Xianan Marquis’s residence once again welcomed Imperial Consort Wei, who had come home for the New Year.
Even Madam Qin couldn’t stay calm anymore and asked her eldest son, “What’s going on? Didn’t she just visit on Kitchen God Day? How come she barely stayed in the palace and she’s back already?”
Imperial Consort Wei, dropping all palace airs in front of her mother, huffed, “I don’t know which wretched woman among the three consorts suggested it, saying that returning to one’s parental home on the second day of the New Year is a national custom, and the concubines shouldn’t be left out. His Majesty, feeling sorry for them, issued a decree allowing the concubines to return to their family homes for a few days and not return to the palace until the Lantern Festival on the fifteenth!”
Madam Qin frowned. “It’s one thing if a concubine occasionally visits home due to illness or family matters, but to send off the entire harem for half a month? That’s unheard of! What is His Majesty thinking?”
“What else could it mean? The inner palace has been ‘dry’ for months—not a drop of rain. I’d bet all that favor has been poured onto that foxy man! This won’t do. When I return to the palace, I need to speak with Aunt properly. A ruler of a nation should focus on producing heirs—how can he be obsessed with Longyang (male love)?”
“Don’t rush to plead your case before the Empress Dowager,” Madam Qin advised. “My sister is extremely protective. When it comes to her son, daughter-in-law, or niece—there’s no question of who she’ll side with. If you go complaining about your husband to his mother, you’ll only end up shooting yourself in the foot!”
Imperial Consort Wei wasn’t foolish. She instantly understood. “You’re right—I shouldn’t be the one to complain. It’d be best if the Empress Dowager saw it for herself, or if the court officials submitted a memorial of impeachment.”
Madam Qin nodded. “The key is having evidence. Even without hard proof, you need a proper excuse or reason to act.”
Imperial Consort Wei said, “Understood. That’s why I instructed two sharp palace maids and eunuchs to keep a close watch on His Majesty after I left the palace, especially to see whether Su Yan uses the opportunity to gain favor. How did your and Father’s discussions go?”
Madam Qin said, “Mr. He came up with a plan—‘Removing the firewood from under the cauldron.’”
“How so?”
“He said, no matter how strong the Emperor’s favor is, once new water flows in, the old cools. If the fire gets too strong, it burns out quickly. It’s not a lasting concern. What we should truly pay attention to—is the Crown Prince, the foundation of the nation.”
“The Emperor is now allowing the Crown Prince to attend court meetings, observe the reviewing of memorials, and is even personally teaching him governance. These are signals the Wei family must not ignore. Because this isn’t just training—it’s a gateway to supreme power.”
“The truest love of any emperor is always power. Between him and his heir, who stands closest to that power, lies the most delicate Father-son relationship under heaven.”
“That character heir carries weight—it means successor, but also rival. Like Nanjing, once a reserve capital with a full court setup—it seemed reassuring. But if one day that Nanjing court grew strong enough to challenge Beijing, the central government would be the first to oppose it.”
Imperial Consort Wei was shaken. “But Zhu Helin has been doted on since childhood, and even now acts like a carefree fool. I don’t think His Majesty is guarding against him at all.”
Madam Qin smiled. “I asked Mr. He the same question.”
Imperial Consort Wei’s curiosity was thoroughly piqued. “What did he say?”
“He said, a qualified emperor should be wary of everyone. Now tell me—do you think His Majesty is a qualified emperor?”
Imperial Consort Wei was stunned, then slowly nodded. She said a little sadly, “Back when I’d bring snacks to the imperial study, if the Emperor was reading memorials, his first reaction was always to close them immediately—never let me glance at a single word.”
“It seems Mister He was right. He also said that an unloved crown prince lives in constant fear of being deposed, enduring great torment. But a favored crown prince must always find a balance between unchecked ambition and cautious restraint—also a kind of torment. Zhu Helin has always had a smooth ride growing up. If he suffers a sufficiently humiliating setback, there’s a good chance he’ll lose his footing, make one mistake after another, and eventually drive a wedge between Royal Father and son.”
“A setback…” Imperial Consort Wei pondered for a long while but still had no ideas. “He was indeed unruly in his youth. The officials used to criticize him often for being lazy and undisciplined, but later he just grew thick-skinned and didn’t take it seriously. In the past half year, though, he’s matured quite a bit. Aside from occasionally running out of the palace, he hasn’t committed any major offenses. Mother, where do you think we should start? We can’t just sneak erotic paintings into the Eastern Palace again. That was mere child’s play.”
