Su Jingxi awoke suddenly at midnight on May 30th. Her temples throbbed—a typical aftereffect of near-drowning. Struggling to sit up, her right hand brushed against a bowl of medicine that was still warm. She sniffed it, recognizing it must have been brewed by Yu Qian, who often boasted, “If not a great minister, then at least a great physician.” Though amateur in preparation, it showed his earnest effort.
Su Jingxi strained to recall what had happened. She only remembered a stone projectile suddenly breaking into the cabin, crying out, and then losing consciousness. After that, her memory was blank. Yet in the hazy depths of her extreme suffering, she seemed to recall two familiar figures desperately trying to reach her—like adding wolfberry and ophiopogon to bitter goldthread tea, threading two strands of sweetness through the bitterness.
Looking out the window, she noticed the pleasant moonlight casting a peaceful silver glow outside. The wheat fields along the shore were quickly receding, indicating the boat had finally escaped its pursuers and successfully passed through the locks. Su Jingxi suddenly yearned to see the moonlight properly. She stood up and left the cabin, seeking higher ground.
This ocean-faring vessel, now relegated to inland waters, retained many seafaring features, including a thick protective handrail of cedar wood along the outer hull. Still weak, Su Jingxi supported herself against this rail as she slowly made her way toward the stern, remembering there was an excellent viewing spot there.
The boat was quiet, with most passengers and sailors deep in sleep. The few on night watch were concentrated at the bow. As Su Jingxi approached the stern, she instinctively looked up and was startled to find someone already standing at the high point, silently facing the canal.
The stern exhibited typical oceangoing characteristics, with planks extending from both sides like a swallow’s tail, while the center featured support beams and a rudder post, forming a narrow elevated platform. From below, that tall, thin shadow seemed to split the bright moon in two, creating an ineffably lonely sight.
“Wu Dingyuan?”
Su Jingxi called out. The shadow stirred but didn’t answer. She turned and climbed a few steps up a narrow wooden stairway, stopping at a three-tiered rudder platform. There were no stairs beyond this point, only a thick supporting rope hanging down. Su Jingxi took a deep breath, grabbed the rope with both arms, and pulled herself up, but she had overestimated her strength. Halfway up, she found she couldn’t hold on anymore. As her hands slipped, a hand suddenly reached down from above, grabbed her left hand, and pulled her onto the small platform. Su Jingxi suddenly remembered—this was the same force she had felt when drowning.
“Thank you,” Su Jingxi smiled charmingly. Wu Dingyuan stiffly nodded, turning back to watch the ripples on the canal’s surface. Su Jingxi walked straightforwardly to his side, standing shoulder to shoulder at the railing. She could sense his breathing pattern change beside her.
“You jumped in to save me when I fell into the water today, didn’t you?”
“Not just me, the Crown Prince too,” Wu Dingyuan quickly clarified.
“Oh no, he had an arrow wound—how could he go into the water? Now Director Yu and Zhang Hou will blame me.” Su Jingxi worriedly rubbed her temples. “How is the Crown Prince now?”
“Uh, he’s fine. And you… how are you?”
“I won’t die before achieving my goal.”
Wu Dingyuan knew what she meant. After a moment of silence, as if having made some decision, he said, “You know? When I jumped in, I suddenly felt at peace.”
“Were you hoping something would happen to me?” Su Jingxi gave him a reproachful look.
“No, no,” Wu Dingyuan defended himself, half flustered and half annoyed. “When I saw you fall in, my mind went completely blank. All those complicated things—my background, revenge, the White Lotus Society, the Iron family—I forgot them all. I even forgot to worry about facing the Crown Prince. Because at that moment, I only wanted to save you, just that one thing, nothing else, my heart without distraction.”
“It’s ‘heart without distractions.'”
“Oh, heart without distractions… I realized for the first time that when you have a goal you must achieve no matter what, all your worries disappear. No hesitation, no overthinking, just gritting your teeth and focusing single-mindedly on that one thing—nothing else matters. I’d never experienced that before.”
Su Jingxi looked at this awkward man and noticed he had changed. The old Wu Dingyuan would have kept his thoughts to himself, deliberately saying things to annoy others. His stubborn and timid nature would never have allowed him to express his feelings so openly. But that leap into the water seemed to have broken some lock in his heart.
“So what is your goal?” Su Jingxi asked with interest.
“I don’t want you to die.”
Such a straightforward answer made Su Jingxi blush slightly. Her gaze wandered and happened to notice a piece of ink-marked paper clutched in Wu Dingyuan’s hand, with writing on both sides. The more she looked, the more familiar it seemed, until her eyebrows suddenly lifted—wasn’t this the confession statement Wu Dingyuan had written at the house in Dashamao Lane?
Su Jingxi remembered clearly. When he had caught her then, needing paper for the confession but too lazy to find any, he had simply used the reverse side of her calligraphy practice sheet. So one side contained carefully written Liu-style Yan poetry, while the other bore clumsy official handwriting.
“You’re standing at the bow in the middle of the night holding that—does Zhang Hou have some business with me?” Su Jingxi narrowed her eyes.
Wu Dingyuan quickly explained, “Yu Qian had been keeping this confession. Earlier, Zhang Quan found me and asked me some questions about it. After questioning, he gave it to me, and I came straight out here.”
“Questions about me?”
