Lu Shuqing stood in his mother’s study, staring blankly at the horizontal plaque inscribed with the words “Pine Wind and a Cup of Snow,” written in the Quxia calligraphic style.
On the desk lay an overturned book remaining on the page he had been reading several days ago. Beneath it was a thick stack of papers; the assignment Grand Tutor Zhang had left for him last time at the Orchid Pavilion. Lu Shuqing had only written a little over half of it. He instinctively picked up the brush to continue but suddenly froze, feeling a sense of loss. Once he finished writing, whom was he supposed to show it to?
In the Hanlin Academy and the Imperial College, learned scholars and eminent Confucian masters were as plentiful as could be scooped up by the handful. Any one of them, no matter how accomplished, would not dare to review the writings of the heir-apparent without utmost reverence and trembling caution.
But Grand Tutor Zhang would never look at them again.
Lu Shuqing turned his face toward the window. The couplets on the doors of the eastern wing opposite him were written by Zhang Yan’s own hand. The handwriting was somber and neat, bearing not even a trace of similarity to the Quxia style. Because Prince Zhao’s Mansion had been completed before his mother entered the household, the inscriptions on most of the gates, pavilions, and galleries; aside from the Qibi Terrace and this study, had been titled by Grand Tutor Zhang. Out of respect, these had only been refurbished and repainted over the years, never replaced or removed.
He didn’t know if they would be changed in the future—he was about to move out of the family home. The servants were currently packing his daily necessities, preparing to accompany him as he moved into the Eastern Palace.
While tidying the cabinets, a maidservant found the collection of paintings that Ningning had given him for his birthday last year—the one his mother had titled [Random Glimpses of Brother]. She asked, “Your Highness, shall I place this into your book chest?”
Lu Shuqing walked over and picked up the small book, its pages somewhat wrinkled from being flipped through so often. His gaze fell upon the postscript written by Grand Tutor Zhang on the final page; he had already memorized this short passage. The writing was concise yet comprehensive; whether it was the artwork, the artist, or the subject of the paintings, Zhang Yan had treated them as if they were a genuine, singular masterpiece by a famous master; it was even more formal and earnest than the preface Lu Shuning had written herself. He had praised Lu Shuning’s precise capture of human expressions, admired her composition and her conceptual refinement, and mentioned the affection between family members that overflowed from the paper.
When the two siblings had run to the Orchid Pavilion to beg Zhang Yan to write a postscript for the collection, the white-haired Grand Tutor had squinted his aging eyes while sitting upright and solemn at his desk as he leafed through the entire volume with deliberate slowness.
At that time, it would never have occurred to him that Zhang Yan was capable of firing an arrow so swift and so true.
Lu Shuqing loosened his grip, and the booklet flipped forward a few pages by its own momentum before landing on a painting of him and his aunt. In it, Lu Lingzhen rode side-by-side with him, leaving the peach blossoms that covered the hills of Yanzi Ji far behind them.
He stared at the scene expressionlessly for a long time before flipping back to Zhang Yan’s postscript at the end. He tore it out and fed it into the candle flame, burning it until nothing remained.
When Xie Jing woke, the bed canopy that met his eyes was completely unfamiliar. Before his consciousness had fully returned, he heard Lu Shuning’s startled cry, “Mother!”
She was leaning against the edge of the bed, propped up on her elbows, looking through a thick illustrated manual of plants and flowers. Xie Jing glanced to the side and immediately forgot to ask where he was; instead, he frowned and reached out to stroke her cheek. “How have you become so thin?”
“Living in the palace these past few days isn’t like being at home, where I can have snacks and extra meals whenever I want. Besides, it’s a long walk to go and pay respects at Mingluan Hall, to study at the Painting Academy, or to visit Gege at Orchid Pavilion. Eating less and moving more; it’s only natural that I’ve slimmed down a bit.”
Xie Jing realized belatedly, “…Am I in the palace?”
Lu Shuning nodded. “Yes. You’ve been resting in the side hall of Shenlong Hall these past few days. I heard from the palace attendants that Father was the one who carried you here.”
Her eyebrows were slightly thicker than Lu Shuqing’s and combined with the “lychee-like eyes” she inherited from her mother; her expression became exceptionally vivid and striking when she leaned in with a frown. “How could you just collapse outside the hall like that, Mother? Were you simply too exhausted?”
Hearing this, Xie Jing knew the truth about the Bone-stripping String had been kept from his daughter, so he followed her lead. “I’ve slept for so many days now that I’m perfectly fine. Don’t worry. Where is your brother?”
