One month later, in the eleventh month, the Personnel Ministry in the capital entered its busiest season of the year.

By court custom, officials of the fourth rank and above from the provinces were required to submit their annual performance memorials to the court at this time of year. Among the flurry of memorials that had been piling up like snowflakes on the desks these past several days, one in particular stood out as exceptional.

This memorial had come from the Western Regions Protectorate, crossing a thousand mountains and rivers to arrive in the capital three days prior. The Personnel Ministry dared not delay it a single moment and had that very day immediately forwarded it to the Emperor’s presence.

Li Xuandu, Imperial Uncle and Prince Qin, serving as Protector of the Western Regions, reported in his memorial a series of actions he had taken since arriving in the Western Regions. He concluded by stating that in order to better control the Central Road, the Protectorate had been relocated from Wulei to Baole. He also memorialized the court, in response to the people of Baole’s request, for permission to allow the Baole prince — who had fled to the capital many years ago amid upheaval — to return home and inherit the throne, so as to help the court extend its grace and authority and stabilize the situation.

Half a year had passed since the new Emperor Li Chengyu had ascended the throne. The overall state of the court, at least on the surface, had finally begun to slowly recover from the sharp disruption caused by Emperor Xiaochang’s sudden death, and various affairs were gradually coming back into order.

The new reign title had been set as Tianshou, to take effect from the first day of the new year.

The remnant forces of the Prince Liuwang faction had fled into the southwest, colluding with local chieftains and rallying troops said to number in the tens of thousands in an attempt to establish an independent stronghold and foment rebellion. The court had sent out an army, and within just three months the revolt was suppressed, the remaining followers of the Liuwang faction utterly exterminated.

The tense situation in the north had also eased. The Dongdi people appeared to have been bluffing all along, and had since gone quiet. Marquis of Guangping, Han Rongchang, had returned to the capital last month.

The case of Shangguan Yong had also come to a close.

He had refused to admit guilt throughout his imprisonment in the Zhao Prison. Regarding the plague in Tongzhou, he maintained to the end that local officials had been bribed to fabricate charges against him. After the matter had been left unresolved for some time, early one morning the jailers discovered that he had hanged himself. Beside him was a letter written in his own blood — he had bitten through his finger — in which he proclaimed his innocence and chose death to manifest his integrity.

His suicide brought this major case to an inconclusive end. The new Emperor granted Shangguan Yong, his maternal uncle, no posthumous honors whatsoever, and simply issued an order for the body to be collected and interred. But at the same time, the other individuals connected to the case — including the Shangguan clan and Shangguan’s old faction — were no longer pursued due to insufficient evidence. What had been before remained as it was.

Those who were discontented grumbled privately that this had been Shangguan Yong’s stratagem all along — sacrificing himself alone to protect his clan and followers — and it could be counted as the most successful scheme of his entire life. Some even ventured the bolder speculation that this had in fact been the new Emperor’s own intention: if Shangguan Yong did not die, the public’s fury could not be appeased. But if he were convicted, the Shangguan clan and their followers would inevitably be implicated as well — and this very group happened to be the most loyal and unwavering base of support for the new Emperor. Therefore, allowing Shangguan Yong to die in this fashion was the best possible outcome: the new Emperor could give an account to his ministers and to the realm. The Shangguan clan and their followers, though badly shaken by the loss of their leader, were unlikely to recover their former glory in the short term, yet had not been wounded to the roots.

Though this outcome failed to fully satisfy everyone and drew considerable criticism at the time, in the end no one dared challenge the new Emperor to his face. After all, death commands respect, and Shangguan Yong had already hanged himself to proclaim his innocence. To continue demanding an investigation would be to openly pick a quarrel with the new Emperor.

Such was the general state of affairs in the capital over the past half-year. Just when everything had slowly begun to settle, within a few days, this unexpected memorial set another ripple of undercurrents moving through the officialdom.

No one had imagined that after arriving in the Western Regions, Prince Qin Li Xuandu could have taken control of the pivotal kingdom of the Central Road so quickly. It was worth noting that the Southern Road, being far from the Dongdi territory and with Khotan firmly in place, had never been under strong Dongdi control. The Dongdi Grand Commandant’s priorities in the Western Regions had always been control of the Central and Northern Roads. Now that Baole — the largest kingdom on the Central Road — had returned to the Li Dynasty’s hands, this essentially meant pushing the Dongdi influence gradually back from the center, confining it to the Northern Road.

