Not long after Ye Celeng departed the capital of Chang’an, Master Yan too left with his family, returning to Ji Province to visit his kin.

When Ye Celeng had left Chang’an, His Majesty had led his court ministers to see him off for ten *li* — already an exceptional show of honor. But when Master Yan departed the capital, no edict had been issued summoning the ministers to accompany His Majesty in sending him off. So the entire court had assembled early in the great hall to await His Majesty’s arrival — and waited, and waited, to no avail.

The young eunuch Ding Qing’an appeared and announced that there would be no morning court today, for His Majesty had ridden out of Chang’an in the same carriage as Master Yan before dawn.

Xu Ji, though his spirit these days was greatly diminished, was still at least the head of the court. So Xu Ji asked how long His Majesty would be away, and whether they should wait for his return.

Ding Qing’an replied that His Majesty had said there was no need to wait. He was sending Master Yan out of the city and did not know how far he would go. If there was nothing pressing, His Majesty would escort Master Yan a hundred *li* and return. If something came up, he would accompany Master Yan all the way to Ji Province before returning. And if he found himself too reluctant to leave, he might stay in Ji Province with Master Yan for a few days before coming back.

Xu Ji, being the sort of man who never knew when to hold his tongue, asked another question: why had His Majesty not brought the court officials along to see Master Yan off?

Ding Qing’an replied that His Majesty had said Master Yan was family, and sending him off was a family matter. Being a family matter, it was not necessary to trouble all the civil and military officials.

After that, even the most obtuse person in the court understood exactly where Master Yan stood in His Majesty’s heart.

Of course, among those civil and military officials, there were those who could not keep their mouths shut — grumbling in private that Master Yan’s return to Ji Province was proof that His Majesty had cast him aside. They also whispered that His Majesty’s earlier visit to Master Yan’s home for a meal had been nothing but a performance, a gesture to soften the blow of his dismissal.

But now, with His Majesty personally escorting Master Yan all the way to Ji Province, things looked rather different.

Those same chatterers now stared at each other in mute horror, each one wishing he possessed the power to travel back two days and swallow every word he had said. If that were not possible, he would have sewn his own mouth shut. Whatever those words were, they must never reach the Emperor’s ears — because whoever had said them would suffer for it.

His Majesty had led the civil and military officials to see Ye Celeng off to the Western Frontier — that was a matter of state; Ye Celeng was departing on official duty. His Majesty personally escorting Master Yan to Ji Province was a family matter. In the language of ordinary people, a family matter would naturally seem lesser than a matter of state. But once the Emperor called something *his* family matter, who needed to squint hard to see the difference between that and a state matter?

As for Xu Ji, his heart had been weighed down with misery and gloom these past days. He had little interest in others and even less in much of anything at all.

He went to wherever his duties required him and attended to whatever needed attending. He had come to understand, at last, that his fate was what it was.

Think of it: if he had kept himself together, he and His Majesty could have sparred and played their cat-and-mouse game for years yet, each enjoying the other’s moves. But Xu Ji had committed foolishness after foolishness, until His Majesty had been left with no choice but to lay everything bare.

Was His Majesty still pulling his punches? Only look: on that day, the Imperial Guard had ridden out with Ye Celeng’s household to intercept the廷尉府 men. Not one of those people should have escaped — and yet His Majesty had issued no order to arrest them.

His Majesty had likely thought: at the very least, leave Xu Ji a few people. Otherwise Xu Ji would look completely alone and wretched.

—

At the same time, within Chang’an City.

Zangjie — the monk who had been appearing each day outside Weiyang Palace, lingering for a spell before slipping away — stood now with a desolation and fury within him that was beyond measure.

He could not understand it. Could not make sense of it. How was it that Xu Ji’s crime of treason had still gone unpunished? After everything that had happened, the Emperor still played blind?

This made no sense. Not a grain of it.

Zangjie was also accomplished in the art of disguise — in truth, it was one of his finest skills. Back in Daxing City, it was his mastery of cosmetics and concealment that had earned him the favor of the palace’s noble ladies. In those days, any noblewoman who managed to secure an appointment with Zangjie himself to have her face painted was considered to have something worth boasting about. After all, Zangjie’s time was spent tending to the ladies of the palace — he had little room in his schedule for anyone else.

These past days he had changed his face and form each morning, watching and waiting — hoping to see a column of Imperial Guards march out from Chengyang Gate with Xu Ji in chains, to be beheaded there in public view. But no such sight came. Instead, he could see Xu Ji arriving as he always had, first among the ministers, waiting outside the palace gate before every morning court.

