admiration for Zhou Chu. Zhou Chu had long since grown used to it and did not find it inappropriate.
“I’ll definitely miss you,” Li Min suddenly said.
Zhou Chu avoided the youth’s gaze and looked into the distance. “I know,” he said.
“Will you miss me too?” Li Min asked again.
Zhou Chu felt a little uncomfortable being asked this and gave a wry smile. “We’re both grown men—talking about missing each other is too sentimental.”
Li Min couldn’t help but laugh at that, and Zhou Chu laughed along with him.
As the sun slowly set, Li Min sat beside Zhou Chu, resting his head on Zhou Chu’s shoulder, accompanying him like that until night fell.
After Zhou Chu went to the Western Camp, the opportunities for the two of them to meet became much fewer.
As Li Min grew older, the emperor began to let him take part in some affairs of the court.
Li Min was not particularly interested in anything else, so he tried every possible way to get the emperor to assign him a post in the Ministry of War.
The position was not especially good, but it satisfied him greatly.
First, he had no great ambitions in court and knew he lacked talent in political affairs, so he did not want a particularly prestigious post. Second, holding a position in the Ministry of War allowed him, under the pretext of official business, to go to the Western Camp every few days to see Zhou Chu.
Several more years passed in the blink of an eye. Li Min had grown from a half-grown youth into someone capable of standing on his own.
At the Western Camp, Zhou Chu was promoted again and again. Relying on his own abilities, he became a general within just a few short years.
That summer, Li Min went to the Western Camp under the pretext of handling official business.
His work was completed quickly, but that day a sudden heavy rain fell outside the capital, and he was delayed by the storm.
That night, in Zhou Chu’s tent, the two drank together and talked merrily.
Li Min spoke of the past, of how he had first met Zhou Chu all those years ago, and his words did not hide in the least his admiration for him.
Zhou Chu rarely had the chance to see him. After drinking some wine, he inevitably became a little tipsy.
As Li Min spoke endlessly before him, Zhou Chu watched him attentively, his eyes filled with a gentle smile.
Before long, Li Min grew tired of talking and stopped, looking at him.
The two of them met each other’s gaze, and for reasons unknown, the atmosphere suddenly became somewhat ambiguous.
“When you were little, you really admired me, didn’t you?” Zhou Chu said with a smile.
“I still admire you very much now,” Li Min replied. Though he had already grown up, he still spoke just as he had in childhood, never bothering to hide his feelings.
Zhou Chu froze slightly at his words and tried to smooth things over. “You’re already an adult—still speaking without restraint like this.”
“I’ve always been like this. You know that,” Li Min said, looking at Zhou Chu.
All of a sudden, Zhou Chu sensed something not quite right in Li Min’s gaze. He didn’t dare think too deeply about it, and using having drunk too much as an excuse, he said, “You still need to travel tomorrow. You should rest early. I’ll walk you back to your tent.”
Li Min reached out his hand, and Zhou Chu helped him to his feet.
But Li Min took the opportunity to clasp Zhou Chu’s hand and said, “The bedding they prepared for me is too damp. I’m not used to sleeping with it. Can I sleep here with you?”
“Alright. You can sleep with my bedding. I’ll go sleep over at your place,” Zhou Chu said.
Li Min smiled faintly and said, “You know what I mean. If you wanted me to give up, you shouldn’t avoid the issue… you should tell me directly, so I know I shouldn’t keep indulging in wishful thinking.”
Zhou Chu’s heart jolted violently at those words. The thoughts he had only just managed to suppress were so easily drawn back out by him.
They had met when they were young and knew each other very well. Over the past few years, as Li Min had grown older, Zhou Chu had long since noticed that mixed into Li Min’s feelings for him were things he dared not think about too deeply.
In the past, he hadn’t dared to think about it because he couldn’t be sure whether Li Min’s feelings were merely a youthful impulse or something else entirely.
And since he was a few years older than Li Min, he felt that in matters like this he ought to be more mature and rational, to avoid making some irreversible mistake in a moment of impulsiveness.
He treasured Li Min as a friend and did not want to take such a risk lightly.
At the very least, before he was certain of the youth’s feelings, he dared not cross the line in the slightest.
But tonight, Li Min had abruptly and unexpectedly laid everything bare.
Li Min’s move left him with no room to maneuver at all—either reject him or accept him. Pretending not to understand was no longer an option.
“Forget it. I’ll go,” Li Min said when he saw that Zhou Chu still hadn’t expressed a stance, and he moved to let go of his hand.
But Zhou Chu’s hand suddenly tightened, gripping his in return.
Li Min let him hold on, his breathing gradually growing uneven.
Zhou Chu looked at him and asked, “Have you thought it through? Tonight… are you sure you want to stay here with me?”
“Do you want me to stay?” Li Min asked.
Zhou Chu raised his hand and brushed it over the youth’s forehead. His voice grew a little hoarse as he said, “If you don’t leave now, I won’t let you go.”
