When Cheng Chang arrived at the Ministry of Justice, the officials there told him the Ministry of Finance hadn’t yet sent over the finalized account books, adding, “If the Third Young Master is in a hurry for them, this humble official will go press them right away.”
Cheng Chang was indeed in a hurry. Today was already the third day of the second month, and though the exact date of Yun Xi’s departure hadn’t yet been set, however one calculated it, there could be no more than ten-odd days left.
He said, “No need. I’ll go to the Ministry of Finance myself.”
At the Ministry of Finance, the clerk at the entrance bowed to him and said, “Your Highness has arrived.” Then added, “Prince Ling is here today as well.”
Though Prince Ling oversaw the Ministry of Finance, his actual rank was not high—he held only the title of Bureau Director, lower even than Cheng Chang’s own rank of Attendant Censor. But being an imperial prince, whenever the ministry had account books to review, they were generally passed to him first. Some time ago, Emperor Zhaoyuan had reprimanded him at court over the matter of Prince Yun’s disaster relief funds, and he had since been careful not to slack off, frequently coming to the Ministry of Finance to oversee the auditing of accounts.
Today he wore official robes of lake blue, a fish pouch hanging at his waist, no jade ornaments—yet he himself was as handsome and gentle-mannered as fine jade. Seeing Cheng Chang, he looked somewhat surprised and asked, “Mingying? What brings you here?” After a moment’s thought, he guessed at the reason and added, “These account books have already been audited. I’ll have someone check them over once more, just to be sure there are no errors.”
Cheng Chang nodded. “My thanks to Your Highness.”
Without wasting any time, he found an empty desk, sat down, and picked up a completed volume of accounts to review.
About half a cup of tea’s time later, a clerk from the Ministry of Finance came over and bowed. “Your Highness, the accounts have been fully audited. Shall this humble one deliver them directly to the Censorate?”
Prince Yun’s case had been filed by the Three Judicial Offices, but the lead investigation wasn’t being handled at the Censorate—it was at the Ministry of Justice. Sending the account books to the Censorate would only be a convenience for him personally; the Ministry of Justice still needed to review them, and shuttling the documents back and forth would eat up the better part of a day.
Cheng Chang said, “Send them to the Ministry of Justice.”
The clerk acknowledged this and called over several men to carry the account books. Seeing Cheng Chang about to leave, Prince Ling set aside what he was doing and said, “Mingying, I’ll walk over with you.”
The two of them walked side by side along the corridor. Prince Ling said, “On the night of the Lantern Festival, when we all had yuanxiao together in Great-Grandmother’s palace, why didn’t you come, Mingying?”
Cheng Chang said, “I’d meant to, but the Censorate’s western station was too far from the palace—I couldn’t make it in time.”
Prince Ling nodded, then, remembering something, said with a smile, “Great-Grandmother was quite put out that you didn’t show up. It was that Second Miss Yu who managed to talk her around, saying it just showed how diligent and hardworking you were. After the yuanxiao, custom called for releasing sky lanterns and making wishes, and Great-Grandmother had Miss Yu release one on your behalf—but she declined, saying you surely had your own wish, and it wasn’t hers to make for you. That only made Great-Grandmother more annoyed, scolding her for being so slow to take a hint. In the end it was young master Zhou from the Zhou family who released one for you instead. Do you remember young master Zhou, the fifth son?”
Cheng Chang did remember him. He recalled the Grand Empress Dowager mentioning that as a child, he had often stayed by her side along with Yu Ling and Zhou Hongguang’s fifth son, and that they had once even gone together to Mingyin Temple to play.
Cheng Chang said, “I remember his father made some blunder in his official duties, and hasn’t come to pay respects to Great-Grandmother in years. Why did he show up this year?”
“I hear Great-Grandmother finally relented and had someone pass word to the Zhou household. Once they got the hint, the Zhou family promptly sent their fifth son into the palace to apologize to her in person,” Prince Ling said. “You two were closest as children—didn’t he mention any of this to you?”
Cheng Chang said, “He didn’t.”
Prince Ling had never been much of a talker to begin with, and seeing that Cheng Chang didn’t seem particularly interested in the topic, he let it drop.
Since the Crown Prince’s death, Prince Ling, as the eldest surviving imperial son and born of the Imperial Noble Consort, ought by rights to hold the most esteemed standing in the palace. Yet his handling of official duties had consistently fallen short—not enough to count as major faults, but certainly nothing to boast of either—and as a result, Prince Yun had gradually overtaken him.
