Prince Yu probably never imagined that one day he would eat hotpot in a jail cell—and enjoy every bite of it.

When he thought about it carefully, it wasn’t really that the hotpot here tasted so exceptional. It was simply that he hadn’t shared a meal with Xiahou Zuo in a very, very long time. The last time they had eaten together was back at Four-Page Academy.

That time, Xiahou Zuo had given him considerable face. But after that, the two of them rarely met.

When Xiahou Zuo chatted with Li Diudiu, he would refer to Prince Yu as “my father,” mentioning “my father this” and “my father that” every single time—yet in reality, Xiahou Zuo almost never actually called his father “Father” to his face.

In truth, the trivial matters of Qianlie County were nothing Prince Yu needed to attend to personally. He knew perfectly well that Xiahou Zuo was just playing around. Otherwise, how could a bunch of constables have thrown Xiahou Zuo into jail? Even if Xiahou Zuo’s own martial skills couldn’t have laid them all flat, those bodyguards of his—three or four of them could have leveled the entire county office. Xiahou Zuo had over a hundred such guards by his side.

That was only because Ye Zhangzhu had been detained by other business and couldn’t come. Had Ye Zhangzhu been here, one man alone would have been enough.

“The meat is genuinely fresher here,” said Prince Yu, glancing at Xiahou Zuo’s expression as he spoke. He had known Xiahou Zuo would be fine, yet he had rushed over anyway—simply because he couldn’t stop worrying. Knowing something and actually feeling at ease about it are two entirely different things.

“Mm. It is.”

Xiahou Zuo answered in a vague, half-hearted murmur.

That perfunctory response seemed to make Prince Yu genuinely happy.

“Eat more.”

He picked up a piece of scalded meat and placed it in Xiahou Zuo’s bowl. Xiahou Zuo paused for a moment, didn’t look up, and simply picked up the meat and put it in his mouth. At that, Prince Yu grew even happier.

“What do you plan to do with these people?”

Prince Yu ventured the question cautiously—much the way he had done when Xiahou Zuo was small, tiptoeing around to ask, *what toy do you want?* His manner was less that of a father and more that of a man who owed a debt.

“Whatever you like.”

Xiahou Zuo answered with two words, still thoroughly perfunctory. Even the Daoist Changmei felt that this attitude was a little much—yet he couldn’t say anything. After all, it was a family matter between the two of them. To say something would be overstepping, and would only invite resentment.

Li Diudiu showed no reaction. He understood Xiahou Zuo, and he deeply knew one truth: he had no right to urge another person to forgive someone, just as no one had the right to urge him to forgive anyone.

Forgiveness is a matter of the heart. If you can’t make peace with it inside yourself, not even the Heavenly King himself can force you.

Upon hearing Xiahou Zuo say *whatever you like*, Prince Yu looked as though he had received a direct order. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his mouth, stood, and said, “Then your father will handle it. Eat a little more—there’s no rush.”

He turned and walked out of the cell door. Everyone kneeling in the prison corridor trembled with fear. Prince Yu swept his gaze over them and spoke in a perfectly flat tone: “I am in a good mood today. Genuinely a good mood… so I have no intention of punishing you harshly.”

The row of kneeling constables all let out a collective breath of relief, kowtowing their heads repeatedly in gratitude. Liu Bao in particular looked as though he wanted to crack his skull against the floor.

Prince Yu continued in the same level tone: “Once you’re dead, that will be sufficient—I won’t pursue the matter against your families.”

In an instant, everyone froze in terror.

Prince Yu gave a casual wave of his hand. “Drag them out.”

The fierce guards of Prince Yu’s household surged forward and hauled away the shrieking, wailing, desperately pleading runners. Shortly thereafter, the cries outside came to an abrupt stop, and things quickly became very quiet.

Had this been in the early years of the Dachu dynasty, even a prince of Prince Yu’s distinguished rank could not have arbitrarily disposed of such officials without immediately being impeached. The Imperial Affairs Bureau would have intervened in the investigation at once.

That was because imperial authority had still carried real weight in those days. But now? Prince Yu had ordered these men killed—who would dare say anything? Who could?

The court’s edicts could barely make it from the capital to Jizhou anymore. The Emperor himself was having such a difficult time that he had no heart left to concern himself with anything beyond the capital walls. The way things were going for Dachu, the Emperor’s decrees would soon be unable to pass through even the capital’s city gates. Even now, imperial edicts that reached the provinces were met with surface compliance and quiet defiance—imperial authority was nothing more than a name that had long since ceased to reach this far.

Whether the Chu Emperor was truly ignorant of Dachu’s present state, or whether he was deliberately pretending not to know, no one could say.

