The sudden catastrophe left everyone beneath Xuanjin Bridge stunned.
Only one-third of the entourage consisted of well-trained guards from the Defense Command, whose first instinct was to rush onto the bridge to rescue their superior. The remaining two-thirds were a hastily assembled mix of musicians, ceremonial bearers, doormen, sedan chair carriers, and errand boys. They scattered in panic, desperate to flee the scene. With everyone running in different directions, the three passages between the stone lions descended into chaos.
Yu Qian struggled free from the dazed soldiers and rushed directly to the overturned sedan chair at the foot of the bridge. Before he could reach out to help, Zhu Zhanji had already fought his way out, his brows furrowed and eyes blazing with murderous intent.
Zhu Zhanji was no delicate prince raised in the depths of the palace—he had accompanied his grandfather in campaigns against the Northern Yuan, and a fierce warrior’s spirit ran deep in his bones. In less than an hour, he had faced two assassination attempts, right in the heart of the Great Ming. Such unprecedented audacity had pushed Zhu Zhanji’s temper to its limit.
He first kicked over a flag bearer who was crouching and wailing on the ground, then shouted commandingly, “Get in the water and save him first!” The guards snapped out of their daze, hastily removing their armor and weapons before jumping into the water with splashes to rescue Zheng He.
Beside him, Yu Qian also raised his voice, ordering the crowd to maintain their positions in the Crown Prince’s name. His voice was much louder than Zhu Zhanji’s, resonating like a great bell, directing the unsettled crowd to retreat step by step and clear the space. The situation at the bridgehead—now more accurately called the broken bridge—gradually returned to order.
The rescue effort in the Qinhuai River quickly bore fruit as guards lifted a figure in a scarlet robe from the water. A physician from the entourage rushed over to examine him, finding that Zheng He was still breathing and had no obvious injuries. However, the sudden impact had rendered him unconscious, and he remained unresponsive to calls.
Yu Qian didn’t relax even after Zheng He’s rescue. He stood tensely in front of Zhu Zhanji while his eyes searched the remains of the broken Xuanjin Bridge as if looking for clues.
When the Hongwu Emperor first established his capital in Jinling, the Yuan threat remained, so he ordered the construction of numerous hidden tunnels beneath the city gates, barbicans, walls, and important bridges. Under this three-arched stone bridge of Xuanjin, craftsmen had ingeniously created a concealed chamber utilizing the arch structure. After the Ming Dynasty was firmly established, these military tunnels fell into disuse and were gradually sealed off.
The explosives must have been placed in this hidden chamber beneath the bridge. Fortunately, the dampness from the water had affected the gunpowder, resulting in only a partial detonation that merely collapsed the bridge’s structure. Had it fully exploded, the Chief Eunuch and everyone nearby would have been obliterated.
But something puzzled Yu Qian.
While the treasure fleet’s route and timing were planned, allowing the rebels to prepare, how could they have predicted when the Crown Prince would cross Xuanjin Bridge? How could they have prepared so much gunpowder in advance?
Unless…
Unless this was a carefully calculated backup plan. Any high official who survived the treasure fleet explosion would certainly rush to the imperial city, and Xuanjin Bridge was the only way there. Setting up this secondary trap here would ensure they could eliminate any who slipped through the first net.
The attackers’ planning was meticulous to such a degree—truly reflecting an utterly determined killing intent!
Suppressing his shock, Yu Qian quickly realized another issue. While this backup plan was ingenious, the timing couldn’t be predicted, so someone must have been hiding in the tunnel beneath the bridge, ready to light the fuse whenever the target arrived. In other words, the person who had just triggered the explosion after seeing the procession pass must still be nearby!
Yu Qian’s head snapped up, his eyes sweeping across the river surface repeatedly. He soon spotted what appeared to be a black dot bobbing up and down about fifty or sixty paces to the right of Xuanjin Bridge. Squinting for a better look, Yu Qian could make out someone swimming desperately downstream with the current.
“The assassin is over there! Quickly!”
Yu Qian urgently called several guards, directing them to pursue along the riverbank. Hearing Yu Qian’s shout, Zhu Zhanji also looked in that direction. With a grim expression, he first gauged the distance with his thumb, then bent down to pick up a Kaiyuan bow someone had dropped, and drew an arrow from a guard’s quiver, nocking it to the string.
His stance showed the standard military archery form. The bowstring sang, and the arrow cut through the air like a shooting star toward the black dot. Unfortunately, the aim was slightly off, missing the head by a fraction and plunging into the water ahead. Zhu Zhanji’s eyes flashed with even more murderous intent as he nocked another arrow.
Yu Qian hurriedly reminded him that they needed to keep the suspect alive. But before he could finish speaking, the bowstring sang again. This arrow, carrying all his frustration and anger, flew across the Qinhuai River and struck squarely in the target’s upper back. The person’s chest suddenly thrust forward, their hands struggled briefly, and then they slowly sank into the river. The guards who had already reached the riverbank quickly extended poles and rakes to drag the body ashore.
Yu Qian rushed over in a few quick strides to find that the arrow had penetrated through the upper back and out through the right chest, killing the person instantly. The archery was impressive, but also regrettable. This might have been their only lead.
The dead man appeared to be in his twenties, with his hair in a small bun covered by a broad-brimmed net cap. He wore plain blue cotton clothes and slip-on boots, looking no different from ordinary Nanjing civilians. Yu Qian searched the entire body but found nothing except a fire starter. Unwilling to give up, he tore open the man’s clothes and was startled to discover a white lotus flower tattooed on the left armpit. The lotus had three petals, resembling converging flames.
