Li Huazhang’s words were nothing short of fantastical. Everyone fell silent and looked toward him. Li Huazhang unhurriedly produced a map and gestured as he spoke: “Prince Qiao’s forces may sound numerous, but the troops he recruited locally are nothing but scattered soldiers and stragglers — they amount to little. The Jiannan Military Governor communicates with him only through letters, and any response will take time. As long as we seize the opportunity, divide and fragment the internal factions within Junzhou, then join forces with Ren Yao to eradicate in one fell swoop the core group instigating the rebellion, the remaining soldiers will need no handling from us — they will scatter and collapse on their own. Once Prince Qiao is dead, the Jiannan Military Governor will have no justification for raising troops. He will most likely destroy his correspondence with Prince Qiao and feign ignorance. We can remove him from office once Junzhou is stabilized; if he still insists on marching, we can summon military governors from various regions to punish him. But that is the worst-case scenario — after killing Prince Qiao, we can send a false signal to the Jiannan Military Governor to make him believe we have no knowledge of his secret allegiance to Prince Qiao. As long as we keep him at bay, the rest can be dealt with gradually.”
Xie Jichuan said: “But your plan only works against scattered soldiers, and it requires guaranteeing that the Jiannan Military Governor will not enter the field personally. If he is absolutely committed to supporting Prince Qiao and, upon receiving news that Prince Qiao is surrounded, orders the Chuzhou army to relieve Junzhou, everyone here will be dead within a day.”
The Jiannan Military Governor was nothing like those pampered generals in Chang’an. He had garrisoned the southwest, fought against Tubo and Nanzhao year after year, and his troops were battle-hardened veterans. His trusted subordinates were spread throughout the entire army, and the combat strength of the Imperial Guard troops Ren Yao had brought was unlikely to surpass that of the Jiannan forces. Five hundred of Ren Yao’s elite soldiers combined with the Shangzhou prefectural militia Li Huazhang had trained might be able to catch the Junzhou troops off guard, but attempting to neutralize Chuzhou’s twenty thousand troops with these same resources was sheer fantasy.
Li Huazhang’s long, pale fingers tapped on Chuzhou on the map and said: “So, we must first find a way to draw Chuzhou’s forces away.”
Xie Jichuan raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Even Ming Yuji felt it was unlikely: “But Chuzhou is a military stronghold — how could the Jiannan Military Governor possibly withdraw forces from there?”
“War is not only about direct combat; there are many unseen contests fought in the shadows — that is the meaning of the Xuan Xiaowei.” Li Huazhang’s finger traced across the map as he spoke. “People tend to deeply believe in conclusions they have arrived at through their own reasoning. Prince Qiao and the Jiannan Military Governor have surely learned of Ren Yao’s coming — why not take a page from Wei Zhu’s playbook, exploit their instinctive assumptions, and lure them into making the wrong judgment? If we dress up a corpse to appear to be one of Ren Yao’s scouts and let it drift down the Han River to Junzhou, with a letter in the scout’s possession written in Ren Yao’s own hand, stating that she intends to join forces with the Longyou Military Governor, rendezvous at Han’yin, and travel by waterway to launch a surprise attack on Junzhou — upon learning of this, Prince Qiao will inevitably seek aid from the Jiannan Military Governor. Longyou’s forces far outnumber Jiannan’s: Longyou has over seventy thousand troops in total, while Jiannan combined has no more than thirty thousand. If the Jiannan Military Governor hopes to withstand Longyou’s army, he will inevitably withdraw forces from Chuzhou and concentrate them at Jinzhou, hoping to launch a surprise strike against Ren Yao and the Longyou troops before they can consolidate their position. Once the Jiannan Military Governor withdraws from Chuzhou, our people will quietly make their way down the Jun River to approach Junzhou. On the day of the operation, the Xuan Xiaowei members inside the city will be responsible for opening the city gates to let the soldiers outside rush in, killing Prince Qiao’s trusted subordinates and capturing him alive. Once Prince Qiao is taken prisoner, even if the Jiannan Military Governor realizes he has been tricked, it will be too late to reverse the situation.”
Xie Jichuan had been committed to finding fault with Li Huazhang’s plans, yet after Li Huazhang finished speaking this time, he remained quiet, offering no cold water. Ming Yuji pondered for a moment and asked: “It sounds workable. But the most critical element of this plan is making Prince Qiao believe the false intelligence. The people around Prince Qiao are not fools, either — they can tell at a glance whether soldiers are real or fake. Where would we find a body that could pass as genuine?”
