Master Yan went over the matter of the Western Regions envoy delegation in detail with Li Chi once more. The gist of it: the Western Regions people hoped to settle the trade agreement with the Emperor of Da Ning on this visit.

In the years of the Central Plains’ civil wars, the Western Regions had not been thinking about how to do good business with the Central Plains people — they had been thinking about how to take advantage of them. More than once they had entertained the idea of seizing Yong Province, and the northwestern reaches of Ji Province along with it.

But now things were different. They could not beat the Ning army, so the only option left was to bow their heads and talk trade.

“When Xu Ji returns, let him handle the negotiations,” Li Chi said. “He’ll know how to manage it.”

Master Yan nodded. “As Your Majesty commands. If there’s nothing else, this minister will take his leave.”

“It seems like a long while since you and We have shared a meal, Master.”

Master Yan quickly replied, “Your Majesty has affairs of state pressing on you constantly, and this minister is always entangled in trivial matters — it really has been a long time.”

Li Chi smiled. “Then there’s no time like the present.”

“This minister would be delighted to intrude upon Your Majesty and dine together in the palace.”

Li Chi shook his head. “We only said it’s been too long since We’ve shared a meal with you. When did We say We were keeping you here to eat in the palace? Come — We’re going to your house for dinner tonight.”

Master Yan was dumbstruck.

He struggled for a moment. “But… aren’t we in the palace?”

“We don’t mind the distance — can *you* mind going home? Come along, come along — ride in Our carriage, it’s very comfortable.”

Master Yan: “…”

This left Yu Jiuling, standing nearby, at a complete loss. He had a dedicated post now — Li Chi had entrusted him with the role of court historian, charged with recording the Emperor’s daily life, word and deed, as occasion required.

Yu Jiuling wondered: *how exactly is this segment going to be written?* He glanced at the recording official under him, who stared back with equally baffled eyes.

*Write what?*

*Write that Da Ning’s Emperor, while in the palace, told Master Yan he hadn’t shared a meal with him in ages, then had a carriage brought around and drove to Master Yan’s house to mooch dinner?*

Li Chi passed by Yu Jiuling and the recording official, glanced at the open notebook, and said: “Leave this part out. We must at least leave future generations something admirable to look up to. If they all start taking notes on how to descend on court officials’ homes uninvited for dinner, that would be… marginally embarrassing.”

Yu Jiuling and the recording official exchanged a look, both fairly certain that the words *”marginally embarrassing”* could not possibly have come from His Majesty.

Outside, Li Chi grinned at Gao Xining. “We are taking you all out of the palace for dinner tonight.”

Gao Xining immediately looked at Master Yan. Master Yan silently nodded.

She read sympathy for herself in his expression, and returned him a look of gratitude.

In the next breath she spun around and called out: “Quickly — go fetch my grandfather! And Master and the others! We’re all going to Master Yan’s for dinner tonight!”

Master Yan: “…”

Li Chi turned to Gao Xining with perfect gravity. “Going to the Master’s for dinner, and you’re summoning half the world — that’s a bit much. And arriving empty-handed on top of it would be rather impolite.”

Gao Xining nodded earnestly. “You’re right, I didn’t think it through… but I’m not embarrassed.”

Li Chi: “How odd — neither are We.”

Then, as if suddenly realizing something, he looked down at Li Tuotuo and said, “You are absolutely not allowed to learn this.”

Gao Xining: “Of course he won’t learn it now… he’s still little. He’ll learn it later.”

Master Yan stood there, a wave of emotion sweeping through him. *With an Emperor who sets this kind of precedent, what will future rulers of Da Ning be like…*

He stopped himself. Better not to think about it.

—

Meanwhile, in Jiangnan.

What had once been Jing Province no longer went by that name. Part of it had been absorbed into Eastern Shu Circuit; the northern portion, along with Yu Province, had been incorporated into Jiangnan Circuit.

At this very moment, Xu Ji’s convoy was aboard the Anxing River — a fleet of considerable size, impressively arrayed.

Xu Ji stood at the bow of the lead vessel, staring into the distance, his expression difficult to read — whether lost in thought or emptied of it entirely.

Behind him stood a figure in black monk’s robes, a man who looked to be around fifty years old. He wore a long beard, and despite his age, he carried himself with an easy, graceful bearing.

In the days when the Chu dynasty had flourished, the Chan sect that had traveled in from the Western Regions had flourished in the Central Plains alongside it. At its height, the capital of Daxing City alone had held sixteen temples.

After the collapse of Chu, as rebel armies rose across the land, most of the temples fell into ruin and abandonment.

This black-robed monk’s current Dharma name was Zangjie — formerly Wuming. He had originally been a monk at the Shanyun Temple in Daxing City, where, over twenty years ago, he had been known to nearly everyone in the capital.

At his peak, the nobles and officials of Daxing — even the consorts in the imperial harem — counted it a privilege to hear him lecture on Chan in person.

Even the father of Chu’s last emperor, Yang Jing — a man who hadn’t attended to court affairs for years and found even listening to his ministers’ memorials tedious — had held this monk in genuine esteem. He could sit in perfect stillness and listen to the monk lecture on Chan for half a day.

Yang Jing himself, however, did not like him. So after Yang Jing took the throne, Zangjie’s standing in Daxing fell sharply.

When he sensed that the great Chu was approaching its end, he left Daxing and withdrew to Shu Province to live in seclusion.

