Rain. Heavy rain. The sky seemed to have been struck open, causing the celestial river to pour down, overwhelming heaven and earth with an unstoppable force.
Wu Dingyuan pressed his rain hat down with his right hand while his left struggled to control his horse’s slow advance. Accustomed to the endless drizzle of Jiangnan, he found himself at a loss when faced with this sudden, majestic downpour characteristic of the North.
Fortunately, they had chosen a route that was originally developed as a supply road during the Yongle Emperor’s construction of Beijing. Back then, when transporting large quantities of timber and stone from the south proved too much for the canal system, they specifically built this wide hardened earth road leading to the capital. The surface had been tamped down so firmly that even after more than a decade, it remained bare, without a single weed growing. Even in today’s heavy downpour, it maintained suitable firmness, avoiding becoming a muddy mess.
Those in a hurry to travel could at least continue moving forward in the rain, regardless of their speed.
“Is your contact living nearby?” Wu Dingyuan shouted, the raindrops nearly forcing his eyes shut. Zuo Yehe shouted back: “Not far. We’ve entered Daxing territory. Just keep heading north along the supply road.”
“This cursed rain…” Wu Dingyuan muttered irritably.
It was now the afternoon of the first day of the sixth month. They had been changing horses but not riders, taking only a day and a half to rush from Cangzhou to Daxing—an incredibly swift journey. Daxing, under the jurisdiction of Shuntian Prefecture, was the southernmost county adjacent to the capital. If not for this sudden downpour, they would have reached the capital by now.
Wu Dingyuan anxiously wiped away the rain and squinted, trying to peer through the thick curtain of rain to catch a glimpse of the great city that held so many people’s fates in balance. Unfortunately, the misty water vapor ahead obscured everything except the winding road stretching into the distance.
“Don’t worry, Master. Northern rain comes quickly but leaves just as fast. Let’s just keep moving forward—we’re almost there.”
Wu Dingyuan grunted in acknowledgment, suppressing his irritation as he shook the reins, urging his reluctant mount onward.
True to Zuo Yehe’s words, within half an hour, the rain suddenly ceased. However, leaden clouds still blanketed the sky, threatening to unleash another downpour at any moment. They continued along the supply road for about twenty li until they spotted a small village by the roadside, marked by a tilting stone tablet inscribed with three characters: “Half-Side Inn.”
This village differed from ordinary settlements. Instead of the usual peaked or tiled roofs, it consisted entirely of flat-topped, earthen-yellow warehouses, arranged in neat, densely packed rows—more resembling a storage facility than a village. The side of these warehouses facing the main road had awnings erected and signs hung, offering everything from taverns and teahouses to horse stations and physicians, though all quite rudimentary.
Zuo Yehe explained to Wu Dingyuan that this place was originally a transfer station along the supply road. After the capital’s major construction ended, the laborers, storekeepers, and their families settled here permanently, converting the warehouses into homes and forming a roadside settlement. Half of the warehouses facing the road were converted into shops serving passing merchants, while the other half became living quarters. Over time, this earned it the name “Half-Side Inn.”
Earlier, the torrential rain had forced shopkeepers to close early and bring in their stalls. But as soon as the rain stopped, doors began clattering open, and windows were thrust outward with remarkable speed as shopkeepers rehung their signs. In no time, the roadside became as lively as it would be on a sunny day, sprouting activity faster than mushrooms after rain.
Zuo Yehe was familiar with the place, moving with practiced ease. Ignoring the vendors’ calls, she headed straight for Zhou’s Horse Station. Upon entering, Wu Dingyuan noticed a statue of Maitreya Buddha seated on a white lotus throne in the walled shrine. This aligned with Zhang Quan’s strategy before their departure. With the capital’s situation unclear, rushing in would be too risky; it would be better to infiltrate quietly through the White Lotus Society’s secret network and act according to circumstances. This was why Zuo Yehe had accompanied Wu Dingyuan.
A shop assistant approached them, and when Zuo Yehe asked for the proprietor Zhou, a middle-aged man wearing a mesh headband and navy straight robe emerged. He was startled upon seeing Zuo Yehe, but after she revealed a copper lotus flower from her robes, his attitude became extremely respectful. He immediately ordered assistants to change their wet robes and led them to a quiet room in the back.
After dismissing everyone else and closing the door, he dropped to his knees: “This humble altar priest Zhou Dewen of Half-Side Inn pays respects to the Supreme Protector.”
Zuo Yehe chanted several scriptures and performed a blessing ritual before speaking: “By the Buddha Mother’s decree, I must escort this gentleman into the capital. I request Altar Priest Zhou’s meritorious assistance.”
Hearing this request, Zhou Dewen’s expression grew troubled: “You mean to go in these days?”
“The sooner the better, preferably immediately,” Zuo Yehe replied.
Zhou Dewen said, “Normally, I could help many people enter. However, strange things have been happening in the capital recently. None of us horse station operators are sending anyone into the city anymore.”
Zuo Yehe exchanged glances with Wu Dingyuan: “What kind of strange things?”
Zhou Dewen scratched his headband: “I can’t quite explain it, but all nine city gates remain closed day and night, rarely opening. Those who’ve come out say that besides the night curfew, people aren’t allowed to move freely even during the day. The Five Cities Command and Palace Guard soldiers are everywhere.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“About three or four days now.”
Wu Dingyuan frowned. Before departing, he had discussed the capital’s situation with Zhang Quan, who believed that after the Crown Prince’s assassination attempt in Nanjing on the eighteenth of the fifth month, if Emperor Hongxi remained in his half-dead state, the capital’s stalemate could hold for a while. However, if he passed away, Prince Han would surely begin pressuring officials, making the situation unpredictable.
The capital’s sudden tension indicated that palace upheaval had affected both the imperial guard and city defense, suggesting only one possibility—Emperor Hongxi had likely died. This mission’s difficulty had suddenly increased by an order of magnitude.
Zuo Yehe spoke gravely: “Regardless, we must get the gentleman into the city tonight. This concerns the Buddha Mother’s grand plan. Please, Altar Priest Zhou, think of a way.”
Upon hearing it was the Buddha Mother’s will, Zhou Dewen wrung his hands in thought before finally gritting his teeth: “Let me ask some of the old hands.” He opened the door, called over an assistant, and gave some instructions, then returned to the room to personally serve tea to his two distinguished guests.
Wu Dingyuan nodded slightly—the man was truly experienced. Since the White Lotus Society operated outside the law, if Zhou left by himself, he might be suspected of reporting to authorities. By sending someone else to gather information while staying to attend to his guests, he demonstrated his sincerity.