“White Lotus Society?!” Yu Qian’s eyes widened in shock.
These three words represented an endless nightmare for the dynasty. Founded in the Song Dynasty, the sect preached that Maitreya would descend to earth and purify the world with white lotus flames, frequently inciting crowds to cause unrest over hundreds of years. From Song through Yuan and into Ming, every dynasty had tried to suppress and eliminate them, yet the sect remained remarkably popular among the common people, resisting all attempts at prohibition.
The most recent incident was in the eighteenth year of the Yongle reign when White Lotus followers staged a massive rebellion in Shandong. It had taken enormous effort for Emperor Taizong to suppress it, demonstrating their tenacity and intractability.
The enmity between the White Lotus Society and the imperial court ran ocean-deep. If they were behind this, it would explain such a fanatical attempt to kill the Crown Prince and officials.
Zhu Zhanji had also approached the corpse and asked gravely, “Who is this person? Can you discern anything?” Yu Qian pointed to the tattoo and explained in a lowered voice. Zhu Zhanji drew in a sharp breath—he had long heard of this heretical sect’s reputation and couldn’t help but feel his scalp tingle. “All of this… was their doing?”
“The situation remains unclear; anything is possible at this point.” Yu Qian looked around anxiously. They didn’t know where else White Lotus fanatics might be hiding; every moment they remained exposed increased their danger. He urged, “These rebels have enormous ambitions and surely have more schemes prepared. Your Highness must return to the imperial city quickly to rally support.”
Zhu Zhanji gave a bitter laugh. Rally support? His Eastern Palace staff had been reduced to ashes; the two pillars he could trust in the southern capital—Li Long and Zheng He—were both seriously injured and unable to serve. In an instant, the vast city of Jinling had become fraught with danger, and Zhu Zhanji found himself isolated without a single familiar person to rely on. Standing beside the flowing Qinhuai River, the mighty Crown Prince of the Great Ming suddenly felt lost and helpless.
This was something Yu Qian couldn’t help with. He could only order several guards to collect the sectarian’s body and send it to the nearest public mortuary for investigation, then pull Zhu Zhanji back to the head of Xuanjin Bridge.
Now only the broken stumps remained on either shore, slightly upturned like two broken finger bones, completely impassable. Xuanjin Bridge was the essential route to the imperial city—with it destroyed, they would have to either go north to Zhu Bridge or south to White Tiger Bridge, both significant detours.
But in the current situation, who could guarantee there weren’t deadly traps lying in wait under those bridges? Even if the bridges were safe, what about the route there? This area was filled with shops, taverns, and residential buildings—hiding a dozen assassins would be all too easy.
After careful consideration, Yu Qian decided the best choice was to stay put and wait for other powerful officials to come to their aid. However, since most of the higher-ranking officials in Nanjing had been caught in the explosion at the Eastern Water Gate with unknown fates, deciding whom to seek would require some thought.
Just then, one of Zheng He’s guards mentioned that when the incident first occurred, the Chief Eunuch had immediately sent word to the imperial city, ordering the city guard commander Zhu Buhua to seal the gates and prevent rebel infiltration—he should be unharmed.
Zhu Zhanji’s eyes lit up at this news. He knew Zhu Buhua, the supervisory eunuch of the Imperial Stables in the capital who had been transferred to Nanjing early that year, bringing with him a unit of imperial guards called the Warrior Corps to defend the southern capital’s imperial city.
This unit was different from other imperial guards. Established during the Yongle reign, its main members were young Han men who had escaped from the steppes, all exceptionally skilled in horsemanship. Emperor Hongxi had assigned this unit to serve as the Crown Prince’s guard, showing considerable thought.
Zhu Buhua had been on duty in the imperial city during the treasure ship explosion and hadn’t been affected. So Zhu Zhanji immediately wrote a letter, sending someone to deliver it to the imperial city, requesting Zhu Buhua to bring the imperial guards to their aid.
The guard departed with the message. Still uneasy, Yu Qian directed the others to spread out, using the bridgehead as the center and expanding their defensive zone to shops a hundred paces away. He also sent several agile men to climb onto nearby rooftops to guard against possible bow and crossbow attacks.
Though Yu Qian was only a minor official, he commanded and deployed forces methodically, and with the Crown Prince’s authority, guards, Embroidered Uniform Guard, sedan bearers, and heralds all obeyed his orders strictly. In short order, an impenetrable defensive zone was established around the bridgehead. Now unless the White Lotus Society brought in cavalry to charge their formation, they couldn’t threaten the Crown Prince.
The commotion gradually subsided. Civilians from nearby shops began poking their heads out, curiously looking toward the scene. Zhu Zhanji, not wanting them to see him in such a disheveled state, stumbled between the two stone lions and sat down on the bridge steps, his expression like that of an abandoned puppy.
Yu Qian finished his arrangements and approached the Crown Prince. Before he could report, Zhu Zhanji suddenly looked up and asked, “How did you know the White Lotus Society would set an ambush on Xuanjin Bridge?” He remembered this minor official’s shout before they crossed the bridge, which had made him hesitate for a moment—otherwise, it wouldn’t have been just the Chief Eunuch who fell into the water.
Yu Qian pulled a letter from his sleeve and respectfully presented it: “After Your Highness left the Embroidered Uniform Guard, this servant received information that rebel agents might be hidden in the city, potentially threatening Your Highness, so I rushed to warn you. Fearing the palace restrictions, I prepared this letter to be delivered, but I didn’t expect…”
Zhu Zhanji scanned the letter, his heartwarming. Though it was every official’s duty to serve faithfully, for a minor eighth-rank official to go to such lengths truly showed exceptional loyalty.