“Nothing special, just about the specific process of when I caught you.” Wu Dingyuan rubbed his nose, feeling somewhat embarrassed, and added, “Don’t worry, I didn’t say a word about Jinhu.”
“It’s fine, I’ve already been honest about that with the Crown Prince’s side,” Su Jingxi said calmly.
Wu Dingyuan was startled, not expecting her to have confessed so readily, then breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good then. I really couldn’t answer Zhang Quan’s questions. Like when he asked who wrote that broken… broken thing on the back of the confession, how would I know?”
Su Jingxi couldn’t help but laugh: “It’s called ‘Breaking Through the Formations,’ it’s the name of a tune, written by a Song Dynasty poet named Yan Jidao. I love this poem and often copy it—seems Zhang Hou was overthinking it.”
“What’s it about?”
Su Jingxi unfolded the crumpled paper and recited melodiously: “Beneath willows, music and song in courtyards fair, Among flowers, sisters on swings without care. Remembering spring pavilion days of yore, Writing by red windows in moonlight’s lore. Who’ll deliver my note to Little Lotus there? Red candles idly accompany my tears, Wu silk worms reach their tender years. How much sorrow can dark tresses bear? Unlike broken strings, I’ll not feign despair. This year ages last year’s air.” As she reached the end, her voice seemed to lose its usual composure.
“What does it mean…” Wu Dingyuan was completely lost.
“This poem expresses longing for a young woman,” Su Jingxi’s eyes seemed to mist over as if invaded by the reflected moonlight. “In the courtyard, under the willows, someone plays music and sings; among the flowers, sisters swing on swings. Thinking of past days in the spring pavilion, here under the moon, before the red window, I write a letter—but who can deliver it to Little Lotus? Red candles accompany my tears, and Wu silkworms spin their entangling threads, just like you and me back then. How much separation’s sorrow can black lustrous hair endure? How can one be as unfeeling as a broken string? Thus in longing, year after year passes, aging away, aging away.”
As she spoke, two tears gleaming with moonlight silently slid down Su Jingxi’s cheeks and fell into the water. Her voice trembled with the flow of tears.
“Red candles idly companion my tears, Wu silk worms reach their tender years. How much sorrow can dark tresses bear? Unlike broken strings, I’ll not feign despair. This year ages last year’s air, this year ages last year’s air, this year ages last year’s air, this year ages last year’s air…” She murmured the last five words repeatedly, grief flowing endlessly like silk from a cocoon, her whole body trembling more and more violently.
Wu Dingyuan hadn’t expected this poem to affect Su Jingxi so dramatically. Fearing she would fall into a trance, he snatched the confession away. Su Jingxi cried out and reached to grab it back, but unexpectedly fell against Wu Dingyuan’s chest. Something exploded in Wu Dingyuan’s heart. His arms suddenly embraced Su Jingxi, holding her incredibly tight.
This sudden embrace and honesty restored some clarity to Su Jingxi’s eyes. Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing, only lifting her chin gently, as if for confirmation, and resting it lightly on Wu Dingyuan’s shoulder.
Wu Dingyuan felt transported back to the moment Su Jingxi had fallen into the water. That instant of life and death had forced him to honestly face his feelings, unable to retreat or hesitate—any wavering might have meant Su Jingxi’s death. Wu Dingyuan could only cast everything else aside and charge forward with clarity and directness.
Honesty had forced decisiveness, and decisiveness had shot forth an arrow of intent—clear-aimed and unstoppable. The arrow released could not be recalled.
This time he didn’t passively receive, but actively opened his arms.
The moment he embraced her, what first welled up in his heart wasn’t happiness, but stability. It was as if an iron anchor had plunged straight to the bottom, firmly securing a small boat lost in turbulent waters. Under the pull of this steadying anchor, not only could long-suppressed feelings find release, but even the confusion and bewilderment accumulated in his chest were driven away by this passion. For the first time in his life, he felt who he was and what he needed to do.
“Shouldn’t you say something nice at a time like this?” Su Jingxi said softly.
“Jingxi, you are my anchor, my guiding star.”
Wu Dingyuan held her tight, murmuring. Su Jingxi first started slightly, then showed a knowing smile. She said nothing, only embracing him equally tight. The two black shadows merged into one under the moon, though the feeling of desolation hadn’t diminished at all. They held each other silently for a long while, neither speaking. Suddenly a night breeze swept across the horizontal sail, making the large ship sway several times. Wu Dingyuan instinctively held Su Jingxi tighter, making her grunt softly.
“S-sorry,” Wu Dingyuan hurriedly loosened his grip somewhat.
Su Jingxi raised her hand to touch his face: “Why apologize? I’m overjoyed that you finally found the courage.” Her eyes now sparkled, her face flushed—Wu Dingyuan found her indescribably beautiful and charming. Su Jingxi suddenly giggled: “Wasn’t I right? Being honest with others, unburdened by worry—doesn’t it feel better now?”
This familiar conversation made Wu Dingyuan smile too. He hesitantly raised his right hand, stroking her black hair, from top to root and back again, unable to suppress a sigh.
“You’re worried about the Crown Prince, aren’t you?” Su Jingxi closed her eyes, lying still in his embrace.
“At the Southern Camp’s parade ground, he revealed his true feelings to me, and they were sincere.” Wu Dingyuan glanced at a certain small window of the canal boat, but it was blocked by wooden boards.