Li Min’s face flushed at his words. He took the initiative to wrap his arms around Zhou Chu’s neck and kissed him.
Zhou Chu almost didn’t give him any chance at all, immediately turning the tables and responding with a far more forceful kiss.
……
……
Early the next morning, the haze of alcohol had faded from both of them.
When Zhou Chu saw the marks he had left on Li Min’s body, he immediately felt some regret.
He had spent too long in the army and inevitably lacked gentleness. And Li Min, in these matters, had also maintained his usual straightforwardness, showing no restraint at all, which ended up pushing Zhou Chu somewhat out of control.
“Do you regret it?” Li Min asked when he noticed his expression.
“You should have stopped me a little,” Zhou Chu said as he took some medicinal salve and applied it to Li Min’s injuries.
Li Min misunderstood, thinking he was referring to what had happened between them rather than to his “losing control,” and said, “You don’t have to be like that. I was the one who took the initiative—it was me who tempted you. If you don’t want to acknowledge it, then once we walk out of this tent, we can pretend nothing ever happened.”
Zhou Chu looked at him and laughed. “What are you thinking?”
Before Li Min could react, Zhou Chu pressed him down and kissed him again for a while.
Only then did Li Min realize what he meant.
“You were talking about my injuries?” Li Min laughed. “I actually like it when you’re like that. I didn’t want to stop you, and you don’t need to restrain yourself either.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” Zhou Chu said as he reached out and pinched his ear. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll make it so you can’t return to the capital for ten days or half a month?”
Li Min replied, “I’m reluctant to leave anyway. Sleeping in your tent is interesting—I don’t want to go back to the capital.”
Zhou Chu had thought Li Min would at least be a little embarrassed, but he hadn’t expected him to be even more uninhibited than he imagined.
Still, he liked Li Min’s reaction very much—open and sincere.
It was as if what they had done was the most natural thing in the world, with nothing at all to feel awkward or ashamed about.
“You’re injured now and can’t ride a horse,” Zhou Chu said to Li Min. “I’ll have someone pass along a message, saying that it rained last night and you caught a chill, so you need to rest for a few days before leaving.”
Li Min was immediately pleased when he heard this and asked, “Is it because you can’t bear to let me go?”
“What do you think?” Zhou Chu wasn’t as direct as he was. He wasn’t used to speaking so plainly about many things. Li Min knew his temperament, and seeing this expression of his felt deeply satisfied. He couldn’t help asking again, “Then while I’m recuperating here, should I stay in your tent, or go back to mine?”
Zhou Chu was so tempted to “deal with” him that he almost did, but he was afraid of worsening his injuries, so he said, “Restrain yourself a bit, or you won’t be getting out of bed for the next few days.”
Li Min burst into laughter. He truly adored the sight of Zhou Chu being completely at a loss with him.
In the days that followed, Li Min indeed scarcely got out of bed at all.
Zhou Chu “diligently” took care of him for several days, only allowing Li Min to leave when the capital was nearly about to send people to fetch him back.
Over the following year or two, whenever Li Min had free time, he would go to the Western Camp. Zhou Chu would occasionally go to the capital as well, and the two of them rushed back and forth like this, seizing brief moments of reunion whenever they could.
Later, the emperor passed away, and Li Min’s elder brother ascended the throne.
The new emperor was young, and because he and Li Min were of the same generation, he did not place particularly strict restraints on Li Min.
Compared to before, Li Min became even more free, and his visits to the Western Camp grew more frequent.
Before long, Zhou Chu became the commander-in-chief of the Western Camp.
When the two of them met after that, they grew even more unguarded with one another.
They had thought that everything could continue this way indefinitely—until, a few years later, Li Min’s imperial brother suddenly fell gravely ill.
The young emperor had only sat on the dragon throne for a few short years and had not yet had his fill of such supreme power. He was unwilling to die just like that.
However, the imperial physicians were helpless in the face of his illness. After much struggle, the emperor finally realized that his days were numbered. Thus, he conceived the idea of passing the throne to his only son, even though everyone knew that, for the stability of the court and the greater good, passing the throne from elder brother to younger brother was the best choice.
Yet the emperor stubbornly insisted on his own path. For this, he spared no effort and even decided that before his death, he would arrange everything properly for the young crown prince. This planning had two purposes: first, to choose someone worthy of being entrusted with the future young emperor; second, to eliminate in advance anyone who might threaten the young emperor.
In this way, Li Min became a thorn in the emperor’s heart.
This younger brother of his had been “fond of bravery and fighting” since childhood and was closely associated with the commander of the Western Camp.
The Western Camp was one of the main forces guarding the capital. If anyone were to use the Western Camp to attempt a great act of rebellion, the consequences would be unimaginable. While bedridden, the emperor’s mind was filled entirely with anxiety over the future predicament of the young emperor, to the point of obsession. Thus, this unfounded calamity fell upon Li Min and Zhou Chu.
It even implicated Imperial Tutor Ji, who had spoken in Li Min’s defense.