“In your opinion, what should we do next?” The Crown Prince had unconsciously begun treating this low-ranking official as a strategic advisor.
Yu Qian replied, “This catastrophe is unprecedented since the dynasty’s founding, with core supporters cut down. Your servant believes the urgent priority is to dispatch trusted confidants to begin the investigation. The rebels’ plot was extremely well-prepared—if we delay even slightly, we may never uncover the truth.”
This was why Yu Qian had earlier urged the Embroidered Uniform Guard to investigate quickly—he feared that even a short delay would allow many clues to vanish without a trace.
Zhu Zhanji shook his head. He had some idea about the first task but dispatched trusted confidants to investigate. He was now isolated—what trusted confidants did he have left? Understanding his difficulty, Yu Qian quickly explained, “Your Highness need not worry. The Five Military Commands, the Southern Capital Defense Command, the Five Cities Military Police, the Yingtian Prefecture, and the Embroidered Uniform Guard all have experienced investigators at your disposal.”
Zhu Zhanji remained silent for a while before forcing out four words through clenched teeth: “I don’t trust them.”
Yu Qian was briefly startled, then understood.
The Crown Prince’s paranoia was justified. If the White Lotus Society could smuggle explosives onto the treasure ships, bribe Left Guard banner soldiers to eliminate witnesses during river patrol, could set an ambush on Xuanjin Bridge so close to the imperial city—who could guarantee they didn’t have inside help in government offices? One reason the White Lotus Society persisted despite repeated prohibitions was that they always had followers working in official positions, including some high-ranking officials.
Now in this city of Nanjing, perhaps no one could guarantee they had no connection to the White Lotus Society.
On one side was an earth-shattering case requiring immediate investigation; on the other, a city full of suspects with none to trust. The two men sighed in unison as they gazed across the flowing Qinhuai River toward the imperial city.
Though it was past noon, the sun’s heat hadn’t diminished in the slightest. The glazed tiles along the vermillion walls shimmered with dazzling brilliance, radiating an imperial magnificence that seemed to reach the heavens. Yet the brighter the light, the starker the contrast—among the densely packed alleys and bridge houses, the shadows where sunlight couldn’t reach became particularly conspicuous, deeply embedded in the city’s fabric, sketching out an ineffable malevolence.
However, along the palace walls remained a grey border, caught in the transition between light and shadow, neither black nor white, distinctly ambiguous. As Yu Qian gazed into the distance, a figure suddenly flashed through his mind: “Your servant would recommend one person suitable for this task.”
“Oh?” The Crown Prince raised an eyebrow.
“The constable from Yingtian Prefecture who saved Your Highness at Fan’gu Platform—his surname is Wu, Wu Dingyuan.”
Hearing this name, Zhu Zhanji’s hand trembled, his face flooding with embarrassment, shame, and anger. Yes, that man was his savior, but he had also humiliated the Crown Prince of the Great Ming. Never in his life had Zhu Zhanji suffered such treatment—sparing his life was already an act of supreme mercy. What could Yu Qian be thinking?
Seeing the Crown Prince about to erupt, Yu Qian remained calm: “Your Highness, please consider carefully. In the entire southern capital, how many people can we be certain have no connection to the White Lotus Society?”
Zhu Zhanji faltered. If there was anyone in Nanjing beyond suspicion, it was indeed Wu Dingyuan. Had he been a White Lotus member, he could have simply let the Crown Prince drown in the Qinhuai River—no need for such elaborate schemes.
Seeing Zhu Zhanji’s silence, Yu Qian pressed on: “I spoke with him in prison. Though his personality is indeed peculiar, his insight is exceptional. The reason I could rush to Xuanjin Bridge was because he warned that Your Highness remained in danger—clearly, he is a capable man.”
“If he’s so capable, why is he merely a constable? Why isn’t he the chief constable?”
“Your Highness is most perceptive. Wu Dingyuan’s father is Wu Buping, the chief constable of Yingtian Prefecture. With such a family legacy, how could a tiger’s son be a mere dog?” Yu Qian deliberately concealed Wu Dingyuan’s “reputation” to avoid worrying the Crown Prince further.
“No matter his skills, what could such a minor figure uncover?” Zhu Zhanji pursed his lips, still unable to get past his reservations.
Yu Qian replied: “The White Lotus Society has many eyes and ears. If we send official investigators everywhere, we’ll only alert them. To deal with urban vermin, we need someone familiar with the underground world.”
As Zhu Zhanji searched for another excuse, Yu Qian suddenly spoke seriously: “In ancient times, Guan Zhong nearly killed Duke Huan of Qi with an arrow, yet Duke Huan set aside past grievances and employed him, ultimately achieving hegemony over the Central Plains. Your Highness is intelligent and decisive—you should learn from history.”
Zhu Zhanji stared at Yu Qian. This minor official with his straight nose and broad chin was about his age, yet spoke with the gravity of his tutors in the Hanlin Academy. After a moment’s hesitation, Zhu Zhanji sighed: “Very well. Today I shall provisionally promote you to Right Assistant Director of the Eastern Palace, with the authority to act at your discretion.”
Right Assistant Director was only one rank above Yu Qian’s current position, but it required serving at the Crown Prince’s side and handling disciplinary matters—a far more promising position than his current one. Yet Zhu Zhanji only gave Yu Qian the title without mentioning Wu Dingyuan, clearly still harboring reservations. Yu Qian understood this meant the Crown Prince wanted him to supervise Wu Dingyuan’s work, so he bowed deeply: “Your servant will not fail Your Highness’s trust.”