Cheng Chang had heard from the servants in his household that as a child, he’d gotten along well with both Prince Ling and Prince Yun, but as he grew older and, by his own admission, grew rather more unruly, the closeness of childhood had gradually faded. Prince Ling, being the elder, would occasionally scold and discipline him when he stepped out of line, while Prince Yun had simply enjoyed watching from the sidelines.
Still, the three of them were, after all, cousins, and beyond the formal palace banquets, they occasionally gathered privately as well—their ties hadn’t been entirely severed over the years.
By the time they reached the Ministry of Justice, the department head there was in the middle of briefing Yun Xi on the Marquis Zhongyong’s case. Turning and spotting Cheng Chang and Prince Ling, he hurried over with Yun Xi to bow in greeting. “Greetings, Your Highness Prince Ling, greetings, Third Young Master.” Then he asked, “What brings the two of you here in person?”
The Ministry of Finance clerks carried the accounts into the Ministry of Justice offices, and Prince Ling said, “I’ve come to deliver the accounts, and to ask after the progress of the case while I’m at it.”
Given that he had failed to detect Prince Yun’s covert diversion of grain supplies back then, it was only proper for him to take an interest in the case’s progress now.
The Ministry of Justice official said, “What good timing—General Yun is also here to inquire about the case.”
He then gave Yun Xi and Prince Ling a full account of the case’s recent progress, concluding, “The Third Young Master has been thorough in his work—he’s already sorted out most of the gaps and inconsistencies in the various departments’ old case files. What remains now is a matter of gathering more evidence. As for the post stations, the nearer ones, such as those in Huainan and Huaixi, have already sent back their replies; the ones in the northwest will take a bit longer. As for witnesses, aside from the testimony already given by the two commanders held at Qingfeng Cloister of Baiyun Temple, all that remains is waiting for the Marquis Zhongyong’s former troops to return to the capital.”
Prince Ling nodded and asked, “Has His Majesty inquired after the case?”
“He has indeed,” the Ministry of Justice official said. “His Majesty asks after it nearly every day.”
He hesitated a moment, then continued, “Yesterday, the Minister compiled all the evidence and testimony gathered so far into a case file and submitted it to the Hall of Civil Virtue. His Majesty was furious—he not only ordered Prince Yun confined to his residence, but also suspended Privy Councilor Yao Hangshan from his post. When the Minister returned, he said that if Councilor Yao hadn’t just lost his beloved daughter before the New Year, His Majesty would likely have stripped him of his position and brought charges against him on the spot.”
Prince Ling and Yun Xi exchanged a glance.
Emperor Zhaoyuan’s attitude was now quite clear—harsh punishment for Yao Hangshan, and a lighter penalty for Prince Yun.
After all, since Cheng Chang had not raised the matter of Prince Yun poisoning the late Crown Prince before the throne, and since Prince Yun had an heir of his own, the covert diversion of grain from years past could be pinned entirely on Yao Hangshan alone, allowing Prince Yun to keep his life.
But that was all he would keep—any hope of the crown prince’s seat was now gone for good.
Having heard the official out, Yun Xi said, “Thank you for the information, sir.”
With that settled, Prince Ling took his leave to return to the Ministry of Finance, departing first. Cheng Chang picked up a set of account books, intending to take them back to the Censorate to review, and finding Yun Xi still there as he headed to the doorway, asked, “Shall we walk together?”
In truth, Yun Xi had been waiting for him.
She had received the golden tea spoon from Prince Cong’s residence and had long wanted to return it to him, but hadn’t found the right opportunity until now. With her departure for the front approaching, she’d come to the palace today thinking she might run into him, and had specially brought the spoon along with her.
Yun Xi nodded. “This humble general will see Your Highness back to the Censorate.”
The Six Ministries and the Censorate stood adjacent to one another, and the way from the Ministry of Justice back to the Censorate was a straight walk down a single corridor. And yet, once outside, Cheng Chang pointed instead toward a small stone path leading down from the steps. “This way.”
It was early spring, and all things were coming back to life. Beside the stone path, a few flowering trees had just bloomed, their colors fresh and new. The two of them walked in silence for a while before Cheng Chang asked Yun Xi, “When do you leave for the front?”
Yun Xi said, “The exact date hasn’t been set yet. Once it is, I’ll let the Third Young Master know.”
Cheng Chang nodded, glanced at her, and said, “I hear the Ministry of War assigned eighteen thousand men under your command, and you’ve been at Xishan Camp training them lately.”
“That’s right.”
“That many men—how do you even go about training them?” Cheng Chang asked.
