Outside the Hanying Gate at the northwestern corner of the imperial palace lay a broad, open expanse of ground, near which stood the barracks of the Imperial Guard. In ordinary times, this space served as a polo field for imperial recreation, as well as a training ground where the Imperial Guard conducted its drills and martial exercises. The Imperial Guard held its drills daily, and at the end of each month, by long-standing custom, a competitive martial display was held here. The centerpiece of this event was known as the Ten-Man Gauntlet.

The Ten-Man Gauntlet was exactly what it sounded like: ten men surrounding and attacking a single person in the center. If the man in the center could break through the encirclement and escape, he would be promoted in rank.

Promotion within the Imperial Guard was strictly hierarchical and not easily achieved, which made the prospect enormously appealing. But in practice, over the past full two years, not a single person had managed to break through.

The reason it was so difficult was that the Ten-Man Gauntlet had been designed from the outset to identify and select outstanding elites. The entire bout was conducted in earnest. The ten men mounting the attack — aside from bladed weapons capable of inflicting open wounds — could use any weapon, any technique, aimed at any part of the challenger’s body. Beyond this, these ten men were no ordinary fighters; they were handpicked warriors of exceptional ability. Thus, over these two years, not only had no challenger succeeded, but participants routinely emerged with serious injuries — and one had even collapsed vomiting blood on the spot and died from his wounds.

For half a year now, the Ten-Man Gauntlet had been effectively abandoned, with no one daring to gamble their life for a chance at advancement.

Yet today, the long-absent sounds of clamor rang out here once more.

Several Imperial Guard soldiers in soft armor and black shoes exchanged glances and gave one another a look, then together seized one man and forcibly dragged him toward the arena.

The guardsman being dragged had slightly dark skin and a tall, lean build, with the wiry agility characteristic of youth. Unable to break free from those holding him, he was marched against his will toward the Ten-Man Gauntlet arena. The other guardsmen gathered around to watch. Seeing what was happening, rather than interfering, they cheered and goaded the scene on.

This guardsman was Cui Xuan — who had entered the Imperial Guard less than a month ago.

The Imperial Guard was rigidly hierarchical and worshipped strength. Most of the guards came from aristocratic families in the capital, and banding together was the norm. After Cui Xuan arrived, people learned that he hailed from the remote frontier of He Xi and was nothing more than the descendant of a disgraced official — a man of low birth. He was also unsociable, spending his days saying nothing beyond his drills, and never going out of his way to curry favor with those around him. He was quickly isolated and ostracized.

Today was the monthly competitive drill at month’s end. These few guards were acting on the orders of the Shangguan family’s seventh son. The seventh son resented Cui Xuan for his disrespect and had deliberately had him pushed into the Ten-Man Gauntlet, intending to teach him a good lesson.

Cui Xuan was quickly shoved to the edge of the arena.

He braced his feet against the yellow earth, unwilling to enter.

“Go in!”

“Go in!”

“Go in!”

The Imperial Guard soldiers hadn’t seen anyone enter the ring to challenge in a long time, and excitement overtook them. They called out in unison.

“Get in there!”

The seventh son of the Shangguan family shoved him hard. Cui Xuan stumbled forward and was thrust into the arena. When he regained his footing, he found himself already inside the encirclement — ten warriors gripping wooden staffs had him surrounded.

“Fight!”

“Fight!”

“Fight!”

All around were young men in their twenties, every one of them hot-blooded and reckless. Seeing the scene, they rolled up their sleeves and fists, urging it on in unison again.

People everywhere. Cui Xuan was like a lone boat surrounded by crashing waves, standing alone at the center amid the surging tide of noise.

He looked across at those few guardsmen whose faces wore expressions of smug satisfaction, and his jaw slowly tightened. Then, abruptly, he turned. Amid the wild shouts erupting from all around, he walked to the weapon rack, seized a coiling-dragon staff — one end fitted with interlocking iron chains — and returned to the center of the arena.

The ten men did not waste words. They attacked him at once.