Bodies of those who died violently were easy enough to find, but the body of a disciplined, long-trained soldier who had died only recently was a different matter entirely. Xie Jichuan’s pupils shifted slowly as he recalled Li Huazhang’s actions that morning, and understanding dawned on him.
“It wasn’t easy to say before, but now, as it happens, there is a ready-made body.” Li Huazhang’s voice remained as steady and composed as ever. “Some time ago there was a murder case in Shangzhou — a band of mountain bandits robbed some jewelry and fled, and the ringleader drowned last night. His body is currently preserved at the prefectural government office. Bandits wield blades year-round; their bodies bear scars and old wounds, and they can pass for soldiers. Furthermore, he was struck by an arrow and fell from a cliff last night — shot by a government arrow — so we can fabricate a story that he was discovered by a patrolling soldier while scouting near a military camp and fell into the water while being pursued. We do not even need to fabricate his cause of death; every trace can withstand scrutiny.”
Ming Yuji was astonished: “Can there really be such a coincidence?”
Xie Jichuan frowned, involuntarily suspecting that Li Huazhang had been playing them all along the previous night: “Could it be that last night you already had this idea and deliberately let the bandit chief fall from the cliff?”
Li Huazhang was helpless: “How could I? It was this morning, when I saw the yamen runners fishing Dong Hai’s body out of the river — his bundle had been swept away by the water, and there was no way to verify his identity beyond recognizing his face — that I thought of this scheme.”
Ming Huashang had not previously considered that Dong Hai’s body could be used this way. She carefully thought through the feasibility of Li Huazhang’s stratagem. The plan sounded fantastical at first, but if it succeeded, the gain would be enormous; and even if Prince Qiao and the others saw through it, they stood to lose nothing — at worst, they would simply come to blows a little sooner.
The remaining members fell silent, each evidently weighing the odds. In the end, the plan won the approval of everyone present with almost no effort, and what remained was the matter of execution details.
Ming Huashang raised the precautions she had considered one by one: “If we want Prince Qiao to believe this is a scout from Ren Yao’s side, we need to give this body a personal history — for instance, letters home, a handkerchief from a fiancée, IOUs, and the like. We also need things that can hint at his departure time and point of origin — for example, an IOU written on a scrap of paper whose reverse side bears a grand-opening announcement from a Chang’an tavern. All of this information must seem incidental, so that Prince Qiao draws the conclusions himself. So the water must have blurred the writing just enough — but not entirely — that they can make out the key words. Of course, the most important element is Ren Yao’s movements. It would be too suspicious for a scout to carry such critical military intelligence on his person, so I suggest having him write a letter home to complain, with Ren Yao’s marching plan disclosed as an off-hand remark.”
Xie Jichuan’s family had no shortage of brushes and ink, and he was the most knowledgeable about such things. Li Huazhang asked him: “Do you have ink suited to these requirements?”
Xie Jichuan drawled: “The ink is available, but the problem is not the ink — it is the paper. If, as you describe, the body is to drift downriver to Junzhou, the letter paper will be soaked through and pulp before the ink even has a chance to bleed.”
Ming Yuji had experience with this and said: “When traveling outside, things are inevitably exposed to wind and rain, so important items are always wrapped in oilcloth and kept close to the body — letters home especially. In my village, those with sons in the army could only send things back when a fellow villager happened to return, and often a large bundle would accumulate. So the letters home should include many, written across different time periods. There should also be money saved up for the parents and dried rations — soldiers on campaign typically carry all of these.”
The group offered suggestions and refined the details one by one, and gradually the image of a homesick, lonely soldier took shape before them — vivid enough to feel like a real person who truly existed in the world.
Once the four had settled on the details, they divided the work among themselves to forge the various items. Letter-writing, being the technically demanding work, was unanimously assigned to Xie Jichuan. Ming Yuji had just come from Chang’an and knew the merchants there, so she was tasked with forging the IOU and the tavern announcement. Ming Huashang was the only married woman present; she volunteered to take on the role of the fiancée, making a safety amulet and embroidering a handkerchief for her sweetheart. Li Huazhang had dealt with many soldiers and was responsible for adding to Dong Hai’s body the kind of details common among military men — unnoticed by others, yet universally present.