That morning he had come early again, settled into a hidden spot, and kept his watch over Weiyang Palace.

What he did see was a carriage rolling out, accompanied by a number of plainclothes riders.

He guessed the carriage must carry someone of importance. After a moment’s thought, he moved quietly to follow.

The carriage, escorted by its riders, passed straight through the city gate and out of Chang’an — and this before dawn had fully broken, before the city gates were even due to open.

Yet when that procession reached the gate, it opened at once.

Zangjie grew ever more curious. Who could be inside that carriage, to command such standing? The gates of Chang’an would not open before the appointed hour for anyone’s word alone — only an imperial edict would serve.

But to slip out of the city now would have been impossible. Apart from that procession, there was no one else on the road; a monk following alone would have been exposed the moment he appeared. Even if he were a god, he could not have hidden himself.

So he waited with patience, biding his time until the gates opened at their proper hour and he could join the queue and pass through.

The procession could not outpace a man on horseback. A carriage could not outrun a light rider.

And while he waited — there was a stall selling morning food not far from the city gate, already open for business. He made his way over.

The stall was thick with steam rising from its bamboo trays, filling the small shop with a soft, drifting haze.

“You’re up early, friend,” the proprietor greeted him with a smile. “In a hurry to get through the gate? Still a little while yet — come, shall I bring you a tray of buns?”

Zangjie nodded. “And a bowl of hot congee.”

The man was quick with his hands. Before long he had set a steamer tray of buns on the table and ladled out a bowl of hot congee.

“Meat buns?” Zangjie frowned.

The owner paused and looked back at him. “You don’t eat meat, friend?”

Zangjie was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No — I only meant these buns smell wonderfully good.”

The owner chuckled, clearly pleased by the offhand compliment.

Zangjie picked up a bun with his chopsticks, and the rich, meaty fragrance hit him squarely in the mind. He looked at it more closely and could already see that the soup inside was threatening to seep through the skin.

Looking at this meat bun, he gave a quiet, self-mocking laugh.

*Monk,* he thought, *you have already taken a life. Yet you feel hesitation over eating meat?*

The monastic rules of Chan Buddhism had already been broken nine ways out of ten back in Daxing City. To cling to a vegetarian diet now and pretend that made you noble — what kind of foolishness was that?

He was still mulling over these thoughts when someone sat down across from him.

It was early, and there were still many empty tables. Anyone in a hurry to pass through the gate might well come here for a hot meal while they waited — that was natural enough. But with the stall still empty save for Zangjie himself, this person had chosen to sit directly across from him. That was not natural at all.

Zangjie sat up straight and studied the man carefully. Every part of him — wherever the eye landed — seemed to say just two words: *ordinary person.*

A man like this, even if he sat down across from you without warning, would not seem threatening in the slightest.

And yet Zangjie knew this person was dangerous. He knew because, with all his own skill, he had not sensed the man’s entry into the stall.

“Why make things difficult for yourself?”

Before Zangjie could speak, the man across from him said this.

Strangely, Zangjie felt no irritation, and no sense of intrusion. The question had landed somewhere inside him.

So he held up the bun between his chopsticks. “Are you referring to this?”

The man answered, “Yes. But not only that.”

With those four words, Zangjie understood that this person had come looking for him with intent.

“Have we met?” he asked.

Before the man could answer, Zangjie added, “If we have, I should have remembered you. If we have not, you should not know me the way you seem to.”

The man across from him was, of course, Master Chu.

Master Chu replied with his characteristic calm, “I have seen you before. This is the second time.”

Curious, Zangjie asked, “Would you be willing to tell me when the first time was?”

“At your temple in Daxing City,” Master Chu said, just as evenly.

Zangjie’s heart gave a start.

Anyone who had come to his temple to see him — man or woman — he was certain his memory would have held. In a place like Daxing City, surrounded by so many powerful and influential people, mistaking someone’s face would not do.

Yet to have been inside his temple and left no trace in his memory meant this man had not entered through any ordinary means.

“Your surname — is it Fang?” Zangjie asked.

Master Chu nodded. “It is.”

Zangjie’s expression shifted — first a flash of shock, then a flicker of fear. Both vanished just as quickly, replaced by a look of quiet, settled understanding.

“Then it all makes sense.”

He asked, “So where are we going now?”

