In front of the Yangxin Palace, Emperor Jinglong dismounted from his sedan chair. Lan Xi greeted him as he ascended the steps, whispering, “Your Majesty looks distinctly different today.”
The emperor glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and asked, “What’s the difference?”
Lan Xi smiled and said, “Your Majesty looks radiant. I’m sure he’s in high spirits because of the good news.” Then he pointed to the side of his neck.
The emperor reached up and touched the side of his neck. The dried bite mark still throbbed faintly. He gave a short laugh: “Old eunuch, sharp-eyed as ever.”
Seeing that the emperor wasn’t angry, Lan Xi pressed on with his flattery: “Congratulations, Your Majesty, felicitations—Your Majesty has gotten what you wished for.”
The emperor didn’t want the bite mark seen, lest the palace attendants grow alarmed over an injury to the dragon body and start making wild guesses. “Find me something to wrap around my neck.”
“It’s getting warm, a scarf would be awkward to wear… Why not allow this old slave to fetch a poultice for Your Majesty? The skin’s been broken, after all.”
The emperor nodded. “No need to disturb the imperial physicians. Go fetch it.”
Lan Xi took the order and left. The emperor ascended the steps, and at the doorway of the hall, he saw the Crown Prince.
The crown prince Zhu Helin stood beside the doors, hands lowered at his sides. Broad-shouldered, long-legged, his back straight—like a newly-grown poplar tree.
The emperor felt a moment’s daze, as if he were seeing again the boy Helin of years past, laughing and running about, utterly without rules. Not just Yangxin Hall—even the Fengtian Hall, where officials debated state matters, had once been a place where he darted about at will.
In the past, when Helin came looking for him and found him absent, he would sit in the hall eating pastries and gnawing fruit, one leg crossed over the other. Once caught by the ceremonial officers, he was harshly admonished. Yet now the child seemed to have grown up all at once—more proper, more steady… and more distant.
From afar, the crown prince bowed deeply. “Greetings to Royal Father. This son comes to pay respects.”
Emperor Jinglong came up to him, studying him carefully. Just as Lan Xi had said the other day—the prince had grown thinner, tanned darker, but his spirit was still vigorous. The flamboyant arrogance on his face had faded, as though the sharpness had been sheathed.
The emperor drifted into thought.
Sensing something unusual, the crown prince called softly: “Royal Father?”
The emperor came back to himself and said lightly: “That will do. I am well. You may return to the Eastern Palace.”
The crown prince felt stifled but did not show it. “Does Royal Father not wish to ask how this son has progressed with the case of the switched relief grain?”
The emperor merely nodded without interest and walked into the hall.
The crown prince followed, and by chance glimpsed the half-healed bite mark at the side of his father’s neck, faintly scabbed with blood, just visible above the collar. His expression changed at once.
Who dared bite the Son of Heaven—at such an intimate place, no less?
The harem? Those pliant, submissive concubines wouldn’t dare. The only one ever bold enough to flaunt her favor, Consort Wei, was now shut away in seclusion.
Outside the palace?
One name flashed in his mind. His face went pale, then flushed, ugly beyond words.
He tried to console himself: Impossible. Royal Father loves his dignity, restrains himself strictly. Even if he harbors feelings for Qinghe, he would never cross the line of ruler and minister so easily.
But then another thought: And if, after so long holding back, he could hold back no more? Who else in this world but Qinghe would dare bite the Son of Heaven!
The more he turned it over, the more restless he became, his insides burning, though he forced himself to keep his face calm.
The emperor seated himself behind the desk, lifted a cup of freshly-brewed Pu’er, and without raising his eyelids said: “Sit and speak.”
The crown prince smoothed his emotions, swallowed the knot in his throat, cleared his voice, and began reporting what he had uncovered. How the disaster relief grain at Baizhifang had been short-weighted at which level of disbursement; which officials had taken part in embezzling and diverting the grain; how by the time it reached the charitable bureau, almost nothing remained; how the bureau head who drowned himself had been coerced into passing off moldy, rotten rice as relief grain, leading to poisoning among the victims… One by one, all the inner workings were laid out.
