Qu qu… Qu qu…
A glossy cricket waved its antennae, producing clear, crisp chirps. It was a fine “Longevity Star Head” variety, with red whiskers and black mandibles—a valiant warrior at first glance. It was now strutting along a narrow gunwale, looking around proudly.
This mountain-shaped gunwale stretched about fifty zhang in length—an enormous expanse for a cricket, yet merely a portion of the massive pleasure barge’s starboard stern. The entire vessel measured three hundred zhang, painted in black and red, narrow at the bottom and wide at the top, with thick masts and broad sails, resembling the treasure ships that the eunuch Zheng He sailed to the Western Oceans.
However, unlike true treasure ships which had only one deck between their twin masts, this vessel boasted a four-story pavilion in the same location. The pavilion had a xieshan roof with upturned eaves, and its layered fish-scale glazed tiles gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight. While more magnificent than a treasure ship, such a design would capsize within half a day if taken to sea.
Fortunately, this vessel wasn’t at sea but floating on the Yangtze River, facing west with its stern to the east. Mere river waves couldn’t disturb this behemoth, allowing the small cricket to perch securely on a ridge of the gunwale, chirping proudly at the vast expanse of water.
Suddenly, a small golden-threaded net descended from above, firmly trapping it inside. As one corner of the net lifted slightly, the startled cricket made a desperate leap into a purple clay cricket jar that had been waiting ready.
“Haha, got it!”
Zhu Zhanji quickly secured the lid, brushed the coin-shaped air holes on top with his finger, and stood up from the deck with a grin.
This cricket, named “Rival Zilong,” was his carefully trained champion. Who would have thought that “Rival Zilong,” though in Cao’s camp, held Han in his heart, and had just escaped from its jar? Zhu Zhanji had wandered around the great ship for quite a while before finally recapturing it. Holding the jar in his left hand, he pointed with his right fingers and chanted: “Command the three armies: I want Zhao Yun alive, not Zilong dead!”
Before he could finish the trailing tone of his theatrical quote, an elderly eunuch wearing a cloud-shoulder lined robe came stumbling over, calling out in a trembling voice: “Your Highness… Your Highness, please don’t lean against the ship’s edge. The river wind is strong—if you were to slip and fall in, this humble servant’s death would not atone for such a failure!”
Zhu Zhanji laughed heartily. “Old companion, you lack experience. This is a two-thousand-liao treasure ship—how could mere river waters make it sway?” He lifted the jar triumphantly. “Look! Rival Zilong has returned to camp!”
“Good, good, it’s wonderful that you caught it,” the elderly eunuch shuffled to his side, his face wreathed in smiles. “Let’s quickly return to the colored pavilion. The Eastern Palace tutors have asked several times already, urging Your Highness to prepare.”
At hearing this, Zhu Zhanji’s brow furrowed deeply. “What’s their hurry?”
The eunuch advised, “We’re about to reach Nanjing, and the officials are all waiting at the dock—we must prepare early.” Seeing the Crown Prince’s expression darkening, he quickly added consolingly, “Your Highness, please bear with it for now. Once we’re in Nanjing City, you can play as you wish.”
Gazing at the rolling river waves, the smile gradually faded from Zhu Zhanji’s face. “Once we reach Nanjing, I’ll probably have even less freedom. There are still a few hours now—just let me enjoy myself one last time.”
His tone was pitiful, and the old eunuch’s heart softened momentarily, but upon second thought, he suddenly dropped to his knees with a thud: “This journey to Nanjing concerns the foundation of the Great Ming. Your Highness bears an imperial mandate—you cannot be so willful!” Zhu Zhanji smiled bitterly and shook his head without responding. He knew the old eunuch spoke absolute truth, but that very fact made him all the more depressed.
This imperial mandate is traced back to Zhu Zhanji’s grandfather, the Yongle Emperor.
In the nineteenth year of Yongle, the emperor moved the Ming capital from Jinling to Beijing, establishing two capitals—the primary capital of Beijing and the secondary capital of Nanjing. Three years later, the Yongle Emperor passed away and was posthumously titled Emperor Taizong. The crown prince Zhu Gaochi ascended the throne and changed the reign name to “Hongxi” the following year.
The Hongxi Emperor had always wanted to move the capital back to Nanjing, but given the magnitude of such a decision, no conclusion had been reached. On the tenth day of the fourth month in the first year of Hongxi, the emperor suddenly issued an edict ordering Crown Prince Zhu Zhanji to travel south to the secondary capital, serve as regent, and oversee both military and civilian affairs. When this edict was issued, it caused an uproar throughout the court and country. Everyone saw it as an extremely clear signal: His Majesty had finally decided to relocate the capital.
The Crown Prince’s southern journey was presumably to prepare for this relocation—no simple task.
When the Yongle Emperor moved the capital to Beijing, he had left a complete governmental framework in Nanjing: the Six Ministries, Censorate, Court of State Ceremonial, Five Military Commands, and other offices were all fully staffed, mirroring the structure of the capital. Moreover, half the empire’s tax revenue came from Jiangnan, where numerous influential gentry families were deeply entrenched, creating an extremely complex situation where pulling one thread could affect the entire fabric—if chaos erupted here, the whole empire would feel the tremors.