Beyond the surprise, naturally, this was tremendously encouraging news for the Li Dynasty. Yet strangely, over the past several days, aside from the Baole prince and his consort — who had been residing in the capital for many years and upon hearing the news were beside themselves with excitement, as though in a dream, eagerly anticipating their return — all the various factions at court had fallen utterly silent at the morning audiences. Not a single person raised the matter, as though they were entirely unaware of it. It was only after the audiences concluded that they each showed their skill in gathering intelligence, privately discussing and speculating about the new Emperor’s reaction to these developments.

Three days later, in the Eastern Pavilion of Changqing Palace, Li Chengyu summoned Guo Lang, Marquis Yao, Chen Zhude, Han Rongchang, and others. He produced the memorial from the Western Regions Protectorate that had arrived several days earlier and ordered them to deliberate on the matter mentioned within — specifically, the proposal to send the Baole prince back to the Western Regions to inherit the throne.

The new Emperor sat behind the imperial desk, wearing dragon robes, his waist cinched with a gold-chased belt patterned with cloud and dragon motifs. A shaft of sunlight entered through the windows of the Eastern Pavilion, casting a gleam across the gold dragon embroidered on his shoulder that was almost too brilliant to look at directly.

This Changqing Palace had been built during the Mingzong era, originally serving as a palace where Mingzong received foreign ministers, hosted banquets, and enjoyed recreation. During the reign of Emperor Xiaochang it had been largely left vacant. Shortly after Li Chengyu ascended the throne, he moved the place where he handled daily government affairs out of the Purple Dawn Palace — the palace used by emperors of several generations — and relocated here instead.

This location was closer to the Secretariat and Chancellery where the ministers had their offices. According to Guo Lang, this demonstrated the new Emperor’s vigorous dedication to governance and diligent attention to state affairs; the ministers praised the Emperor’s decision without reservation.

And in today’s Eastern Pavilion, alongside the old figures from the Xiaochang court such as Guo and Yao, there was a new face: Cui Xuan. Young as he was, he had already risen to the third-rank title of Light Chariot Commandant — arguably the most conspicuous figure in the entire capital since the new Emperor’s accession.

This was hardly without reason. A new monarch brings new ministers; a young Emperor naturally favored promoting men as young as himself. Besides, this young man surnamed Cui was genuinely extraordinary in ability. He had already made a stunning impression at the royal autumn hunt; then he was the meritorious architect of the swift suppression of the Liuwang faction’s southwestern rebellion. Returning with such accomplishments, his promotion to this rank left no room for objection — everyone, aside from envying him, fell over themselves to flatter him. Today he stood in the Eastern Pavilion clad in the purple military robes of the third rank, embroidered with fierce beasts symbolizing valor and strength. While the others around him spoke and deliberated without pause, he remained perfectly silent, his face cool and unreadable.

Guo Lang, Marquis Yao, and the others spoke at considerable length on the Emperor’s topic — the gist of it being that the Western Regions had achieved results so quickly entirely because of the court’s far-reaching authority, and that the Emperor’s keen governance and ability to recognize talent deserved equal credit. The group unanimously agreed that Prince Qin’s proposal was well-reasoned: it was time to send the Baole prince back to the Western Regions to inherit the throne. The prince had lived in the capital for nearly ten years; by now, upon returning, he would naturally feel close ties to the Li Dynasty and could help the court resist the Dongdi.

Li Chengyu said: “That is Our intention as well. Since no one objects, let it be settled thus. Yesterday We also received the prince’s memorial of thanks to the Court of State Ceremonial, forwarded to Us — and a request for Our court to send someone to accompany him home and serve as the Auxiliary King Marquis, to assist him as king. Who is capable of filling this position?”

The Auxiliary King Marquis was nominally there to assist the kingdom, but in practice was the person dispatched to a tributary state to serve in a supervisory role. The Baole prince had spent many years in exile and had long since grown wiser — to reassure the new Emperor about letting him return to be king, he simply asked for such a person himself.

Guo Lang, Marquis Yao, and the others recommended several names, but Li Chengyu appeared not entirely satisfied — his expression remained cool and he did not nod.

Han Rongchang, who had been restraining himself up to this point, could hold back no longer. He stepped forward and said: “Your Majesty, your subject is willing to escort the prince home. As for the position of Auxiliary King Marquis — if Your Majesty trusts your subject, your subject would also presume to put himself forward!”

When he said this, the others were somewhat surprised and looked at him.

The title of Auxiliary King Marquis sounded grand, but it was merely a minor marquis within a tributary state of the court. He was already the Marquis of Guangping; volunteering now to become a minor marquis in a tributary state was tantamount to lowering his own standing.