Zhu Zhanji wrinkled his nose unhappily: “Let’s hope neither of us has misjudged today, otherwise…”
Before he could finish, the thundering of hooves approached from the distant street. Soon a cloud of dust appeared as a large contingent of imperial guards in gleaming armor galloped into view. Their leader was a broad-faced man with a white cotton cloth covering most of his face and his narrow eyes—at first glance, he looked more like a bandit than an official.
But the banners on either side identified him as Zhu Buhua, the palace guard commander. Zhu Zhanji remembered he was a Mongol from Yunnan, originally named Tuotuobuhua, who had entered palace service and been granted the imperial surname Zhu before taking command of the Warrior Corps—one of Emperor Taizong’s trusted servants.
With both the Chief Eunuch and the Marquis of Xiangcheng incapacitated, Zhu Buhua naturally became the highest authority in the imperial city.
Seeing his arrival, Zhu Zhanji stood up from the stone steps, his expression lightening somewhat. This ordeal could finally be put to rest. He lowered his arm and made a slight gesture. Yu Qian understood the Crown Prince didn’t want this connection revealed too early, so he tactfully stepped back into the crowd.
The Warrior Corps cavalry arrived at Xuanjin Bridge in moments. These riders hardened on the steppes and projected an intimidating presence at full gallop that left onlookers breathless.
Before his mount had fully stopped, Zhu Buhua rolled from the saddle and anxiously begged the Crown Prince’s forgiveness. He explained that he had recently developed a boil on his face and had to cover it to avoid disturbing His Highness.
It was fortunate that this strange illness had prevented him from going to the Eastern Water Gate to receive the procession, allowing him to escape disaster. Zhu Zhanji maintained a neutral expression as he offered a few words of comfort, indicating they should discuss matters after entering the imperial city. Zhu Buhua kowtowed, personally helped the Crown Prince into the saddle, and had the unconscious Zheng He placed in a heavily curtained carriage, with riders immediately forming a tight formation around them.
From horseback, Zhu Zhanji pointed his riding crop at Yu Qian and told Zhu Buhua: “This man has rendered meritorious service in protecting me. Reward him with a horse and pass.”
During Emperor Taizong’s reign, he often rewarded meritorious officials with horses and passes. The “horse” referred to a palace horse with purple brocade reins, permitted to gallop within the city; the “pass” was an iron token with “City Pass” inscribed on the front. With these two items, one could go anywhere in the capital except the imperial gardens. Zhu Zhanji’s reward followed his grandfather’s precedent and wasn’t inappropriate.
Zhu Buhua assumed this minor official had happened to save the Crown Prince, who now wished to settle the debt of gratitude immediately without further entanglement. He ordered a nearby rider to hand over a sturdy mixed-breed horse and unhooked an iron bell-shaped token from his belt, giving both to Yu Qian.
Yu Qian kowtowed to thank the Crown Prince for his grace. Zhu Buhua quickly remounted, and the large contingent thundered away with Zhu Zhanji in their midst, leaving a crowd of onlookers staring at each other at Xuanjin Bridge.
As Yu Qian prepared to leave, he discovered an embarrassing problem—he didn’t know how to ride a horse.
Having grown up in Qiantang, he was thoroughly familiar with boats and ships and had often ridden donkeys and mules, but this was his first time on horseback. Yu Qian wanted to avoid the attention of those around him, but time was pressing. He found a mounting block from some unknown mansion and somewhat clumsily climbed into the saddle.
The trained horse, feeling the weight in the saddle, automatically started walking forward. Yu Qian hadn’t even gotten his feet into the stirrups and nearly fell off.
The key to horseback riding is keeping the thighs tight while the buttocks stay light, legs gripping firmly while not sitting heavily, body leaning forward to lower the center of gravity and maintain balance. Yu Qian knew none of these techniques and did everything backward—his legs spread too wide while his bottom pressed heavily into the saddle, causing his whole body to sway side to side. His hands clutched the reins like a drowning man grasping at straws, leaving the horse somewhat confused.
Man and horse wobbled down the street heading south, cutting a comical figure. But more unsettled than his physical awkwardness was Yu Qian’s state of mind. He had only intended to warn the Crown Prince of danger, yet somehow ended up in the Eastern Palace service with an imperial mission.
And this was no easy mission. The bombing of the treasure ships showed that the enemy’s brutality and cunning far exceeded Yu Qian’s imagination, while the court currently had no resources to provide support. Using the strength of a mantis to stop a cart weighing thousands of catties—he might be crushed to pieces before receiving any rewards.
As a minor official with neither power nor influence, suddenly bearing such heavy responsibility naturally filled Yu Qian with fear. But his nature was naive and stubborn, firmly believing that in times of crisis, someone had to step forward. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have left his post to meddle in Embroidered Uniform Guard affairs in the first place.
“Accepting duty in time of defeat, receiving orders in a moment of peril…” Yu Qian quietly recited on horseback—these were his favorite lines from the “Memorial to Send Out the Troops.” Strangely, as the words left his lips, his anxious heart gradually calmed. The ancients said: that determination follows speech, and meaning flows from writing—truly, they did not deceive! As Yu Qian pondered this, his gaze toward the path ahead brightened. His hands, which had been gripping the reins tightly, slowly relaxed.
The horse beneath him, sensing its rider’s changed spirit through the loosened reins, began walking more steadily and confidently.
