Chu Xiansheng came back to the border city. He brought a head — the kind of head that almost no one in this world could have taken.

Of the nine Grand Sword Masters in the Black Wu Sword Sect, this man had ranked in the top three. A fighter of that caliber released into the Central Plains jianghu would have left a mark on the age. Chu Xiansheng had brought his head back on a night walk.

He hadn’t come back unmarked. Two broken fingers, a damaged arm. For some time to come, he would be unable to strike that way again — that blow, invisible and without a weapon, would be beyond him until he healed.

If anyone had watched the exchange, they would have found it deeply unimpressive. Four fingers touching. That’s all it looked like. Just that, and nothing more.

In the room where Chu Xiansheng was resting, the physician finished his examination and went out, nearly running into Li Chi coming the other way. He bowed, and Li Chi kept his voice low.

“How is he?”

“The meridians in his right arm have been damaged, Your Majesty. Recovery will take time. He should not channel his inner force or engage in combat. Once healed, however, there should be no lasting effect.”

Li Chi nodded, sent the physician off to prepare medicine, then went inside.

Chu Xiansheng was already standing when he entered, and moved to bow. Li Chi closed the distance quickly and caught his arms. “Please don’t.”

He looked at the injuries — the arm in its brace, the two fingers splinted separately.

They spoke for a while, then came around to the sword master.

“By no means an ordinary fighter,” Chu Xiansheng said. “The gap between us was not merely a question of inches.”

He paused, then added with a slight smile: “Though I suppose, once two fighters reach a certain level, any match between them is decided in inches. Even a Grand Sword Master somewhat stronger than the one I faced would have met me in the same way — and I believe I would still have won those same inches.”

Li Chi nodded. “From the founding of the Chu state down to now — hundreds of years of Central Plains knights attempting to assassinate the Black Wu Khan, and none of them succeeded. That tells you something about the Sword Sect.”

“The truly exceptional fighters within the Sect don’t use the heavy sword technique,” Chu Xiansheng said. “The ones who do — well, they are what they are. Our general grasped the underlying principle on his first encounter.”

“Don’t praise him.”

“He’ll get carried away. I was thinking earlier — in a time of peace, if the general had never gone into the army, he might still have ended up unrivaled in the jianghu.”

“In a time of peace,” Li Chi said, “he probably wouldn’t have trained at all.”

Chu Xiansheng considered this carefully, then slowly nodded. “You’re right. Under peace, few people are willing to endure that kind of suffering.”

“Exactly. Which is why we need to build it.”

Chu Xiansheng looked uncertain — he hadn’t followed the leap.

“A literary academy in Chang’an, and a martial academy alongside it. When you have the time, come by the literary one and give some guidance.”

Chu Xiansheng smiled. “Anything I could offer would be less valuable than a single sentence from you.”

“Which sentence?”

“That both letters and martial arts lead somewhere.”

Li Chi nodded. “Four martial institutes at the four borders — so young people can see a future in the path of cultivation.”

“These are things that will bear fruit for a thousand years—”

Before he could finish, Li Chi was already laughing. “That sentence just surpassed a thousand of Yu Jiuling’s compliments.”

At that moment, Yu Jiuling came through the door with a steaming clay pot held between two heavily padded hands, teeth gritted against the heat, fingers pulling away the moment he set it down.

“I can hear you talking about me, Your Majesty. I would respond, but my mouth is occupied. Consider yourselves fortunate.”

He pulled off the padding and immediately grabbed both ears with his hands.

The northern cold lingered. Cooling your fingers with your earlobes — apparently effective.

“Braised pig trotters with soybeans, for Master Chu.” He grinned. “You eat what ails you.”

Li Chi burst out laughing. “A genuinely kind gesture, ruined entirely by the words attached to it.”

Yu Jiuling said: “If you want to hit someone, go hit the Empress. She made it.”

Li Chi had not originally intended to bring Empress Gao Xining on this northern campaign. He’d been absolutely firm about it. She defeated him in three arguments.

First: an emperor who launches a personal military campaign immediately after his coronation, without his empress present, will attract unfavorable commentary at court.

Second: she was his lucky star. With her by his side, no battle had ever been lost.

Third: there was another matter equally pressing that must not be delayed.

Li Chi had asked what that was. Gao Xining, entirely serious, said: producing an heir.

She then explained, with impeccable logic, that an imperial heir stabilizes the confidence of ministers, which stabilizes the people, which stabilizes the realm — an incontestable truth, and for the emperor to contest it would be a personal affront to heaven and earth.

Li Chi finally admitted: the premises are stated with great dignity but the conclusion is that you just want to come along.

She had agreed. Completely.