Su Jingxi showed an ambiguous smile: “If you’re afraid of hindering my becoming an imperial consort, why do you still tease me?”
“For nearly thirty years, I’ve lived in chaos, thinking nothing in this world mattered, that anyway would do. But just this once, I want to compete with His Highness.” Wu Dingyuan’s voice rose slightly, showing unprecedented determination.
Su Jingxi closed her eyes, nuzzling her head in his embrace: “So, are you leaving tonight?”
Wu Dingyuan’s movements froze for a moment, and he couldn’t help but show a bitter smile: “Really can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
Just as he was about to explain, Su Jingxi pressed her finger to his lips: “No need to explain. If you weren’t about to leave suddenly, you probably wouldn’t have found the courage. People are like that sometimes—when their hearts are burdened, they wait for some event to trigger their awakening, and often it’s too late. We’re fortunate—our trigger wasn’t too late—besides…” She pressed her lips together in a faint smile, “Actually, you don’t need to tell me, I can guess—did Zhang Hou ask you to hurry ahead to the capital?”
Wu Dingyuan looked at the woman in his arms. No matter how many times he witnessed it, her insight and wisdom always amazed him.
“The Crown Prince’s arrow wound has flared up, and the ocean vessel is damaged. Someone must reach the capital first to deliver news to the palace that the Crown Prince is alive. On this inland vessel, you’re the most suitable candidate.” Su Jingxi paused, “Perhaps with Ye He?”
“Yes. The White Lotus Society has a branch in the capital. I’ll take her with me for help,” Wu Dingyuan quickly explained.
“She’s a clever girl. It’s good to have her company,” Su Jingxi said.
Just then, a sound came from the other side of the ship. Su Jingxi and Wu Dingyuan simultaneously released each other, stepping back half a pace. They saw a tall figure slowly walking up to the observation point nearby. The man had sword-like eyebrows and a long beard, and wore a white scholar’s robe with a Zhuge-style headband—dignified from afar yet gentle up close—it was Zhang Quan. Seeing the two of them, he showed no surprise. He first bowed deeply, saying “Congratulations,” then bowed again, looking at Su Jingxi, saying “My apologies.”
This apology carried deep meaning—for intruding on their private meeting, for having to hurry Wu Dingyuan’s departure, and for secretly investigating her background. Su Jingxi brushed aside her bangs and gracefully took Wu Dingyuan’s arm, her eyes sparkling.
“Young lady, you’ve found a worthy match, with mutual affection—this deserves congratulations. However, with the ship damaged and the Xuan Ni in pursuit, the Crown Prince’s injured body cannot bear the strain of rapid travel. At this pace, we may not reach the capital in time. We have no choice but to ask General Wu to take this risky move and go ahead to the capital to mediate. The Crown Prince doesn’t know about this—if the young lady has any grievances, I’ll bear full responsibility.”
His use of “General Wu” clearly hints at future rewards. Wu Dingyuan spoke up: “I get a headache whenever I see him anyway—too many complications. Better to keep my distance for some peace.”
Zhang Quan solemnly said: “When General Wu returns victorious, I will surely petition His Majesty to grant marriage and titles, making this a beautiful tale for the ages.”
This made not only Su Jingxi but even Wu Dingyuan snort softly.
The Crown Prince’s reckless rescue of a female physician had worried Zhang Quan, prompting him to investigate Su Jingxi’s background. If Prince Zhu Zhanji wanted to take this commoner physician as his consort, it would be an enormous problem. Thus, Zhang Quan’s words brimmed with enthusiasm for promoting the match between Wu and Su, hoping to completely end the Crown Prince’s thoughts of her.
But Wu Dingyuan no longer cared about such subtle schemes, only holding Su Jingxi’s hand tighter. Zhang Quan knew he couldn’t hide anything from her and bowed, speaking earnestly: “It’s not that we have any dissatisfaction with you, young lady. It’s just that I’ve seen too many women suffer after entering the palace, especially talented ones. Su Jingxi, you’re brilliantly clever—there’s no need to step into that fire pit.”
Su Jingxi leaned closer to Wu Dingyuan: “I’m very happy now, Zhang Hou need not worry.”
“Excellent, excellent.” Zhang Quan was very pleased. Looking up at the bright moonlight, he declared: “Tonight’s moon pours down like a waterfall, perfect for washing the strings and cleansing the zither. General Wu’s journey to the capital will be perilous—I wish to play a tune for the General’s departure, as a small farewell gift.”
With that, he lifted his robe and sat down at the observation point, laying an ancient zither across his knees. Zhang Quan was Prince Zhu Zhanji’s zither teacher, and in the capital, it was considered an honor to hear Zhang Hou play. Wu Dingyuan felt nothing special, but Su Jingxi knew this was an enormous gesture of respect.
First came “Phoenix Seeking Its Mate” soaring from the bow, the zither’s sound spirited and profound, its artistic conception sublime, perfectly complementing the silver-white moon above. Zhang Quan deliberately chose the unmediatied tune, the melody carrying a subtle hint of romance. This piece originated from Sima Xiangru of the Western Han—while living in Chengdu, he had fallen for the widow Zhuo Wenjun and used the zither to court her. Wenjun, being well-versed in music, was moved by Sima Xiangru’s passion and eloped with him. Zhang Quan’s choice of this piece showed true thoughtfulness.