“He went back home today to pack his things. I’ll go and ask Auntie to come in and see you first, then I’ll send someone to call for him.”
With that, Lu Shuning picked up her book and left. Not long after, the door curtain fluttered, and Yin Chou entered carrying a bowl of ginseng soup. She said in a low voice, “You’re finally awake. I’ve sent Ningning away, so Princess Consort can ask whatever you need. I’m afraid once Qing’er returns, the two of them will be glued to your side, and it won’t be convenient to speak plainly.”
Xie Jing leaned up weakly and took the porcelain bowl before sipping it spoonful by spoonful. “The matter of the Bone-stripping String… does he know?”
Yin Chou made a wry, pained face as if recalling a memory that was both tragic and absurd. “Of course he knows. I haven’t seen His Highness fly into such rage in over ten years. He grabbed his sword and headed straight for the judicial prisons. It was only thanks to Qing’er who stopped him by reminding him that he couldn’t bypass the national laws to exact private punishment, that he desisted. However, he immediately issued a final command to the Secretariat and the Ministry of Justice to expedite the trial of the Wang clan of Langya for regicide and treason. Once the evidence is complete, they are to be executed immediately; there will be no waiting for autumn.”
Xie Jing gave no sign of approval or disapproval. After a long silence, he finally spoke, “The last time I changed the silk threads was the seventh day of the fifth month. It has been nearly two months now, and my right arm has become like this. You and Imperial Physician Qin have both examined it, is there any hope for a cure?”
Yin Chou immediately replied, “I have already carefully combed through the ancient texts and consulted with the Imperial Medical. To completely purge the Bone-stripping String from Princess Consort’s body, we cannot rely on the method of changing the silk threads, which only treats the symptoms and not the root. However, doing it this way means the residual poison already deep within the flesh can no longer be drawn out by the threads. If it remains within the body, even after the threads are removed and its spread is halted, that portion of flesh will slowly decay and eventually turn necrotic.”
“Therefore, the most effective method is also the most simple and direct: first, extract the threads, and then literally carve out the poisoned, purple-green patches from the flesh. It is great fortune that your poison was contained within your right forearm. If it had been like the Late Emperor…” Yin Chou sighed, clearly having heard Lu Lingzhang’s tragic state. “It would likely have been impossible.”
“It can be saved, certainly. But the poison has its name for a reason; in some places, the cuts must go deep enough to expose the bone. It will likely be excruciatingly painful, and extensive scarring is unavoidable. It will look… rather frightening.”
Hearing this, Xie Jing let out a long breath as if a heavy burden had been lifted. “I have already given birth to two children. If it hurts, let it hurt; there is nothing to fear. Just make sure the siblings don’t see when the blade is used.”
In the early days of the seventh month of the fifth year of Jingyu, the new Emperor ascended the throne in Shenlong Hall. On that day, it was proclaimed to the world that his birth mother, Lady Wu, was honored as Empress Dowager, and his eldest legitimate son, Lu Shuqing, was established as the Crown Prince of the Eastern Palace. He Gao, the former Prefect of Yongzhou, was appointed as the Acting Left Prime Minister, overseeing the Secretariat and the affairs of the Six Ministries.
As the confessions of Wang Chu, Zhang Yan, Cheng Wen, and others were successively submitted, and with He Gao providing corroborating evidence, the truth behind the Lantian Jade Imperial Seal case finally came to light. The long-standing injustice of the Xie clan of Chen Commandery being framed for treason was at last redressed. Lu Lingcong personally destroyed the “counterfeit” seal, making it clear to the hundred officials that from then on, only the Heshi Bi would hold the supreme authority equivalent to the Heirloom Seal of the Realm.
The Xie family’s ancestral home and various landed estates were restored in their entirety. Xie Jun returned to Wuyi Lane to begin the inventory of family assets, re-establishing contact and exchanging news with relatives in Chen Commandery and the Yao family.
Lu Lingcong further commanded the Department of State Affair to grant the late Xie Yi the posthumous title “Wenjie.” He bestowed the honor of reburying Xie Yi, Xie Yan, and their wives at Mount Mang in Luoyang. As the saying goes, “Live in Suzhou or Hangzhou, but be buried at North Mang.” Mount Mang was a site of extraordinary spiritual significance, and throughout history, loyal ministers and heroic generals had regarded burial there as the highest honor; resting eternally beside the sages of antiquity.
However, after consulting with Xie Jun, Xie Jing submitted a memorial expressing his gratitude for the divine grace while declining the honor. They wished only to bury their parents and siblings in the ancestral graveyard of Chen Commandery, to remain with the old home and the pines of their native soil, hoping that in the next life, they would never again step into the halls of the Son of Heaven.