This thought led Wu Dingyuan to study Zhou Dewen more carefully. The man had a broad face with a square jaw and mature features, but unusually delicate eyes and brows, unlike the typical roughness of northerners. His attire suggested prosperity, making Wu Dingyuan wonder what had drawn him to the White Lotus Society.
This train of thought suddenly alarmed him—he realized he had unconsciously begun thinking like a White Lotus sect leader. Wu Dingyuan forcibly redirected his attention to the matter of entering the capital.
Zhou Dewen proved quite enthusiastic, sharing everything he knew about the capital’s situation. According to him, things had begun to feel strange in Beijing since the tenth of the fifth month. It started with the government offices and then spread to the shops, markets, taverns, and brothels. Eventually, even the beggars and idlers near Zhengyang Bridge were discussing it, and the streets began showing signs of unrest.
Most peculiar was the Five Cities Command’s lack of response—they should have stepped in to maintain order, but their offices remained tightly shut, showing no activity. The three major garrisons’ stations within the city were equally quiet, with their usually boisterous soldiers nowhere to be seen. As a result, city security had deteriorated, with theft, robbery, and fighting becoming rampant, forcing residents to stay home even during daylight hours.
This indirectly confirmed Zhang Quan’s speculation: both the imperial guard and city garrison were maintaining silent neutrality during this mysterious palace upheaval. They wouldn’t reveal their stance until a clear victor emerged.
As they conversed, the assistant returned and whispered something to Zhou Dewen. Halfway through the message, Zhou glanced outside at the sky before turning back, seemingly incredulous.
“Well, about this matter…” he struggled to find the right words.
“Not possible?” Zuo Yehe’s expression darkened.
Zhou Dewen hurriedly replied, “No, no, it’s not impossible, it’s just… how should I put this? An old hand just returned from Wanping County, and he says the capital is flooded.”
“What?” This response caught both Zuo Yehe and Wu Dingyuan completely off guard.
“With all this rain lately, that old hand says from Lugou Bridge, you can see the southwestern corner of the capital wall has collapsed from water damage, leaving a huge gap. If the outer wall is in such condition, who knows what it’s like inside?”
Wu Dingyuan asked skeptically, “Isn’t the North supposed to be dry with little rain? How could the capital be flooded?”
Zhou Dewen explained, “Sir, you wouldn’t know this, but while the North does get less rain, we often have heavy downpours from the sixth to eighth months. The capital doesn’t have as many drainage channels and culverts as Nanjing, so when a torrential rain hits, it’s prone to flooding.”
“Even so, for the city wall to collapse seems extreme,” Wu Dingyuan had seen plenty of rain in Nanjing but never anything this dramatic.
“This isn’t the first time. I remember in the fourteenth year of Yongle, we had a full day of torrential rain in the sixth month that damaged over ten li of the city wall. Ten-some pavilions, gate towers, and platforms were destroyed, and even Imperial Street was several chi deep in water—the Emperor could barely leave the palace. The post-disaster reconstruction kept me busy sourcing materials for over a year.”
Recalling that flood still made Zhou Dewen shudder. He looked up at the sky through the window and worried, “Today’s weather is exactly like that day in the sixth month of the fourteenth year. That earlier downpour was probably just the beginning. I’d advise waiting…”
“No need to wait—isn’t this timely rain perfect!” Wu Dingyuan interrupted, standing up with gleaming eyes. Since the situation was already beyond control, why not make it even more chaotic?
Zhou Dewen was stunned and about to protest further when Zuo Yehe smiled and said, “Just as we were discussing entering the city, the rain came and broke the wall—isn’t this the Buddha Mother showing her divine power? Altar Priest Zhou, just help us enter the city. Don’t worry about anything else, and you’ll have done a great service.”
Seeing his distinguished guests so determined, Zhou Dewen couldn’t insist further. He ordered his assistants to prepare a light two-shaft cart with two strong horses. After some thought, he brought several bundles of cedar planks and various digging tools from the warehouse and loaded them onto the cart. Wu Dingyuan praised him: “Truly meticulous thinking.” With the city wall’s collapse, Zhou Dewen bringing construction materials would seem perfectly natural—no one would be suspicious.
Wu Dingyuan and Zuo Yehe changed into the short hemp garments worn by horse station assistants. With Zhou Dewen driving the cart in front, the three took advantage of the brief break in the storm to set out on the supply road toward Beijing’s Xuanwu Gate.
There were hardly any tall trees in the area, just patches of mottled shrubs covering the rolling hills and roadsides. Under the abundant rainfall, white mountain plums and yellowish-green buckthorn clustered together in layers, which should have made for beautiful roadside scenery. Unfortunately, the still-gloomy sky casts a heavy lead-gray pall over these colors, adding a sense of oppression.
As they approached the capital, the road became increasingly muddy, with puddles and pools everywhere. Fortunately, Zhou Dewen was an excellent driver, and with two horses pulling the light cart, they weaved through the obstacles like a swimming fish, moving almost as fast as if they were on horseback.
Sitting in the cart, Wu Dingyuan suddenly asked, “Master Zhou, your accent suggests you’re not from around here.”
Zhou Dewen flicked his whip and looked back with a smile: “You’re right, sir. I’m originally from Jingxi County in Huizhou Prefecture.”
“Oh?” Wu Dingyuan was surprised to learn his homeland was in Southern Zhili. “How did you end up so far from home?”
Zhou Dewen gave a bitter laugh: “Sir, have you heard of the Forced Relocation to the Capital?”
Wu Dingyuan found the term familiar and tilted his head in thought: “Could it be like when Emperor Hongwu relocated wealthy households from Huaixi to Nanjing?” Back then, after Zhu Yuanzhang established his capital in Nanjing, he forcibly relocated over ten thousand wealthy households from various parts of Jianghuai to populate the capital. Wu Dingyuan’s neighbors in Nanjing were among those forced to move from Huaixi, and they never stopped complaining about it.
Zhou Dewen snorted, “Hmph, like father, like son. When Emperor Yongle moved the capital to Beijing, he did the same thing. My family was relocated from Huizhou in the seventh year of Yongle before the Grand Canal was even completed. Fortunately, we had some means and I became a ward chief, helping officials with construction supplies. That’s how I ended up putting down roots in Half-Side Inn, running this north-south transport business, occasionally able to visit Jingxi.”
He flicked his whip again and let out a long sigh, seemingly full of mixed emotions. Wu Dingyuan had wondered why someone of Zhou Dewen’s prosperity would join the White Lotus Society. Now he understood. Living peacefully at home, then suddenly ordered to relocate thousands of li away to this harsh northern land—as a stranger in a distant place, who else could they pray to for protection if not the Buddha Mother?