After several movements, Zhang Quan’s fingering changed with a sweep and pluck, the melody suddenly transforming. The originally clear and graceful tune seamlessly shifted to something ancient and desolate, the zither’s voice interwoven with cold loneliness and tragic grandeur, like crossing a winter river.
“It’s ‘Yi Shui’—he’s urging you to depart,” Su Jingxi told Wu Dingyuan.
“The Yi River from the Jing Ke assassination attempt?” Wu Dingyuan hadn’t read many books, but he’d heard plenty of assassin stories in the entertainment districts.
“Correct. When Jing Ke was departing, Prince Dan urged him on his way, while Gao Jianli played the zither by the Yi River to see him off. He couldn’t pick a more auspicious tune.” Su Jingxi complained softly, then intimately adjusted Wu Dingyuan’s collar, like a new bride sending her husband off to war.
Wu Dingyuan stood straight, letting her fuss over him. After fixing his collar, Su Jingxi suddenly rose slightly on her tiptoes and placed a light kiss on his cheek. Wu Dingyuan swayed, his blood suddenly surging. But before he could respond, Su Jingxi moved even closer, her lips almost touching his earlobe.
Words almost inaudible slipped from her lips into his ear. Wu Dingyuan immediately calmed down, the flush gradually receding from his face as he listened impassively. In the distance, the zither played passionately, Zhang Quan still fully absorbed in his performance, not noticing their interaction.
After finishing her instructions, Su Jingxi stepped back: “Remember what you said at the Huai’an shipyard? A thread of hope should be left for those who still care about something.” Wu Dingyuan nodded.
“Now you also have someone you truly care about, so you can’t speak lightly of death anymore,” Su Jingxi said softly.
“Yi Shui” happened to end at that moment, and silence returned around the boat, with only the cold moonlight still overhead. Zhang Quan put away his instrument and bowed solemnly toward them.
The moment of departure had arrived.
On the morning of May 30th, thick fog quietly gathered outside Cangzhou city, first swallowing the outline of the city walls, then spreading into the surrounding forests. Whether tall white poplars, birches, and elms, or low shrubs like thorns, lespedeza, and golden shrub, all were veiled by the mist, showing only branches here and there. From afar, they looked like countless arms reaching out from the darkness.
Two fine horses galloped urgently along an official road, waves of fog surging up but powerless to slow their speed. Wu Dingyuan gripped the reins tightly in the lead, with Ye He riding the other horse close behind. Her horsemanship was surprisingly excellent, at least better than Wu Dingyuan who had grown up by the Qinhuai River, but for some reason, she deliberately controlled her speed, maintaining half a horse-length distance behind Wu Dingyuan.
They had left the boat after midnight. Quickly passing through the outskirts of Cangzhou, leaving the canal section, they galloped northwest.
This small party had to reach the capital within two days, passing through Bazhou, Gu’an, Daxing, and other posts, covering a distance of three hundred and twenty li. Fortunately, they had Zhang Quan’s strong support—the two rode prairie steeds borrowed from jianghu friends, carried a bag of gold and silver ingots, and bore an urgent dispatch from Jinan Prefecture that Zhang Quan had personally forged. With this document, treated as an eight-hundred-li emergency dispatch, relay stations along the way must provide the best replacement horses.
“Hey, Master, I feel your mood has improved lately compared to before,” Ye He said casually. The fog ahead was too thick, forcing them to slow down, and she took the opportunity to pull a date cake from her bag and pop it in her mouth.
“Don’t call me Master,” Wu Dingyuan said coldly.
But Ye He just giggled: “From the first time I saw you, Master, you always looked gloomy, with dejection seeping from every wrinkle. But since last night, you’ve been smiling. Yes, just like now—don’t deliberately put on a stern face, it makes it more obvious.”
Wu Dingyuan had to turn his face away: “What are you trying to say?”
“Master, you accepted Zhang Quan’s commission to go to the capital—there must be a reason.”
“I just didn’t want to stay on the boat anymore. I get a headache just looking at the Crown Prince’s face. How could that compare to traveling freely like this?”
Ye He stroked her horse’s ear, her tone moved: “It seems Master has come to understand. For the sake of our Holy Sect’s continued existence, you’re willing to set aside old grievances with the Ming royal family.”
“What nonsense! My grudges with both your White Lotus Society and their Ming royal family are far from settled.”
“That’s strange then.” Ye He’s eyes rolled, “If you’re unwilling to work with enemies, you should have ditched me and returned straight to Nanjing to live a quiet life; if you intended to avenge the Iron clan, you should have sat back to watch the tigers fight, watching the Prince of Han and the Crown Prince battle to bloody ruins. But Master, you’re rushing north to Beijing with such effort—if not to earn merit for the Holy Sect, then what for?”
“Whatever the reason, it’s not that.”
“Could it be… for Sister Su?”
Wu Dingyuan’s posture on horseback stiffened. Ye He blinked, suddenly smiling: “Looks like I should ration this date cake, save up some Rehmannia, longan, and lotus seeds to congratulate Master later.” Before Wu Dingyuan could respond, she suddenly dropped her playful manner, her almond eyes flashing with sharp light: “But Master, do you truly understand what you need to do when you reach the capital?”
Wu Dingyuan said gravely: “Zhang Quan said I just need to find a way to send news into the city that the Crown Prince is still alive.”