The noise all around grew even louder. Wave after wave, deafening and thunderous. Dust kicked up by a dozen pairs of feet swirled and billowed through the arena. Staffs and iron chains clashed and crossed, mixed with the dull thud of heavy blows landing on flesh.

Cui Xuan took seven or eight blows from all sides, beaten to his knees on the ground, blood flowing from the corner of his mouth.

His head was pinned hard to the ground by the foot of some warrior — face pressed into the yellow earth, unable to move. In his ears was the overwhelming roar of scornful laughter.

Cui Xuan closed his eyes. Before him seemed to flash the scene of his captivity in the inner mansion’s dark prison, enduring painful interrogation. Then his eyes snapped open, filled with rage to the point of splitting.

The few guardsmen who had forced him into the arena were gloating with delight, laughing uproariously, waiting for him to beg for mercy and yield — to admit defeat and leave. Then they found that instead of retreating, he suddenly dropped flat against the ground. The iron chain at the end of the coiling-dragon staff swept in a wide arc toward the warriors nearest to him — three or four men’s legs were instantly wrapped tight by the chain.

He let out a great shout, mustered all his strength, and yanked. Those men crashed to the ground, tumbling into a heap.

The shouts and noise around them gradually died. Only the sounds of the brutal struggle in the arena remained — the crack of staff against iron chain. The guardsmen stared at the He Xi youth at the center of the encirclement — eyes bloodshot, like a frenzied tiger — and their expressions shifted from smug satisfaction to astonishment.

Cui Xuan was ferocious beyond measure. He had broken past seven or eight men trying to stop him one after another, taking several more hard blows square on his shoulders and back. He let out another thunderous roar, swung the iron chain, and wrapped it tight around the neck of the man before him, dragging him crashing to the ground. At the same moment, he used the other end of the staff to push aside another warrior, then vaulted forward in a somersault — dodging the last man attempting to block him. When his feet touched down, he was already standing outside the ring.

He had broken through the gauntlet.

The ten warriors lay injured on the ground or stood frozen in place, as if they had not yet come back to their senses.

All around fell into absolute silence. Not a sound could be heard.

Cui Xuan raised his palm and slowly wiped away the blood still flowing from the corner of his mouth. His cold gaze swept over the ranks of guardsmen before him — faces wearing expressions of shock, fear, and awe — and his figure, as he stood there, was like a lone wolf that had finished its kill and now surveyed with disdain everything beneath its feet.

The eighth month was not yet spent; the ninth had come to grant its garments.

Yet this year, as the ninth month arrived, the autumn heat still came in waves. In the blink of an eye, the auspicious date of Prince Qin’s wedding had arrived.

On the day before the wedding, Princess Imperial Li Lihua went to Prince Qin’s manor to inspect the preparations for the bridal chamber. She instructed the manor steward to carefully place in the new room a white jade and gold inlaid screen painted with a hundred children at play — which she had brought as her wedding gift. She then boarded her carriage, left the city, and went to Ziyang Temple to find Li Xuandu and urge him to return to the city early, so that the Daoist cultivation he had been pursuing would not interfere with the auspicious timing of the wedding the following day.

He must return to the city the next day for the wedding.

After the Princess Imperial left, Li Xuandu reflected on her seemingly casual probing about when he would leave the capital after the wedding. That night, sleep eluded him for a long while. By late night, he began to feel the autumn heat unbearable — opening the window brought no relief. So he threw on his outer robe, left the hall, and wandered to the spring pool beside the pine grove. He waded in.

He closed his eyes, standing in the stream with the water reaching his knees, tilted his head back slightly, and let the clear spring water pour over him from above. His entire body was soaked through at once.

A gust of night wind blew past, sweeping over Li Xuandu’s drenched robe clinging to his skin, bringing a wave of cool dampness that finally brought him some comfort.

Far away in some dense forest, an owl called out several times, making the stillness all around seem even deeper.

