A fierce wind howled down from the heights, tearing through sleeves and past ears as if to scrape pain across cheeks. The setting sun hung half-submerged, its shattered, dazzling crimson swaying like a stream of molten iron splashed across the Zhu Liao Sea.
The relentless gale had weathered the coastal hills for eons, carving deep hollows into their seaward faces, which from afar resembled undulating waves of golden gravel. The royal banners and canopies, crimson with golden coiled dragons, were silhouetted into stark black shapes by the dying light, whipped and twisted by the wind until they seemed ready to fly away.
Against the fiery sunset, a vast procession stretched along the desolate ridge. Five hundred cavalry formed a long column, interspersed with seventy-five four-horse chariots, followed by another thousand cavalry and a thousand infantry. At the center, a sixteen-bearer vermilion palanquin embroidered with gold was flanked by fifty chariots. Behind trailed hundreds of oilcloth-covered wagons and five hundred cavalry, with two thousand infantry bringing up the rear. Most soldiers were young and slender, their new uniforms and light armor hanging loosely, shoulders and waists jutting awkwardly. The ten-abreast ranks marched silently southward, winding over ten li, with neither beginning nor end visible to the eye.
Within the infantry ranks, a young officer in military attire carefully guided his horse. He appeared scholarly and delicate, around fifteen or sixteen, adorned only with a five-thousand-cavalry Xie Eagle pendant, yet wore the uniform of a fourth-rank imperial guard, unmistakably of the Feather Guard. As he approached the palanquin, a court lady stepped forward to greet him. The youth clasped his hands in salute from horseback and said, "Please inform His Highness Prince Chang to prepare to move immediately." The elder court lady raised her head, her posture respectful but her voice sharp with anger. "His Highness is exhausted from the journey and has caught a chill. He is burning with fever." The youth’s elegant brows furrowed as he began to speak, but the lady cut him off.
"This morning, Lord Pu Youma publicly reprimanded His Highness for rising half an hour late—an utter disrespect. Now he repeatedly sends messengers urging His Highness to switch to horseback. What is the meaning of this? General Tang, as the prince’s escort, you should remind Lord Pu Youma that the bloodline of the Great Zheng’s imperial family is noble. This journey to Zhu Lian is for the sake of alliance between our nations. If Lord Pu Youma, as Zhu Lian’s envoy, continues to slight His Highness, he slights the Great Zheng that rules the Eastern Continent. He ought to show some restraint." Her tone grew increasingly severe.
The youth sighed almost imperceptibly, offering no excuse for himself. "Lord Pu Youma heard that Bi Liao creatures roam this area at night and seized the pretext to act. But I’ve questioned soldiers from Quanming—they say Bi Liao are rare in these barren hills, yet when they appear, they come in hundreds, swift and fierce. Merchant caravans avoid night travel unless forced, and even then, they keep first-class horses for escape. Otherwise... His Highness would be safer on my horse than in the palanquin." The court ladies gasped in surprise. After a moment, a steadier one hurriedly fetched a small crimson dragon-patterned robe and cloak from a chariot and handed them through the palanquin’s curtain. The youth guided his horse closer and waited patiently until the curtain was drawn back, revealing a heavily bundled child. Court ladies swarmed to lift the child onto the horse, settling him before the youth. The child’s eyes were closed, but their phoenix-like shape was evident, with delicate upturned corners. Feverish and drowsy, even his eyelids were flushed with sickness.
"General Tang, is His Highness to share your horse?" the elder court lady asked abruptly. The youth, one hand on the reins, the other holding the child, paused before replying, "My horse is better than the soldiers’." The lady seemed about to say more but swallowed her words, silently bowing and retreating.
The child slightly opened his eyes and, after a moment, murmured dreamily, "General Tang." The youth looked down. "Yes, Your Highness." With effort, the child spoke, "If we truly... encounter many Bi Liao... do not worry too much about me." His faint voice, like scattered paper scraps, was snatched away by the swift sea breeze before it could be clearly heard.
"Your Highness, you are a prince of the Great Zheng, and I am your escort. It is unthinkable to abandon you to save myself." Having grown up in military camps, the youth was accustomed to such brave, dutiful phrases and spoke them smoothly. Yet once the words left his mouth, his heart tightened, as if a smooth silk had been plucked, leaving a shriveled strip. The child’s perceptive consideration felt cautious, as if constantly fearing to offend someone—a pitiable humility.