“They say the capital will soon move back to Nanjing. Perhaps you’ll have a chance to return,” Zuo Yehe consoled.
Zhou Dewen waved his hands frantically: “Better not. I’ve built up some wealth here, and my children are all married. Another relocation would mean starting over again.” He sighed again: “The family fields back home have all been distributed to other clan members. If we moved back now, our relatives would become enemies.”
Wu Dingyuan sighed inwardly. The logic was similar to that of the Nanjing officials—when others try to take away what you’ve claimed for yourself, anyone would resist.
“So you think the capital shouldn’t be moved?”
Zhou Dewen’s double chin quivered: “We common folk don’t understand such matters of state and military affairs. We just want peace and stability. Moving the capital, and abolishing the canal system—it all means more upheaval. When those above sneeze, we below shake for three days.”
This lack of stance was itself a stance. From Wang Ji to Zhou Dewen, from the Nanjing officials to Kong Eighteen, they’d encountered quite a few people opposed to moving the capital. It seemed the Crown Prince, even if he managed to ascend the throne, would face no shortage of troubles. Wu Dingyuan felt a touch of schadenfreude—after causing so much trouble for others, it was only fair that he should have some headaches of his own.
The cart moved swiftly, crossing Lugou Bridge around dusk and soon reaching Beijing’s outer city. By now it was completely dark, thick clouds obscuring any trace of stars or moon, while the air grew increasingly humid—another downpour could begin at any moment.
Zhou Dewen explained to his guests that Beijing was built following the patterns of Nanjing and Zhongdu Fengyang, divided into the Forbidden City, Imperial City, and Outer City. The Outer City was roughly square, with nine gates around its perimeter. They were approaching Xuanwu Gate at the southwest corner of the southern city wall, known as Shuncheng Gate during the former Yuan Dynasty.
Wu Dingyuan was surprised: “Former Yuan? There was already a city here during Yuan?”
Zhou Dewen smiled: “The entire present-day Beijing is built roughly on the site of the Yuan capital Dadu, following almost the same layout, just shifted one li south.”
Wu Dingyuan raised his head in the cart, straining to make out the outline of this great city in the darkness. Since the eighteenth of the fifth month, only one word had remained in his life: “Capital.” All his efforts, struggles, hardships, and fights revolved around this word.
As a native of Jinling, Wu Dingyuan had always been curious: what kind of city was this that could snatch the Ming Dynasty’s most glorious title from Jinling’s hands?
Unfortunately, the lighting was too poor at the moment. He could barely make out a tall, dim gate tower ahead—this must be the Xuanwu Gate Zhou Dewen mentioned. Centered on this six-zhang-high watchtower, thick city walls about three zhang high extended like mountain ranges to either side. In terms of scale alone, it indeed surpassed Jinling.
However, about four hundred paces to the left of the gate tower, the shadow of the wall suddenly dropped away, as if a dog had taken a bite out of it. A few lanterns flickered there, and faint crying could be heard—this must be where the wall had collapsed today.
Zhou Dewen craned his neck to look in that direction, shaking his head repeatedly with sighs. He explained to his guests that this section had collapsed because, during the construction of Xuanwu Gate, they had added a layer of bricks over the Yuan Dynasty’s rammed earth wall. The brick and earth didn’t bond well, so when large amounts of rain seeped in, it caused problems.
“There were several houses below this wall. I warned them not to build there, but everyone took the easy way out and didn’t listen. Now, I’m afraid none of the residents survived…” Zhou Dewen’s voice was full of anguish.
As they spoke, the cart reached the city gate. Zhou Dewen dismounted and spoke with the guard soldiers, suddenly becoming agitated. Wu Dingyuan cautiously touched the iron ruler at his waist, calculating how to break through if they were exposed.
However, the soldiers didn’t arrest Zhou Dewen. Instead, they lazily moved aside the defensive barriers, clearing a path into the city. Zhou Dewen returned with a grave face and drove the cart through the pitch-black gate tunnel into the city. The cart stopped at the first intersection.
“This is as far as I can take you,” Zhou Dewen said apologetically, clasping his hands.
Zuo Yehe frowned: “What’s wrong? Do you have other business?”
Zhou Dewen pointed toward the collapsed section of wall, his lips trembling: “I just asked the guards—as I feared, five houses and a night watch post with over a dozen people are trapped underneath. But those gate guards, just a few hundred paces away, refuse to help with the rescue. They say their superiors strictly ordered them not to leave their posts—it’s inhuman!”
Zhou Dewen’s eyes welled with tears as he continued: “I’ve seen many collapses. If we dig quickly, we might still save many lives. The guards ignore their dying neighbors, and now only a few relatives and neighbors who heard the news are trying to dig in the dark rain. Another downpour is coming—how can these weak, old, and sick people rescue anyone in time? They might get trapped themselves. Having seen this, I cannot turn a blind eye, or I’d shame the Buddha Mother’s teachings.”
As Zuo Yehe started to speak, Wu Dingyuan stopped her: “I understand. Go save them, Altar Priest Zhou. We can manage from here.”
Extremely grateful, Zhou Dewen bowed with clasped hands. He voluntarily unhitched the two shaft horses from the light cart and handed over the rain hats, oil cloaks, and lanterns to his two guests. “May I ask where you’re headed?”
Zuo Yehe replied: “Wansong Elder’s Pagoda.” She didn’t specify whom they were meeting, maintaining some caution.
Zhou Dewen knew Beijing extremely well and replied without hesitation: “Follow this street north from inside Xuanwu Gate. You’ll first see a single-arch memorial gate marked ‘Zhanyun.’ Cross Imperial Street—that’s Chang’an Street—then continue north along West Market Street for two li. You’ll see a four-arch gate, marked ‘Xingyi’ on the east and ‘Lüren’ on the west—very distinctive. Wansong Elder’s Pagoda is just south of the gate.”
After giving directions, he hurriedly bid farewell and rushed to help at the collapse site. Zuo Yehe glanced at Wu Dingyuan: “You’re quite the kind soul, Sect Leader.”
Wu Dingyuan replied: “For our next moves, the fewer who know, the better. Even if he hadn’t left, I would have found a reason to send him away.”
Zuo Yehe laughed softly: “Sect Leader, you’re quite skilled at making excuses.”
They mounted their horses and rode north.
Beijing’s street layout differed from Jinling’s. A wide, straight road ran north-south, with buildings arranged in neat rows on either side, spaced uniformly to create deep east-west alleyways. These lanes and streets intersected like a Go board—clearly the result of unified planning. Though lacking Jinling’s natural feel, its orderliness carried its own imposing presence.
