Xing Muzheng had just come off his beloved wife, his face glowing with health and vigor. To avoid giving himself away, he actually put on makeup for once, and within moments he looked frail and wan, evoking pity.
Leading the group was Zhao Hui, the head eunuch serving closely at Emperor Yongtai’s side since childhood—utterly loyal. Seeing Xing Muzheng so weak and bedridden, Zhao Hui’s expression turned stricken.
“This servant thought Marquis Xing, blessed with fortune, would suffer no more than minor ills. Never did I expect it to be so grave. I am truly guilty—only today did I bring the imperial physician.” With that, Zhao Hui slapped himself twice.
Xing Muzheng, looking feeble, waved his hand and gave a bitter smile.
Qian Jiaoniang dabbed at her eyes, speaking tearfully: “Our lord marquis has suffered many wounds on the battlefield, and now the old ailments have flared up again—his body can no longer bear it. I summoned the best local doctors, but all said it could not be cured, only managed with bedrest. I watched those quacks writing prescription after prescription, decoction after decoction, yet the marquis showed no improvement. My heart burned as if on fire. I was about to swallow my pride and beg the imperial family for a physician, but before I could, His Majesty already showed such care for my lord, sending not only fine herbs but also an imperial physician! I truly don’t know how to repay this grace. Eunuch, when you return to Yongan, I beg you, please thank His Majesty on my behalf.”
Zhao Hui sighed emotionally. “Lord Marquis Xing is the backbone of our Xie Dynasty. To hear he has fallen gravely ill left His Majesty distraught, so he immediately dispatched an imperial physician to examine him, fearing that the doctors at your side were not diligent enough.” Zhao Hui then stepped aside, allowing the waiting physician forward. “This is Imperial Physician Jia.”
Xing Muzheng, lying on the bed, lifted his gaze to the elderly imperial physician with a goatee, dressed in plain robes, hands lowered in patience. He gave a small nod. Qian Jiaoniang hurriedly moved aside to welcome him forward. “Imperial Physician, please quickly take a look at my Lord Marquis—those quacks have been of no use at all!”
Imperial Physician Jia accepted the order and stepped forward. Qian Jiaoniang carefully placed Xing Muzheng’s arm upon a soft pillow, then withdrew a step to the bedside. She had a maid bring over a low stool so that the physician could sit and take his pulse.
Imperial Physician Jia was already advanced in years. With the maids’ support, he slowly lowered himself onto the stool, stretching out his dry, withered hand to take Xing Muzheng’s pulse.
No one in the room dared to disturb the process. It was so quiet that even Xing Muzheng’s slightly heavy breathing could be heard. The physician took his pulse for a very long time, one hand pressing the pulse while the other stroked his goatee. His wrinkled eyelids drooped halfway shut; if not for those withered tree-like fingers occasionally moving, the onlookers might have thought he had fallen asleep.
The room was thick with medicinal smells, stiflingly heavy.
Zhaohui grew anxious, but he knew that this was the physician’s usual manner. In truth, the one the throne had intended to send was not Jia but Chen. Unexpectedly, the night before departure Chen had caught cold and suffered severe diarrhea—half-dead by the next day, unable even to get out of bed. Thus, the emperor had no choice but to send Jia instead.
After a long while, Imperial Physician Jia finally withdrew his hand, then went through the full cycle of observing, listening, questioning, and examining. At last, he furrowed his brows and looked at Xing Muzheng, as if there were something he dared not speak aloud.
“How is it? Can you cure our Lord Marquis?” Qian Jiaoniang, seeing him set aside the pulse, could not help but ask in urgent anxiety.
The physician shook his head and sighed heavily. “This old one is incompetent. Marquis Xing’s illness… is most difficult to treat!”
Eunuch Zhaohui’s face changed. “Imperial Physician Jia, you mustn’t speak carelessly! You are a veteran physician of the palace, you have seen countless difficult cases. How can Marquis Xing’s illness be beyond you?”
Imperial Physician Jia sighed. “This old one observes Marquis Xing’s pulse: obstructed, with disorder of the heart-fire. It must be the accumulation of old battlefield injuries left untended, breaking out today and damaging the very foundation—just like a house whose main beam has been hollowed out by termites. To restore the base now… it is indeed difficult.”
Qian Jiaoniang’s face turned pale. “Then our Lord Marquis…”
The physician quickly added: “Madam, do not be alarmed. Marquis Xing’s life is not in danger. But he will need years of bedrest, slowly restoring what was lost over the years. Only then can he recover.”
Zhaohui asked: “How many years of recuperation will that take?”
The physician replied: “Quickly, three to four years. Slowly, seven to eight.”
At once Qian Jiaoniang covered her face with her handkerchief and wept.
That very night Zhaohui sent an urgent message to Emperor Yongtai. The situation was somewhat different from what he had anticipated. The emperor had calculated that Xing Muzheng was feigning illness, so he had dispatched Zhaohui with a physician to catch him unprepared, and then accuse him of deceiving the throne, hauling him to Yongan under guard. If Marquis Xing resisted and killed them, that would give the throne all the more reason to condemn him for rebellion.
Yet unexpectedly, Xing Muzheng truly was ill—and gravely so.
Zhaohui could not quite guess what course the emperor would take upon hearing that Xing required years of bedridden convalescence. From his perspective, by the time Marquis Xing spent those years in bed, the throne’s power would be well-secured, and Marquis Xing, half-crippled, would not be able to stir up any storm. Rather than expend effort to destroy a once-meritorious subject, it might be better to act magnanimous and let him be. But Zhaohui also knew he could not read his master’s mind. The emperor was too suspicious, his tolerance too small—who could say when another fit of distrust might flare up?