This was the twenty-seven-year-old Crown Prince’s first time independently handling state affairs. On a small scale, it was the emperor testing the heir apparent’s capabilities; on a larger scale, it was a pivotal moment that could affect the Ming Dynasty’s prosperity for centuries to come. The whole world was watching to see if he could manage the situation in the secondary capital. Considering this, the old eunuch could only harden his heart and maintain his stance of stern remonstrance.
Though playful by nature, Zhu Zhanji could still distinguish between matters of varying importance. He picked up the cricket jar and sighed, “Ah, Zilong, you always complain about being confined to such a small space, but am I any different? Well, between us, at least one should be free…”
The Crown Prince moved to open the lid, but looking around the great ship, there was nothing but vast waves in all directions—even if released, the cricket would have nowhere to go. He sighed helplessly, “See? What good would leaving the jar do you? Outside is still nothing but layers of confinement—how could you truly escape?” Just as he finished speaking, three sharp explosions suddenly rang out from the northern bank of the Yangtze: “Bang! Bang! Bang!”
Zhu Zhanji’s hand trembled, nearly dropping the cricket jar onto the deck. He turned his head irritably to look and saw three yellowish-brown fireworks blooming sequentially in the sky, their smoke dispersing and vanishing into nothing moments later. Below the fireworks was a swaying field of white reeds, concealing whoever had set them off. Perhaps it was some household along the river celebrating a wedding?
The sounds came from several li away from the ship and weren’t worth much attention. After wrestling with the decision a while longer, Zhu Zhanji couldn’t bring himself to release the cricket and dejectedly carried the jar back to the colored pavilion with the old eunuch.
Neither of them noticed that atop the mast above their heads, a sailor wearing a gauze headband and black work clothes was also gazing intently at those three fireworks.
This sailor had dark skin and looked no different from any other crew member. He was holding onto a crossbeam with one hand while shading his eyes with the other, watching the sky expressionlessly. After the smoke had completely dissipated, he grabbed the rigging and skillfully slid down to the deck.
There were over a hundred sailors like him scattered across various parts of the deck operating the ship. Unless they got too close to the colored pavilion, the imperial guards rarely paid special attention to these men. This sailor blended into the busy crowd, carefully avoiding the pavilion’s line of sight, and headed straight for the starboard bow deck.
There was a small iron handle on the deck; he bent down, grabbed it, and lifted it slightly to reveal a square hatch with a double wooden ladder extending below. The sailor held onto the ladder and slowly climbed down into the ship’s hold beneath the deck.
Although this vessel imitated the design of treasure ships, it was built for pleasure, so its hold was quite massive. There were four levels from deck to bottom. The first level below deck housed the galley and storage for banquet implements; the second contained the sailors’ quarters and steering mechanisms; the third stored materials and provisions; the lowest level was filled with hundreds of stones for ballast.
With each level descended, the space became more confined and the light dimmer. By the time the sailor reached the bottom hold, darkness surrounded him, and the air was thick with a mixture of dank moisture, rotting wood, and choking lime. There wasn’t another person around—unless the ship needed major repairs, no one wanted to stay in such a ghostly place.
This level was divided into more than ten sealed compartments, like a series of gloomy beast lairs, where one could vaguely make out huge stone forms crouching within. The sailor briefly oriented himself before walking directly into the third compartment on the right. In the darkness, strange scratching sounds occasionally emerged, along with low, unclear murmurs that seemed like some kind of prayer.
After about the time it takes to burn an incense stick, the sailor emerged from the compartment, his steps notably lighter. He climbed back to the deck and mixed in with the other busy sailors—no one noticed his brief absence from his post.
Just then, the lookout detected a river wind approaching and immediately signaled. The sailors quickly adjusted the sails to catch the oncoming breeze. The helmsmen felt the ship’s speed increase and began their rhythmic chanting in unison: “Yo-ho… hey! Yo-ho… hey!” as they quickened their strokes. The great ship sped toward Jinling.
The same work chants were now echoing through Jinling City as well.
“Yo-ho… hey!”
More than a dozen arms tensed simultaneously, jointly lifting a massive beam from the ground. Beneath the beam lay scattered tiles and furniture fragments, among which was a bloody, mangled adult male corpse. His head and half his body had been crushed flat, with blood and brain matter congealed into a horrifying mess on the ground.
Sounds of dismay arose from the surrounding crowd. Last night’s sudden earthquake had destroyed the building, and the dislodged beam had fallen diagonally, striking this unfortunate soul as he slept in his bed.
Wu Buping stared at this gruesome scene, his brows tightly knitted, saying nothing.
This residence was located inside Taiping Gate in Nanjing’s Imperial Grant District, an area where official residences for the Censorate had been built during the Hongwu era. The deceased wore a round-collared blue robe with a seventh-rank purple mandarin duck badge still faintly visible on his chest—a surveillance censor.