At present, the Crown Prince’s chances of victory were neither great nor small. The Xuan Ni Prince and the Shandong rebels pursued them in the countryside, while the Prince of Han held the entire court hostage in the capital—the difference in strength between friend and foe was like heaven and earth. However, all of the Prince of Han’s schemes were based on the premise that both the Hongxi Emperor and the Crown Prince were dead. If either one lived, he would have no chance to compete for the throne.
Therefore, for Zhu Zhanji, the simplest path to victory was to let key figures in the capital know that the Crown Prince wasn’t dead and that the Crown Prince was on his way back. Just getting this one message to the right person would cause the Prince of Han’s plans to collapse—after that, it wouldn’t matter whether the Crown Prince arrived a day earlier or later.
This was why Zhang Quan had so urgently dispatched Wu Dingyuan.
“Zhang Hou makes it sound easy. But Master, have you been to the capital? Do you know which key figures to find?”
“Key figures—naturally I should find the current Prime Minister.”
Hearing this, Ye He nearly fell off her horse laughing: “Where did you hear such opera tales? When has the Ming ever had a Prime Minister?”
“What nonsense—wasn’t Li Shanglang a Prime Minister? And Hu Weiyong too?” Wu Dingyuan protested.
“Those were Grand Chancellors, and only a few ever held the position before it was abolished.”
“There’s been no Prime Minister since? Then who does the Prime Minister’s work?” Wu Dingyuan’s knowledge of high-level court affairs all came from taverns and entertainment districts in Jinling, mostly far-fetched popular imagination.
Instead of answering, Ye He asked another question: “Let me ask you, which is higher—a second-rank Minister of Rites or a fifth-rank Grand Academician of the Wuying Hall?”
“Of course, the higher rank is more important… right?” Wu Dingyuan felt uncertain under Ye He’s stare.
“Then let me ask you this: when the Emperor has matters to discuss, does he consult with the Six Ministers or with the Grand Academicians?”
“Uh…”
Ye He shook her head: “Master, if you don’t even know these things, better not go to the capital. Finding the wrong key person will bring deadly disaster. Better return to Jinling for a peaceful retirement.”
Wu Dingyuan unhappily shook the reins, increasing speed slightly: “Then you tell me, what’s all this about?”
“Reporting to Master, since Hu Weiyong, our dynasty has had no Chancellor. The Emperor rules alone. However, since one person can’t manage everything, he has several Grand Academicians as cabinet advisors participating in state decisions. Once the direction is set, it’s passed to the Six Ministries for execution.”
Wu Dingyuan showed some understanding: “So now the real power in court isn’t some Prime Minister or Chancellor, but these Cabinet Grand Academicians?”
“Exactly.”
“Then when we reach the capital, we just need to find these Grand Academicians, right?”
Ye He smiled: “You laugh at the Crown Prince’s carelessness, but aren’t you making the same mistake? How do you know which of these Grand Academicians might be secretly colluding with the Prince of Han?”
Wu Dingyuan snorted coldly: “These civil officials are useless. Going to the military commanders would be safer.”
“Inside the capital, there are twenty-two Imperial Guard units protecting the palace, three major garrisons, and five city military commands. Oh right, there’s also the Brave Warriors Camp of the Imperial Stables within the palace. But the same question remains—how do you know they haven’t joined the Prince of Han’s plot?”
“If neither civil nor military officials will do, who should we find?”
Ye He gave him a cunning look: “It’s quite simple. Anyone might collude with the Prince of Han because they could profit from it. Master can think backward—whoever can’t possibly benefit from the rebellion, no matter what would naturally be most reliable.”
Wu Dingyuan’s brows knotted, three words bursting through his clenched teeth: “Empress Zhang…”
The current Emperor was her husband, the Crown Prince her son, and the two young princes were also her sons. If the Prince of Han wanted to usurp the throne, he would need to kill all her closest family. Between Empress Zhang and the Prince of Han, it was life or death—no room for compromise.
“Exactly right. When we reach the capital, we can’t alert anyone. Only seeing Empress Zhang offers the sole path to breaking the deadlock.”
Wu Dingyuan stared at her for a long while, suddenly sighing: “You’re such a young girl—where did you learn such ruthless strategies? The Holy Mother trained you well.”
Ye He waved dismissively: “The old lady has raised hundreds of children—those without ability died along the way.” She looked around at the vast fog, her expression becoming unprecedentedly serious: “So, Master, don’t underestimate the capital’s situation. It’s different from Jinling, different from Yangzhou, Huai’an, and Jinan—unlike any other city in the world. It’s truly a dragon’s pool and tiger’s den, with various powers deeply entangled. One wrong step could mean eternal damnation.”
“Mm, I understand this,” Wu Dingyuan said, unconsciously stroking his chin.
“Look! Look! Master, you’re showing that smile again—did Sister Su give you some instructions?” Seeing Wu Dingyuan neither deny nor confirm, she couldn’t help sighing: “Now I understand why Master agreed to do this. Sister Su can only achieve her revenge through the Crown Prince’s ascension. For the Crown Prince to ascend, you must reach the capital first. Ah, Master, you’re good to Sister Su.”
This time, Wu Dingyuan didn’t evade, looking straight ahead: “It’s not just about her—there’s the Crown Prince’s matter, the Wu and Iron family matters, your White Lotus Society’s matter… I’ve thought it all through. This time I’ll settle everything in the capital.” His tone was firm, his gaze focused, without any trace of wavering or confusion.