Horse and rider passed along the southern street by the western palace wall, soon arriving at the Embroidered Uniform Guard office on Chongde Street. Yu Qian carefully dismounted and entered the courtyard to find a crowd of bannermen and runners rushing about in chaos. The Lao Qianhu who had reported to the dock earlier was anxiously pacing the courtyard center, clutching his worn ceremonial sword.
Definitive news had just arrived from the dock that both the chief and deputy commanders of the Nanjing Embroidered Uniform Guard had perished at the Eastern Water Gate. With the bureau headless, no wonder chaos reigned.
The Lao Qianhu was about to berate Yu Qian for returning, but noticed the tall horse he led, with its purple brocade-trimmed reins, and realized this young man must have gained royal favor! His mouth twitched as he forced out a fawning smile and came forward to greet him.
Yu Qian didn’t waste words, first reporting the assassination attempt at Xuanjin Bridge. The Lao Qianhu was shocked, his old sword clattering to the stone floor. Now the Marquis of Xiangcheng was unconscious, and even the Chief Eunuch had been attacked—who should he report to? Whose orders should he follow? What should they do next?
Seeing the Lao Qianhu’s bewildered expression, Yu Qian felt a surge of contempt. Nanjing had bred a host of officials who drew salaries without merit, and it seemed the Embroidered Uniform Guard was no exception. These people were like donkeys at a millstone—they wouldn’t turn without the whip.
“The Eastern Palace has returned to the imperial city. Official directives will naturally follow soon.”
Yu Qian offered this reassurance, then pulled out his city pass and flashed it: “By order of the Crown Prince, I must first interview the prisoner Wu Dingyuan. Please lead the way, Lao Qianhu.” The Lao Qianhu could only respectfully acknowledge, wondering privately if the Crown Prince had sent this young official to take control of the Embroidered Uniform Guard.
Yu Qian neither knew nor cared about such thoughts. He strode into the inner prison, heading straight for the innermost cell. He had the Lao Qianhu guard the outside, then entered alone. As soon as he stepped in, that lazy voice rang out: “Little Almond, something else happened out there, didn’t it?”
Yu Qian forced himself to ignore the annoying nickname and sternly related the events at Xuanjin Bridge. Wu Dingyuan clicked his tongue but said nothing more—anything said now would be too late.
Three pale yellow shafts of light from the air window slowly moved westward across the cell. Knowing time was precious, Yu Qian cut straight to the point: “The Eastern Palace has faced repeated dangers, and the southern capital faces imminent peril. The Crown Prince has issued an edict for us to investigate the masterminds behind this.”
Wu Dingyuan burst out laughing: “Us?”
“Yes, you and me.” Fearing Wu Dingyuan wouldn’t believe him, he displayed the city pass: “His Highness has personally granted horse and pass, allowing us to serve in the Eastern Palace for this special investigation.”
“Oh my, from cold soup at the Messenger’s Office to roast pork at the Eastern Palace—your fortunes have truly risen, Little Almond!”
“This status is to facilitate our work, not for showing off.” For some reason, every conversation with this fellow gave Yu Qian an irrepressible urge to shout.
Wu Dingyuan studied him through narrowed eyes, tilting his neck: “I don’t understand. There are more officials in Nanjing than there are brothel clients along the Qinhuai River—why must it be me?” Yu Qian replied gravely: “Because in the southern capital, you and I are the only ones the Crown Prince can trust. Do you understand? Only us two!”
He didn’t explain further, trusting Wu Dingyuan’s intelligence to grasp why. But Wu Dingyuan snorted: “Don’t try to fool me. When the Crown Prince thinks of me, he probably wants to tear open his scrotum and bite off his dick—how could he possibly want a worthless bamboo pole like me investigating?”
Such crude language made Yu Qian furrow his brows. Suppressing his distaste, he said: “Wu Dingyuan, I can see you’re a dragon disguised as a fish, too great for any pond. Why persist in hiding yourself? I don’t know why you usually choose to debase yourself, but now the court needs you to bear your claws and risk your life—how can a subject refuse such duty?”
This passionate speech crashed like waves against a cliff, impressive in force. But the “cliff” remained unmoved, his expression suggesting he hadn’t understood such elegant phrasing… An awkward silence filled the cell. Yu Qian asked desperately: “In short, the Crown Prince wants you to investigate. Tell me, what will it take to get you to agree?” Wu Dingyuan smiled broadly: “If Marshal Zhao came to negotiate, we might have something to discuss.”
Marshal Zhao referred to Zhao Gongming, as the God of Wealth. Yu Qian hadn’t expected this lazy “bamboo pole” to make such a ridiculous demand: “You’re a constable of Yingtian Prefecture—catching criminals is your duty. You want money for it?”
Wu Dingyuan sneered: “Little Almond, is this your first day as an official? Even village watchmen get paid expenses for making arrests—surely the Crown Prince isn’t sending hungry soldiers?”
“If you complete this task, the Crown Prince won’t be stingy with rewards. Why fixate on immediate gain?” Yu Qian’s square jaw quivered—he felt like an old woman at the water chestnut market haggling over copper coins. Wu Dingyuan pursed his lips and closed his eyes, affecting complete indifference.
Yu Qian had never encountered such street-corner haggling tactics. Glancing at the daylight outside, he gritted his teeth: “How much do you want?”
“Three hundred taels of eighty-percent silver, all in bullion, paid upfront.”
“Eighty percent” referred to purity; “all in bullion” meant pure silver, no paper money or substitutes; “upfront” meant full payment in advance. Hearing this, Yu Qian couldn’t help but shout angrily: “How dare you! Aren’t you afraid of execution?”