However, in terms of prosperity, it couldn’t compare to Jinling. Vegetation along the streets and alleys was sparse, with only occasional short pines and sophora trees, nothing like the lush greens and reds of Chengxian Street. The storefronts were far less dense than the markets of Sanshan Street and Doumen Bridge, all bearing the same appearance—orderly but monotonous, lacking human warmth.
After all, this city had only been completed in the eighteenth year of Yongle, and everything was still developing. It takes decades for a city to cultivate a rich cultural atmosphere.
Following Zhou Dewen’s directions, they headed north, crossed Chang’an Street, and soon arrived at the West Four-Arch Gate. Turning slightly, they saw Wansong Elder’s Pagoda. The pagoda stood among low buildings, built by Yuan Dynasty minister Yelü Chucai in honor of his teacher, Zen Master Wansong. Constructed entirely of large gray bricks, it was an octagonal structure with dense eaves, rising seven stories high, its design simple yet dignified.
In terms of size, it certainly couldn’t compare to the pagodas of Jiming Temple or Great Mercy Temple. However, tonight’s gathering dark clouds seemed to press down on the city, making this brick pagoda appear particularly tall, like a great pillar piercing the dark clouds.
“Something’s strange,” Wu Dingyuan looked around, sensing an indescribable atmosphere.
It was past early night watch, when city residents should have been asleep. Yet he could sense that many people in the darkened houses were still awake, with occasional sounds and movements. Sometimes shadows would flash by, quickly disappearing into street corners and alley ends.
Zuo Yehe took out a fire striker and lit their lantern, its dim light illuminating their surroundings. The muddy road was strewn with debris—brooms, spindles, satchels, broken pots, and even a patched green undergarment snake-like wrapped around a half-buried drying pole. Wu Dingyuan brought the lantern closer and noticed a clear water mark on the base of the earthen walls, over two chi above ground level.
Today’s heavy rain had accumulated more than two chi of water in this area. Though the water had receded, the dark clouds remained. If another downpour came, this area would likely flood again—no wonder the residents couldn’t sleep peacefully.
Wu Dingyuan and Zuo Yehe both sighed in relief—at least it wasn’t an official ambush. They casually tied their horses to a small tree in front of Wansong Pagoda, then slipped into the brick hutong beside it. Zuo Yehe had earlier explained to Wu Dingyuan that “hutong” was a Tartar word for what they called alleys in Jiangnan. This hutong was as narrow as a chive leaf, its sides pressing close, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. After about fifty paces, they saw a small courtyard house on the right.
The courtyard’s door frame was plain and unadorned, with only a pair of bright brass tiger-head door rings catching the eye. When Zuo Yehe grabbed a ring to knock, it unexpectedly triggered some mechanism. First came a creaking sound from inside, followed by a lingering jingle of brass bells echoing through the dark hutong.
Zuo Yehe jumped in surprise, instinctively pulling back her hand. Wu Dingyuan gripped his iron ruler tightly, looking left and right, worried the noise might attract onlookers. Then a voice came from behind the door: “Who is it?”
Though male, the voice was rather high-pitched, with an abruptly cut-off ending that suggested a foreign accent. Zuo Yehe said: “Marquis Zhang of Qiaojun sends regards to Master Ruan An.” After a moment of silence, the door opened halfway with a clang, revealing a face.
The man appeared to be in his early thirties, but had strange features: a pointed chin, thick lips, yellow complexion without facial hair, and eyes like thin slits that were hard to tell if they were open or closed. Wu Dingyuan took out a letter from his chest—Zhang Quan’s personal writing, carefully wrapped in old paper and a layer of waterproof oilcloth.
Ruan An read the letter, then pushed the door open a bit wider. He was extremely short in stature—at first glance, one might mistake him for a child. As Wu Dingyuan stepped over the threshold, he noticed that when Ruan An’s hand left the door, it automatically slammed shut with a bang, causing him to exclaim in surprise.
“It’s just ox sinew twisted behind the door, using its torsion,” Ruan An explained flatly, leading them into the courtyard with his hands behind his back.
The courtyard scene completely defied Wu Dingyuan and Zuo Yehe’s expectations. Usually, officials’ courtyards would display flower pools, fish tanks, and ornamental rocks and plants, or at least some screens, rattan chairs, and lanterns. But this small courtyard was packed full of architectural models, with nothing else in sight.
In construction, craftsmen first build small-scale models to verify designs before scaling up for actual construction—these were called “xiaoyangzi” (small samples). But Wu Dingyuan had never seen so many models gathered in one place.
All were made of pearwood, representing halls, pavilions, memorial gates, and altars, each crafted with exquisite detail. Every beam, pillar, cabinet, architrave, and rafter was complete, down to the finest details of facing boards and eave decorations. They ranged from palm-sized to half a table-top in scale, as if half of Beijing had been miniaturized here, creating a dazzling display.
Zuo Yehe praised: “Just as Marquis Zhang said, Master Ruan’s hands truly rival heaven’s craftsmanship.”
Ruan An remained expressionless, merely gesturing with his sleeve: “The city is severely flooded today. These items cannot withstand water damage, so I moved them all to the courtyard. Please forgive the lack of space.” His tone was almost monotonous, as if reading from a script.
Wu Dingyuan deliberately said: “No need for courtesy, Master. With such heavy rain, even immortals couldn’t help.”
Hearing this, Ruan An’s narrow eyes opened slightly: “What do you mean immortals couldn’t help? If they had followed my original plan to install nine sluice gates at the nine city gates, connecting the moat from northwest to southeast, how could it flood like this?”
Wu Dingyuan and Zuo Yehe exchanged glances, secretly amused. Just as Zhang Quan had said, with this eunuch, one need only bring up construction matters to get him talking.
Master Ruan An wasn’t from Central Plains but from Jiaozhi (northern Vietnam). In early Yongle years, when Duke of Ying Zhang Fu pacified Annam, he brought back several young boys to serve in the palace, including Ruan An. Ruan An showed remarkable ingenuity, especially in construction techniques. He could calculate measurements by eye alone, never failing to meet specifications, becoming a renowned craftsman in the palace. The Yongle Emperor greatly appreciated Ruan An, even appointing him as Construction Bureau Supervisor to participate in building the new Beijing city and canal system—an exceptional honor. The famous Pavilion Lock was his masterpiece.
According to Zhang Quan, Ruan An had one obsession: he was completely devoted to construction techniques, caring for nothing else. Palace staff nicknamed him the “Wooden Fool.” Even if Prince Han bribed every official in Beijing, he wouldn’t think of this person. For Wu Dingyuan’s group, staying with Ruan An was their safest option.
They navigated around the models to enter the back room. The furnishings were extremely simple, with mortise and tenon joints of various sizes scattered around the bed and windows. Zhang Quan was right—this eunuch’s mind was entirely on woodwork and masonry, barely attending to his own living conditions.