Last night’s earthquake had collapsed many buildings throughout the city. With the Ministry of Works’ craftsmen overwhelmed, the Yingtian Prefecture had no choice but to urgently deploy three divisions of runners for rescue operations. Wu Buping, as Chief Constable, was responsible for patrolling various areas to prevent looting. Upon hearing that a censor had died here, he rushed over immediately.
Wu Buping was sixty-two years old, always dressed in a black-collared runner’s uniform with a flat-topped headband, iron ruler, and tin badge at his waist, walking with a solid presence. He commanded all three divisions of Yingtian Prefecture’s runners—the regular, pursuit, and swift-arrest divisions—and had solved numerous mysterious cases. Though a northerner, everyone in Jinling knew him. Officials called him “Head Wu,” jianghu folk named him “Iron Lion,” while common people mostly used his given name—wherever there was injustice, there was Wu Buping.
He had questioned the neighbors and learned that this censor was named Guo Zhimin, a native of Taizhou in Yangzhou Prefecture, serving as the Surveillance Censor for the Guangdong Circuit in Nanjing. He had come to his post alone, without any family accompanying him. Poor Censor Guo had only moved here recently, yet met such an end.
This was an accident that required no investigative effort. The body in the inner courtyard couldn’t be moved yet, so Wu Buping had the runners withdraw to the outer courtyard to continue clearing the rubble.
In the May weather, there was already a hint of stifling heat. A young runner wiped his sweat with his white sleeveless jacket and complained quietly, “Head Wu, will Heaven ever give us a break? How many times has our Jinling been shaken now?”
Since the Yongle Emperor moved the capital, the people of Nanjing had harbored a subtle resentment, never referring to their city as “Nanjing” but calling it “Jinling” instead. Wu Buping remained silent at this question, but his colleagues burst into discussion.
Last night’s earthquake wasn’t the first. Since the beginning of the year, Nanjing had seemed possessed, experiencing earthquakes every few days. Each time, many buildings in the city would collapse, keeping officials busy for long periods and leaving the entire city’s population in constant fear.
Some runners said there had been thirteen or fourteen quakes, others claimed seventeen or eighteen. Finally, an old runner shook his head and boasted, “My brother is a clerk in the Ministry of Works, where they keep records. Guess how many times the Jinling area shook last month? Five times! And guess how many times in March? Nineteen times! And the month before that, in February? Another five times! Including last night’s quake, Jinling City has experienced exactly thirty earthquakes since spring began!”
Thirty times?
This extraordinary number frightened everyone into silence amid the ruins. Someone muttered softly, “When has our Jinling ever shaken like this? Could it be the True Dragon turning over?”
Those around wore deeply meaningful expressions. This was the first year of the Hongxi reign, and just after the first month, Nanjing had begun experiencing frequent earthquakes. A treasonous rumor had spread through the streets: The emperor was not the true Son of Heaven but had usurped the throne, angering the True Dragon. When the True Dragon grew angry, it would turn over, and when it turned over, naturally the earth would quake.
Who started this rumor? No one could say. Common people loved supernatural explanations, so the tale spread far and wide, to the point where even these runners openly discussed it.
“Heh, I’d say this True Dragon isn’t too bright either—why shake up our Jinling instead of Beijing?”
“If the capital had stayed here, none of these troubles would have happened!”
“You can’t talk like that. I think it’s not about the place, it’s…”
“You pups, are your necks itching for trouble? Get back to work, all of you!”
Wu Buping barked harshly, fearing they might say something even more outrageous. The runners hurriedly ceased their idle chatter and returned to their tasks.
Wu Buping surveyed the surroundings, about to sink into contemplation, when he suddenly caught a strong whiff of alcohol. Looking toward the entrance, he saw someone stumbling in from outside the residence. The man was tall and thin, with fine eyebrows and a straight nose, fair-skinned like a scholar, but his steps were unsteady, his eyes particularly unfocused, and his face bore an expression of complete lethargy.
“Father, I’m here.”
The man let out a long yawn. The heavy smell of alcohol came from a large wine stain on the front of his robe—still drunk from the night before. Wu Buping’s eyebrow twitched as he gave a muffled response: “Mm.”
“Sister said you didn’t eat breakfast, so she told me to bring some freshly baked flatbread.” The young man felt around in his robe, then patted his head. “Oh, seems I forgot it.”
“Never mind, I’m not hungry,” Wu Buping replied. The surrounding runners focused on clearing the tiles and bricks, but their faces showed undisguised contempt.
This was quite the talk of Jinling. Constable Wu was a fearsome man whose name struck terror into both the city’s wayward youth and the fierce bandits of Southern Zhili. Yet this prestigious figure, whom even the Prefecture Magistrate treated with courtesy and tea, was unfortunately cursed with a worthless son.
Constable Wu was a widower with one son and one daughter. His daughter Wu Yulu was sixteen this year, while his son Wu Dingyuan was twenty-nine. This Wu Dingyuan had an odd temperament and was chronically lazy. It was said he also suffered from epilepsy, having fits from time to time, and thus remained unmarried. He spent his days extracting money from his father to spend on alcohol and brothels. People privately called him the “Useless Bamboo Pole”—as thin and soft as bamboo strips, if used as a punting pole, naturally good for nothing. A tiger father producing a dog of a son was truly pitiful.