Ye He curiously examined him. The formerly hesitant and conflicted “boat pusher” seemed to have transformed overnight. During the long journey from Jinling to the capital, he had for the first time actively shown his edge, for the first time expressed having something he wanted to complete. By now the sun had risen halfway, and the fog began to disperse.
“Let’s hurry!” Wu Dingyuan shook the reins, taking the lead at full gallop toward the capital. Ye He smiled, cracking her whip to follow closely.
Before long, a clear, bright folk song echoed through the fog: “Curse me, laugh at me, you can’t tell true from false. Just as Han Xiang reached to grab it, the timid heart still feared. Beyond willows in the wind, among flowers beneath the moon, dare the heartbroken one force it? With love, without love, speak one true word from the heart.”
“Greetings, Fifth Prince!”
Dozens of voices shouted in unison, seeming to make even the surrounding jujube branches tremble.
Zhu Zhaodi stood on the earthen platform, narrowing his eyes, trying to imagine them shouting “Greetings, Heir” or “Greetings, Crown Prince.” This pleasurable sensation surpassed any delicacy’s taste or any bedroom position. Even the frustration of defeat at Gelou Lock had largely faded.
After enjoying this illusory satisfaction for a moment, he looked down at those below. The dozens of guards from the Qingzhou Banner Army before him were covered in dust and exhaustion, clearly having just completed a long journey. Yet these men radiated killing intent as if holding their breath to avenge their lord.
Among Shandong’s forces, Qingzhou troops were the fiercest, and these men were all Jin Rong’s die-hard subordinates.
They were now in Chen Que Village between Cangzhou and Tianjin Guard. About twenty or thirty li from the Grand Canal, the area had no inhabitants except for a Red Chan Temple, mostly surrounded by birch forest. The main force of the Qingzhou Banner Army lay hidden in the forest, resting like a sharp arrow ready to be released, its tip aimed directly at the capital.
“Forty-eight hours! Forty-eight hours!”
Zhu Zhaodi raised his right hand, first showing four then eight, repeating twice, each word especially heavy. The guards below held their breath, all looking up at him.
“From Jinan to Chen County is four hundred and nine li total—you took only forty-eight hours, with no one falling behind, without alerting a single official. Such elite troops—even Xu Wuning and Chang Zhongwu’s forces could do no better.”
The guards made sounds of satisfaction hearing the Xuan Ni Prince compare them to Xu Da and Chang Yuchun. Zhu Zhaodi continued: “More admirably, you’ve abandoned high positions, rich rewards, and peaceful lives to resolutely follow General Jin, sacrificing your families for the state’s affairs. Such loyalty and bravery are truly the Ming’s fortune! I thank you all on behalf of my royal father!”
With that, he clasped his hands and bowed deeply, and the guards hurriedly bowed back in return.
Zhu Zhaodi raised his head, changing tone: “You’ve all had a tiring journey, but now is not yet time to relax. The Crown Prince still lives, the throne still hangs in balance, and the achievement of ages needs one more push—I hope for your continued dedication.” Seeing the guards’ ashamed expressions, he couldn’t help smiling: “You need not feel guilty. The Crown Prince going to Jinan was an unexpected move even Liu Bowen couldn’t have predicted—who could have prepared? Rather, it was this humble one who bungled things at Gelou Lock, actually letting them escape. Think about it—removing the undergarments but failing to enter the port, stuck neither up nor down—how fucking uncomfortable!”
This ribald joke made the guards laugh, lightening the atmosphere somewhat. With the Fifth Prince taking responsibility for letting the Crown Prince escape, they felt less pressure.
Zhu Zhaodi looked at those below, knowing he had successfully secured their loyalty, feeling very pleased. Since the setback at Gelou Lock, he knew Zhang Quan was an extremely difficult opponent. After much thought, he didn’t pursue the original plan but took the initiative to meet up with the Qingzhou Banner Army first.
“During the Jingnan Campaign, my royal father charged into battle, saving the Yongle Emperor from danger several times. And what was that fat Hongxi doing? Trembling in fear inside Beiping City! Later he shamelessly ascended the throne and started suppressing us Jingnan Campaign veterans. Not only did my royal father suffer endless grievances, but his loyal subordinates were also oppressed. General Jin established so many merits, even lost an eye, yet now he’s merely a Shandong Regional Commander. While those you defeated on the battlefield have all been pardoned and released, living as if nothing happened—can you endure such ingratitude?”
“No! No!” the guards roared.
“Therefore…” Zhu Zhaodi felt the moment had come, “I ask you all to follow my command for now. First, to avenge General Jin; second, for my royal father’s ascension; third, for everyone’s bright future. But none of these is most important—what’s most important is to show that father and son the might of the strongest army from the Jingnan Campaign!”
This statement instantly ignited the scene, with guards below crying out: “Fifth Prince is too kind—one word from you, and our lives are yours!”
“With General Jin severely wounded, who else should we listen to but the Prince?”
“Our entire Qingzhou Guard is at your command!”
Zhu Zhaodi felt the waves of heat he had stirred up, with waves of climactic sensation washing over him. He suddenly felt very grateful to the Crown Prince—if not for that fellow’s incompetence, he would have spent his life as the fifth son of a prince, enduring his brothers’ mockery. But now, he could control the Ming’s most elite troops, change the course of the realm, and even have a chance to become the most important piece on the board.