Since the Yongle reign, the court had strictly prohibited private transactions in gold and silver, requiring the use of paper currency under heavy penalty. Wu Dingyuan’s demand was openly illegal. But Wu Dingyuan merely lifted his eyelids, speaking mockingly: “Are you some foreign envoy from Srivijaya who just arrived in the Central Plains, being so law-abiding?”
With paper currency severely devalued, everyone now conducted semi-open transactions in precious metals, and officials rarely enforced the prohibition. This little almond was truly ignorant of worldly affairs.
Seeing Yu Qian’s silence, Wu Dingyuan grew impatient. Yu Qian couldn’t understand why he insisted on silver bullion. If he solved this case, the tremendous merit might earn him a military commander’s position—wasn’t that better than this small sum? He wondered if he had misjudged this man—was he truly just a short-sighted fool?
But it was too late for regrets—he had vouched for this man before the Crown Prince. Yu Qian had no choice but to argue: “How can we get so much silver bullion right now? And even if we did, it’s nearly twenty catties—are you going to carry that while investigating?”
Wu Dingyuan glanced sideways: “Who says I’ll carry it? I’ll write down some locations, you send porters to deliver it. Once the silver arrives, we start work immediately.” His tone when ordering others around was more natural than a prefecture magistrate’s. Yu Qian was almost speechless with anger. He shook his sleeves and turned to leave.
Compared to the case, Wu Dingyuan’s price wasn’t excessive. But for an eighth-rank minor official like Yu Qian, whose annual salary was only sixty shi of grain, finding three hundred taels of silver bullion would be difficult. He would have to figure something out with the Embroidered Uniform Guard.
Leaving the inner prison, Yu Qian saw Lao Qianhu still waiting outside and went to ask him: “Do you have any silver here?”
“How much do you need?” The Lao Qianhu pulled out a half-empty money pouch. Yu Qian stayed his hand: “For the Crown Prince’s business, we need to borrow three hundred taels of eighty percent silver.” The number made the Lao Qianhu shudder, asking what it was for. Yu Qian couldn’t explain directly and could only say sternly: “The Crown Prince needs it. If you don’t trust me, I’ll leave the city pass as collateral.”
The Lao Qianhu didn’t dare accept such collateral and called over the treasury supervisor. Upon inquiry, it turned out the Embroidered Uniform Guard had some silver bullion. A few days earlier, the Longjiang Salt Warehouse Inspection Office had discovered some smuggled salt. The Embroidered Uniform Guard had assisted and was due a share of the proceeds. The inspection office had melted some of the confiscated silver into ingots and transferred them to the Censorate’s account—the prohibition on precious metals only applied to private transactions, not official business.
Under the Lao Qianhu’s pained gaze, Yu Qian signed a receipt in the Eastern Palace’s name and brazenly had people bring out three hundred taels of silver from the treasury. These were twenty-five tael “Golden Flower” silver ingots, twelve in total, with clear silver threads showing excellent purity. The maker’s mark “Longjiang Salt Warehouse Inspection Office” was engraved on the bottom. They were laid out on a wooden tray.
By now Wu Dingyuan had been untied and released from the inner prison. He walked to the wooden tray, flexing his sore wrists while examining the gleaming silver, casually picking up an ingot and scratching it with his fingernail. Yu Qian impatiently urged: “This is premium twenty-four treasury silver—if exchanged at a silver shop for regular silver, you’d get a premium of thirty taels more. You’re getting a bargain. Where should it be delivered?”
The supervisor had already prepared two foot-long white sealing strips, brush raised waiting to fill in the details. Wu Dingyuan said: “Split the twelve ingots evenly into two loads. Send one to the fifth house in Sugar Workshop Corridor Alley northwest of Zhenghai Bridge, for my younger sister Wu Yulu to receive; send the other to the Third Curve Eighth House of Fule Court at Wuding Bridge, for Madam Tong to receive.”
Hearing this, Yu Qian’s jaw clenched in anger. The first address was the Wu family home—having his sister receive it was acceptable. But the second was utterly inappropriate.
This Fule Court was famous in Nanjing, facing Wuding Bridge in front and Treasury Street behind, situated in the most prosperous stretch along the Qinhuai River. Nominally a place for musicians to practice and perform, it was a luxurious official courtesan house, a place of song and dance. With nightly fireworks, it was called “the fairy capital of the realm of desire, the paradise of peaceful prosperity.”
In Nanjing’s brothels, clients always called the madams “grandmother.” Wu Dingyuan’s mention of “Madam Tong” clearly meant he had a favorite at Fule Court and wanted to send money through the madam.
Yu Qian was astounded that this “bamboo pole” had so desperately demanded all this silver only to send it straight to a brothel! Earlier when the bannerman said Wu Dingyuan was fond of drinking and whoring, he hadn’t believed it, but now he saw it was true. Fule Court’s patrons were either nobles and princes or wealthy merchants and famous scholars—how dare a mere constable frequent such a place? No wonder he had squandered so much of his father’s money.
But at this point, even if Wu Dingyuan was guilty of every filial transgression, Yu Qian had to endure it. The supervisor split the twelve silver ingots into two piles, placing them in wooden cases and sealing them. Then the Lao Qianhu called four porters to deliver the cases under the Embroidered Uniform Guard’s banner.
Yu Qian watched them leave and pressed: “Are you satisfied now?” Wu Dingyuan reinserted the iron ruler at his waist and gave a long yawn: “Let’s go.” The Lao Qianhu stood bewildered, not understanding how this minor constable had suddenly gained such authority. As he pondered whether to try making conversation, the two had already hurriedly left the outer courtyard, taking one of the Embroidered Uniform Guard’s donkeys with them.