Lu Lingcong did not press the matter either. He used his vermilion brush to write five words across the memorial: “As Minister Xie desires.”
Returning to the side hall along with the memorial was an unfamiliar eunuch. He introduced himself by explaining that he had recently been selected by Lady Wu to serve in Shenlong Hall. “Regarding the honorary title for the Princess, His Majesty was unsatisfied with any of the suggestions submitted by the officials. Thus, he has sent this servant to request two characters from the Princess Consort.”
The eunuch realized his slip of the tongue as soon as the words left his mouth. He offered an embarrassed, fawning smile while cursing himself inwardly—he should have addressed Xie Jing as “Lord Xie,” given the man still held a formal official rank.
In truth, he was far from the only one confused about how to address him. Throughout the capital, the gentry and noble clans; those most adept at gauging imperial whims and palace trends, had already discussed this matter behind closed doors for eighty-one rounds.
Judging from the events on the day of the Bagua Islet upheaval, His Majesty and Xie Jing did not seem to be as irreconcilably hostile as they had appeared in public over the past year or so. However, in the face of major affairs such as regicide within the Prime Minister’s residence and Grand Tutor Zhang’s rebellion, this in itself was hardly surprising.
What was truly strange was the emperor’s attitude toward Xie Jing after the coup was suppressed. He had vindicated the Xie family, bestowed the somber honor of burial at Mount Mang, and severely punished the Wang clan. He had not charged Xie Jing with any crime, which was a clear admission that Xie Jing’s time spent under the Prime Minister’s roof, laboring on his behalf, was merely a strategic measure of enduring humiliation for a greater cause.
However, not only did the emperor delay any indication of appointing an empress, he even issued a decree permitting Xie Jing to “return to Prince Zhao’s Mansion.” This was profoundly thought-provoking.
If Xie Jing had continued to stay in the side hall of Shenlong Hall, it would have signaled a lingering love; a deep affection for an old flame. It would have meant that, barring a formal edict of investiture, he would eventually become the master of the Inner Palace, standing above ten thousand people; it would have been only a matter of time.
Had the emperor ordered Xie Jing to move back to Wuyi Lane, that too would have made sense; it would have simply meant the old ties were severed, the marriage was over, and Xie Jing was now completely detached from the Imperial House and was merely one official among thousands.
But he ordered Xie Jing to return to Prince Zhao’s Mansion. What kind of place was that? It was a “Prince’s Mansion,” a “Hidden Palace”; a term for everything abandoned and left behind in a bygone era. For the Son of Heaven’s spouse and the mother of the Crown Prince to be addressed as “Princess Consort” was a bizarre and grotesque paradox. If there was no longer a prince, how could there be a princess consort? Whether the emperor intended to appoint a new empress or simply had not decided how to deal with Xie Jing, no one could see through it.
Xie Jing did not notice the subtle choice of address. After a long pause in thought, he wrote two characters on the paper and handed it to the eunuch: “To guard stillness and understand constancy is called ‘Ming’; to embody pure tranquility and harmony with Heaven is called ‘Yi.’ Let him take a look and see if they will do.”
The next day, word came from the front hall: the investiture ceremonies for the Crown Prince and Princess Mingyi would be held on an auspicious date.
The new emperor’s own enthronement ceremony had been so briefing it was practically nonexistent; it ended as soon as the sacrifices to Heaven and the ancestral temple were completed. Yet, when it came to the titles of the crown prince and princess, he showed twelvefold importance. The rites were solemn and grand, as if he were determined to demonstrate to the entire world the depth of their value and the absolute stability of their status.
Yin Chou had been administering medicinal tonics to Xie Jing for several days while he remained unconscious. Seeing that his spirit had improved slightly and noticing his preparations to leave the palace for the Prince’s Mansion, she suggested that the detoxification should be carried out as soon as possible and should not be delayed any longer.
Xie Jing raised no objection. “Whenever you say. The sooner I face it, the sooner I’ll find peace.”
Yin Chou said sternly, “Spit that out! No talk of bad omens.”
She observed his expression for a moment, hesitating before whispering, “Should I inform His Majesty and ask him to accompany you?”
At first, Xie Jing remained indifferent, even looking a bit confused until he realized who “His Majesty” referred to. He let out a belated “Ah.” Then he asked, “Is that necessary?”
Yin Chou’s expression was complex. “This is no less taxing than scraping poison from the bone. Even with anesthetic powder, it is impossible to be entirely without pain. If His Majesty were here to accompany Princess Consort, it might be somewhat easier to endure.”