But Ren Yao was also indispensable to the plan. Ming Huashang was troubled: “We are acting in the name of Elder Sister Ren Yao — we would have to notify her in advance. But now, given the awkward situation, she is certain to have people from Empress Wei at her side, so how do we communicate with her?”
“Let me write the letter.” Su Xingzhi had awakened without anyone noticing when. He was half-propped up in bed, his face bearing an unhealthy flush, and said: “She originally asked me to relay messages to the Duke Zhenguo residence — if I write to her, she will understand that this comes from all of you.”
It seemed Su Xingzhi had been awake for some time and, hearing them discuss matters so animatedly, had held back and not interrupted. Ming Huashang stopped talking and rose to her feet: “Then I will trouble Brother Su. Brother Su, please rest well — we will come to check on you later. Sister, I am heading back.”
Su Xingzhi’s condition truly could not withstand further exertion. Ming Yuji did not hold Ming Huashang back; Xie Jichuan and Li Huazhang also rose to their feet tactfully. After the door closed, Ming Yuji gazed at the room that had suddenly emptied and felt a complex mixture of emotions.
They were called twins, yet in truth they had spent very little time together. But the bond of blood was strangely powerful — in certain things they were remarkably in sync, such as that time at the inn when the two had found each other’s location without any explanation, or just now, when Ming Yuji had not urged Ming Huashang to leave Junzhou, and Ming Huashang had not urged Ming Yuji to come back to the prefectural office to stay.
Because Ming Yuji knew she would not leave Li Huazhang, and Ming Huashang knew she would not abandon the fever-stricken Su Xingzhi. They were the people most closely bound by blood, and they wholeheartedly wished the best for each other — yet they also calmly accepted that each had another person in her life who was even closer than the other sister.
The person remaining inside sensed that all the others had left, and also fell quiet. While fleeing their pursuers, Ming Yuji had supported Su Xingzhi in and out of places and felt not the slightest awkwardness in their physical contact — but now that things had settled, she did not know how to face him.
Su Xingzhi noticed her reluctance and coughed softly, saying: “Elder Miss Ming, thank you for taking care of me along the way. I am much better now — please just leave the medicine on the table, and I will drink it myself.”
Ming Yuji did not move. She asked: “I hate being indebted to people more than anything else, and you heard it yourself that day — leaving the capital was my own choice. What does the Ming family’s affairs have to do with you? Why did you block the pursuers for me?”
The person resting in the bed leaned against it, his breathing barely perceptible. After a moment, a low, hoarse voice came: “Consider it my own presumptuous sentiment. I have watched you grow up since you were a child, and I always feel you are still a little girl. I could not rest easy letting you travel alone.”
After returning to the Duke Zhenguo residence, although Ming Yuji’s status had risen, in front of Su Xingzhi she had always been that disadvantaged adopted younger sister. But the Su Xingzhi before her now was frail and pallid, no longer the elder brother who had held her hand walking and taught her to write characters, but rather someone who needed her care. Ming Yuji’s courage grew without her realizing it, and she asked: “Then why, when you were in Chang’an, did you always keep your distance from me as though I were a snake or a scorpion?”
Ming Yuji had always thought of herself as someone who could take things and let them go. She had believed she had long since let the matter fade, that she had firmly fixed her eyes on what lay ahead — but now that she had asked the question aloud, she realized that in truth it had always nagged at her.
Su Xingzhi fell silent. Ming Yuji suddenly grew afraid to hear the answer; she picked up the medicine bowl and was about to say never mind when Su Xingzhi already spoke: “Because in Chang’an, the elder daughter of the Duke Zhenguo residence did not need the help of a mere minor censor. The gentlemen you should have been associating with were those who matched you in family background and were your equal in talent and appearance — being seen too close to me would only have caused people to constantly revisit the circumstances of your origins, which would have been harmful to your marriage prospects.”
Illness tends to disable a person’s judgment, causing secrets long kept hidden to be spoken without thought. Ming Yuji suddenly grew angry and said furiously: “You are not my elder brother — what right do you have to arrange things for me? Who I associate with, who I consider for marriage — even my own father cannot control me. What right do you have to act on your own authority and privately decide that keeping away from me is for my own good?”
Su Xingzhi began coughing, doing his utmost to suppress the sound, and said hoarsely: “I am sorry.”