There was nothing to be done. She could not be out-argued and could not be refused. So the Empress came north.

Now the three men stared at the clay pot. Li Chi looked at Chu Xiansheng and spoke with careful, measured sincerity: “You shouldn’t believe everything people say. Rumors are perhaps seven or eight parts false. Maybe one or two parts true at most.”

Chu Xiansheng lowered his voice. “Is it true that the Empress’s cooking is so bad the imperial eagle won’t touch it?”

Li Chi shook his head firmly. “Completely false. The eagle doesn’t eat it, but the eagle doesn’t eat anything. You see — seven or eight parts false, just as I said.”

Chu Xiansheng looked at the braised trotters again. He hesitated.

“I’ve heard this dish has… other properties. Beyond the medicinal ones relevant to my current situation.”

Yu Jiuling: “It promotes milk production.”

Chu Xiansheng: “…”

Li Chi kicked Yu Jiuling in the backside. “Promote your grandmother’s—”

Chu Xiansheng: “Since Your Majesty and Master Yu are here, perhaps you’d both stay and eat.”

Yu Jiuling was back up immediately: “There’s a soup as well. Let me get it.”

Li Chi grabbed him by the collar. “Name your price.”

Yu Jiuling: “I am a man of principle.”

Li Chi: “Will money work?”

Yu Jiuling: “Your Majesty clearly misunderstands me. I said I was a man of principle. You immediately mention money. Which, of course, is precisely my principle. So yes.”

Li Chi looked at Chu Xiansheng. “I propose we split the cost.”

Chu Xiansheng: “…”

Li Chi: “After all, it was the Empress who personally prepared this for you. Strictly speaking, neither of us needs to eat. Sharing the table with you is already a considerable gesture of—”

Chu Xiansheng: “I’ll pay eighty percent. No — ninety.”

Yu Jiuling took the money, drew a long breath, scooped out a spoonful of soybeans, and ate them.

He stopped.

He ate another spoonful.

The soybeans were soft and yielding, fragrant with the deep savoriness of slow-braised pork. His eyes lit up.

“This isn’t right.”

He ate another spoonful, unwilling to accept it. He picked up a piece of pork skin from one of the trotters, set it in his mouth, and his expression went somewhere between wonder and embarrassment.

Chu Xiansheng looked at Li Chi. Li Chi said: “He’s acting.”

Yu Jiuling passed a spoonful to Li Chi. “Taste it yourself, Your Majesty. If I’m lying, you can have me castrated.”

Li Chi: “You want to be castrated. You’re still thinking about that promise I made — the one where I said if you served as head eunuch, I’d never dock your salary.”

Yu Jiuling: “…”

Li Chi ate a spoonful. His expression also changed, involuntarily.

Chu Xiansheng, now curious, tried a bite himself. He was immediately and completely won over.

None of the three men were strangers to fine food. They had all, at various points in their lives, eaten exceptionally well. And yet this — this ordinary, humble braise — was inexplicably the best thing any of them had tasted in recent memory.

Yu Jiuling put the money back on the table. “I can’t take money earned in bad conscience. I still have my integrity.”

—

In the kitchen, meanwhile:

Gao Xining spoke gently to the cook. “No matter who asks, tell them I made it. All right?”

The cook looked uncertain. “I’ll say whatever you tell me to, Your Highness. But the Emperor won’t believe it.”

Gao Xining: “He doesn’t need to believe it. It’s enough that Master Chu believes it. And as for the Emperor — you can’t deceive the people closest to you, that’s what I always say.”

The cook watched her with an expression of profound admiration for her commitment.

Gao Xining sighed. “I’m the Empress now. An Empress cannot have weaknesses.”

“That makes sense.”

“So you must hold firm. If this comes up again, it was me.”

The cook nodded vigorously.

Gao Xining: “Now go and keep an eye on things for me.”

The cook went. Not to observe whether they enjoyed the meal — but to make sure no one came wandering into the kitchen at the wrong moment.

Inside, Gao Xining sat on a small stool, cradling a bowl of braised trotters and soybeans that she’d had set aside, eating with great contentment.

“Cook.”

“Yes?”

“Is it really true this promotes milk production?”

“That’s what people say. I’ve never been certain myself — but since everyone says it, it’s probably true.”

A pause.

“So if someone isn’t at that stage yet — could it, could it possibly—” Gao Xining gestured vaguely with her free hand.

“Make them larger?”

The cook glanced briefly downward at herself and shook her head. “Probably not. Though perhaps it would work for you, Your Highness — who can say.”

Gao Xining considered this.

“I’m not really thinking about that,” she said finally. “Mainly I just like eating it.”

—