He had no real sense of just how many eighteen thousand people actually was. Back in school, at sports days, with just over two thousand students standing on the track, he’d already found it crowded. Eighteen thousand would surely be enough to pack an entire stadium shoulder to shoulder.
“It’s not difficult,” Yun Xi said. She thought for a moment, then picked up a dry branch nearby and began sketching in the pebbles on the ground to show Cheng Chang. “Ten men form a row, ten rows form a column of a hundred, and a hundred men form a company. Twenty companies form a battalion of two thousand, and altogether there are nineteen battalions. Each battalion’s commander carries a different banner—when orders need to be given, you just listen for the horn and watch for the flag.”
As she spoke, she climbed a few steps up onto a small nearby pavilion. “I stand right here. It might only be two or three zhang above ground level, but from up here, I can see clearly the moment any company makes a mistake down below.”
Cheng Chang raised an eyebrow. “Quite capable.”
“Nothing so impressive,” Yun Xi said, tossing aside the dry branch and dusting off her hands before leaping down from the pavilion in one clean motion, landing without so much as a puff of dust rising from beneath her feet, her red general’s robe fluttering sharply about her. “There’s simply too little time. For now, training can only build a basic sense of coordination. My brother, when he trained troops on the grasslands, had a full hundred thousand men move as one—orders given, orders obeyed, whether stepping forward or holding position, raising shields or thrusting spears, every single movement in perfect unison.”
An official passing by nearby saw the two of them and bowed in greeting. “Your Highness. General Yun.”
Cheng Chang nodded in acknowledgment; Yun Xi returned the gesture.
At this point along the path, they still occasionally passed officials going about their business, but as the two of them ventured further down the narrow trail, the passersby grew fewer and fewer. Yun Xi came to a stop, took the golden tea spoon out of her pouch, and held it out to Cheng Chang. “Third Young Master, here—this is yours.”
Cheng Chang recognized the spoon at once—it was one the princely household’s steward had given as a reward to the officers who had escorted him back to Jinling, on the day of his return.
He asked, “Why are you giving it back?”
Yun Xi said, “I went looking for the Third Young Master that time—not to earn merit, and not to ask for a reward. I just…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I just went looking for the Third Young Master, that’s all.”
Hearing this, Cheng Chang took the spoon from her. He looked at her for a moment, then suddenly smiled. “This spoon isn’t worth all that much—most people would’ve simply kept it without a second thought. The fact that you’re so intent on returning it to me makes me feel like something’s off.”
He paused, then asked, “Are you troubled by the idea of His Majesty granting me a marriage by decree?”
Yun Xi pressed her lips together. She’d meant to deny it, but on second thought—if it weren’t for Emperor Zhaoyuan’s intention to grant Cheng Chang a marriage, she might well have kept the spoon with her on her long journey to Lingnan after all.
Seeing her fall silent, Cheng Chang said, “I won’t marry her.”
He had never cared much about love or fate. Across two lifetimes, having finally found something worth holding onto, how could he possibly fail to cherish it?
Thick fog lay ahead, the path forward uncertain—but he wasn’t about to let the unknown shake his resolve, so why would he let anyone else decide his fate for him?
Yun Xi looked at Cheng Chang.
She understood what he meant. She thought, if he wasn’t afraid, then neither was she.
She asked, “Third Young Master, is it because you won’t marry Yu Ling that—”
“Isn’t it obvious enough already?” Before she could finish, Cheng Chang cut in.
There was a gentle warmth of laughter in his eyes. Seeing him smile, Yun Xi couldn’t help but smile too.
Cheng Chang seated himself up on the tall railing along the side corridor, looking down at Yun Xi. “If you happen to like me too,” he paused briefly, “don’t be in a hurry to say yes.”
“Let me court you for a while.”
Outside the corridor, the peach blossoms bloomed in riotous color. As he spoke, a single peach branch brushed against his brow, his eyebrows lifting slightly—there was something rakish about him in that moment, something faintly roguish and carefree.
“Court me?” Yun Xi asked.
Cheng Chang looked at her, at the flicker of joy in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide.
She had lived through hardship and turmoil, and yet she remained this untouched, this genuine—it was rare, truly rare.
Having passed through endless waves of worldly dust, having seen splendor come and go before his eyes, having had his sense of right and wrong washed clean by it all, in the end, what he found himself drawn to was someone sincere, someone kind.
“Mm.” Cheng Chang nodded. “You’re a good girl. Worth being courted for a while.”
“So that thing you just asked me—that shouldn’t have come from you. It should be me telling you.”
Then he said, “Yes. I do like you.”