“Why did Zhang Quan send you to me? What do you need made?” Ruan An asked directly.
Wu Dingyuan said: “Master Ruan, are you aware of recent palace events?”
“You mean the forced halt to construction of the Three Great Halls?”
In the fourth month of Yongle’s nineteenth year, the palace’s Fengtian, Jinshen, and Huagai Halls were struck by lightning and caught fire, burning almost to ruins—a massive loss still under repair. Ruan An, a palace eunuch, knew nothing of the political upheaval, thinking first of the Three Halls’ restoration project—truly reaching new heights of obsession. Wu Dingyuan contained his surprise: “Can you think of nothing else?”
“The former emperor’s decree to me was to restore the Three Halls quickly. No other orders were given.”
Zuo Yehe said: “The current emperor is gravely ill—surely you know of such important news?”
Ruan An slightly furrowed his brow: “I might have heard something about that.” He seemed to struggle with understanding, then clapped his hands, “Oh, that’s why all the side gates of the Forbidden City are sealed and materials and craftsmen can’t enter—so that’s the reason.”
“Uh…” Wu Dingyuan and Zuo Yehe exchanged glances, momentarily speechless. Throughout history, eunuchs had been both loyal and treacherous, but someone as obtuse as Ruan An was truly unprecedented.
They had hoped to learn palace details from him, but that seemed hopeless now. Zuo Yehe tried a different approach: “Given the urgent situation, could Master Ruan arrange for us to enter the palace?” If they could contact Empress Zhang, their mission to reach Beijing would be complete.
Ruan An shook his head repeatedly: “Didn’t I say? All the Forbidden City’s side gates are closed. I can’t even inspect the Three Halls’ construction site—how could I bring you in?”
Wu Dingyuan sighed, seeing that Ruan An still didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation. He decided to be more explicit, starting with the Crown Prince’s ship explosion and concisely explaining the plot between the two capitals.
After listening, Ruan An’s eyes went blank, and he stood muttering: “How is it possible, how is it possible, did you see it yourself?”
“Yes, I experienced it personally.”
Ruan An excitedly grabbed Wu Dingyuan’s sleeve: “Then tell me, how many jin of sulfur powder was used, and where was it placed to split the entire treasure ship in half?”
“…”
Wu Dingyuan was utterly defeated. After hearing about the two capitals’ conspiracy, this craftsman’s primary concern was the technical details of the ship explosion. Ruan An turned and pulled out an elaborate wooden model of a treasure ship from under his bed, asking Wu Dingyuan for more specific details about the blast.
He pushed Ruan An away in disgust, staring at the eunuch as if at an idiot, inwardly cursing Zhang Quan. Zhang had said the man was somewhat simple, but he hadn’t expected this level of obtuseness—even a flagpole would show more flexibility. Then Zuo Yehe’s eyes lit up, and she mysteriously asked Ruan An: “Do you know the real reason the Three Halls’ construction was stopped?”
“Hmm?” Hearing this topic, Ruan An quickly put down the ship model.
“After Prince Han usurps the throne, he plans to move the capital back to Nanjing. Once the emperor is in Nanjing, the north won’t need so many palaces—why bother repairing them?”
Hearing this, Ruan An’s eyes widened: “Then, in Nanjing, will they build new ones?”
“Nanjing’s palace complex is already there—why build more?”
“What about this city?”
“It will be abandoned. The Three Halls won’t need building, the walls won’t need repairs, the north-south canal can be stopped, and those locks and gates can just be filled in and buried,” Zuo Yehe said with a straight face, gambling that Ruan An was so disconnected from outside affairs that he wouldn’t know who had ordered the capital’s relocation.
Sure enough, Ruan An became agitated: “That’s impossible! How can they just abandon everything after spending so much time building it?”
Zuo Yehe seized the opportunity: “If Prince Han usurps the throne, the capital will move and the canal will be abandoned. But if the Crown Prince ascends, none of this will happen—he’s a reasonable person.”
“The Three Halls can continue construction?”
“If the Crown Prince successfully takes the throne.”
“And the canal won’t be abandoned?”
“If Prince Han loses.”
“Can the nine gates get their nine locks?”
“If you can get us into the Forbidden City to meet Empress Zhang.”
Ruan An suddenly grew suspicious: “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Zuo Yehe’s breath caught—this fool was clear-headed at the wrong moment.
Before she could answer, lightning flashed outside, briefly turning the courtyard snow-white, followed by a muffled thunder. The heavy rain, which had paused for several hours, began pouring again. This downpour was even more ferocious, forming thick curtains of rain almost instantly.
Ruan An quickly rose to cover his models with a large oilcloth. Wu Dingyuan expressionlessly stepped on one corner of the cloth. When Ruan An couldn’t pull it free, he turned back angrily: “What are you doing?”
“Preventing you from going outside.”
“Lift your foot! Those models can’t get wet—they’ll be ruined!”
Wu Dingyuan held Ruan An’s head, preventing him from moving.
“You!” Ruan An’s eyes blazed as he tried to push past Wu Dingyuan. But he was too short to budge him. As the rain grew heavier, he paced anxiously like a mother cat separated from her kittens, eventually collapsing to the ground, nearly crying.
Wu Dingyuan crouched beside him, speaking gently: “You want to rush out to save them, right?”
Ruan An nodded painfully.
“We’re just like you—we also have people we want to save, people we’d risk our lives for without hesitation. So you understand, don’t you? If you don’t help us enter the Forbidden City, we can’t save them, and you can’t save your models. See, we’re like two facing boards on the same rafter—we’ll fall together.”
Ruan An said helplessly: “But I can’t enter the Forbidden City! The guards have collected all the passes.”
“Maybe we can’t enter through official channels. But I suggest you think creatively—after all, you built all of Beijing.” Wu Dingyuan patted his shoulder, pushing the door open slightly to show the delicate models being drenched in the rain.
“We’ll do anything to save our people, and I’m sure you can too,” he said, his tone unusually gentle.
The Three Great Halls of Beijing were renowned throughout the Ming Empire, their fame reaching even Wu Dingyuan in his seclusion in Nanjing. Their notoriety stemmed from a strange fire disaster. After Zhu Di moved the capital to Beijing, he built the Fengtian, Jinshen, and Huagai Halls within the Forbidden City, following Nanjing’s imperial city pattern, for court ceremonies and rituals. All three halls had multiple eaves and layers, nine bays wide and five deep. The largest, Fengtian Hall, was thirty zhang wide and fifteen zhang deep—truly magnificent and awe-inspiring.