Not far from him, beneath the surface of the stream, there was a soundless stirring. A stream of bubbles rose. Something large seemed to be moving upstream beneath the water, gradually drawing closer to him from behind. When it was only a few feet away, in an instant — accompanied by the thunderous sound of water splitting and spraying — something burst up from beneath the surface. A masked figure leapt out of the water, and a streak of cold light shot straight toward the back of Li Xuandu’s heart as he stood with his face tilted upward.

In the moonlight, the cold light flashed like lightning, chillingly sharp.

It was a blade — a killing sword.

Li Xuandu opened his eyes and spun around sharply.

The sword tip, like a venomous snake flicking its tongue, changed course with uncanny agility and lunged instantly for his throat.

Li Xuandu had barely turned when the sword was already upon him, no more than a few inches from his throat.

He was dressed in Daoist robes, with not a single inch of iron to shield him. Just as the sword tip was about to graze his throat, he raised his hand and seized the blade bare-handed with a crushing grip. With a surge of force, he wrenched it — and with a sharp ringing clang, the sword was broken in two by his bare hands.

The attacker seemed taken aback. The broken sword’s momentum halted for a moment.

In that instant, Li Xuandu reversed the broken blade he held. The attacker reacted with equal speed, shifting to dodge. Though the vital point was avoided, it was a fraction too slow.

With a muffled sound, the broken blade — like a dagger — drove deep into one side of the chest and shoulder.

The figure swayed slightly.

Blood welled up and dripped from the hand that had broken the sword — from Li Xuandu’s palm — and fell into the water below. It also flowed from within the masked figure’s body, swiftly staining a wide swath of the stream’s surface red.

The whole affair had erupted with startling suddenness and ended in a matter of moments.

Li Xuandu’s attendants had been standing on the bank nearby. One was already sounding a sharp whistle to call for reinforcements, while wading into the water and rushing toward him.

The masked figure retreated swiftly, leapt onto the streambank, and though the wound was not light, still moved without impediment. In an instant, the figure dashed into the forest nearby and vanished into the shadow of the trees, swallowed by the night.

Ye Xiao arrived quickly, ordered Shen Qiao and Zhang Ting to lead the guards into the forest after the assassin, and stayed behind to escort the prince back to the hall.

Li Xuandu still stood in the water. He turned his head and gazed in the direction the assassin had fled, seeming to be lost in thought about something.

Ye Xiao dared not disturb him, but the torchlight revealed that his hand was injured. That hand hung at his side, blood flowing ceaselessly down his fingers to drip below, staining a large portion of his Daoist robe red at the hem.

He could not help but speak up: “Your Highness, your hand!”

Li Xuandu seemed to come back to himself only then. He turned, waded to the bank, and returned to the Yuqing Hall where he resided.

The cut on his palm was serious — a deep slash, nearly reaching the bone, raw and bloody.

Ye Xiao was no stranger to surface wounds, serving half as a field physician. He cleaned the wound, then took a needle and thread to suture it, applied wound medicine to stanch the bleeding, and finally wrapped it in cloth.

Blood spotted the floor. Li Xuandu made not a sound throughout. Once the wound was treated and his clothes changed, his face was still somewhat pale. He slouched on his side on the cloud-couch, eyes half-closed, lashes drooping, still as a statue — as if he had fallen asleep.

Shen Qiao and Zhang Ting returned to report to Li Xuandu and asked his forgiveness. The assassin had been extremely cunning — once inside the forest, he never came out but kept circling within the trees. Whenever they almost had him cornered, he slipped away again. In the end, he had vanished without a trace, and they had no choice but to return and report.

Ye Xiao was furious, and thinking back, even more frightened.

“Who could have done this? Even now that the man has escaped, he cannot have gone far. Shall I order the capital prefecture to seal off the mountain immediately and search for him?”

Li Xuandu remained with eyes closed and only said: “No need.”

Ye Xiao was not reconciled to this, but since Prince Qin had spoken, and seeing that his face was drawn — likely not yet recovered from the sharp pain of the treated hand wound — he could only suppress his fury and obey.