Finally the crown prince concluded: “This case, on the one hand, is because certain Ministry of Revenue officials ignored both law and the people’s lives, ignored Royal Father’s repeated commands, and embezzled from the relief. On the other hand, this son believes there is another power that exploited their corruption to set a trap. The intent was not truly to poison the people, but to force this son’s hand to uncover the stone pillar in the well.”
Emperor Jinglong asked: “And this ‘other power’—what power do you suppose it is?”
The crown prince answered frankly: “This son has evidence to suspect it is a plot of the Void Sect.”
The emperor did not ask to see the evidence. He countered: “Do you know that the Void Sect in the capital has already been eradicated? After their current leader was exposed, he escaped capture and fled.”
The prince persisted: “But that does not prevent him from having laid out his schemes before his identity was revealed.”
The emperor pressed him further: “For what end? Merely so you would dig up a stone pillar, with a few lines of nonsense carved upon it?”
The crown prince drew a deep breath, meeting the Son of Heaven’s natural majesty with resolute eyes. His voice rang firm: “For the sake of framing this son, of sowing discord between Father and son! For the sake of fabricating prophecies and spreading rumors, plunging the realm into fear of impending catastrophe, shaking the very foundation of our people’s faith in this dynasty!”
The emperor closed his eyes in thought. After a while he opened them again: “And the rumors in the capital about this stone pillar—how did you deal with them?”
“To make an example, kill one to warn a hundred. This son sent covert agents in plain clothes into the streets, arrested those leading and spreading the rumors. Under interrogation it was revealed they were Void Sect members. I had it posted publicly, exposing their conspiracy to rebel, then had them executed and their heads displayed. After the proclamation and the heads were hung for several days, the rumors ceased.”
On the young prince’s face there gleamed a faint sharpness, formed by the blend of keen discernment and ruthless resolve.
The emperor sipped his tea slowly, then asked at last: “If you sat in my place, how would you deal with the Ministry of Revenue officials involved?”
The crown prince clearly hesitated.
In his mind, every official implicated should be stripped of office and jailed, and all who shielded them should be pursued to the end. Yet he also felt the difficulty. Even the Minister of Revenue, Xu Ruiqi, worried the case reached too far, and sought to dissuade him with excuses. The seasoned old ministers of the Ministry devised all sorts of obstructive tricks to blunt his edge.
And more than that—his keen instinct told him this was not a question he ought to answer directly.
After several turns of thought, the crown prince bowed and said: “When officials break the law, only the emperor himself can mete out judgment. This son, not yet in that position, must not usurp its affairs. I will act only at Royal Father’s command.”
The emperor’s lips curved with what might have been the faintest of smiles. He set down his cup: “This matter I shall handle myself. You need not follow it further. Return to the Eastern Palace.”
The crown prince rose and made his farewells. He walked several steps, then halted and turned back. He knew he should not ask, yet the words came out anyway: “Royal Father intends to send Su Yan back to Shaanxi?”
The emperor did not conceal it from him and replied: “Correct. At the end of last year, when he returned to the capital to report on the new policy, I had already arranged this matter with him.”
The Crown Prince pressed further: “The framework for the new livestock policy has already been set. How much longer does he need to solidify it before someone else can take over?”
“—And how long do you want him to go for?” the emperor countered blandly.
He must not cross the line again! This was the limit—if he stopped now, there was still time.
The crown prince clenched his back teeth. Rationally, he knew he should take his leave, but emotionally, he still asked the words lodged in his chest: “The northwest border is unstable, and it may implicate Shaanxi. Why can’t he stay in the capital?”
The emperor’s tone grew colder: “Because this is my command. If you have complaints or objections, you can mutter them behind closed doors. Do not bring them before me.”