Construction of these three halls began in the fifteenth year of Yongle and was completed in the eighteenth year. However, on the gengzi day of the fourth month in Yongle’s nineteenth year, a massive lightning bolt struck the chiwen (dragon fish) ornament atop Fengtian Hall. Ironically, the chiwen was meant to ward off fire, yet it became the first victim of this lightning strike. The fire spread from Fengtian Hall to Jinshen and Huagai Halls, burning so intensely that no one could approach, let alone attempt to extinguish it. The fire burned for an entire day, reducing all three halls to ashes.
The Three Great Halls symbolized imperial legitimacy, and their destruction by natural disasters sparked much public discussion. Rumors spread suggesting that Emperor Yongle’s usurpation of his nephew’s throne had angered Heaven. Though Zhu Di was furious at this, he could do nothing except urge the Ministry of Works to rebuild quickly to silence such talk.
Unfortunately, the Three Great Halls were so massive that they remained unfinished when Emperor Yongle died. His successor, Emperor Hongxi, was intent on moving the capital back to Nanjing, even adding the prefix “temporary” to all government office names. Naturally, he was reluctant to pour more money into this bottomless pit, though filial duty demanded some continued construction. The massive restoration project for the Three Great Halls had progressed little—only the fire-prevention corridors on either side of Fengtian Hall were near completion. Originally, Fengtian Hall had diagonal corridors extending east and west; during the great fire, these corridors had become like two red dragons, spreading flames to the other two halls. Therefore, in the early stages of reconstruction, the Ministry of Works decided to rebuild these corridors first, not as they were, but with fire prevention measures.
Specifically, every twenty zhang along the corridors, they built walls of fire-resistant bricks to prevent fire from spreading. Additionally, they dug water channels on the inner side of the corridors to contain fires. To maintain flowing water, these channels needed to connect with the inner Golden Water River, linking to the North Sea Imperial Pool at the Forbidden City’s northwest corner.
This required workers to excavate riverbanks, dredge channels, lay clay pipes, and refill—a significant project still incomplete.
“So… if you want to enter the Forbidden City, there’s only one way: dive into the North Sea pool, swim southeast to the northwest corner tower. Under the east wall is a sluice gate, usually locked with iron bars. However, for the fire prevention corridor’s water channel construction, they dug a temporary passage that hasn’t been filled in yet. It’s just sealed with mud bricks mixed with straw—quite soft. If you can find this passage, you can enter the Forbidden City, but…”
“Just tell us the last part, Ruan An,” Wu Dingyuan interrupted. “Why all that useless background?”
“How can you understand the passage’s origin without knowing about the Three Halls’ fire?” Ruan An replied earnestly.
“We’re not at the Imperial Academy! Who cares about origins—we just need to get in!” Wu Dingyuan struck the rim of his rain hat, gazing at the vast dark water before them.
They stood on a seven-arched stone bridge inside Xian Gate, called the Golden Sea Bridge, spanning the middle of the North Sea pool. The water north of the bridge was called the “North Sea,” and the south “Middle Sea.” On the Middle Sea’s eastern shore rose the Forbidden City’s imposing western wall.
But now they could see nothing from the bridge, as the rain had intensified to a torrential downpour over Beijing, creating layers of water curtains that made even breathing difficult. Yet this heavy rain was fortunate—it had driven the wall guards and street patrols indoors. Otherwise, they’d have been arrested before reaching Xian Gate.
By now it was the early hours of the second day of the sixth month, less than a day until the third, and Wu Dingyuan was still three hundred paces from the Forbidden City.
“Alright, quickly—where’s this passage?”
Ruan An sneezed softly and pointed under the bridge: “Enter the water here at Golden Sea Bridge, swim southeast about a hundred paces until you see a Taihu rock. Below the shoreline near the rock is the sluice gate. Six chi below the right side of the sluice is the temporary construction passage, sealed with mud bricks. But you’ll need to feel carefully underwater—when you find straight brick edges, that’s it.”
Though confused about worldly affairs, he was extremely precise about construction matters. Wu Dingyuan gripped a lotus-topped pillar: “The Forbidden City is huge—we don’t know where Empress Zhang is. You’re coming with us.” Ruan An was shocked. Guiding them to the Golden Sea Bridge was already taboo; entering the Forbidden City would be a capital offense.
“But…”
Zuo Yehe, sensing his hesitation, gripped his shoulder: “We’re going to support the Crown Prince. If he succeeds, you’ll share the merit—all future construction will be yours to oversee. If we can’t get in and the dynasty changes, you might lose even your Construction Bureau position.”
Ruan An grew anxious, trying to explain further. Wu Dingyuan urged: “Let’s do this while conditions are good.”
With those words, he slid down the bridge slope and plunged into the water without hesitation. Ruan An panicked, crying “Ah… ah!” as Zuo Yehe pushed him in from behind.
Though it was June, the Middle Sea waters were still cool. Ruan An splashed about frantically before reluctantly swimming southeast, with the other two following closely. Having participated in Beijing’s construction, Ruan An knew the Forbidden City area’s distances and elevations perfectly. Soon they found the Taihu rock half-resting on the shore. The rock embodied the essence of Taihu stone qualities—lean, hollow, transparent, and wrinkled—like autumn clouds over mountains, with countless variations, cleverly concealing the sluice gate beneath, almost impossible to spot without careful observation.
As Ruan An had said, the sluice entrance was firmly blocked by thumb-thick iron bars, impossible to move. Wu Dingyuan took a deep breath and dove to feel below the sluice but found only cold stone walls—the stone platform beneath the sluice channel. He couldn’t find the mud bricks Ruan An mentioned.
Ruan An said: “It’s below the sluice—don’t miscalculate the depth, the water level has risen.” He pointed to the bridge supports, where the water was visibly rising rapidly, approaching one zhang.
Wu Dingyuan snapped: “Who’d calculate all that—just feel around blindly!”
Ruan An replied seriously: “A slight error leads to great deviation. How can you find the entrance without calculating?”
Wu Dingyuan wanted to push Ruan An underwater, but the short man might drown before reaching the bottom. Having no choice, he relaxed. Ruan An closed his eyes, calculating briefly: “At your height, count to seven while sinking—that should be about right.”
“Such nonsense…” Wu Dingyuan muttered but followed Ruan An’s instructions and dove again. Counting to seven, he reached out and suddenly felt something different—slightly soft and sticky. His spirits lifted as he spread his fingers and grabbed hard, then quickly surfaced. Rubbing his fingers, he found black mud residue.
“That should be it,” Ruan An confirmed.
Wu Dingyuan dove a third time, now using his feet to kick the wall forcefully. When he ran out of breath, he surfaced for air and then continued kicking. After five attempts, on his sixth dive, his kick met less resistance—a circular passage seemed to have collapsed, with a slight suction below as bubbles gurgled up.