The Yingtian Prefecture had given Wu Dingyuan a nominal position as a runner out of respect for Wu Buping. However, this good-for-nothing rarely showed up, collecting his salary for nothing. If the Prefecture Magistrate hadn’t strictly ordered all personnel to report today, he’d probably still be sleeping at home.
Wu Buping knew his son’s character well and gestured for him to wait in the inner courtyard. Apart from an uncoffined corpse, there was no one else there. Perhaps Constable Wu felt it better for his son to face the ill fortune of a dead man than embarrass himself in front of the living.
Wu Dingyuan showed no hesitation, stumbling into the inner courtyard. Shortly after, the sound of vomiting came from inside, followed by the spread of a sour stench in the air. The runners outside exchanged glances, thinking what trouble it would cause if that good-for-nothing vomited on the censor’s corpse.
Soon after, a runner came hurrying from the street: “Head Wu, Head Wu, word from the office—the Crown Prince has entered the Outer Qinhuai River!”
Wu Buping grunted in acknowledgment and immediately gathered everyone together, not forgetting to call loudly toward the inner courtyard: “Dingyuan, come out for roll call!” After a while, Wu Dingyuan finally shuffled out, lazily leaning against a broken pillar, keeping his distance from most people.
Wu Buping looked around and said gravely: “You troublemakers when you take your posts, keep your eyes sharp. For the Crown Prince’s arrival in Nanjing, the defense officials have issued strict orders—everyone listed on the roster who isn’t dead must guard the streets, from East Water Gate to the Palace City. Not even a mosquito is to get through.”
The runners all sighed upon hearing they had to take posts. Wu Buping sneered, “If you want to slack off, fine—you can take your time walking three thousand li in exile!”
Seeing his subordinates fall silent, Wu Buping unfolded a hemp paper and began assigning posts. The first person he called was his son: “Wu Dingyuan, you’ll guard Fan Bone Tower outside East Water Gate.”
Hearing this assignment, the runners collectively exhaled.
East Water Gate lay in the southeastern direction of Nanjing, home to the city’s only lock and dock, a prosperous gathering place for merchants from north and south. After the Crown Prince’s ship turned from the Yangtze into the Outer Qinhuai River, it would moor at East Water Gate, where Nanjing’s officials would welcome him into the city.
Fan Bone Tower stood adjacent to the eastern bank of the Qinhuai River, opposite East Water Gate. Despite its elegant name, it was merely a bare hillock, named after some nearby fan-making households. Lacking trees for shade, guard duty there would be unbearably hot and humid at noon—truly the worst assignment possible.
By assigning his son to the worst post first, Wu Buping left his subordinates no room to complain about their subsequent assignments. Wu Dingyuan let out a drunken burp from the back of the crowd, appearing completely indifferent.
After the assignments were complete, the runners hurried to their respective posts, clearing out in an instant. Wu Buping looked at his son, his gaze softening considerably: “Dingyuan, it’s all because of the earthquake—no one can escape this duty. Just bear with it for now.”
“If you’re afraid of earthquakes, go worship the City God. What use is having more people? It’s not like we’re being buried with the Crown Prince as ghost soldiers.” Wu Dingyuan shrugged sarcastically. As Wu Buping was about to stern his face and scold him, Wu Dingyuan leaned close to his father and said in a low voice: “This Censor Guo wasn’t killed by the falling beam.”
Wu Buping froze at these words. Wu Dingyuan continued: “Last night’s earthquake was at the Hour of Zi—who would wear official robes to bed?”
With this reminder, Wu Buping suddenly realized. The deceased’s round-collared blue robe with its rank badge was standard office wear for officials—they would normally remove it upon returning home, let alone wear it to bed. Wu Dingyuan added: “I examined him earlier. If a living person is crushed to death, with blood still flowing, there would be congestion marks around the wounds. But there was no blood pooling around the edges of his split skull, so…”
Wu Buping finished the thought: “…he was placed on the bed after death!?”
“What happens next is up to you. I’m off to my post.” Wu Dingyuan grinned, turned to leave, then suddenly spun around: “The path from here to Fan Bone Tower passes by Apricot Blossom Tower, which recently received several cellars of Dangkou liquor from Wuxi.”
Before he could finish, Wu Buping pulled out a stack of paper money from his waist pouch, worth about ten guan, and handed it to his son with a complex expression. Wu Dingyuan didn’t take it: “They only accept silver.” Wu Buping had no choice but to dig out several qian of loose silver pieces, which Wu Dingyuan unceremoniously tucked into his robe before ambling away. Wu Buping called out: “Drink less, alcohol harms your qi and blood.”
Wu Dingyuan didn’t look back, just raised his right fist in a firm grip, signaling not to worry. The Iron Lion watched his figure disappear around the corner, shook his head, and let out a long sigh, uncertain what exactly troubled him.
—
“Lower the parasols!”