“That’s why I said we need to ‘remove the firewood from under the cauldron.’”
“And how do we do that?”
“First, we need to figure out what the ‘firewood’ under this cauldron—the Crown Prince—is,” said Madam Qin gently, patting her daughter’s hand. “Make him lose the thing he cares about the most.”
The mother and daughter talked for nearly an hour. When Madam Qin began to show signs of fatigue, Imperial Consort Wei bid her farewell and returned to her own quarters to rest.
As she passed through the courtyard, a sudden scream from a woman rang out.
A young maid burst out of the garden path, hopping around as she beat at her clothes and cried, “Get it off! Get it off! Ahhh—”
Imperial Consort Wei instinctively took two steps back, raising her sleeve to cover her nose. The palace maids quickly stepped forward to shield her. One maid barked, “Insolent wench! How dare you scream before Niang Niang and frighten the noble consort? Someone drag her away and punish her according to house law!”
The crying maid dropped to her knees and begged for mercy. “A mouse crawled into my clothes! I wasn’t trying to be loud… Please forgive me, Niang Niang…”
Imperial Consort Wei frowned and turned away. “Disgusting. Take her away. Deal with both the girl and the mouse—make sure it’s all cleaned up.”
At once, servants moved forward to seize the maid. She struggled and pleaded, twisting violently—suddenly, a sticky-furred baby mouse dropped out from her trouser leg, rolled once on the ground, and scurried toward the steps in a panic.
The mouse was very small, seemingly just born, but the maids still shrieked and backed away, guarding Imperial Consort Wei.
The little creature darted blindly until it ran smack into a dark green-edged monk’s shoe.
A pale, slender hand reached down and gently scooped the mouse into its palm.
Through the gap between the shielding maids, Imperial Consort Wei finally saw the man clearly—
It was a young man of ethereal beauty, standing tall and elegant like a white crane mirrored in water.
He wore a traditional long robe of plain white fabric with no decoration, only two lines of wild cursive calligraphy inked across the chest. Upon closer look, they appeared to be a couplet:
“In dreams, one may become a crane;
Among mortals, even weeds can shine like fireflies.”
His long black hair was unbound, cascading like a waterfall down his back, tied only near the end with a white cord.
Wearing one’s hair loose was often seen as barbaric or eccentric, yet on him it felt neither inappropriate nor mad—on the contrary, it gave him an air of celestial transcendence.
From the corridor pillars, soft lantern light cast a gentle halo around them, like a pocket of paradise.
Amid this misty aura, the serene man bowed with palms together. “Imperial Consort.”
…So it was Mister He, Imperial Consort Wei thought with certainty, nearly entranced, as if her soul had been pulled from her body, left speechless.
“Greetings, Niang Niang.”
She snapped out of it, flustered. “You… you’re holding a filthy rat…”
The words had barely left her mouth before she wished she could bite her own tongue—what was that?! That didn’t suit her status at all—utter nonsense!
The man smiled faintly, like a breeze through the forest or moonlight over a mountain stream. “The Buddha says all beings are equal. Humans are living beings, and so are mice. He also says the body is nothing but a stinking skin sack. If we’re all dirty, then who’s to say mice are dirtier than humans?”
Imperial Consort Wei had never enjoyed the cryptic sayings of monks and priests, usually finding them unintelligible. But everything this man said sounded like divine melody, each word captivating.
She steadied herself and asked, “May I ask your full name, kind sir?”
He replied, “In dreams I sometimes become a crane; in the world, I merely borrow a human form. In the end, I don’t know if I am man or crane. Just call me Mister He.”
Imperial Consort Wei thought the name suited him perfectly—pure, wise, and untainted.
Still gently cradling the mouse in his palm, Mister He asked, “Might Niang Niang allow me to take this little mouse from your residence?”
She nodded at once, assuming he was merciful and intended to release it. If she had punished the maid too harshly in contrast, she’d have seemed petty. So she turned to the servants and ordered, “Take the maid away. Let her bathe and change clothes, clean herself up.”
The maid was overjoyed to be spared and knelt to thank her, choking with gratitude.
Mister He smiled. “Niang Niang is of noble status; I shouldn’t intrude further. I take my leave.” He turned and left, his long sleeves fluttering like a breeze.