Within his sleeve, the crown prince’s fists tightened. Inwardly he roared: Once you’ve had your fill of him, you can just cast him aside without mercy, is that it? That way, you still appear the flawless, praiseworthy sovereign—but what of him? Who cares for his safety? Father… oh father, when did you become so cold, so heartless? Or is this the true nature hidden beneath your mask of benevolence and virtue?
All his bitterness, fury, and disappointment showed only as a faintly startled look on his face. Like a child begging pardon after mischief, he stuck out his tongue and said: “Of course I have no complaints. I just can’t bear that he’s barely been back in the capital two months and must leave again. But since Royal Father commands it, then so be it. I’ll find some time to see him off, at least.”
The emperor’s tone softened slightly as he instructed: “Su Yan already holds the dual posts of Shaoqing of the Dali Temple and Censor; there’s no need for him to continue as your tutor. If you want a new Shidu, choose another from the Hanlin Academy. As for seeing him off… unnecessary. You are the heir apparent, he is your subject. To elevate him too much would compromise propriety. Just settle your mind and apply yourself to study in the Eastern Palace.”
He waved his hand, signaling dismissal.
The crown prince withdrew, hurrying out of Yangxin Hall. Lan Xi, carrying a tray with medicinal plaster, came forward and chuckled: “Slow down, little lord, mind your steps.”
The crown prince did not want to answer, but forced a stiff smile: “Thank you for the reminder, honored attendant. I’ve already reported to Royal Father and am returning to the Eastern Palace.”
“Respectfully sending the young lord off.”
The crown prince took neither sedan nor attendants, striding quickly alone down the long corridor. After a time, he suddenly slammed his fist against a vermilion-lacquered pillar—
The lacquer and wood splintered with cracks, leaving a deep dent. His knuckles split open, blood immediately welling out.
Breathing hard, he glared at the broken pillar and the mark of his fist, letting blood soak into his sleeve, and ground out in hatred: “This lord wants nothing—nothing but him!”
A voice echoed in memory: “Your Highness, you must put the greater good first.
Zhu Helin, you have no right to choose now, no path of retreat. Some words cannot be spoken until you have climbed to the very peak and stand above all others. Do you understand?!”
Those words still rang in his ears.
The crown prince gradually calmed. He tore a strip from his robe’s hem, bound it around his bleeding hand, raised his head, and strode toward the Eastern Palace.
—
March 2nd, midday.
At the execution ground by the West Fourth Archway, a new bamboo canopy had been erected—the West City Military Command had ordered it rebuilt to flatter the emperor, who had personally appointed the supervising official.
The beheading platform, even after repeated washings, still reeked of years of blood. The tall posts beside it were stained a mottled brown from the countless severed heads hung there for public display.
By custom, criminals executed at the West Market were beheaded at the third quarter of noon. Afterward, their heads were hung on the posts as a warning to all.
For the common people of the capital, “watching an execution” was also a rare form of entertainment. Each time, families would pour out to surround the execution ground, three circles deep.
This time, the condemned was none other than the infamous imperial kinsman—Marquis Fengan, Wei Jun. The citizens, many of whom had suffered under him, spread the news in excitement, and on the day of execution, the streets were nearly deserted as the crowd gathered.
Wei Jun wore the plain mourning garb of a prisoner, hair disheveled, the tag of his crimes stuck behind his neck, trussed up in ropes as he was dragged into the grounds. One arm gone, body wasted and sickly, he staggered forward under the soldiers’ grip.
“Old dog thief, give me back my wife’s life!”
“Heaven has eyes! Heaven has eyes at last—my poor daughters can finally rest in peace!”
“Beat him to death! Strip his skin, eat his flesh!”
From all sides, citizens hurled curses and stones, smashing his face bloody. If not for the soldiers maintaining order, he might not have made it to the platform alive.
On the far side of the ground, an official’s sedan stopped. Su Yan stepped down, dressed in the scarlet robe of a fourth-rank Shaoqing of the Dali Temple, a black gauze cap on his head. Surrounded by guards, he entered the canopy and took his seat at the magistrate’s desk.