The Yongle Emperor was the fourth son, the Prince of Han the second son—if they could have their day of ascension, why couldn’t he, the fifth son, compete?
Zhu Zhaodi’s nostrils flared, his breathing becoming heavy. He waved to those below with near-fanatical energy: “Commanders, hear my orders! Divide the army into three forces—one to pursue the Crown Prince along the canal; they’re in a damaged ship and can’t move fast. Another force headed north directly, cutting between the capital and Tianjin, setting up defensive positions around Langfang by the Tonghui River. If you see the Crown Prince, no need to request instructions—kill him on the spot.”
“Won’t this alert local authorities?” someone worried. Such large military movements would surely attract official attention.
Zhu Zhaodi smiled: “Don’t worry, the commanders and governors in Qingzhou, Cangzhou, Tianjin, and other places are our people. Show them my token, and they’ll fully cooperate. As for any who don’t cooperate… if Royal Father wins, even if you massacre an entire government office, it will be considered an act of loyalty to the throne. The victors won’t face censure.” The other immediately understood, saluting and withdrawing.
“What about the third force?” another asked.
“I’ll personally lead the third force straight to the capital.” At this point, Zhu Zhaodi pulled something from his breast, “Let me give you all some reassurance. This item in my hand has the power to overturn heaven and earth—as long as it reaches the capital before the Crown Prince, even the highest immortals couldn’t reverse the situation.”
Under the sunlight, a brilliant gleam rose from Zhu Zhaodi’s palm, making everyone’s spirits lift.
Amid waves of shouting, the guards ran to their respective units. After a brief chaos, the Qingzhou Banner Army divided into three groups—two large and one small—heading northeast, due north, and northwest respectively. The one leading the northwestern group was Zhu Zhaodi himself. Though his body was corpulent, he sat quite nimbly on horseback, every piece of flesh quivering with excitement, like a fierce Xuan ni shaking its mane.
Among the Dragon’s nine sons, the fifth was Xuan Ni, shaped like a lion, followed by all beasts. Of the nine, only it bore the true appearance of an emperor.
A soft deerskin cloth gently brushed over the small bronze incense burner’s surface, from rim to legs, missing nothing. Dust was wiped clean wherever it touched, leaving only faint bloodstains on both sides. The deerskin rubbed heavily several more times, but the bloodstains stubbornly remained. Zhu Zhanji gently set down the incense burner, leaning heavily against the cabin wall—just that bit of wiping had left him breathless. Since jumping into the water yesterday, his body had developed a persistent fever, leaving him in a daze.
The Crown Prince put down the deerskin, struggling to place the incense burner back on the small round table when the cabin suddenly shook violently—this boat’s stability had been questionable since leaving Gelou Lock—causing the burner to slide diagonally. Zhu Zhanji’s eyes followed it, but his body couldn’t react fast enough.
Just then, Yu Qian pushed open the door, quick-handed and sharp-eyed, catching the falling bronze burner and placing it back on the table.
The ship quickly regained stability, and Yu Qian said in a reproachful tone: “Your Highness, your wounds haven’t healed—please don’t move around.”
Zhu Zhanji leaned back on the couch: “Did you bring the map?”
Yu Qian sighed, pulling out a map of the Northern Metropolitan Area from his chest. The map must have been hand-drawn by Zhang Quan—though simple, all key points were clear, even marking postal stations and horse routes.
Zhu Zhanji glanced at it: “Where’s Wu Dingyuan now?” Yu Qian leaned over, pointing north from Cangzhou’s position. The Crown Prince extended his finger, measuring the distance: “He should reach the capital either on the evening of June 1st or the morning of June 2nd?”
Yu Qian said: “Your Highness need not worry. Though Wu Dingyuan is lazy, he’s a clever one. Didn’t he force open a path to survival even in that difficult situation in Nanjing?”
“Jinling was his native ground, but the capital is different—did my uncle explain everything clearly?”
“With Zhang Hou’s arrangements, you can rest assured,” Yu Qian patiently comforted him. “Wu Dingyuan’s task isn’t complicated—he just needs to convey the message that Your Highness is alive to any high official. Just one sentence, no fighting needed.”
“If only it were that simple,” Zhu Zhanji muttered. “If something happens to that fellow, wouldn’t all my effort getting to Jinan be wasted?”
At the mention of Jinan, Yu Qian grew angry. He said seriously: “Your Highness, the next three days are both the most crucial and most dangerous. The Prince of Han will certainly stop at nothing. You absolutely cannot be as willful as you were going to Jinan—you must rest and recover!”
Zhu Zhanji glared at him irritably: “If a ruler cannot act as he wishes, what’s the point of fighting for the throne?”
Yu Qian instantly tensed—this was exactly the talk of a doomed ruler. His expression tightened, preparing to remonstrate, when he saw Zhu Zhanji chuckling.
“Y-Your Highness, a ruler’s words are no joking matter! The ‘Memorial to the Throne’ says one shouldn’t misuse analogies to block the path of honest counsel—such jokes cannot be made carelessly!” Yu Qian was greatly annoyed.
“I know, I know.” Zhu Zhanji impatiently patted the couch, unexpectedly hit by another wave of dizziness.
Yu Qian felt both concerned and angry: “What do you know… damn it! You clearly had an arrow wound but still jumped into cold water—this is simply, simply foolish nonsense!”