Li Chengyu said: “Do you truly wish to go?”

Han Rongchang replied with generous conviction: “Your Majesty may rest assured! Your subject is wholeheartedly willing to go to the Western Regions and continue serving the court!”

Li Chengyu fixed him with a look for a moment, then gave a slight nod: “We approve — let it be you then. Once you arrive, besides assisting the Baole king, you must also lend your support to the Protectorate and work in concert with it, so as to expel the Dongdi forces from the Western Regions as soon as possible. Is that understood?”

Han Rongchang was overjoyed and knelt to receive the command.

Li Chengyu gave a slight inclination of his head, then seemed to remember something and added: “By the way — one more thing. When you get there, remember to convey Our regards to the Imperial Uncle and Imperial Aunt on Our behalf, and say…”

For the first time that day, the faintest smile appeared at the corner of his lips: “…say that We miss the Imperial Uncle and Imperial Aunt very much.”

He spoke each word with deliberate care.

Cui Xuan, who had not uttered a single word from beginning to end, watched as Han Rongchang cheerfully accepted his imperial decree and departed the palace in high spirits. A slight movement crossed his gaze, then just as quickly he lowered his eyes again and resumed his habitual expression of no expression at all.

The news that Marquis of Guangping Han Rongchang was about to leave the passes for Baole Kingdom to serve as the Auxiliary King Marquis drew little attention in the capital.

If once before his connection to Princess Imperial Li Lihua had occasionally drawn him into people’s notice, by now no one cared to waste their regard on him at all — for Li Lihua’s own situation had become quite awkward.

Her own nephew Li Chengyu had been on the throne for nearly half a year. Quite a number of people at court had been granted titles and promotions; only she had yet to receive the title of Grand Princess Imperial that should rightly have fallen to her long ago.

Rumor held that it was Empress Dowager Shangguan who had obstructed it, claiming she lacked the virtue to merit the position. The Emperor dared not defy the Empress Dowager’s wishes.

Without the Emperor’s formal investiture, Li Lihua remained forever only the “Princess Imperial” of the previous reign, unable to attain the “Grand Princess Imperial” status she was now rightfully due. Many noble ladies of the capital gloated over this, mocking her behind her back. Some did not even bother to go behind her back — they showed their contempt openly, such as Li Lihua’s sworn enemy, Xiao Shi.

Li Lihua would never forget the day her carriage was traveling along the road when she encountered Xiao Shi coming in the opposite direction on her way to the palace.

By rank, though Li Lihua could not obtain the Grand Princess Imperial title, she was still superior to Xiao Shi — by protocol, Xiao Shi should have yielded and let her pass first. But Xiao Shi initially refused to yield, deliberately blocking the road, until a crowd of passersby had gathered to point and stare. Only then did that woman pretend to scold her servants and order them to make way.

Li Lihua heard it perfectly clearly — as her carriage drew alongside that woman’s, a mocking laugh sounded from within: “Long live the Princess Imperial, ten thousand years and more.”

Li Lihua had nearly gone mad with fury at the time, swearing inwardly that one day she would grind Empress Dowager Shangguan and Xiao Shi and their whole despicable lot beneath her feet, leaving them unable to live or die in peace. But she also knew full well that things were not as they once were, and could only swallow her anger. Since that day, she had avoided public appearances for quite some time, retreating to her country villa, and had only just returned today — only to receive the news that Han Rongchang was going off to the Western Regions to be some kind of Auxiliary King Marquis. Incensed, she made a scene, got nowhere, and after much deliberation quietly had her carriage brought round and made her way to Penglai Palace again.

As before, she still did not manage to see Jiang Shi.

The female official Chen said the Grand Empress Dowager was resting and could not receive visitors.

On the day Li Chengyu formally ascended the throne, Jiang Shi had returned from the ancestral temple and fallen ill once more, and had largely been refusing to see people. Li Lihua had come several times on the pretext of paying a sick call, but each time without success. Today was no different.

She returned helplessly. Thinking again of Shen Yang, she suppressed the frustration in her heart and was just about to send a trusted aide to see him and press him on what he planned to do — when, as misfortune would have it, a new piece of news arrived.

Yesterday Shen Yang had submitted a memorial stating that he had been raised from childhood by his uncle, and that his uncle was as good as a father to him. Now that his uncle had passed away, he could not remain in his official post — and he requested to resign from his position as Commander of the Southern Division and return home to observe the mourning period.

Li Lihua felt as though struck by lightning. But to those at court who had long since caught the scent of what was coming and had been watching closely in secret, this outcome was no surprise.

