The one-eyed dog slowly, shakily crept out and returned to Qian Jiaoniang’s arms. She hugged it close, pressing her face against its fur. The little dog licked her face, its warm little tongue sliding across her skin, making her heart tremble.
She’d said this dog was like her—and she’d meant it from the bottom of her heart. She pitied the dog, just as she pitied herself. They had both been bullied, scarred all over, yet still forced to walk alone. She could do nothing for herself—but at least she could protect this dog.
“I’ll never abandon you,” she whispered again into the puppy’s ear, making a solemn vow.
Xing Muzheng, having found the dog, didn’t rush to leave the mountain. Instead, he brought Qian Jiaoniang to rest at Wuling Temple. He had once accompanied Emperor Taikang there, so the abbot and masters like Huineng and Huijing all recognized him.
Only then did the monks of Wuling Temple realize that the famed former General Xing Muzheng had lost a dog.
A young monk brought hot water to their guest room and, upon seeing the dog lying on her lap, was stunned to find it was missing an eye and had patchy fur. He couldn’t comprehend why General Xing had gone to such lengths, mobilizing so many people, just for such a seemingly worthless animal.
Xing Muzheng changed into dry clothes and went to the main hall, bowing three times before the Buddha and donating a large sum in incense offerings before thanking the abbot and the other masters.
Abbot Huici smiled and asked, “Patron Xing, was saving this dog worth it?”
Xing Muzheng looked at Qian Jiaoniang, who had just come out with the others, and nodded. “It was worth it.”
Huici observed the softness in Xing Muzheng’s expression. He recalled the last time they met—the man’s sharp brows, iron face, exuding a heavy killing aura. But now, his features seemed softened, and the murderous air had faded. The abbot followed his gaze and thought to himself, So even tempered steel can become supple in the right hands. The mortal world truly holds many curious things.
Qian Jiaoniang brought her little son to formally thank the monks. By then, the skies had cleared again. Everyone packed up and made their way down the mountain together.
Xing Muzheng had sent someone ahead to inform Hang Zhi of the situation, politely explaining the delay and asking him not to wait too long. Yet as a man of loyalty and principle, Hang Zhi was likely still waiting for his friend’s arrival.
Li Qingquan was nervous the entire way, praying that the Prime Minister was still at the Pavilion —if not, they would have truly offended a most powerful man.
By the time Xing Muzheng and his group reached the pavilion, the city gates were about to close. The pavilion was surrounded by draped curtains, with guards posted on all sides. Inside, the scent of incense lingered, and the sound of a zither floated in the air—someone was playing within.
Li Qingquan let out a long breath of relief.
As the sound of hooves grew closer, the music stopped. Xing Muzheng dismounted. Two figures in plain robes stepped quickly out from the tent with joy on their faces. They knelt before him, calling out, “Marquis Xing!”
Xing Muzheng looked closely—these were two of his former generals: Hong Su and Ma Dongchang. Hong Su was dark-skinned, rugged, and bearded, the nephew of Empress Dowager Cian and cousin to Emperor Taikang. He now served as Cavalry Commandant. Ma Dongchang, wide-eyed and big-mouthed, was the hereditary General of Cavalry—his great-grandfather had been one of the founding lords, and both his father and grandfather had distinguished military service.
These two had remained in Yongan with Xing Muzheng’s former strategist Huang Gong. The rest of Xing’s old subordinates mostly guarded the borders, while a few like Zhen Hao held local official posts.
Xing Muzheng helped the two up and clapped their shoulders, laughing heartily. Then he noticed another man kneeling behind them—a young man, unfamiliar in appearance, with clear features and dressed in a lake-blue silk robe embroidered with bamboo.
Li Qingquan and Ah Da looked around but didn’t see the silver-haired Prime Minister anywhere. Their hearts sank.
Then the young man in the embroidered robe spoke: “Humble servant Hang Mo greets Dingxi Marquis.”
Hong Su added, “This is Young Master Hang—Prime Minister Hang’s nephew.”
Xing Muzheng nodded.
Hang Mo gave a deep bow and smiled. “Marquis, my Sixth Uncle had prepared fine alcohol and waited here with Lord Hong and Lord Ma to welcome you. But the heavens were unkind—the heavy rain delayed your journey, and my uncle worried deeply for you. Yet just then, an urgent summons came from the palace, and he had no choice but to return and report. He asked me to remain here and express his deep regrets on his behalf.”
“Xing has failed to live up to the Prime Minister’s generous intentions,” said Xing Muzheng. “I will personally come to apologize another day.”
Hang Mo quickly replied, “Marquis Xing overstates it. My sixth uncle only regrets being unable to host your welcome banquet—he meant nothing else by it. He also said he has already prepared a residence for you. If you don’t mind its humble state, he would be honored if you would stay at his cottage.”
Ma Dongchang glared. “You brat, you’ve got no manners! I haven’t even said anything yet and you’re already trying to snatch the marquis to stay at your place? No way—he’s staying at mine!”