He had long heard that Prince Chang was the fourth and youngest son, whose mother, Consort Nie, had fallen out of favor before his birth. The second and third princes’ mother, Consort Song, renowned for her beauty and cunning, enjoyed long-standing favor and skillfully courted both court and palace. Moreover, her second son, Zhong Xu, not yet sixteen, surpassed the crown prince Bo Yao in talent, strategy, and temperament. Rumors of usurpation swirled, and no one dared cross her. When the Western Continent’s Zhu Lian State sent a thirteen-year-old princess, Zi Zan, to marry a Zheng prince in a few years, it was customary for a Zheng prince to accompany the envoy to Zhu Lian—ostensibly to learn local customs and language, but in truth as a hostage. Crown Prince Chu Bo Yao, the heir apparent, was exempt, as was the promising second prince Zhong Xu, essential to the state. The third prince, Shu Yun, was too frail—leaving the youngest, Ji Chang, as the only choice.
"I am a prince who will never be emperor... Even if you save me, I can give you nothing... And, General Tang, your martial skills..." The young prince suddenly stopped, looking up in panic. His eyes, veiled with unshed tears, caught the fiery clouds over the Zhu Liao Sea, glinting gold on his lower lashes. Though aware the child meant no mockery, the youth’s face flushed hotly.
Consort Nie lay ill in seclusion, her attendants merely going through the motions, yet Consort Song remained relentless. Seizing the chance of Prince Chang’s exile, she directed the Ministry of War to select the lowest-ranked candidate from the imperial guard exams—fifteen-year-old Tang Qianzi—promoting him jokingly to a five-thousand-cavalry post with five thousand new recruits to escort Prince Chang to Zhu Lian. Due to plague in Wan and western Zhong provinces, the convoy detoured to Quanming for the sea crossing. A month had passed since departing Tianqi. Tang Qianzi’s decisive leadership and the young soldiers’ lack of guile ensured obedience, yet the guard general’s lack of martial skill became a behind-the-back joke.
Thus, the fifteen-year-old general and ten-year-old prince rode together on a tall Hanzhou horse, silent silhouettes in the fluttering banners. Through layers of brocade and light armor, the youth felt the child’s feverish heat, like a small brazier warming his chest.
That night, Prince Chang, Zhu Lian envoy Pu Youma, and their six-thousand-strong retinue reached Quanming City at midnight, nearly two hours behind schedule. After three days’ rest, they set sail via the Yingge Strait for the Lei Continent.
Half a month after the fleet left Quanming, the annual Feather Guard exam results arrived from Tianqi, posted prominently at the city gate. Peddlers and laborers gathered below, craning to read the dense black characters. One semi-literate chanted from the top: "First Rank—First Place—Qiu Ye, Lan Province—Tang Qian Bai." Another timidly said, "I think it looks like Tang Qian Mu..." Compared to the hundreds of magnolia-oared ships anchored offshore, the slender, upturned skiff seemed no more than a spoon. Its shallow sides barely held back creamy foam, as if a step aboard would let the water flood in.
The youth, accustomed to such boats, settled into the cramped bow, laying his saber across his knees. The old boatman rowed leisurely at the stern; a careless kick could send the other overboard. The water reflected the market’s kaleidoscopic lights, mingling with the stifling, foul odor that rose to the face. Though he had lived here most of the year, each deep penetration into the city brought slight dizziness.
Among all Lei Continent cities, Bipoluo was truly the strangest.
Vast in area, its streets were oddly narrow; brightly painted, its buildings leaned haphazardly. The winding gaps between houses became dust-choked paths in dry weather and dense, web-like canals in the rainy season, each dwelling an isolated island. The slightly affluent traveled from their roofs, servants laying broad planks as temporary bridges. The more ostentatious rode on the shoulders of hybrid Hanfeng Kua Fu giants; if the giant’s bloodline was pure enough to carry two dancers, the owner was undoubtedly an unassailable dignitary. Below, alongside the giants’ pillar-like legs, the pointed skiffs of commoners navigated carefully, packed like beans in a pod with vegetables, cloth, pots, and even two or three children—any wider, and they couldn’t pass some waterways. The residents were tall, dark, and languid. At dawn, as the rain paused, women hearing the white lotus vendors pushed open windows like blossoms unfurling colorful stamens.