Seeing the bubbles, Ruan An exclaimed “Success! Success!” then remembered he’d been coerced and quickly deflated. Zuo Yehe found him amusing and patted his head: “Good, let’s go down.”
Ruan An gestured frantically: “This tunnel runs three hundred paces under the wall to the inner Golden Water River. Now that the seal is broken, it’s completely flooded. To cross, you’d need to hold your breath for one hundred fifty zhang—I can’t hold it that long, I’ll surely drown halfway!”
Zuo Yehe’s expression froze: “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“Every time I tried, you interrupted me!”
Wu Dingyuan knew Ruan An wasn’t exaggerating. Such a narrow, dark tunnel would be difficult enough to crawl through dry—now it was water-filled. Moreover, they didn’t know how the other end was sealed or if they could break through in time. One mistake meant drowning. Swimming, he noticed Zuo Yehe’s unnatural expression. Despite her cleverness, she lacked training—attempting the hundred-zhang underwater tunnel would be suicide. Yet with the Sect Leader present, how could she retreat?
Wu Dingyuan pondered briefly, then said: “I’ll go explore first.”
Zuo Yehe started: “Sect Leader, alone? That won’t do!”
Wu Dingyuan replied: “The tunnel’s too narrow—more people won’t help. Keep pressing Ruan An, there might be another way. We have less than a day left, we can’t delay.”
Zuo Yehe understood his meaning: “Sect Leader if you let me go, I won’t refuse.”
Wu Dingyuan stared at her: “I said I’d resolve everything in Beijing, but not now.”
“But…”
“I have another task for you,” Wu Dingyuan said.
“Hmm?” Zuo Yehe was puzzled—what could be more important than this?
“What your White Lotus Society does best.”
Wu Dingyuan whispered something in her ear, then turned and took a deep breath before sinking underwater.
In that instant, the rain’s sound vanished, replaced by muffled flowing. Wu Dingyuan felt the tunnel walls with both arms, pressed gently to turn sideways, and entered the pitch-black passage.
The tunnel was wider than expected, its walls uneven—perfect for guidance. He carefully controlled his breathing to conserve air, moving forward into the darkness, unconsciously reminded of the gate tunnel at Nanjing’s Zhengyang Gate.
In that dark, narrow gate tunnel, Wu Dingyuan had first sensed an omen-like sign: an obscure past, an unclear future, life hanging by a thread amid crushing pressure. Though a thousand li separated the two capitals, here in the tunnel beneath the Forbidden City, he felt an almost identical destiny stirring.
No, there was one difference.
This time, Wu Dingyuan’s heart had an anchor, firmly holding him in the darkness, preventing him from losing direction in the turbulent flow. Even in this cramped tunnel, he knew clearly where to go and what to do.
Wu Dingyuan moved steadily forward, using their hands and feet, and focused entirely on his task without hesitation or uncertainty. Just as his lungs were nearly empty, a wall appeared ahead. Feeling it, the texture was similar to the mud brick wall at the entrance. This must be the tunnel’s end.
Wu Dingyuan struck it hard with his fist, but the wall didn’t budge. He collected himself and struck with his elbow, still with no effect. Probably because this mud brick wall was inside the Forbidden City, the craftsmen had been especially thorough.
A deadly predicament.
Wu Dingyuan remained calm. With his anchor of purpose, he had to find a way out of this deadly situation. Steadying himself, he felt along both sides until he found water weeds growing from between the bricks.
In his youth, Wu Dingyuan often swam in the Qinhuai River, searching for trinkets dropped by pleasure boat patrons. These items buried deep in river mud, were difficult to retrieve. But children had their methods – they would pull nearby water weeds, which would bring up clumps of riverbed mud with their roots, creating gaps that made treasure hunting easier.
This habit had earned him many beatings from his father. Iron Lion would strike him while scolding him that he was not only risking his life but also treating others’ property as his own. “You come from a respectable family,” he’d say, “such behavior disgraces our family tradition.” Now thinking back, the family tradition Wu Buping spoke of protecting might not have been the Wu family’s at all.
This thought brought warmth to Wu Dingyuan despite the cold river water. Without dwelling on it, he yanked hard on the water weeds, pulling them up by their roots and creating a deep groove in the mud brick seam. Then, gripping the edges of the crack, he used his last reserves of strength to pull himself through.
One pull, two pulls, three pulls – suddenly Wu Dingyuan felt the brick give way, wrenched loose by sheer force.
Just as Ruan An had said, the workers had merely sealed the passage with mud bricks mixed with dried grass, sufficient to keep water out but not to withstand such forceful pulling. As one brick fell, the entire wall began to collapse. Wu Dingyuan’s spirit surged as he expelled the last air from his lungs and, ignoring his darkening vision, swam diagonally upward with all his might.
Just as he felt his limit approaching, buoyancy thrust his body through the surface, returning him to the world of the living.
The rain outside remained magnificent, but Wu Dingyuan had never felt such relief. He splashed to the shore, gulping air mixed with rain, heedless of his choking throat. Only after his limbs regained strength did he slowly rise and survey his surroundings. There wasn’t much to see – darkness still dominated, interrupted by sheets of rain. The Inner Golden Water River had risen far above its normal level, nearly flooding the pathway along its banks. By occasional flashes of lightning, Wu Dingyuan could barely make out a massive structure nearby, its outline towering and ornate, like a giant shadowy Kuafu.
Ruan An had previously explained that the inner court of the Forbidden City was divided into four parts: the central area contained the Qianqing, Jiaotai, and Kunning Palaces, where the Emperor and Empress resided; to the left and right were the Eastern and Western Six Palaces housing the imperial concubines; and in the outer area were the Outer Eastern and Outer Western sections. The Outer Eastern contained the Xiefang Hall where princes lived, while the Outer Western included the Xianxi Hall for the Empress Dowager and the Longxi Hall for Buddhist ceremonies.
The Inner Golden Water River ran between the Outer Western route and the city wall. Wu Dingyuan quickly recognized that the nearest building must be the Xianxi Hall. However, this hall stood empty, as Emperor Yongle’s Empress Renxiao Wen had passed away early. To reach the Kunning Palace, he would need to travel northeast from Xianxi Hall, passing through the Yangxin Hall and Western Six Palaces. Besides the Emperor himself, no uncastrated man had ever walked this path.
Fortunately, the torrential rain and thunder had stripped the magnificent Ming inner court to mere black-and-white shadows. Not just the imperial guards, but even the eunuchs and palace maids had retreated indoors, leaving the vast inner court deserted. Even if someone did peek out, they couldn’t possibly distinguish a fleeting shadow in the rainy night.