A deep male voice rang out at East Water Gate dock. In an instant, dozens of silk-bordered large umbrellas were swiftly turned and withdrawn, letting the harsh sunlight spill across a magnificent array of crimson and purple.
Only two people stood in the front row of the dock. One was Li Long, the Marquis of Xiangcheng, wearing a green-trimmed scarlet robe and a seven-ridged crown—it was his voice that had called out “Lower the parasols.” Standing beside him was the renowned Three Treasures Eunuch Zheng He, dressed similarly but with an additional bright red great cloak. Both were senior officials from the Yongle reign, now serving as Nanjing’s Defense Commissioner and Supervisory Eunuch respectively, the two mountains anchoring the secondary capital.
Behind them stood several rows of officials from Nanjing’s various departments. Looking out, there was a sea of pheasant-tail pins and golden cicada ornaments, cloud-phoenix brocade belts, the view filled with yellow, green, red, purple, and other noble colors, dazzling to the eye. Even further back was a circle of straight banners, pennants, yellow fans, and golden ceremonial weapons forming a grand procession, along with guards, music bands, dance troupes, carriage drivers, and foot servants, packed densely in three inner and three outer layers. The vast East Water Gate dock had not a single spot left empty.
Half of Nanjing’s official elite had gathered here. These high officials, who normally required streets to be cleared for their passage, now stood shoulder to shoulder, enduring their thick court robes in the heat without moving an inch. Amidst the grand ceremonial music, everyone stood at attention with hands lowered, holding their breath, eagerly watching the gradually approaching sail in the distance.
Under the massive sails, the treasure ship was rapidly approaching the dock.
Through the large windows of the colored pavilion, the Crown Prince could see neat earthen embankments lining both sides of the waterway, topped with rows of willows. These wild willows weren’t as orderly as street willows, but they were dense and lush, without gaps, extending along both riverbanks to the base of the distant city walls, like two vibrant green ribbons embroidered along the edges of the Qinhuai River.
This was just the Outer Qinhuai near the river mouth, showing only natural, unplanned charm. They said the Inner Qinhuai within the city was even more beautiful, with ten li of singing towers and dance pavilions, an evening full of our sounds and lantern shadows. Compared to the harsh monotony of the capital, this was practically paradise.
But at this moment, Zhu Zhanji had no mood to appreciate any of it.
He had just learned that Nanjing had experienced another earthquake last night.
The secondary capital had never known earthquakes, but since his father’s ascension to the throne—especially after the discussion of relocating the capital—there had suddenly been thirty tremors. The Eastern Palace tutors always spoke in their lectures about the resonance between Heaven and mankind, and how both auspicious and ill omens were connected to human affairs. By this reasoning, these abnormal continuous earthquakes were like thirty slaps across his father’s face.
Particularly last night’s tremor, occurring precisely on the eve of the Crown Prince’s arrival in Nanjing—what did that mean? Did Heaven consider father and son unworthy of their positions?
Zhu Zhanji had already convinced himself these were mere coincidences, not worth dwelling on. But as the ship ventured deeper into the Qinhuai River, scattered dwellings began appearing near the willow embankments, a third of them collapsed and were in ruins, tiles scattered everywhere, like drops of ink splattered across a fine painting. These ink spots fell into Zhu Zhanji’s eyes like kindling added to the fire in his heart.
His naturally restless nature had always drawn implicit and explicit criticism as unbefitting a ruler. This invisible pressure had accumulated, leaving Zhu Zhanji perpetually uneasy, forcing him to seek relief in cricket fighting. Unexpectedly, another earthquake struck just as they reached Nanjing as if even Heaven was reproaching him, deepening the Crown Prince’s melancholy.
“Your Highness, we’re almost there. Let this servant help you remove your casual clothes and change into your robes and crown,” the old eunuch said with a fawning smile, while two maids behind him—one holding a dragon-embroidered brocade robe, the other carrying the Wing of Benevolence Crown—waited. Zhu Zhanji ignored him, still holding his cricket jar and staring out the window lost in thought.
The old eunuch carefully urged again. Unexpectedly, Zhu Zhanji’s temper suddenly flared, and he hurled the cricket jar to the ground with a loud crash, shattering it to pieces. The maids couldn’t help but scream, nearly dropping the royal garments.
The newly freed cricket waved its antennae on the floor, seemingly confused by the situation. The old eunuch quickly knelt, trying to trap it with his pudgy hands. Startled, the cricket made a sudden leap, escaping through the window frame of the colored pavilion.
Zhu Zhanji froze for a moment, then headed outside with a dark expression. The old eunuch hurriedly grabbed his narrow sleeve: “Where are you going?”
“To find Rival Zilong!”
The old eunuch was alarmed: “But we’re about to reach East Water Gate.”
“That’s why I must find him immediately! Once the ship docks and touches Earth-qi, he’ll be gone!”
“Then let me call some clever servants.” The old eunuch tried to stop him.
Zhu Zhanji stamped his foot in irritation: “Those clumsy dogs, with their rough hands—I don’t trust them!”