Xie Jing thought blankly for a long while before shaking his head. “If it is that painful, having someone watch only adds to another person’s suffering.”
Yin Chou sighed helplessly and sat down beside him. “The dust has finally settled, and you can be reunited with your children. Why is Princess Consort unwilling to stay in the palace?”
Xie Jing was silent for a long time before he gave a faint smile. “It’s not that I’m unwilling. Of course, I hope to stay with him; I will never leave him.”
He lowered his head and said softly, “It’s just that both he and I need some time to calm down and think things through more thoroughly. Otherwise, could I truly act as if nothing happened? Could I ignore the matters of life and death that lie between us and accompany him, becoming intimate without any burden? Neither of us would want that.”
Yin Chou let out a heavy sigh. “The matter of the heart is something I don’t understand, and logically, I shouldn’t interfere. I will say only one thing: life and death are trials that His Majesty and the Princess Consort should face together, not barriers that should stand between you.”
Xie Jing spent several days in the side hall, keeping constant company with his children. Their days followed a steady rhythm, and their meals remained simple and light. During those first days of Lu Shuqing and Lu Shuning officially moving into the palace, everything proceeded in an orderly, uneventful fashion. They had grown up; perhaps having experienced chaos and the harsh realities of the world so young, neither of them asked their mother why he couldn’t stay in the Taichu Palace forever.
The consequence of this excessive calm was that on the night Yin Chou prepared to remove the Bone-stripping String, Xie Jing had to exert considerable effort to send the children away without raising their suspicion.
He was propped up by several soft pillows with his body sinking back as he lay supine. His upper body was bare, and his entire right arm was exposed outside the bed curtains.
When Xie Jing was young and listened to storytellers, he thought the tales of “scraping the bone to heal a wound” while laughing and talking were merely legends; only now did he realize how truly heroic Lord Guan must have been. Yin Chou used a small, exquisite, razor-sharp knife. Although her hand was swift and practiced, this “treatment” was essentially no different from death by a thousand cuts. As he felt the chunks of flesh slowly gouged out and peeled away from the bone, Xie Jing could not stop himself from letting out a gut-wrenching scream.
In his blurred, semiconscious state, he thought of the piercing wound on Lu Lingcong’s shoulder. Even if the moment it was inflicted was brief, it surely did not lessen the agony in the slightest.
Unlike the torso, which can be easily hidden beneath layers of silk, the arm is a constant witness. Xie Jing truly did not fear the pain, nor did he mourn the loss of his “flawless” skin or fear the sight of jagged, ugly scars. What he feared was that every time he reached out to touch Lu Lingcong or embrace his children, the sight would serve as an unavoidable reminder of the agony he had endured. Such a constant reopening of psychological wounds would only exhaust them all; it was a burden he did not wish to impose.
Whether it was the nonsensical ramblings Xie Jing muttered in his delirium or the desperate pleas he gasped out whenever the pain jolted him back from the brink of fainting, Yin Chou took them all in stride. Her expression remained unchanged, her knife steady. She knew with absolute clarity that the only mercy was speed—to end this ordeal as quickly as possible and spare him further torment.
Through a haze of agony, the world before him seemed much darker than the actual room. Xie Jing’s gaze snagged on the thin gauze of the bed curtains. He saw Yin Chou’s unflinching profile, Imperial Physician Qin and several imperial physicians, and servants carrying bowls of medicinal broth—and then, by the door, he saw that tall, slender silhouette.
Though Shenlong Hall was vast and magnificent, the distance between the emperor’s private chambers and the side hall was a mere few dozen paces. Yet, in all these days, Lu Lingcong had never sent words, never inquired after him, and never appeared before him. It was as if the side hall were entirely vacant, as if Xie Jing did not exist within those walls at all.
This intentional “indifference” and “neglect” had actually served to soothe the unease Xie Jing felt while staying in the palace. Even so, in moments when his mind wandered, he would unconsciously think of Lu Lingcong. He would listen to the chatter of his children and the palace attendants, trying to guess if the court affairs were overwhelming, if the balance between old and new factions was precarious, or if the weight of the throne was difficult to bear.
Close as neighbors, yet a thousand miles apart—acting as total strangers. So why have you come now?
As long as Xie Jing maintained a shred of consciousness, Lu Lingcong remained rooted to the spot without moving a single step closer. In the final second before his senses completely dissolved, Xie Jing’s heavy eyelids flickered. He caught only the sight of Lu Lingcong turning away, his figure vanishing beyond the hall doors into the night.