Li Xuandu dismissed everyone to go and rest. He lay against the cloud-couch for a while, and in his mind’s eye the scene of the assassin’s attack replayed itself.

Though the encounter had been brief, and the attacker’s face had been covered by a mask, the uncanny feeling of familiarity caused him, upon reflection, to immediately think of a deep night early in the year, at the Fulu relay station in He Xi.

He slowly opened his eyes. By the lamplight, he raised his injured hand and stared at it. His gaze was deep and unreadable. After a long while, he finally put his hand down, closed his eyes, and turned over to face the wall, drawing his robe over himself, and slept.

The following day was the wedding.

Pu Zhu had slept very well the previous night, with none of the nervousness of a bride on the eve of her wedding.

Or rather, from the day she had been compelled by circumstance to make her new decision, through all the days of waiting for the wedding, she had slept soundly every night.

With a goal set and a clear direction for what she needed to do going forward, there was nothing left to be anxious about — she would adapt as events unfolded and do her best.

She was attended by her maids as she bathed, her body bare and immersed in richly fragrant bathwater. It took nearly an hour more to have her hair done — the high coiffure swept upward like the wings of a startled swan in flight — and finally, over the close-fitting plain gauze underrobe, she put on the elaborate and layered ceremonial wedding garments.

At dusk, as the propitious hour of the welcoming procession drew near, the sounds of drums and music floated faintly from the front courtyard of the Guo household.

She stood in a slant of evening shadow before the window, letting her beautiful maid hold up a large bronze mirror as she made the final adjustments to her hair.

In the hazy floral light, before the pale rose-red curtains, a jade beauty was reflected in the mirror — clad in the floral coronet and pheasant-patterned court dress of a royal princess consort, jade and jade-stone pendants at her waist. When she raised her arms, her sleeves slipped of their own accord, unable to bear the smoothness of her skin, and fell back to pool at her elbows, revealing a length of snow-white jade wrists. On those wrists were two golden bracelets, glinting brilliantly in the slanting lamplight with every inadvertent touch of her fingers to her hair.

The auspicious elder appointed by the imperial household to escort the bride was the consort of the First-Rank Prince Duan — a woman with both parents living, children of both sexes, and the full blessings of a complete family. She too wore ceremonial robes and jeweled hairpins, and came smiling to call for Pu Zhu, saying that the auspicious hour had come and Prince Qin, carrying the ceremonial wild goose, had come in person to receive her.

Pu Zhu’s hand stilled for a moment. A faint, sudden nervousness arose — and she looked once more at herself in the mirror, then turned in response to the call. She dipped her head slightly to allow the two senior ceremonial ladies from the palace to cover her face with a face cloth of blue silk embroidered with gold thread and paired lotus blossoms. She was then led out of the inner chamber and toward the outside.

When she stepped outside, dusk had already fallen. Beyond the gates of the Guo household, the palace guards and the manor’s own attendants had long since formed their lines on both sides of the street, keeping the commoners back.

The wedding proceeded step by step according to ritual. After completing the formalities within the Guo household, Pu Zhu was led out of the eastern chamber by the ceremonial ladies and guided to board the wedding carriage.

The carriage moved forward. She sat inside for a moment, then unable to suppress her curiosity, quietly pulled aside the face cloth, curled her fingers around the edge of the curtain, and peeked outside.

Torches blazed bright along both sides of the road. The welcoming procession stretched out before and behind, a long and winding column of people and horses. Everywhere she looked, there were people. At once her gaze fell on Li Xuandu in the area ahead of her wedding carriage — seated on a fine horse adorned with a jeweled saddle and a golden filigreed bridle, moving at an unhurried pace.

He looked quite different from his usual careless manner. He was dressed in deep red ceremonial robes, his back straight and imposing. Pu Zhu stole a glance for a moment, then settled back in her seat. In her mind, she quietly went over once more how she would handle the events of this evening.

The wedding night must go smoothly without mishap.

She silently breathed out, and the small flutter of nervousness that had arisen earlier dissolved like smoke.