He had, at one point, considered emerging from retirement when he heard that the King of Ning’s forces had entered Shu Province — but after learning more of the King of Ning’s reputation, he had abandoned the idea.

When Xu Ji came through Shu Province on an inspection tour, he somehow learned of Zangjie, and sent men to find him.

Zangjie refused Xu Ji’s invitation twice, which left Xu Ji deeply displeased. Just as he was devising some means of dealing with Zangjie, Zangjie appeared on his own doorstep.

At their meeting, a single speech from Zangjie left Xu Ji suffused with satisfaction — and he kept the man at his side.

Zangjie had told Xu Ji that his first two refusals had been out of fear: he was, after all, an intimate of Chu’s imperial family, and had worried the Chancellor would punish him.

But then he had heard the common people speaking of the Chancellor, everyone full of praise. He had asked them why they praised him so, and when he learned all that the Chancellor had done for the realm and its people, Zangjie said he had resolved that even if it meant death, he had to come and meet this man.

The flattery was perfectly calibrated to leave Xu Ji deeply gratified. More importantly, despite years of seclusion in Shu, Zangjie could still speak to the affairs of the realm with remarkable fluency.

With capable advisors already scarce around him, Xu Ji found Zangjie’s mind well worth keeping close.

He was also acutely aware of His Majesty’s temperament, and of the sensitivity of Zangjie’s former associations — so he had Zangjie shed the name Wuming and take a new one: Zangjie — “Concealing Calamity.” It was, in a sense, an expression of Xu Ji’s hope: that this man might help him conceal, or absorb, whatever disasters lay ahead.

With Shu Province now reorganized into Western Shu Circuit, Xu Ji had departed. For the entire journey, he and Zangjie had talked every day.

The more they spoke, the more he felt this monk was something extraordinary.

The man could seize on a stray word or two and instantly identify the most useful thread within it — then immediately formulate a strategy around it.

From Western Shu Circuit to Jiangnan Circuit, Xu Ji felt that by now Zangjie had all but seen through him — yet he could not see how deep Zangjie’s own depths went.

Perhaps because Zangjie was an outsider, with no prior ties to Xu Ji and no prior ties to His Majesty either. He found he could speak more freely to Zangjie than to almost anyone else. Things that would be treason on the lips of another, he could say to Zangjie without too much fear.

Because Xu Ji understood clearly: the reason Zangjie had drawn close to him was not some story about villagers singing the praises of an upright Chancellor.

He had seen it in Zangjie’s eyes — a refusal to accept his lot.

This man had once held sway over the capital of a dynasty. Those years in seclusion in Shu must have been the most tormented of his life. Zangjie had grown accustomed to living at the center of glamour and power. How could he have ever truly made peace with mountains and streams?

“My lord — what are you thinking?”

Zangjie had stood in silence all this time, content simply to be present at Xu Ji’s side. It was only when he saw Xu Ji slowly exhale that he spoke.

Even his sense of *when* to speak was impossibly precise.

Xu Ji smiled and pointed at the river. “Look at this water — surging, powerful, yet it still flows east to the sea. Once river water has poured into the ocean, is it still a river? This great river reaches its end in the sea, and many people… are much like this river. They reach their end and lose themselves entirely.”

Zangjie understood at once what Xu Ji was expressing.

“My lord,” he said, “if everyone may be this river, why does my lord grieve so?”

Xu Ji’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Zangjie. “What do you mean by that?”

Zangjie smiled, and he too gestured toward the river. “My lord speaks of people as rivers — but at this moment, my lord is *watching* the river, watching it rush eastward never to return. So what does the river’s fate have to do with my lord?”

Xu Ji smiled faintly. “A rather fresh perspective, Reverend.”

“My lord is standing on the boat that *watches* the river — and moreover, my lord is traveling upstream at this very moment.”

He pressed his palms together. “Water flows to low places. My lord is making for the high ones. Traveling against the current is, of course, harder — but at the end of that path lies the source, which is the highest point of all.”

Xu Ji’s eyes narrowed further until only a sliver remained — yet that sliver was alight.

“Reverend — what you are saying is a capital offense.”

“My lord speaks in jest. I walk in my lord’s wake — without my lord’s permission, who could take my head?”

“Hahaha—”

Xu Ji laughed.

“Then let me ask you further, Reverend. When I reach the heights, someone is already standing there — and the position holds only one. What should I do?”

Zangjie smiled with unhurried ease. “That depends entirely on my lord’s heart. If my lord wishes to ascend, then drag down whoever stands there. If my lord does not wish to ascend but simply finds that person an eyesore — put someone more agreeable in their place. Whoever stands at the heights, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that my lord remains my lord.”

Xu Ji said, “You truly are boldly reckless. If I don’t kill you, you’ll ruin me one day.”

Zangjie bowed. “My lord may take my head whenever he wishes. But at this moment, as my lord labors uphill, what he needs is a walking staff.”

“A walking staff — too flexible,” Xu Ji said. “It breaks easily.”

“If a bamboo staff is too flexible, split it open, fix an arrowhead at the tip, and it will be hard enough. Or press two strips together around a blade — that too will hold firm.”

Xu Ji asked, “And how do you think it should be used?”

Zangjie said, “I have heard that in the southwest of Shu, there is an immortal mountain — and on that mountain, herbs that grant eternal life…”

Xu Ji froze.

Then he broke into laughter.

“Hard,” he said, still laughing. “I find this walking staff very hard indeed.”

—