The flower-selling children drifted in large wooden basins, legs buried in frost-like blossoms, faces dirty but teeth shining like shells from Huijing Bay. In the rainy season, Bipoluo floated, and Lei’s rains were interminable.
A dull thud—something hit the youth’s boot. Looking down, he saw a half-open white lotus, its stem cut short, likely plucked from a woman’s hair. He glanced up; from a high window, girls’ light screams echoed, and a violet skirt embroidered with wanlang flowers flashed before vanishing.
The lotus carried the sweet scent of a girl’s hair, weaving through the water’s stench. He didn’t pick it up, only smiled faintly.
This city was famed for its potent incense and foul ditches, both staples in third-rate Eastern poets’ metaphors.
It was Zhu Lian’s capital, one of the Western Continent’s busiest ports.
Bipoluo was chaos, like a beast’s deep gut. Even seasoned sailors and Eastern merchants seldom ventured beyond the harbor. Thus, to Zhu Lian girls, this handsome youth in Eastern military attire—his complexion, features, and demeanor—was rarer than golden-haired sailors.
All maze-like waterways converged on the Papal River, where his skiff now drifted.
From the northeast harbor, the city sprawled southwest for eleven or twelve tuos, but at the Papal River, the crammed, haphazard houses halted abruptly, like idlers stepping back at a noble’s approach. Across the river, a vast, level highland lay empty, crowned by Zhu Lian’s royal city.
A river apart, two worlds.
The royal city was golden. Even from this side, under the gloomy sky, it stretched in a band of dark gold. On the highland, unlike the struggling slums, only the nine golden pagodas rose like girls’ tapered nails. The tallest bore a cluster of 169 tourmalines, the largest skull-sized, their pale red glow visible to northbound ships half a day away.
Except for merchant ships under royal protection with Dragon-Tail God seals, no civilian boats were allowed on the Papal River. Before the skiff left the alley, it bumped against a stone step. The youth disembarked, paid four copper coins, and nimbly hopped up to a riverside platform, whistling sharply across the water.
Soon, a speck of gold detached from the dark band opposite, crossing the murky, ochre water toward him. It was a copper-plated flat-bottomed light-feather boat, its prow curled, stern extended like a swan’s neck with seven delicate wind-lanterns, resembling a huge golden feather afloat. The boat’s belly held Heluo mechanisms, slow but stable, manned by five oarsmen, carrying twenty armored soldiers.
"Who goes there?" A yawning Zhu Lian soldier called out, though they knew his face well.
The youth showed his pendant—a carved green jade with cloud patterns and a turquoise tassel. "Escort General of Prince Chang, Feather Guard Five-Thousand-Cavalry Tang Qianzi." In nine months here, he’d learned some Zhu Lian phrases, this one most often.
"Come aboard, come aboard." A soldier offered a hand, and Tang Qianzi leaped onto the light-feather boat. A recruit, unfamiliar with him, stared curiously at his jade pendant.
"Eyes to yourself." The leader smacked the recruit’s head with his scabbard. "He’s your age, but he’s an Eastern five-thousand-cavalry! Understand? A general with five thousand men." The recruit rubbed his head, muttering, "So what? He’s just following that unwanted Eastern prince." "How dare you! Our princess went East, treated like their princess; their prince comes here, same as our princes. Insulting an Eastern prince is like offending Prince Jie Lan. How many heads do you have—" The leader struck him again, glancing nervously at the Eastern youth, who sat calmly, more scholar than soldier. Probably didn’t understand much Zhu Lian? The leader relaxed slightly.
As the boat left shore, more whistles sounded. Several men in Zhu Lian uniforms and light armor appeared, jumping aboard without waiting.
The recruit wondered why no one challenged them but, twice beaten, kept silent, eyes darting.
"They’re from the Five Southern Counties of Feng Nan," the leader whispered, breath hissing. The recruit shrank, terrified.