On Chongli Street, Yu Qian realized there was an awkward matter.
Given their different ranks, he as the Right Assistant Director should ride the horse while the Yingtian Prefecture constable rode the donkey. But Yu Qian was truly troubled by horsemanship and wanted to switch mounts, though he feared losing face. While he was still wrestling with this dilemma, Wu Dingyuan had already grabbed the reins and brazenly mounted the palace horse. While Yu Qian felt relief, he couldn’t help feeling some shame as well. He quickly mounted the donkey and asked irritably: “Where should we go first?”
Wu Dingyuan raised his arm, pointing southwest: “Naturally, we go to the Eastern Water Gate dock first.”
Apart from the Crown Prince’s treasure ship, the Eastern Water Gate dock had suffered the worst from the explosion. If they were to begin investigating, they had to examine this site.
The distance from Chongli Street to the Eastern Water Gate was quite short—just one and a half li west from the Embroidered Uniform Guard office to Tongji Gate, where it met the north-south Tongji Street. The Eastern Water Gate lay at the southwest corner of this intersection, between Tongji Gate’s western wall and the Qinhuai River channel—the southern capital’s only water gate and lock.
The horse and donkey trotted along the broad thoroughfare, pedestrians clearing a path on both sides. The city remained in chaos, countless vehicles and horses stirring up dust that hung in the air like a yellow gauze over the streets. No one noticed the peculiar sight of an official on a donkey and a constable on a horse.
As they approached the Eastern Water Gate, warehouses grew more numerous on both sides of the street, all belonging to wealthy merchants. Around these warehouses, scattered groups of yamen runners in black clothes and Military Police patrolmen in brown robes wandered—they had been assigned here earlier to guard the route, and with no new orders, they could only drift about like lost souls.
Yu Qian and Wu Dingyuan weren’t stopped until they reached the city wall at Tongji Gate. This was the dock entrance, marked by a three-bay, four-pillar memorial arch bearing the imperial calligraphy “Eastern Water Gate.” Below the colorful arch, the passage was blocked by a dark gray thorned barrier, with several Defense Command guards vigilantly watching everyone, their iron-tipped spears at the ready.
A large crowd had gathered in the open space before the barrier—carriages, sedan chairs, porters, and people of all sorts who had rushed here upon hearing the news. Some shouted in anger, some wailed in grief, some pleaded desperately, some cursed loudly—all manner of negative emotions swirling like a disturbed ant colony. After all, how many disciples, old colleagues, relatives, and friends had come running at the news of the disaster that had struck most of Nanjing’s high officials at the dock?
But that cruel thorned barrier stretched before them, its spikes facing outward, keeping them all at bay.
This was Chief Eunuch Zheng He’s final order before leaving the Eastern Water Gate: isolate the dock from the outside world, allowing only medical personnel, laborers, and bearers to enter. Everyone else had to wait beyond the barrier until bodies were carried out one by one for them to claim, either for treatment or burial.
The barrier had originally been used by the Yingtian Prefecture to contain the autumn examination grounds—the Defense Command had shown quick thinking in repurposing it for this.
Without this barrier, the dock would surely be even more chaotic now.
Yu Qian and Wu Dingyuan struggled through the crowd to reach the barrier and showed the city pass. The guards examined it suspiciously before reluctantly letting them through. Amid angry shouts from the crowd, they ducked through the barrier and followed a narrow path littered with animal droppings. At the path’s end lay a stretch of riverbank between the outer south wall and the Qinhuai River—around it, on the other side of the city wall, was the Eastern Water Gate dock.
The Eastern Water Gate, also called Tongji Water Gate, was essentially a river-spanning barbican on the Qinhuai River. Its imposing walls rose about seventy feet, with stone blocks below and blue bricks above, forming a solid trapezoid wider at the base. The outer wall projected thirty-three white stone arches across three levels, like a blue-faced monster bearing snow-white fangs.
In the wall’s center was a semicircular moon-shaped tunnel, positioned precisely over the Qinhuai River’s branching channel. A thick, castle-strong black iron gate hung from the tunnel’s top, which could be opened or closed according to drought or flood conditions to regulate water levels inside and outside the Qinhuai. From afar, the entire watergate resembled an armored warrior standing astride the river. The Eastern Water Gate dock, dubbed “the North-South passage of gold and silver,” lay on the Qinhuai riverbank before this warrior.
The dock was an irregular strip of riverbank, four hundred paces north to south, up to two hundred meters east to west, with packed yellow earth ground. Usually, it was crowded with masts and sails blocking the sky, merchants shoulder to shoulder, bustling from sunrise until the evening drum signaled the city gates’ closure. But when Yu Qian and Wu Dingyuan entered the dock area, they saw a scene utterly different from the usual.
Fallen banners and scattered drums lay everywhere, countless gold and silver belts and brocade ornaments strewn about. The ground’s yellow earth was completely hidden beneath a dense carpet of human bodies. These bodies lay scattered in all directions, wearing all colors from high-ranking crimson purple to lowly dark black, but their groans and wails were equally miserable. They rolled and struggled—even the mud hell described in Buddhist scriptures could hardly be worse.
When the treasure ship exploded, this area had been packed with Nanjing officials, attendants, and ceremonial guards waiting to receive it. Like rice stalks in a fierce wind, they had all been blown down by the powerful blast. Some were lucky to suffer only broken limbs, some appeared unharmed but had their internal organs severely damaged and kept vomiting blood, while others had fallen headfirst and gone silent forever. These privileged officials had been cast into the dust in an instant.