“The officials are all waiting at the dock, you can’t just… for a cricket…”
A nameless fury rose in Zhu Zhanji’s heart, his gaze suddenly turning fierce: “So what if they wait? Have my words lost their authority before even reaching Nanjing?” The old eunuch trembled in fear, no longer daring to obstruct him. The Crown Prince snorted coldly and stormed out of the room.
At this time, the Eastern Palace tutors were busy inspecting the ceremonial arrangements, unaware of the commotion upstairs. The Crown Prince angrily descended the side stairs, passed through the busy sailors, and came to the deck on the rear side of the colored pavilion.
Rival Zilong had just leaped from the window and most likely landed somewhere nearby. Zhu Zhanji took a deep breath, barely suppressing his inner fire, and patiently bent down to search, as if finding Rival Zilong was the only way to restore his inner peace. After scanning for a moment, he suddenly remembered that crickets prefer dry places. With the deck being damp, it would likely head toward the elevated stern, just like during its previous escape.
The ceremonial music of bells and chimes grew ever louder, and as Zhu Zhanji straightened up, he could faintly see the five-colored banners fluttering above the dock and the parasols arranged like fish scales.
The treasure ship slowly furled its sails, now propelled only by eighty pairs of oars on both sides, moving at a controlled slow speed past the final watchtower. The lookout on the tower quickly waved the dragon flag, announcing to East Water Gate dock that the treasure ship was about to arrive.
The Crown Prince knew he had little time left. Gritting his teeth, he ran resolutely toward the stern.
At the same time, a bare foot with rolled-up trousers stepped onto the wooden ladder in the ship’s hold, its thick calluses pressing against the rung almost silently. The other barefoot immediately descended to the next step, touching only with the toes, leaving most of the sole free. This was the sailors’ emergency climbing method, much faster than normal descent.
The feet alternated downward, descending the wooden ladder without a sound. Soon the sailor with the gauze headband once again stood before the bottom hold in the ship’s deep belly.
The bottom hold remained cramped and stagnant in darkness, but the clamor from outside penetrated the bulkheads faintly, indicating the ship was approaching East Water Gate. The sailor crouched down, took out a fire stick from his clothes, removed the cap for a short blow, and immediately a small flame bloomed quietly. A circle of dim yellow light spread through the hold’s damp air, casting the sailor’s shadow on the bulkhead, flickering unstably like a fierce spirit emerging from a grave crack.
Where the light touched, one could see piles of neatly arranged ballast, their forms huge, almost filling the entire compartment space, tightly covered with blackened straw mats.
As the noise from outside grew louder, the sailor walked slowly forward with his fire stick. He reached out his arm and swiftly pulled back one of the straw mats…
—
Wu Dingyuan unscrewed his wine gourd and took a forceful gulp. The spicy liquid went straight to his stomach, making him shudder.
The sun was viciously hot now, with wisps of humidity rising from the water’s surface, spreading from the riverbank to the top of Fan Bone Tower. The entire hilltop had become a giant steamer, and anyone inside felt countless burning, sticky needles piercing through their clothes into their skin, leaving nowhere to hide. Without the newly brewed liquor, it would have been unbearable.
Alcohol couldn’t solve problems, but at least it could make one numb to them—this was Wu Dingyuan’s experience talking.
The elegant music of bells and chimes drifted faintly across the river. Wu Dingyuan suddenly sensed something and looked up, lowering his gourd. He saw a massive black and red vessel majestically gliding past the waterway before Fan Bone Tower.
What an enormous treasure ship it was. Its massive body occupied nearly half the river’s width, its hull towering, its masts soaring—like Mount Tai itself being carried away by the son of E.
For a moment, Wu Dingyuan had the illusion that this mountain would topple over and crush him to dust. He unconsciously stepped back several paces and looked up to see a figure suddenly appear at the stern, seemingly searching for something while leaning over the gunwale.
Their eyes met briefly, and for some unknown reason, Wu Dingyuan’s scalp tingled as if a fine needle had pierced his temple.
Before he could understand what had happened, the figure had turned and run away, apparently chasing something. The great ship gradually moved away from Fan Bone Tower, heading toward East Water Gate dock. Wu Dingyuan scratched his scalp, unscrewed his gourd, and took another sip of wine.
Before the liquor’s burn could spread through his throat, he suddenly witnessed a scene both bewitching and magnificent.
If one were to divide this brief moment into Buddhist “ksanas” (instants), what Wu Dingyuan saw was this:
In the first ksana, the hull planks at the ship’s waterline began to bend outward. The entire frame swelled as if being inflated, bending outward with creaking moans, like a bow being gradually drawn to full.
In the second ksana, the planks reached their limit of flexibility, and countless tiny fissures appeared, quickly spreading across the entire outer wall like cracks in porcelain. The structural nails—spade-heads, shovel-heads, and leech-heads—unable to withstand this pressure, shot out in all directions.