“You were just about to follow the procession that left the city, weren’t you?” Master Chu said. “We will follow it now.”

Zangjie considered for a moment. “Is His Majesty with them?”

Master Chu glanced at him without a word, then turned and walked out. Zangjie followed.

No matter how great his confidence in himself, he knew: if this man truly was the one from Daxing City — that Fang of the noble house — running would accomplish nothing.

And besides, he had too many questions pressing on his heart. He wanted to put them to the Emperor of Great Ning face to face.

When they reached the city gate, Zangjie found that two horses had already been prepared and were waiting. As they passed through, the guards said not a word and let them go without question.

They rode hard, and by midday caught up with Li Chi and Master Yan’s procession at a small town along the road.

Li Chi and Master Yan were taking their rest. At the edge of town, by the side of the road, there was a stall selling *cha tang.*

This was not tea to drink, but a thick, warm food that resembled congee. It was made from finely ground millet. First, a little hot water and red broth were placed in the bowl, then a handful of millet flour was slowly added while stirring. Once all the flour was in, boiling water was poured over to finish. What had looked thin and watery turned, with that rush of boiling water, into something dense and smooth.

As for why this food was called *cha tang*, neither Li Chi nor Master Yan — for all their learning — could offer any account.

But both of them loved the stuff. They sat on wooden stools, cradling their bowls, slurping away contentedly.

When Master Chu and Zangjie arrived, they were briefly stopped by Li Chi’s guards. Li Chi shook his head and signaled for them to be let through.

“Would Master care for some?” Li Chi asked Master Chu.

After riding hard since morning, the buns from breakfast had long since been digested. And yet Master Chu shook his head. “I do not care for sweet food, Your Majesty.”

“The stall can also make noodles,” Li Chi said. “Master may ask them to put a bowl on.”

Master Chu replied in assent and turned to go inside, leaving Zangjie standing there — with apparently not a worry in the world that the man might seize the chance to act.

Li Chi looked at Zangjie. “Would you like some?”

“Is it very sweet?” Zangjie asked.

“That depends on how much sugar you ask for,” Li Chi said. “The more you put in, the sweeter it gets.”

“Then I should have a bowl,” Zangjie said. “Right now, I could use something sweet.”

Li Chi said, “Don’t put in too much. Sugar in small amounts gives a gentle sweetness; a little more and it’s very sweet; more still and it’s cloyingly sweet; and if you add too much, it turns bitter.”

Zangjie smiled. “Thank you for the advice, Your Majesty.”

And yet he still asked the stall keeper to add a great deal of sugar — not knowing whether so much sweetness could soften even a little of the bitterness on his tongue and in his heart.

Li Chi said nothing more to him, and went on chatting with Master Yan, the two of them slurping at their *cha tang* with the same easy, unhurried manner as before.

If you did not know that one of them was the Emperor of Great Ning and the other the Imperial Teacher, watching the way they ate, you might not have been able to tell them apart from a pair of farmers.

And then, for no particular reason, both of them ended up squatting on their stools rather than sitting on them. It was Li Chi who crouched up first; Master Yan simply followed, naturally.

Zangjie returned with his hot bowl and, taking in the scene, sat in quiet thought for a moment — then squatted on his stool as well.

Li Chi glanced at him. “How is it?”

“Cloyingly sweet,” Zangjie answered.

“I used to like it that way too,” Li Chi said. “But the Empress wouldn’t allow it, so I stopped.”

“Why would the Empress concern herself with something so small?” Zangjie asked.

“I suppose,” Li Chi said, “she feels there is no small matter when it comes to me.”

Zangjie felt a slight jolt of regret at having asked.

“Is there something Your Majesty wishes to ask me?” Zangjie said, slurping his *cha tang* in the manner of the others, after a fashion.

Li Chi gestured. “Finish eating first.”

Just then, Master Chu returned carrying a bowl of noodles. He took in the sight of three people squatting on their stools and paused — briefly. Then held to his own judgment and sat down, properly.

In that moment, Zangjie felt something stir in him — a sense of dawning insight — but he cut it off himself.

There was no point.

This was not a dinner gathering. It was a reckoning of life and death.

To seek enlightenment in a moment like this was a pointless thing. And what use was wisdom understood too late to act on?

Li Chi, watching Zangjie’s face, seemed to catch something there. “Your expression just stiffened for a moment,” he said. “Was it because Master Chu, unlike the two of us, didn’t squat to eat?”

Zangjie was inwardly startled. He had not expected the Emperor of Great Ning to see so fine a thing.