The imperial audience at which the return of the Baole prince had been deliberated had taken place without Shen Yang present. And not only on that occasion — over the past half-year, since Shen Yang had returned after attending to the funeral, he had gradually faded from the center of power.

As a favored minister of the previous Emperor’s reign, it was evident that he did not enjoy the favor of the new Emperor Li Chengyu. The new Emperor had no intention of continuing to rely on him; in fact, he had begun to guard against him. Rumor had it that the reason Shen Yang had personally gone home to preside over his uncle’s funeral was actually at the new Emperor’s behest. While he was away from the capital, some of the personnel within the Southern Division had been rotated out. In the two months since his return, he had also pleaded illness and appeared at court very rarely. And then yesterday, appearing publicly after a long absence, he had voluntarily submitted his memorial and requested to resign on grounds of mourning.

The Emperor approved his resignation. He heaped lavish praise upon Shen Yang’s past contributions and bestowed generous gifts upon him, then ordered him to return to his post without fail once the mourning period was complete, saying the court would certainly make use of him again at that time.

Shen Yang, moved by the Emperor’s boundless grace, choked back tears in public, kowtowed in farewell to the new sovereign, rose to his feet, and under the gaze of every eye in the hall, withdrew from the great hall with respectful composure. He returned to the headquarters of the Southern Division and sat waiting for his successor to arrive.

That moment came quickly.

From the very first day of its establishment alongside the Li Dynasty, the Southern Division headquarters had in the minds of ordinary people always been a yamen of great power and authority.

Those who had held sway over this place — figures such as Jiang Yi, and the several before him — had all been towering personages who dominated their era, and they shared another common characteristic: they came from great aristocratic families. Although the current commander Shen Yang was an exception — he had risen from humble origins — under his control throughout nearly the entire Xiaochang reign, the Southern Division’s power had expanded even further beyond what it had been under his predecessor Jiang Yi, reaching something like its absolute zenith, which had made the yamen an object of even greater awe in the eyes of others.

Yet in fact, this yamen situated outside the imperial palace had an unremarkable exterior. The paint on the gate was somewhat peeling; the iron-clad threshold was covered with years of accumulated grime from the boots of military officers; and on the brick floor of the main hall one could even see the pits and jagged cracks left by sword-tips striking the ground.

Many years ago, Shen Yang had received from his predecessor Jiang Yi the seal of authority that represented command of this place.

Today, that bronze seal remained — lying quietly on the desk before him — and he had reached the moment when he must hand it over.

A slant of evening sunlight entered through the half-open door of the Southern Division, casting a warped pattern of cracked lines across the floor.

A lean, hard silhouette appeared in the doorway.

It was a young man. He raised his hand and pushed open the great door. In the flood of evening light that suddenly poured into the hall, he stepped across the threshold, walked to stand before Shen Yang, and fixed his gaze on his face. In a flat voice that carried no discernible emotion he said: “Commander Shen — my apologies.”

Shen Yang sat quietly behind the official desk in the main hall, slowly raising his eyes to look at the Cui Xuan who had stopped before him.

He studied those cold, expressionless eyes — unable to conceal the two sharp, keen edges lurking within — and felt a momentary disorientation, as his mind drifted back to the moment he had first seen this young man from He Xi.

That day he had had an intuition: this young man might one day become an enemy.

It was the intuition of a predator encountering his own kind in the hunting grounds. No matter how the other concealed himself, that scent of blood could not escape his nose.

He felt a measure of regret — he had underestimated him back then, had not moved to eliminate him before he had grown into his power, and so had left behind this source of trouble.

Now the intuition he had harbored at the time had been proven correct.

Shen Yang had no doubt that the death of Emperor Xiaochang was deeply connected to the young man before him.

Even for someone like himself, in that same situation, he might not have been capable of such decisive action at the critical moment — but what was most formidable of all was leaving no retreat, staking everything on one desperate gamble.

And yet he had done it — and somehow succeeded.

Shen Yang felt deeply a chilling sense of being pressed upon by the younger generation.

Emperor Xiaochang’s death had been so sudden; he had been entirely unprepared, and it had completely thrown off his original course of action.

However, he had kept a hand in reserve.

Now was the time for him to temporarily withdraw.

Temporarily — that was all.

He raised both hands, removed the official cap from his head, set it neatly alongside the seal on the desk, then slowly rose to his feet. He gave the young man before him a slight smile and said: “Commander Cui — until we meet again.”

Having said this, Shen Yang walked past the young man, stepped over the threshold, and departed with long, unhurried strides.