In the third ksana, the unrestrained force surged out from within the hold, manifesting as a deep crimson power. It was the lifeblood of Suiren (the Fire Maker), the treasure of Zhurong (the Fire God), and the most magnificent fury of Yanbo (the Heat God)—it was an incomparably intense flame. This force erupted through the oar ports. The forty pairs of oars on the starboard side lost their unified rhythm. Some oars thrust forward violently, some leaped high into the air, while others continued rowing backward by inertia.
In the fourth ksana, the ship’s ribs completely burst, yet this still wasn’t enough to quell the flames’ fury. The violent fireball rose from the bottom hold, soaring skyward, successively shattering the keel’s axis, the wing beams, and the middle hull, causing masts to tilt and rudders to break. The ship’s middle section was forced up to its limit while the bow and stern sank simultaneously as if a vermillion giant hand had grabbed the entire vessel, forcibly trying to snap it in two.
In the fifth ksana, the ship’s middle split completely into fore and aft sections. The magnificent colored pavilion suddenly lost its foundation, first being pulled backward in collapse, then suddenly yanked back by the sinking forward half. As it swayed, flames climbed upward, transforming the entire wooden structure into a dazzling torch, with countless burning figures tumbling through the air.
Only after the fifth ksana did Wu Dingyuan, standing on the shore, feel a sharp wind touch his nose tip. His pupils suddenly contracted, and an extreme sense of crisis instantly blew away his listless exterior.
At that moment, he fell into a blank, stupefied state, as if the entire world had frozen, with only the bewitching, cruel flames still dancing before his eyes. The massive fire was like a sharp spear piercing Wu Dingyuan’s skull, triggering an untimely violent attack of his epilepsy.
Wu Dingyuan convulsed and fell backward as an incredibly powerful shock wave arrived, knocking him hard to the ground. The wine gourd at his waist burst with a bang, half a bottle of liquor spilling onto the sandy soil, quickly absorbed.
It was an indescribably bizarre scene: a man sprawled on the yellowish-brown riverbank, limbs flailing, eyes helplessly rolling back, as if possessed by an evil spirit. Beside him in the great river, a black and red giant ship burned furiously while being slowly swallowed by the deep green waters.
The convulsions continued for quite a while before gradually subsiding. Wu Dingyuan lay face-up in the mud, saliva trickling from the corner of his mouth, his entire body drenched in sweat. As the fit receded, the terrifying scene from moments ago resurfaced in his mind.
The Crown Prince’s treasure ship… had exploded?
At this thought, Wu Dingyuan struggled to his feet without bothering to wipe the drool from his mouth. Though his sight and hearing hadn’t fully recovered, he first detected an acrid smell of gunpowder smoke—so pungent that he could jump straight to the conclusion:
A gunpowder explosion?
The only force capable of destroying a treasure ship in five ksanas, besides an earthquake, had to be a large quantity of gunpowder stored in the hold. The gunpowder warehouse outside Baichuan Bridge in Nanjing had once accidentally exploded, demolishing buildings for several li around, and the smell then was identical to now.
But this was the Crown Prince’s treasure ship—who would store so much gunpowder?
As his vision gradually returned to normal, the scene before Wu Dingyuan became clear again: on the Qinhuai River, half the bow and stern of the treasure ship remained, both ends tilting upward at an increasingly steep angle, nearly vertical, soon to disappear completely. The middle section with the colored pavilion had already sunk beneath the water. A mass of clothing, sails, wooden splinters, and broken mast sections floated on the surface, covering almost the entire river.
Not a single person in sight.
An explosion of such magnitude likely left no survivors.
As the ringing in his ears slowly subsided, Wu Dingyuan could hear that the ceremonial music at the distant dock had stopped, replaced by faint screams and wails. The explosion must have affected East Water Gate as well—being closer to the ship and densely packed with people, the scene there was likely ten times more tragic than at Fan Bone Tower.
Faced with such an unprecedented catastrophe, even the habitually lazy and indifferent Wu Dingyuan was shocked and at a loss. As he stared blankly at the river’s surface, his eyes suddenly focused on a black dot in the distance, bobbing up and down, seemingly struggling.
After a moment’s hesitation, Wu Dingyuan jumped into the river with a splash. He was a strong swimmer and quickly reached the black dot. Knowing that drowning victims shouldn’t be rescued head-on, he grabbed a nearby floating plank and had the person grip it firmly, then pulled the other end toward shore.
After both had crawled onto the riverbank, he turned to examine this lucky survivor carefully.
It was a young man with a blackened face, more than half his hair burned away, his clothes scorched and tattered, barely recognizable as a casual short robe. As soon as he reached shore, he collapsed and vomited violently, expelling a large puddle of foul-smelling slurry.
After the man caught his breath, Wu Dingyuan tried to ask for his identity. But when the young man opened his mouth, his throat could only produce hoarse sounds—the explosion had paralyzed his vocal cords. Wu Dingyuan could only take out his waist towel, dip it in river water, and begin wiping the man’s face. As soon as it was clean, Wu Dingyuan’s temple suddenly shot with pain again, though it quickly passed.
That was close—almost triggered another epileptic fit.
Wu Dingyuan frowned and examined the young man’s face again: square face, straight nose, and a pair of terror-filled round eyes. The pain struck again—what was this about? He couldn’t remember ever seeing this face before.