Wei Jun, kneeling on the platform with a mask of numbness, suddenly caught sight of the supervising official. His face twisted with fury as he struggled to lunge forward, only to be forced down by soldiers. Like a dying beast, he let out a hoarse, shrill cry: “Su Twelve! You destroyed my entire Wei clan—I curse you never to die well! Even as a ghost I’ll—”
His mouth was gagged with cloth, muffling his curses into resentful grunts.
An accompanying Ministry of Justice official said awkwardly: “Just a dying man’s ravings, Lord Su, you need not take them to heart…”
Su Yan, calm and solemn, raised his hand to stop him. “What time is it?” he asked.
The official checked his pocket watch and answered: “Almost the third quarter of noon.”
Su Yan signaled a guard forward. The man carried an object wrapped in cloth, and pulled off the covering before Wei Jun’s eyes.
It was a spirit tablet.
Wei Jun squinted at it, trembling. The characters carved in rough strokes read—“The Spirit of Elder Sister Jinghong Tao.”
His expression turned bewildered. He seemed not even to recall who this “Jinghong Tao” was—there had been too many women who died at his hands, and in the end he remembered none of their names.
Su Yan’s teeth clenched with cold fury. His voice rang out: “You need not remember who she was! It is enough that you repay her with your blood and your head!”
Wei Jun struggled, wanting to smash into the spirit tablet, but the guard was quick-eyed and snatched it away. He returned to Su Yan’s side and placed the tablet back on the desk.
Su Yan gently stroked the tablet, whispering: “Elder Sister, today I will take revenge for you on Ah Zhui’s behalf.”
“The hour has come—!” the timekeeper soldier shouted aloud.
Expressionless, Su Yan drew out the tally and cast it to the ground. With a clang, he declared: “Behead!”
The executioner raised his blade and struck. Amid the spray of blood, a head flew several zhang away, rolling and clattering along the platform’s edge.
The onlooking commoners burst into thunderous applause, cheering as if celebrating.
Su Yan felt a fleeting satisfaction, but even more, a crushing weight. As his gaze swept the crowd, suddenly his face changed. He shot up to his feet—
Rushing out of the officials’ pavilion, he strode urgently toward a certain direction.
The Ministry of Justice official overseeing the execution was stunned, then called after him: “Lord Su? What’s the matter, Lord Su?”
The guards hurried to follow.
In his bright official robe, Su Yan stood out starkly; wherever he went, he did not need to force his way through. The people themselves drew back respectfully, whispering: “That’s Lord Su!”
“Is that Su Twelve?”
“Are you stupid? You should call him Lord Su!”
“It’s him. That vicious Embroidered Uniform Guard officer surnamed Feng—he was the one who brought him down. And now he’s even toppled the imperial in-law who killed recklessly…”
“This is a true upright official, a beacon of justice!”
Some in the crowd fell to their knees, kowtowing to him in gratitude, which moved more people to kneel in the dust, bowing again and again.
But Su Yan had no time to calm them. His heart was pounding wildly. All he saw was a familiar back. At last catching up, he seized the man’s arm and cried: “Ah Zhui—!”
The man spun around. Seeing Su Yan’s official robe, terror flashed across his face and he dropped to his knees: “Master! I’ve committed no crime, truly no crime, Lord Master…”
Su Yan froze, loosening his grip without realizing it.
Not Ah Zhui. Only a similar back… No! He couldn’t be mistaken—just now, through the crowd, he had clearly seen Jinghong Zhui’s face! Ah Zhui hadn’t left. He was still in the capital!
Of course—how could he miss the day his sister’s murderer was executed? He must be here, to comfort her spirit.
Su Yan searched frantically. His eyes lit up—again he lunged forward. This time the guards acted first, intercepting the man before he could.
The startled man turned, flailing and crying “ah ah ah” while gesturing wildly—he was just a mute stranger.
Su Yan bit down hard, eyes reddening, nose stinging. He was certain Jinghong Zhui was nearby. But where? Why hide from him?