However, the Forbidden City was immense, its buildings densely packed, with countless palace walls and corridors interwoven in complexity. Even with Ruan An’s precise directions, it took Wu Dingyuan a full hour to finally approach the warming pavilion east of the Kunning Palace, miraculously without alerting anyone.
The warming pavilion, used only in winter, now had its main door firmly locked. Fortunately, beneath it lay a fire passage with a furnace mouth under the hall, used for burning coal for heat. Wu Dingyuan crouched to enter, disregarding the coal dust that covered him, and lay flat.
The adjacent Kunning Palace was dark, without candlelight or sound – the Empress and her attendants must be asleep. Though Wu Dingyuan came to deliver news, not to assassinate, barging into the Empress’s chambers seemed inappropriate. Uncertain whether Prince Han’s people were among the Empress’s attendants, he decided to observe first – and catch his breath, as the previous exertion had thoroughly exhausted him.
He lay there for over an hour. Near dawn, he finally heard movement.
A young palace maid carrying a chamber pot walked toward the warming pavilion. By custom, used night pots with their offensive odors had to be placed in the outer corner by morning, for cleaning maids to remove. But with today’s heavy rain, this maid didn’t want to bother with an umbrella and planned to leave the pot beneath the warming pavilion before turning back.
Suddenly, a dark figure grabbed her throat from behind. The maid froze in terror, nearly dropping the pot. Wu Dingyuan dragged her to a corner by the warming pavilion and whispered, “Is Empress Zhang sleeping inside?” The young maid shook her head vigorously.
“Not there? Then is she in the Jiaotai Palace or Qianqing Palace?”
The maid kept shaking her head.
Wu Dingyuan frowned – this was strange. In the middle of the night, during such heavy rain, where could Empress Zhang be? He loosened his arm slightly: “If you scream, I’ll cut your throat.” The maid trembled like sifting chaff but obediently closed her mouth. Wu Dingyuan asked, “Where is she now?”
“Uh… uh…” The maid’s expression turned peculiar. Under Wu Dingyuan’s pressure, she finally whispered, “Meridian Gate…”
This answer thoroughly surprised Wu Dingyuan. The Meridian Gate, the main southern entrance to the Forbidden City, was where the Emperor issued edicts, hosted banquets, distributed calendars, presented captives, and arranged ceremonial guards. It stood separated from the inner court by the Three Great Halls. Even with Emperor Hongxi’s death, Empress Zhang should be maintaining vigil at the Qianqing Palace – why would she go to the Meridian Gate so early?
“Is she alone?”
“The Duke of Ying is there, and several Grand Secretaries… ah, yes, and Prince Han, Prince Xiangxian, and Prince Yue,” the maid answered.
The Duke of Ying was the noble Zhang Fu, and those Grand Secretaries were the “bearers of destiny” Zhang Quankou had mentioned. Add to that Prince Han, Empress Zhang, and the Crown Prince’s two blood brothers – all the main players had assembled. What grand play was about to unfold? Wu Dingyuan felt both amazed and curious. But this little maid knew little more, and there was no point in further questioning.
“Looks like I need to head south then.”
Wu Dingyuan sighed. This was all Ruan An’s fault – if he had paid just a bit more attention to palace changes, Wu wouldn’t have had to swim into the inner court with such difficulty; he could have gone directly to the Meridian Gate in the south.
The most direct route from the inner court to the Meridian Gate was straight south. The Forbidden City’s main buildings all sat along the central meridian line, from the Divine Military Gate in the north through the Kunning Palace, then the Jiaotai and Qianqing Palaces and the Three Great Halls, continuing to the Gate of Supreme Harmony, Meridian Gate, First Gate, and Gate of Heavenly Peace, all in one straight line.
But Wu Dingyuan couldn’t take this route.
If Empress Zhang, Prince Han, and all those high officials were gathered at the Meridian Gate, one could imagine how strict the security would be along the way. Even in this downpour, sneaking in from the north would be nearly impossible.
He closed his eyes, struggling to recall Ruan An’s introduction, hoping to find a more suitable path. After a while, Wu Dingyuan opened his eyes, grabbed the maid’s arm, and demanded fiercely: “Girl, do you know the way to the Imperial Ancestral Temple?” The Imperial Ancestral Temple was where emperors made sacrifices to ancestors, its Offering Hall housing the spirit tablets of past emperors, flanked by those of royal clan members and meritorious officials – the most solemn place in the Forbidden City. It stood precisely at the southeast corner of the Meridian Gate.
As a sacred site for ceremonies, it normally prohibited casual entry and would be deserted at this hour, surely with relaxed security. Wu Dingyuan decided to first enter the Imperial Ancestral Temple, then circle back to the Meridian Gate, certainly avoiding the heavy guards to approach Empress Zhang. As for desecrating the Ming ancestors’ shrine – well, he’d already invaded the imperial harem, one more crime hardly mattered. The maid truthfully described the route, which Wu Dingyuan memorized before knocking her unconscious, dragging her into the fire passage, and binding her. He looked out at the heavy rain, sighed, gritted his teeth, and plunged back into the curtain of water.
The journey ahead presented Wu Dingyuan with a completely new adventure. Like a lone wolf lost in a maze, he struggled through the depths of the Forbidden City. Sometimes passing under corridors, slipping past hall corners, circling wells and pavilions, he moved like a wandering ghost.
Though morning had arrived, the pouring rain became Wu Dingyuan’s best protection – even the magnificent and imposing palace buildings couldn’t impede his movement.
Perhaps heaven rewards the determined, or perhaps it was blind luck. By the hour between Yin and Mao, he actually reached the Imperial Ancestral Temple. The temple guards were few and like blind men in the rain. Wu Dingyuan easily scaled the wall, and looking up, found his path blocked by a massive building.
The Offering Hall had arrived.
As the heart of the Imperial Ancestral Temple, the Offering Hall housed the imperial ancestors’ tablets. The hall was extremely spacious, twenty zhang wide and ten zhang high, sitting atop three levels of white marble Buddhist-style platforms, making it the tallest building in both the Forbidden City and the entire capital, commanding in its grandeur.
Wu Dingyuan circled the Offering Hall inside and out, fortunately finding a wooden ladder used for repairs nearby. He climbed the golden silk nanmu beams, stepped across glazed thin tiles, and quickly ascended along a ridge to the hall’s highest point. Though rolling clouds and endless rain still dominated the sky above, the night had given way to day, with a faint light penetrating the mortal world.
After catching his breath, he slowly stood up, gripping the Chiwei ornament at the northwest corner, and looked down toward the nearby Meridian Gate. Then, Wu Dingyuan witnessed a sight he had never seen before.