No, wait—he had!
The strange pain reminded Wu Dingyuan: when the treasure ship passed Fan Bone Tower earlier, he had looked up and seen this face at the ship’s rail. They had made eye contact briefly before the man ran toward the stern. When the ship exploded, the stern was the last area affected—he must have been thrown into the water, thus surviving by chance.
As Wu Dingyuan’s mind continued clearing, he noticed more details.
The man’s casual short robe was made of fine lake silk, definitely not the garb of common sailors or laborers, nor guards or servants—he must have held a significant position on the ship. With the ship about to dock, everyone should have been at the bow attending the Crown Prince’s disembarkation—why had this man run to the deserted stern? And just moments before the explosion?
Could it be… he was trying to escape before the blast?
He suddenly noticed that when the man had gripped the plank, he’d used his left hand and right arm, keeping his right fist tightly clenched. Even now, that fist hadn’t relaxed. Wu Dingyuan grabbed the right hand, but the young man growled something through his throat, refusing to let him see. Wu Dingyuan drew his iron ruler and struck the man’s elbow joint hard. The man cried out in pain, his five fingers opening, and a cricket leaped from his palm onto the sandy ground.
Wu Dingyuan froze, unconsciously stepping backward, his shoe coming down with a squelch, squashing the cricket’s juices everywhere. The man howled, finding strength from somewhere to lunge forward angrily. Wu Dingyuan viciously kicked upward, striking the man’s solar plexus and knocking him flat, then took the rawhide rope from his waist and efficiently bound his arms behind his back.
The man struggled desperately on the ground, his expression furious. Finding him too noisy, Wu Dingyuan pulled out a hemp seed and stuffed it in his mouth, reducing his sounds to faint mumbling. He examined the man’s features again, his scalp predictably stinging. Wu Dingyuan untied the cloth bag that had held his wine gourd, tore open the side seams, and unceremoniously covered the man’s head with it.
Now that he couldn’t see anything, naturally, his head stopped hurting.
Having dealt with this trouble, Wu Dingyuan looked across the Qinhuai River toward the opposite shore. The dock was chaos—figures rushing about, screams filling the air, banners toppled in all directions, complete pandemonium. Half of Nanjing’s officials had gathered at the dock, along with ceremonial guards, musicians, escorts, and spectators. With so many people caught in the close-range blast of the ship’s explosion, the casualties must be staggering.
If the dock was in such a state, the Crown Prince and his Eastern Palace staff aboard the ship had likely been reduced to ashes.
Wu Dingyuan’s expression grew grave. Never in Ming history had such a horrific incident occurred. One could imagine how this would shake Nanjing, Southern Zhili, and the entire court. He looked down again at his captive. As the ship’s only survivor, he might be the only clue to solving this paramount case.
The urgent priority was to deliver this criminal to his father, Wu Buping. As Yingtian Prefecture’s Chief Constable, this case would eventually fall to him anyway. The sooner the suspect was delivered, the sooner the case could be solved; the sooner solved, the greater the reward.
So he yanked the man to his feet and pushed him toward the base of Fan Bone Tower. The man was initially very unwilling, but after several harsh kicks to his shins from Wu Dingyuan, he could only stumble forward.
After descending Fan Bone Tower, they shuffled along the riverbank heading north. But after only about half a li, Wu Dingyuan suddenly yanked the rope, stopping in his tracks. Two soldiers were approaching, one tall and one short, wearing blue-trimmed short robes over soft armor, white-corded goose-quill sabers at their waists—by their dress, they appeared to be banner soldiers from the Garrison Left Guard.
With the Crown Prince entering the city, various official departments had overlapping patrol zones, so encountering garrison troops wasn’t surprising. But Wu Dingyuan grew suspicious: after such a massive explosion on the river, these two showed no panic, instead looking around as if searching for something.
The two soldiers noticed them as well, barking orders to halt. Wu Dingyuan displayed his tin badge: “Yingtian Prefecture runner on duty.” The tall soldier paused, then smiled and cupped his hands: “Could this be Iron Lion’s son?” Hearing this, the shorter one’s eyes flashed with contempt—he too knew the nickname “Useless Bamboo Pole.”
Wu Dingyuan returned the greeting neutrally: “I must return with this prisoner to the office, please excuse me.” Though he tried to keep it brief, the two soldiers slowly drew closer. The tall one said, “We just heard an explosion on the Qinhuai River. Since Master Wu has come from that direction, might we take a look at this prisoner?”
As he spoke, he was already pressing toward Wu Dingyuan’s left side, while his shorter companion roughly reached to pull off the cloth bag covering the prisoner’s head. A fierce light flashed in Wu Dingyuan’s eyes as he moved, the iron ruler concealed in his hand striking hard at the short soldier’s wrist.
This was both a warning and a test.
If they were merely trying to steal credit out of greed, they would back off at the sight of the iron ruler. If not… Wu Dingyuan didn’t complete the thought, because a gleaming goose-quill blade was already thrusting at his ribs from the left.