Perhaps in countless sleepless nights, that aged emperor lay trembling with fear—terrified that Dachu would fall in his hands. But all he could do was huddle under his blankets and be afraid. If someone asked him to actually do something? Forget it. He had no desire to do anything. He simply wanted to muddle along until he died.

He did nothing. That was his nature. Perhaps he quietly cursed himself a fool in his own heart—the most useless of all his brothers—and then went right back to pretending he knew nothing.

Or perhaps he didn’t want to die, and yet secretly hoped that after he was gone, the Crown Prince would swiftly find a way to restore Dachu and save its people.

In the jail cell at that moment, Li Diudiu lowered his voice and asked the Daoist Changmei: “Master, for a noble like Prince Yu to eat a meal in a jail cell—isn’t that a bit inauspicious?”

Changmei clapped a hand over Li Diudiu’s mouth and gave him a fierce glare. “Stop talking nonsense.”

He looked at Xiahou Zuo and smiled awkwardly. “Children say foolish things. Don’t mind him.”

Xiahou Zuo said indifferently, “Daoist, you’re overthinking it. Diudiu’s overthinking it too.”

He looked toward the outside of the cell, was quiet for a moment, then said: “He and Prince Wu are different. Prince Wu believes in spirits and omens, in divination, in fortune and fate. But he believes in none of those things. He only believes in himself… and always has.”

Hearing those words, Changmei nodded slowly, his eyes flickering with a contemplative expression.

“Let’s go.”

Xiahou Zuo said, “I’d thought this trip to Yanshan would let us have a good time, but one thing after another kept getting in the way and spoiling the mood. We’ll head back into the mountains once more and see if we can hunt anything. If not, let’s head back early and get ready for the New Year.”

He looked at Li Diudiu. “This year, spend New Year’s at my house with the Daoist.”

Li Diudiu glanced at Changmei. Changmei quickly said, “That won’t do—we’d be imposing terribly.”

“There’s nothing imposing about it.”

Xiahou Zuo said, “Every year for New Year’s it’s just me and my mother. Before, there was also my little sister…”

He paused at that, then shook his head with a bitter smile.

Li Diudiu nodded. “Alright then—we’ll come mooch a meal at your place for the New Year. You’d better buy plenty of fireworks and firecrackers. In years past, for the holiday, Master and I would hide somewhere and watch other people set off their fireworks, then the next morning we’d go look for any that hadn’t gone off.”

Xiahou Zuo was momentarily taken aback, then he smiled and nodded. “No problem. I’ll let you play to your heart’s content.”

Li Diudiu said, “That’s not necessary either—spending so much money isn’t worth it.”

Xiahou Zuo sighed. “You’re truly immature. Do you think someone like me still needs to spend his own money buying fireworks?”

Li Diudiu was startled. Changmei was startled too.

Meanwhile, Yu Chaozong and his men had used the entire night to flee, and had finally managed to put considerable distance between themselves and Qianlie County. Unwilling to risk the main roads, they plunged back into the Yanshan mountains—returning to their territory as naturally as fish returning to the sea.

After another day of travel, as dusk was approaching, they arrived at the Yanshan Camp’s stronghold. Built up over many years, the stronghold had grown into an imposing sight: a fortified settlement stretching across more than a dozen li, crouching in the deep mountains like a great tiger.

The Green Brow Army of Yanshan Camp was the only rebel force in all of Jizhou that had no need to worry about provisions. They had their own farmland at the foot of the mountains, and every patch of cultivable soil within the mountains had been planted as well. Each year they also traded with the steppe people, and the stronghold now kept a considerable stock of cattle and sheep.

The choice of this particular location for the Yanshan Camp had been no accident. At the time, Yu Chaozong himself had spent more than half a month walking through the Yanshan range before selecting this spot.

He was different from the leaders of those rebel armies cobbled together from desperate refugees. He had been the last person who wanted to walk this path in the first place—but having walked it, he had no intention of becoming anyone else’s stepping stone.

He refused to be like other rebel leaders: powerful today, dead tomorrow, living for immediate pleasure without a care for what comes next.

Yu Chaozong had a plan. He had a goal. He knew what he ultimately wanted to accomplish—so he saw no need to rush toward petty pleasures.

Not to mention all of Jizhou—even searching throughout the whole of Dachu, you would not find a second force as well-organized as the Green Brow Army. The rebels in the south had the advantages of rivers and waterways and never lacked for food wherever they marched, but their rules and internal structure were plainly no match for the Green Brow Army’s. The terrain up here in Jizhou was entirely different, and to have built the Green Brow Army to this level of strength—anyone who called Yu Chaozong something less than an exceptional talent would find even the court unwilling to agree.

Not an exceptional talent? Could someone other than an exceptional talent have repelled the local government armies’ encirclements time and time again and sent them fleeing in disarray? That would only make the government look even more useless.