He swept his gaze over the sea of faces—shoulder to shoulder, packed tight. People, people everywhere. Yet no sign of his bodyguard, his “little concubine,” his Ah Zhui.
“…Ah Zhui,” Su Yan murmured, “If you come back now, I won’t crack your dog’s head open. Do you hear me? I’m giving you one last chance. I’ll count to three—
“One… two… two, two…”
He counted “two” more than ten times, until the light in his eyes slowly dimmed. At last, in a weary, faint voice, he breathed: “Three.”
“My lord is searching for someone? Should I summon the Capital Patrol, close the gates, and conduct a house-to-house search?” a guard asked.
Su Yan shook his head slowly. “No need. If he doesn’t wish to see me, he cannot be found… Even if he were dragged out, what then? The human heart—nothing is harder to force.”
He stared blankly, trying to find his bearings, then walked eastward.
A guard led up a horse. “If my lord will not ride in the sedan, then take the horse.”
Mounting absentmindedly, Su Yan thought: Where am I going?
Home. Yes, home.
He whipped the reins, the horse neighed and galloped, carrying him back.
At the Su residence, he dismounted and ran straight for the old peach tree in the courtyard—he suddenly remembered. Back at Qingshui Camp in Lingzhou, before Ah Zhui nearly killed himself in guilt after going berserk, he had confessed that he secretly buried his sister’s ashes beneath this tree.
When they returned to the capital, they had planned to build a grave and tombstone, but Ah Zhui changed his mind. He said his sister had loved peach blossoms most in life; she would like this courtyard view. Let him keep her close until revenge was fulfilled, and only then choose a tranquil place for her grave.
“My lord?” Su Xiaobei and Su Xiaojing hurried up.
Su Yan panted: “A hoe, bring me a hoe!”
Su Xiaobei fetched one from the garden. Fixing on a spot beneath the peach tree, Su Yan hacked into the earth. The soil seemed recently loosened, and before long he had dug out a deep pit—empty. Nothing inside.
Even his sister’s ashes, Jinghong Zhui had taken away…
No more debts between us. Never again in this lifetime.
Su Yan leaned on the hoe, gasping, sweat dripping, eyes bloodshot. Silent tears fell down his face.
The two young men had never seen him cry before. They were terrified, flustered: “My lord? What’s wrong, my lord?”
Su Yan only shook his head.
Footsteps rushed from the gate. A pair of warm arms wrapped around him from behind, holding him tight.
Shen Qi gripped him, face dark as iron, teeth clenched. “Don’t cry.”
Su Yan trembled. “Qilang, Ah Zhui… did he really leave of his own will?”
Shen Qi’s embrace tightened. “Yes. No one forced him. It was his own choice.”
Su Yan was silent for a long time. At last, his spirit drained, he let out a long sigh.
“Your husband is always here.” Shen Qi wiped his tear-streaked face with his sleeve, his voice low and steady. “Your husband will stay with you for a lifetime.”
—
Outside the city gates, a youth in plain clothes and a bamboo hat walked down the road leading away from the capital. In his arms he carried a small white porcelain urn.
His steps were unsteady, his face pale, lips cracked as if he hadn’t rested in a long time. Only his eyes—cold, sharp, and cutting—still burned through the shadows of exhaustion.
He stopped before a street stall and said to the vendor: “Give me wine.”
“Alright, customer, how many gourds do you want?” The vendor pointed at the wine gourds laid out on the ground.
“All of them.”
The young man tossed down a piece of broken silver, picked up three gourds and hung them at his waist, then staggered on his way.
The wine gourds weighed heavily at his side. Once, such weight was lighter than a feather to him, but now it felt as though he were being dragged down into the dust.
He did not know where he was going. Touching the urn held in his arms, he asked softly: “Elder Sister?”
The urn had liked that old peach tree in the Su family courtyard.
The young man’s lips tightened as if pricked, and he whispered a plea: “Elder Sister…”
There was no reply—just as an empty heart remained silent and withered, even in the spring wind sweeping across the wilderness.