Li Min was placed under house arrest in his residence, completely unaware of what was happening outside.
Until one day, one of Zhou Chu’s former subordinates risked his life to inform Li Min that Zhou Chu and Imperial Tutor Ji had been sentenced to execution by beheading.
“My imperial brother couldn’t possibly be this muddle-headed. The handwriting in those letters was not mine at all, and no one else could have stolen my personal seal. As long as my brother took one look, he would know—how could he make such a decision?” Li Min had been confined for a long time, and hope had always lingered in his heart. He had never imagined such an ending. “Find a way to take me to see my imperial brother. I need to explain everything to him!”
“Second Prince, everything has already been decided. Please restrain your grief,” that man said.
Li Min froze and asked, “Restrain my grief? What grief is there to restrain?”
That man’s eyes were bloodshot as he choked back sobs. “Before yesterday, there were too many guards at your residence for me to get in. It wasn’t until after the execution yesterday afternoon that His Majesty withdrew the guards… Today, the bodies of the commander and the imperial tutor were already thrown into the mass grave. There is no room left for reversal.”
At those words, Li Min’s gaze grew vacant, as though he had not quite understood the painfully obvious meaning behind them.
“Second Prince, you must take care of your health!” Seeing that something was wrong with Li Min, the man hurriedly supported him. “If anything were to happen to you, the commander would not be at peace even in the afterlife.”
Li Min looked at him, took a deep breath, and asked hoarsely, “The bodies… were they collected?”
“No one dared to collect them. His Majesty issued an edict—anyone who gathers the bodies will be punished as well,” the man replied.
Hearing this, Li Min flung the man’s hand aside and took a couple of steps toward the gate of the residence.
Then he staggered and suddenly coughed up a large mouthful of blood.
“Second Prince!” The man hurried forward to catch him.
But Li Min’s face was filled with despair. He opened his mouth, yet not a single word came out before he lost consciousness.
Li Min remained unconscious for three days and three nights. After he awoke, he was dragged along in his sickly state and sent to the imperial mausoleum.
At the mausoleum, he was consumed by grief day after day, his illness growing worse with each passing day.
That subordinate of Zhou Chu’s was extremely loyal. Knowing that what Zhou Chu had worried about most before his death was Li Min, he racked his brain and finally found a set of light armor Zhou Chu had once worn. He secretly delivered it to Li Min, hoping it might at least give him something to hold on to.
Fortunately, this method seemed to have some effect. In the woods behind the imperial mausoleum, Li Min set up a cenotaph for Zhou Chu.
Later, his illness improved somewhat, though it never truly recovered. At least, he managed to survive.
Li Min never told anyone that the reason he had not died was because one day his illness had grown so severe that it felt as though he had already died. In a hazy daze, he had reached the banks of the Naihe Bridge and seen Zhou Chu standing there.
Li Min had been overwhelmed with guilt. He had always blamed himself for the deaths of Zhou Chu and Imperial Tutor Ji and felt he had no face to meet Zhou Chu. After that day, his illness eased somewhat. Before, he had been bent on seeking death; after that day, he became a little afraid of dying instead. He feared that if he truly reached the Naihe Bridge and saw Zhou Chu, how would he face him then?
Yet remaining alive was a torment to him far worse than death.
Until one day, the truth of the Western Camp case finally came to light.
At that moment, the breath that had been trapped in Li Min’s chest for nearly a year was finally released.
Li Min was no longer afraid to go and meet Zhou Chu.
With a single dose of poison, Li Min died before Zhou Chu’s cenotaph.
His soul drifted slowly into the underworld, and sure enough, by the Naihe Bridge, he saw that familiar figure.
Zhou Chu looked almost unchanged, exactly the same as in his memories.
“Why did you come so early?” When Zhou Chu saw him, he recognized him at once, as though he had been standing there waiting for Li Min all along.
Before Li Min could speak, Zhou Chu continued, “I thought I would have to wait another fifty or sixty years before you arrived.”
Zhou Chu’s tone carried half joy and half wistful sighing, along with a trace of heartache over Li Min’s dying so young.
“Do you blame me?” Li Min asked him.
“Do I blame you for coming too early, for not living your life properly for me?” Zhou Chu asked. “Or do I blame you for coming too late and making me wait so long?”
Li Min’s nose stung, and he stepped forward and wrapped his arms tightly around Zhou Chu.
The two embraced by the Naihe Bridge, while countless souls beside them turned into points of light and entered the next cycle of reincarnation.
“Will we still know each other in our next life?” Li Min asked.
“If we can’t recognize each other, then we simply won’t enter reincarnation,” Zhou Chu said. “I’ve long since gotten acquainted with the people of the underworld—I’ll ask them to do us a favor.”
Li Min couldn’t help but laugh when he heard this, knowing that Zhou Chu was joking.
Yet in his heart, there was a quiet certainty, as though among the countless points of light scattering by the Naihe Bridge, he had glimpsed a moment of a future shared with Zhou Chu.
He knew that in the next life, they would definitely meet again.
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