Imperial Consort Wei stood in the winter wind, watching his figure disappear down the corridor, and let out a long, wistful sigh.
“Do you have any orders, Niang Niang?” a maid asked cautiously.
“Let’s go back,” said Imperial Consort Wei. “And tomorrow, send for Ruan Hongjiao again.”
Mister He returned to his guest room and walked to the wardrobe in the corner. He opened the bottom cabinet.
Inside was a tightly woven rattan storage chest, coated in tung oil to make it sturdy. The weave was so fine it barely allowed any airflow, and one could not see what was inside.
He had told the servants that it contained sacred scriptures, written in blood by a revered monk, and must not be touched, wet, or jostled, lest it desecrate the Buddha.
The servants believed him wholeheartedly. They even clasped their hands in prayer whenever they passed by the wardrobe.
Mister He unlocked the mechanism on the chest and opened a crack, slipping the little mouse inside before closing and relocking it.
“All living beings suffer. H*ll is always near,” he murmured.
From within the chest came a tiny, almost imperceptible squeak—then silence.
…
In the heart of the northern desert, the Ulan Mountains lay buried in wind and snow.
Even the massive body of the sacred tree was blanketed in white, resembling a silent, slumbering hill.
The old shaman wrapped long streamers around the tree trunk, then began to beat a hand drum made from camel bone.
Amid the low, solemn rhythm of the drum, he suddenly heard a faint noise. He paused to listen carefully… It was a soft groaning, as if a person—or a beast—had just awakened from a long, death-like sleep.
The old shaman’s cloudy eyes lit up. He pushed the sled beneath him and arrived at the stone house nestled among the gnarled roots of the tree.
On a wooden board lay a tall, sturdy figure, his whole body coated in a dark brown medicinal paste. Every three days, once the paste had dried and hardened completely, the old shaman would knock it off with his drumstick and apply a fresh layer. He had already done this thirty times.
The groaning was coming from this mud-covered man.
Using the drumstick, the old shaman skillfully tapped at the hardened shell. As fragments of the paste fell away, the skin beneath gradually came into view.
It was a strange hue—darker than tea-brown but lighter than charcoal—glossy and smooth.
The tree-shaped tattoo that had once spanned his abdomen had turned from black to blood-red. Its branches now spread across his chest and back, covering almost half his body except for his shoulders. The roots extended from his lower belly down his thighs, making the whole image appear even more majestic.
The old shaman touched the new tattoos on Aletan’s body, clearly satisfied with his own craftsmanship.
Only one thing disrupted the overall harmony: the ribbon wound around Aletan’s left arm.
The ribbon was so dirty its original color was indiscernible. When it was removed, the skin underneath—untouched by the medicinal paste—was noticeably paler, as if he had shed several layers of skin like a snake.
“I told you before, it’d look ugly,” the old shaman muttered.
Aletan slowly opened his eyes. His irises had also changed drastically—from a greyish green with hints of yellow, like peridot, to a bright, intense gold.
Though his body and facial features remained the same, it felt like he had become a completely different person.
“…How long did I sleep?” he asked hoarsely, his voice rough like gravel.
The old shaman squeezed some green juice into his mouth and replied, “Three months. Earlier than I expected.”
Aletan swallowed the juice. His voice became smoother. “Did the poison in me get cured?”
“Yes,” the old shaman replied, a glint of cunning in his eyes. “But don’t forget, there’s still one more poison in you—blood poison. That’s not something this paste can cure.”
Aletan sat up, his expression dazed. “What blood poison?”
“Oh, you’ve forgotten.” The old shaman wasn’t surprised and explained again, “Your tattoo was infused with another person’s blood. That person must become your mate. Within three years of your awakening, if you haven’t gained both their body and heart—haven’t knelt together before the sacred tree and vowed union—then their blood will become a fatal, incurable poison. You’ll die.”
Aletan scoffed. “Liar.”
“You’re welcome to test it. Just don’t come looking for me three years from now when the poison takes effect. I won’t be able to help you then.”
After a moment of silence, Aletan stood up, stark naked, examining his body.
“I’ve lost a lot of weight.”
“Of course. You’ve been motionless for three months, surviving only on fruit and meat broth. The fact that you can even stand now is a miracle.”