Hang Mo bared a row of white teeth. “I’m merely repeating my uncle’s words.”
“If we’re talking about who came first, I was the one who got here first,” Hong Su chimed in.
While the men in front were bickering over where Xing Muzheng should lodge, Qian Jiaoniang peeked out through the curtain in the back. She’d heard people say the Prime Minister had white hair, yet none of the men outside had a single gray strand. The two older men seemed to be former subordinates of Xing Muzheng, while the black-haired, refined young man didn’t quite fit in—he looked far more like a scholar than a soldier.
“That man… is he the Prime Minister?” Qian Jiaoniang murmured.
“No,” Qingya replied quietly beside her after taking a glance.
“How do you know?” Qian Jiaoniang asked.
Qingya rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it common knowledge in the city that the Prime Minister has white hair? That one’s hair is dark and shiny—how could that be him? He looks more like his nephew.”
Qian Jiaoniang did the math and agreed the man looked too young. She gently stroked her Big Sis’s head. “So the Prime Minister isn’t here. Marquis came so late… did he get mad and leave?”
Qingya chuckled. “Get mad? Him? He’s a soft-hearted old man—he never gets angry with anyone.”
“And how would you know?”
Qingya was momentarily caught off guard. “I—I heard it from others! But you—why are you so worried about the Prime Minister being upset? Don’t tell me… you’re concerned for the Marquis?”
Qian Jiaoniang shook her head—then nodded. “He helped me find my dog.” She was the kind of person who would repay one kindness with ten. The entire entourage had searched in the rain for her dog, and Xing Muzheng had even missed the Prime Minister’s welcome banquet because of it. She couldn’t help but feel guilty.
“Don’t worry,” Qingya said. “Nothing bad will happen. The marquis doesn’t depend on the Prime Minister to survive.”
***
Xing Muzheng politely declined the invitations from the Hang, Hong, and Ma families, and also turned down the welcome banquet from Hong and Ma. Strictly speaking, the banquet had been arranged by Hang Zhi, but with the unexpected developments and the host absent, Hang Mo neither dared nor had the rank to step in. Hong Su and Ma Dongchang were like brothers to Xing Muzheng, so he didn’t stand on ceremony. He simply explained that he was tired from travel, night had fallen, and the womenfolk needed rest.
So, Xing Muzheng drank a few cups of the alcohol Hang Zhi had prepared at the Pavilion, said farewell to the Huizhou forces, and brought his party to lodgings managed by the Kaifeng Prefecture. These official residences were designated for imperial appointees and their families who had been summoned to the capital. Even royal sons returning to the capital under decree often stayed in them.
Though called “official quarters,” they were actually independent compounds on bustling Zhuque Street in Yongan. The entire Qingan Alley consisted of such residences and was popularly called “Official Hat Alley” because of the officials coming and going. Royal princes usually stayed on Ningan Alley, nicknamed “Prince Alley.”
Xing Muzheng had long notified Kaifeng Prefecture, who arranged a residence for him on Prince Alley, next door to Duan Wang, the Second Prince Wu Jian, who had also returned to Yongan for the imperial birthday celebrations. These residences were composed of three courtyards. Xing Muzheng stayed in the main quarters, while Qian Jiaoniang and Xing Pingchun stayed in the eastern wing. Standing in the courtyard, Xing Muzheng watched Qian Jiaoniang busily arranging things in the east wing. The autumn wind rustled, stirring a sense of melancholy within him.
The next day, before Xing Muzheng could even report his arrival to the court, word had already reached the palace. An imperial eunuch arrived on horseback with an oral summons, ordering Xing Muzheng to enter the palace immediately.
He donned his formal crimson woven flying fish court robe, layered with a black-and-red cloud-patterned cloak, and took two attendants with him to see the emperor. His dashing figure drew stares from Yongan’s citizens. By midday, the tale of Marquis Dingxi’s return had already become the city’s hottest topic.
Xing Muzheng was unaware of the stir he’d caused. Dismounting at the palace gates, he was led in by a eunuch. Within two quarters of an hour, he had reached the imperial study. A young eunuch announced him again, and Chief Eunuch Mao Qi came out to greet him—his face was grim.
In a low voice, he said, “Marquis Xing, His Majesty is furious.”
Xing Muzheng’s expression didn’t change. He nodded and followed Mao Qi into the study.
The moment he stepped inside, his eyes nearly watered from the thick smoke. The large study was filled with swirling incense, a bagua array hung above, peachwood swords dangled below, Three Purity bells sat to the left, and a Celestial General’s ruler to the right. A man in his forties sat inside wearing a grey Daoist robe and cap, with a wooden fish next to him.
If Xing Muzheng hadn’t looked carefully, he might’ve thought he’d wandered into a Daoist temple.
“Kneeling, Xing Muzheng said, “Your servant pays respects to Your Majesty. Long live the emperor, may you live ten thousand years.”
Emperor Taikang, dressed in a grey robe, lifted his eyelids and said sharply, “Xing Muzheng, how bold of you.”
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