He accidentally let slip his Qiantang dialect. Just then, the wooden door creaked open and Su Jingxi entered, carrying medicinal supplies and a bowl of medicine. Seeing her, Yu Qian found his savior, grabbing her sleeve: “Quick, tell His Highness what trouble that jump has caused.”
Halfway through, Yu Qian suddenly realized that the Crown Prince had jumped to save this very physician—perhaps it wasn’t appropriate to ask her opinion. Su Jingxi smiled: “His Highness is blessed by heaven, Director Yu. Why are you so agitated? How will you handle ministerial duties in the future?”
This statement was criticism wrapped in praise—even Yu Qian felt slightly pleased, and in his happiness forgot about scolding the Crown Prince.
Su Jingxi first had the Crown Prince drink the medicine, then set the ointment on the round table, glancing at the small incense burner. After the Crown Prince finished the medicine, she went to the couch to check his pulse and temperature. After examination, Su Jingxi skillfully opened the right sleeve of the Crown Prince’s upper garment to change the arrow wound’s dressing. Yu Qian stood by the bed, endlessly rattling off precautions.
Zhu Zhanji lay obediently still, letting them do as they pleased. She had performed these actions countless times during their journey. But this time, Zhu Zhanji felt something was different. He couldn’t say exactly what—her technique was as gentle as ever, her attitude as kind as always, her voice as soft as usual, even that faint fragrance was the same, but something felt off.
Zhu Zhanji thought it must be due to his fever. He closed his eyes, carefully distinguishing, and quickly found the difference: her breathing.
Previously, Su Jingxi’s breathing had been very steady, focused entirely on the patient’s condition, and completely self-forgetting. But today, her breathing carried slight fluctuations—very light, but as obvious as ink spots on silk. How could someone with Su Jingxi’s level of control show such changes?
Suddenly a thought jumped into his mind: “Could it be that Dr. Su is nervous because she’s too close to me?”
Zhu Zhanji had never intended to use the water rescue to curry favor, but he did hope she would feel his sincerity. Now noticing Su Jingxi’s unusual state, he couldn’t help considering a possibility. One grows timid near home, and near feelings grows timid at heart—this is why physicians shouldn’t treat those close to them. Following this logic, could it be… could it be that seeing him caused her emotional fluctuations?
Zhu Zhanji felt his temperature surge again, his inner turbulence almost exploding. He couldn’t help moving his head slightly, happening to meet Su Jingxi’s eyes as she applied medicine.
The Crown Prince had never looked directly at Su Jingxi from such a close distance before. Those round black eyes were like two ancient wells without ripples—beneath their calm surface seemed to lie endless deeper meaning. Zhu Zhanji felt he could fall headfirst into those wells and never emerge. They maintained eye contact for several breaths before looking away. But the Crown Prince’s mood instantly plummeted to freezing point. No! When Su Jingxi had met his gaze just now, there wasn’t a trace of evasion or shyness in her eyes—just such a straightforward return of his gaze.
That was how one looks at a patient.
Zhu Zhanji suddenly said in a muffled voice: “That fellow left without saying goodbye—who knows how he’s doing now.”
“That person, once he figures things out for himself, few in the world can stop him,” Su Jingxi answered with a smile.
The Crown Prince’s expression changed—he sensed another fluctuation in Su Jingxi’s breathing. No more evidence was needed; this was enough. Yes, he hadn’t been the only one to jump into the water that day.
Zhu Zhanji had long suspected this, but getting confirmation now still made him feel as if he’d instantly returned to the Guazhou water prison. Heavy melancholy spread upward, gradually overwhelming him, but he lacked even the strength to struggle against it, nearly suffocating.
“Get out!” Zhu Zhanji suddenly shouted, startling both Su Jingxi and Yu Qian.
“Get out! Get out!” He felt his chest filled with water, wildly waving his arms. Su Jingxi tried to check his pulse, but the Crown Prince shook her off, his fierce tone nearly pleading: “I need to be alone, all of you leave, leave…”
Su Jingxi keenly sensed something, nodding slightly to Yu Qian as she began gathering her instruments. Yu Qian said uneasily: “Then… Your Highness, please rest well. I’ll report back when there’s new information.”
“Get out!” Zhu Zhanji’s voice was dry and bitter.
The two quickly left the cabin, closing the door behind them. The Crown Prince inadvertently glimpsed the bronze burner and couldn’t suppress his rage, kicking over the table. This time the small bronze burner finally fell solidly to the floor, rolling into a corner.
The ship suddenly shook violently again, causing the small cabin to tilt left and right continuously—probably something requiring increased speed had occurred. But Zhu Zhanji had no interest in this now. He lay alone on the bed, watching the small burner rolling restlessly in the corner as if trying to escape its confines. The Crown Prince’s heart alternated between wanting to get up to retrieve it and vengefully wanting to smash it, unable to decide.
The heat gradually spread to his brain—perhaps the medicine was taking effect. Zhu Zhanji felt his consciousness growing fuzzy, the small incense burner before him becoming ethereal and indistinct, its bronze patterns refracting countless scenes he had experienced, colliding back and forth in his mind. He finally couldn’t bear it, collapsing onto the bed, completely missing Zhang Quan’s shout that echoed throughout the ship: “All hands! Tack with the wind!”
Thus, on the last day of the fifth month of Hongxi’s first year, many different people, carrying different feelings, rushed toward the same city.