An Emperor like this — and yet he had not put Xu Ji to death. It could not be what he had assumed.

Until just now, he had clung to the belief that Li Chi’s failure to act against Xu Ji could only be explained one way: the Emperor was soft-hearted. A man like Li Chi, out of sentiment for an old retainer and a man of merit, had chosen to be lenient. What else could you call that but a woman’s soft heart?

For an Emperor, that kind of softness could only mean lax laws, clouded justice, and resentment festering in the hearts of his people.

“It is now my turn to ask you something.”

Li Chi watched Zangjie set down his finished bowl and rose from his stool, brushing the seat with his sleeve before sitting back down properly.

“That day in the Imperial Garden — was it you who killed the cook there, disguised yourself in his likeness, and then found an opportunity to poison the Empress and the Imperial Prince?”

Li Chi asked this while looking him directly in the eyes.

Zangjie nodded. “It was.”

“Could that poison kill a person?”

Zangjie was silent for a moment, then answered, “Although I deliberately reduced the dosage significantly, the poison could indeed kill.”

Li Chi gave a quiet sound of acknowledgment, and asked nothing further.

Zangjie was puzzled. “Why does Your Majesty ask only this one question? Why not ask me why I did it?”

Li Chi said, “I was looking for a reason to let you live — I felt there was a part of you that perhaps didn’t deserve to die. But since that poison truly could kill, there is no reason left.”

Zangjie stared at him in confusion. “Whether the poison could kill or not — I administered it with the Empress and the Imperial Prince as my targets. Surely I am guilty of a crime deserving death ten thousand times over regardless?”

Li Chi nodded. “Yes.”

Zangjie looked at the Emperor in silence, the question in his eyes plain: *Then why did Your Majesty bother to ask?*

Li Chi read that look and, feeling a genuine flicker of admiration for this monk, offered a brief explanation.

“That question was not mine. It was the Empress who asked me to put it to you. She said: a man who had no quarrel with us, and yet risked certain death to act — it must have been out of loyalty. Right or wrong, loyalty is something worthy of respect.”

“So the Empress asked me to find out whether that poison could truly kill. If it could not, she said, then I should find a way to spare your life if one could be found — because those who will still ride to their death out of loyalty are few enough in this world.”

After hearing these words, Zangjie’s expression shifted and changed many times. The impact on his heart was evidently profound.

He was quiet for a long while, and then said, “Even if Your Majesty were not the Emperor you are — if only the Empress were the Empress she is — Great Ning would still surpass Great Chu.”

Li Chi said, “Great Ning surpassing Chu was accomplished the day I founded the dynasty. That is nothing to take pride in.”

Zangjie released a long, heavy breath, then said to Li Chi, “Because Master Fang is of the Chu royal bloodline — that is why Your Majesty would not allow him to kill me?”

Li Chi said, “That is only one reason.”

“And the second?”

Li Chi looked him in the eyes. “You laid hands on my wife and child.”

Zangjie’s expression changed again, and in the instant those words left the Emperor’s mouth, he felt an instinct to step back.

As those words fell, it was as though something invisible had encircled him — like countless unseen blades, drawn in close. If he simply remained still, he would be fine. One wrong move, and they would cut him into fragments.

Master Yan glanced at Zangjie’s face and asked him, “Do you feel some regret now?”

“It depends on what for,” Zangjie replied.

He looked at Master Yan. “I have no regret for my aim. But I regret laying poison for a woman like the Empress.”

Then he turned back to Li Chi. “Your Majesty intends to kill me with your own hand, I think? Then you may act whenever you are ready. Though I know it is time for me to die, if there is a chance to cross hands with someone of Your Majesty’s caliber, I would like to know — am I truly outmatched in martial skill as well?”

“As well?” Li Chi asked. “Why ‘as well’?”

Zangjie said, “Because I cannot understand why Your Majesty has not killed Xu Ji. But I think there must be a reason, which means it is I who fail to understand, not that it is wrong to spare him. That is one way in which I fall short of Your Majesty. As for martial skill — hence the ‘as well.'”

Li Chi nodded. “The ‘as well’ is well chosen.”

He rose and said, “You aimed your poison at the Empress, yet not at me. Was it because you thought: if the Central Plains suddenly lost its Emperor again, it would descend into chaos once more?”

Zangjie said, “I did consider something of the sort.”

Li Chi gave a quiet sound of acknowledgment. “Then you shall have a whole corpse.”

—