After returning to the stronghold, Yu Chaozong first had someone tend his wounds, then lay face-down on his bed to rest, where he gave instructions for his trusted subordinates to summon the Seventh Leader of Yanshan Camp.

This Seventh Leader was a peculiar man. He never thought of himself as a leader at all—he spent his days bare-chested, wrestling and playing kickball with the men under him, or going out hunting and fishing together.

No one ever saw him diligently practicing his martial arts, yet even Zhou Dao, the man universally acknowledged as the strongest fighter in Yanshan Camp, admitted: in a truly life-or-death kind of fight, he wasn’t certain he could beat the Old Seventh.

This Seventh Leader also had a nickname—”Sober Half a Day.”

The reason was that he was simply too fond of drinking. He didn’t drink in the mornings, but at midday he might put away several jin of wine without anyone knowing exactly how many. By the afternoon he’d be in a foggy daze, wrestling and kicking ball with the men, or wandering off to who-knows-where—nobody could find him. At night came another round of wine, again some indeterminate number of jin, and then a full night’s muddled sleep. Only the stretch between waking up the next morning and eating lunch could be considered genuinely sober.

Hence the nickname: Sober Half a Day.

That nickname had a joking quality, being given to him by his own people. But he had another nickname that was no joke at all—given to him by his enemies: Heavenly King’s Blade.

Yu Chaozong was called the Heavenly King. Old Seventh was his blade.

Everyone knew that Old Seventh did nothing whatsoever. He spent his days laughing and fooling around, took no part in the stronghold’s decisions, concerned himself neither with farming nor horse-rearing—nothing at all.

He was simply waiting for Yu Chaozong’s orders. The moment Yu Chaozong gave him a task, from the instant he received the assignment, he would not touch a single drop of alcohol.

Before long, Old Seventh came swaying in, wine flask in hand. He glanced at Yu Chaozong lying face-down on the bed, paused a moment, then walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, took a sip of wine.

He asked: “Who?”

Yu Chaozong didn’t answer. Instead he smiled and said, “I want you to take a trip. On this outing I ran into some trouble. A young fellow saved my life. He should be from Jizhou—at first I thought he came from a wealthy, privileged family, but when I looked more carefully I thought not. Probably a hard background.”

Old Seventh asked: “Do what?”

“Find out exactly who he is and what he’s doing in Jizhou. The debt of saving my life is enormous—it must be repaid.”

Yu Chaozong said, “Go to Jizhou City and watch over him for a year on my behalf. Try to drink as little as possible for that year—we can’t afford any slip-ups. Come back after a year.”

Old Seventh asked: “Why a year?”

Yu Chaozong said, “After a year, you may not even be his match anymore. By then, there’ll be little need for anyone to protect him in secret.”

“Understood.”

Old Seventh rose and looked at the blood-soaked bandages on Yu Chaozong’s back.

“Who?”

He asked the question once more.

Yu Chaozong shook his head. “Be careful going to Jizhou. Bring capable brothers with you. Take as much money from the accounts as you need—I’ve already given the order. If possible, help me sound him out—ask whether that young fellow would ever be willing to come join our Yanshan Camp someday.”

Old Seventh asked: “You think that highly of him? Better than me?”

Yu Chaozong smiled. “Within a year, still not as good as you.”

Old Seventh gave a dismissive grunt and said nothing more, then turned and left.

At the door he looked back one last time at Yu Chaozong’s wound, was silent a moment, then said: “When I come back in a year—if the one who should have died is still alive, don’t try to stop me.”

Yu Chaozong said nothing.

Old Seventh looked at the wine flask in his hand and tossed it aside without a word, then strode away.

Back in his own camp, the Seventh Leader told his trusted subordinates to gather all his men. The Green Brow Army of Yanshan Camp was divided into seven separate camps; his was the smallest and most sparsely manned—three or four hundred people in total, at most.

Before long everyone had assembled. Old Seventh had someone bring over a stick of incense and snapped it off, leaving only a finger-length stub. He lit it and held it pinched between his fingers.

“Run to the camp gate right now. When the incense in my hand burns out, stop. However many of you make it to the gate—those are the ones who come with me out of the mountains for a little errand.”

He waved his hand. “Run!”

The three or four hundred men immediately sprinted toward the camp gate. To be honest, even in a disciplined force like the Yanshan Camp’s Green Brow Army, the men who would rather not go out on a mission still outnumbered those who would.

Yet these three or four hundred men scrambled as though their lives depended on it, charging forward like madmen.

By the time the stub of incense burned out, eighteen men had reached the camp gate.

Old Seventh laughed. “Good. Just you lot, then. Go pack your things. See you back here in a year!”

—