Aletan stepped out of the narrow stone doorway into the snow. He scooped up a handful of snow and began vigorously scrubbing himself until his skin was clean and warm. Then he put on the clothes he had taken off three months earlier.
His pants and long robe were stiff with cold, but he shook them out and wore them without complaint.
As he slipped on the sleeves, he pointed to the pale rings on his left arm that looked like a snake’s shed skin. “I think something used to be here—probably a ribbon.”
The old shaman handed him the filthy ribbon.
Aletan tried to wash it in the icy river, only to find it had turned dark green from the medicinal paste. He vaguely remembered it used to be light blue, with jade leaf pendants at the ends. But the pendants were now gone, and the color couldn’t be restored.
Where had this ribbon come from? Judging by its shape and length, it looked like a hair ribbon from the Central Plains.
Whose ribbon was it? And why had it been wrapped around his arm…
A dull pain throbbed in the depths of his skull. Aletan shook his wet white hair, trying to fling away the unpleasant fogginess and emptiness in his mind.
He told the old shaman, “I need to return to the Oirat tribe. But I can’t cross the snowfields in this weakened body. I’ll need to rebuild my strength first.”
The old shaman, barely half his height, looked up at the tall, boulder-like young man and huffed silently to himself: “Weakened body.”
But he didn’t feel offended. Years of disability and the hunched posture of age had never dulled his spirit’s yearning for the Eternal Sky. Every soul would eventually cast off its mortal shell and find eternity there.
The old shaman said, “You’ll need at least one more month. In the meantime, you’ll have to hunt for yourself if you want meat.”
Aletan drew the scimitar at his side and, seeing its blade still sharp, asked casually, “The gazelles and deer are too docile. Should I eat wolves and bears instead, to recover faster?”
The old shaman sensed that something about Aletan’s personality had changed since waking—but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what, or how.
He replied, “You may eat any beast you can hunt. That is the Eternal Sky’s gift to the Oirat.”
There was no food stored in the stone house. After finishing the last bowl of rabbit stew, Aletan left with his bow and scimitar.
At nightfall, the old shaman lit a bonfire outside the stone house. While waiting, he whittled a tree branch the thickness of a teacup.
Before the carving was complete, Aletan returned—dragging the carcass of a Gobi bear that had been roused from hibernation, his body covered in a dozen bloody claw marks.
He dropped the bear’s corpse, drove his scimitar into the ground, and panted, “I really have been lying down too long.”
The old shaman lifted his eyelids to glance at him. “The wound ointment is ready. It’s where you sleep. Skin the bear yourself. Cut the meat. I’ll cook.”
Aletan didn’t object.
He dragged the bear carcass to the nearby frozen river, cleaned it up, brought back the hide and large chunks of meat, and also took a snow bath for himself along the way.
He went to apply medicine to his wounds, while the old shaman cooked the bear meat.
The wind and snow had finally ceased.
On the icy plain, the night sky was vast and high. Aletan laid beside the bonfire, feeling as though the whole galaxy above him was falling toward him—and he wanted to catch it with his body.
He unconsciously stroked the ribbon wrapped around his arm and said, “Old shaman, I keep feeling like I’ve forgotten something.”
“Forgotten what?”
“A… person.”
“Who?”
“…I’ve forgotten.”
“If you can forget, that means it wasn’t important enough,” the old shaman said without looking up, flipping the sizzling meat and brushing it with spices. “If it was truly important, one day you’ll remember.”
“That makes sense.”
After a moment of silence, Aletan asked again, “Old shaman, can I become a shaman?”
The old shaman finally looked up from his deeply wrinkled face and drooping eyelids to glance at him. “What, don’t want to be a warrior anymore?”
“A warrior can also be a shaman. A shaman can also be a warrior. Why can’t I be more?”
“Well said, golden prince,” the old shaman said solemnly, looking at him seriously. “You may call me master now.”
“Master. How does one become a shaman? Is there some scripture to chant?”
The old shaman chuckled, then sliced off pieces of roasted meat with a small knife. In a raspy voice, he sang:
“The scripture without words,
Was taught to me by my master.
The scripture without books,
Was taught to me by my master.
The scripture without paper,
Was taught to me by my master.”
“Shamans have no scriptures—only masters and disciples,” the old man said calmly. “I once had a disciple. Later, he cut off both my legs.”
Aletan paused as he added firewood to the flames. Then he said in a deep voice, “Teach me everything you know, and I will avenge you.”