About twenty laborers in short jackets formed an arc, slowly searching through the crowd. When they found someone still breathing, they carried them to nearby stone embankments where several hastily summoned physicians in green robes worked to save them. For the dead, they lifted the robes to cover their faces and laid them in rows at the embankment’s foot, where bearers would carry them out on stretchers for identification beyond the barrier.
The rescue workers had apparently been instructed to prioritize those in official robes, leaving others like ceremonial guards, musicians, and servants to lie crying and begging for help.
Seeing this tragic scene, Yu Qian’s jaw trembled, nearly bringing him to tears. Wu Dingyuan also frowned deeply, scanning this earthly hell. Suddenly his eyes lit up, and he strode forward to grab a laborer’s arm.
This man wore the same colored robe as Wu Dingyuan, also from the Yingtian Prefecture’s staff, likely pressed into service. Wu Dingyuan didn’t stand on ceremony, immediately asking: “Have you seen my father?” The man was dripping with sweat from exhaustion, and seeing it was the “worthless pole,” replied impatiently: “Haven’t seen him.”
“He hasn’t been here?”
“Don’t know!” the man snapped harshly, then, remembering the “worthless pole” was still the chief constable’s son, softened his tone slightly, “I was only brought here after the incident, haven’t seen Chief Wu at all.” His eyes drifted outward—the implication clear: if your father was at the dock, he’s probably among this mass of dead and wounded.
Wu Dingyuan’s heart pounded as he released the man and began searching through the crowds. Wu Buping had worn a black robe with crimson trim today, quite eye-catching. But after searching the entire Eastern Water Gate dock, he saw no sign of his father. Wu Dingyuan checked near the stone embankment too—not among the wounded, not among the dead, and no one could have claimed his body.
This was strange—hadn’t he come to the dock? That seemed impossible. Wu Dingyuan knew his father best; he was an old public servant with a strong sense of duty. With such a commotion at the treasure ship, he wouldn’t have remained unmoved, surely rushing there immediately. Had he been called away somewhere else? But what could be more important than this?
Yu Qian noticed Wu Dingyuan’s odd expression and stood on tiptoe to pat his shoulder: “I know you’re anxious about your father—your filial piety is admirable. But we’re here on official business—public duty must take precedence over private concerns.” Wu Dingyuan sneered: “What do you know! My father is the chief constable of Yingtian Prefecture, in charge of investigations across the capital prefecture’s eight counties. You can’t investigate anything in Nanjing without him!”
Yu Qian burst into anger: “You came to the Eastern Water Gate not to examine the scene, but to find your father! Haven’t I repeatedly emphasized? By the Crown Prince’s order, no third person can be involved besides us…” Before he could finish, with a “thump,” Wu Dingyuan grabbed his collar and shoved him hard against the stone embankment.
“Little Almond, your Crown Prince isn’t the Buddha or the Celestial Master—you think one royal order makes everything in the world bend to his will?” Wu Dingyuan mocked, “Jinling is the empire’s greatest fortress, with a million inhabitants. The two of us investigating alone would be like trying to fish sesame seeds from the river!”
“Master Zhu said: Nothing under heaven is impossible, it depends only on one’s determination. How do you know we can’t succeed when we haven’t even started?”
Yu Qian craned his neck, still arguing. Wu Dingyuan slowly released his collar, looking at him as if he were an idiot. As Yu Qian tried to continue, he pointed wearily toward the distant water:
“Look carefully, Little Almond—to blast a two-thousand-liang treasure ship in half would take at least a thousand catties of even the strongest gunpowder. What kind of ability would it take to smuggle a thousand catties of explosives onto the heavily guarded Crown Prince’s treasure ship? Since the eighteenth year of Yongle, the White Lotus Society has been nothing but a pack of homeless dogs—how could they have such capabilities?”
Yu Qian’s eyebrows rose: “You mean the White Lotus Society is colluding with some high official at court?” Wu Dingyuan’s lips curved in a mocking smile as he turned to look at the broad Qinhuai River. Where his gaze fell, the waters were calm, showing no trace of what had happened, as if that earth-shattering event had been buried deep beneath the surface.
“Quite the opposite. This White Lotus Society seems more like they’ve been bought by some great figure at court.”
Yu Qian instantly became as rigid as a stone statue.
—
At this moment, outside Jinling’s West Gate, a courier in loose robes and broad hat strode swiftly along the official road. He carried a signal staff, with bells tied to his belt that jingled as he ran. Passing travelers heard the bells and knew he was an urgent dispatch courier, clearing a path for him.
Though drenched in sweat, the courier didn’t dare pause for a moment. Across his chest hung a yellow-lacquered tube with three bamboo strips stuck diagonally on it, their tips protruding half an inch from the tube—this marked an “800-li urgent dispatch,” the highest level of official correspondence that could not be delayed at any point.
On the tube’s side, the characters “Huitong” were barely visible, showing this document came from the capital’s Huitong Hall, the starting point for all Ming Dynasty urgent horse and waterway dispatches. From the capital’s Huitong Hall to Nanjing’s Yingtian Prefecture required passing through forty major postal stations over two thousand two hundred thirty-five li, relying on these couriers running relay after relay.
Fortunately, this long journey was nearly complete. This courier had run from Longjiang Station, only twenty li from the city gate. He ran straight to Jiangdong Gate on Nanjing’s west side, shouting himself hoarse at the base of the wall:
“Eight-hundred-li urgent dispatch from the capital, nonstop delivery to the Eastern Palace!”