Ming Yuji’s face was flushed with anger. She coldly carried the bowl to his bedside and said irritably: “Open your mouth.”
Su Xingzhi tried to take the bowl: “I’ll manage.”
“Don’t move — if it spills on the bedding, I will be the one washing it.” Ming Yuji said impatiently. “Drink quickly. I have other things to do.”
Su Xingzhi stopped struggling, opened his mouth, and drank the medicine. As the bitter liquid went down his throat, he involuntarily wrinkled his brow, but said not a single word. Ming Yuji suddenly remembered that when she had been sick as a child, he had never said things like “blow on it and it won’t taste bitter” to coax her — he would only tell her: “Pinch your nose shut, don’t look at the medicine, and swallow it in one breath and you won’t taste the bitterness.”
A rather inelegant piece of advice, yet unexpectedly effective. Ming Yuji placed the bowl in his hands and said quietly: “Pinch your nose shut, don’t look, and down it in one go.”
Su Xingzhi paused for a moment, then wordlessly accepted the medicine bowl and drank it down in a single draft. Ming Yuji did not offer the kind of tender words noble ladies would have said. She simply watched silently as he drank, and once she had confirmed that not a drop remained in the bowl, she silently took the bowl back, poured a little clean water nearby, and rinsed out the residual dregs.
When the physician had prescribed the medicine, he had thought only of its efficacy — the taste left much to be desired. Su Xingzhi was a little helpless: “Leave the medicine bowl — I can wash it myself. You don’t need to rinse it that thoroughly, do you?”
Ming Yuji did not look back and said coolly: “This is how you used to give me medicine when I was a child.”
Su Xingzhi pressed his lips together. For a moment he could not tell whether her words were an act of care or a kind of revenge, and could only resign himself to accepting the bowl back and drinking the rinse water she had personally collected.
Ming Yuji watched Su Xingzhi drink the water. Even as he frowned, he drained every last drop without leaving a single one behind. This was a habit both of them had been instilled with by their environment since childhood — like it or not, one must not waste water or food. Even water used to rinse the remnants of medicine — Li Huazhang, Xie Jichuan, Jiang Ling, and the others would not drink it; Ming Huashang would not have thought to do so either. But for the two of them, this was entirely ordinary.
Ming Yuji suddenly understood something. When she had first arrived in Chang’an and seen the imperial splendor and bejeweled elegance that only appeared in stage plays, she had felt both inferior and fiercely self-determined. Later she had learned that she was not a village girl — she had always been meant to be a noble family’s treasured daughter raised in privilege. She had used indifference and stubbornness to conceal her own sensitivity. By now she could fluently rattle off the fragrances fashionable among Chang’an noble ladies and name the temples they habitually visited — yet in truth, she had always been Su Yuji, that Su Yuji who had grown up in the countryside, where scarce resources had made her fierce, had made her guard what was hers.
But what of that? Every single thing she had lived through had made her who she was today. Even if she could never learn the elegance of noble ladies, even if she had gone from village girl to the daughter of a ducal house, she was herself — Su Yuji, utterly one of a kind in the entire world.
Su Xingzhi, too, was part of what she had lived through. Those gentlemen of noble birth could not accept her ways — he considered them perfectly natural. They could not appreciate her character — he thought it was fine.
Every person is an incomplete mirror, yet spends an entire lifetime searching for the perfect other half. Ming Yuji looked at Su Xingzhi and finally allowed herself to acknowledge that he was the shape of the other half of herself she had always imagined. She had grown up following in his footsteps, imitating his every move — all the virtues she held in her heart were ones she had learned from watching him.
Acknowledging her feelings for him was, in truth, accepting the self she had once been — and in the third year after returning to the Duke Zhenguo residence, she was at last able to make peace with that Su Yuji who had been both fierce and fragile, proud and self-doubting.
She would never become, in her very bones, a noble lady — but she would always be Su Yuji from the countryside of Taiyuan.
Su Xingzhi finished the medicine, and perhaps because he had broken into a sweat, he found his head no longer felt so heavy. He was about to get out of bed to put the bowl away when Ming Yuji took it from him in one swift motion. She turned and tidied the furniture with practiced ease. Su Xingzhi faintly heard her say: “But I would rather be Su Yuji than the elder daughter of the Duke Zhenguo residence.”