Tang Qianzi sat against the gunwale. The newcomers wore the same uniforms and armor as the royal guards, but their sash ends bore indigo dog-tooth insignias, their dagger hilts wrapped in coarse indigo silk. Such soldiers answered only to Lord Ying Jia, owing no duty to the Zhu Lian king beyond kneeling. Ying Jia, lord of the Five Southern Counties in northeast Zhu Lian, controlled almost all northern ports except Bipoluo, wealth rivaling the state. By blood, he was King Jun Liang’s cousin, with a sister as Jun Liang’s concubine. His power was so immense that even the king deferred to him—a fact known to any savvy courtier. These soldiers’ insignias and hilts were threaded with gold, higher-ranked, likely Ying Jia’s personal guards, not to be trifled with.
The light-feather boat arced quietly west. From afar, the royal city seemed gentle, but its banks were raised with red earth and blue stone, underwater steel spikes preventing docking. Only the west side had a nearly three-li-long low pier for palace and guard use.
The gunwale thudded against a copper-wrapped bollard. Ying Jia’s guards jumped ashore first, entering through a side gate. Tang Qianzi rose unhurriedly, awaiting routine checks. Though familiar, inspecting documents and pendants took time before he was cleared.
Inside, a palace attendant led him to Prince Chang’s quarters.
Nine months ago, on his first summons, Tang Qianzi had been lost, like an ant in a golden maze. The Lei and Yun continents produced no gold, yet Zhu Lian people had an obstinate love for opulence. The outer palace’s ceilings, floors, and walls were entirely clad in gold leaf from the East, twisted with gold wire patterns, filled with gem powder and glaze, glossy as if about to drip. Beyond inlaid designs, mother-of-pearl, pearls, and mica were lavishly embedded. The guides’ colorful robes blended with the walls; he had to fix on their faces, which would turn back smiling—their eyelids thick with gold, lips richly red, like sculptures emerging from the palace. Now, frequent visits had familiarized him.
The inner palace also had crisscrossing canals, with flat and arched bridges of varying lengths connecting tilted pavilions. Tang Qianzi looked up to see a line of lower-ranking palace women crossing a suspended bridge three stories up. Zhu Lian’s warm climate meant women wore snug short jackets and tube skirts ending mid-calf, boldly baring shoulders, arms, and anklets with bells. All young, they balanced gilded trays laden with fruit like elegant broad-brimmed hats, one arm steadying, the other on the hip. Moving in unison, their slender, dark waists swayed under the weight, like waves in a honey jar, exuding a potent allure. They were headed to the banquet hall deep within, likely for another evening feast for honored guests.
Passing the bedchamber of Crown Prince Jielan, one would reach the residence of Prince Chang. In Zhu’ni, princes resided with their mothers before marriage, after which they were granted separate mansions and moved out of the royal city. Only the crown prince was permitted to choose a bedchamber within the royal city. Prince Chang, a hostage from the Eastern Continent, was housed in a building of the same layout as the crown prince’s bedchamber, though it stood one floor shorter and was more modestly decorated—subtly indicating his lower status while adhering to protocol, yet conveying a deliberate slight. Tang Qianzi, however, saw this as no bad thing. Prince Chang would eventually return to Da Zheng, and becoming too accustomed to Zhu’ni’s ways would be undesirable, offering no benefit to the prince himself. The Zhu’ni people, however, had other intentions. To familiarize Prince Chang with the customs of Lei Zhou, all palace attendants and court ladies were replaced with Zhu’ni natives. The five thousand Imperial Guards brought from the Eastern Continent were young recruits, too numerous to be housed within the royal city and kept at a distance to prevent unrest. They were stationed near the port, with only twenty permitted to enter the royal city each day for rotational guard duty—the maximum concession Tang Qianzi had managed to secure. At least some of them would remain by Prince Chang’s side, ensuring he did not forget the language of his homeland.
“Where is His Highness?” Tang Qianzi asked as soon as he entered.
The Imperial Guards standing on either side bowed their heads and replied, “On the Wind Terrace.” The Wind Terrace was the topmost floor of Zhu’ni buildings, an open space without walls, supported only by pillars and covered by a rain-shielding roof that offered no protection from the wind. It was a place where the Zhu’ni entertained guests, smoked hookahs, and engaged in leisurely conversation. At night, it blazed with lights, resembling from afar the stages of the Eastern Continent where epic tales were performed. The Wind Terrace within the royal city was more refined; if one wished not to be seen, bamboo blinds or gauze curtains—woven with gold threads—could be lowered around the perimeter, reflecting against the gilded, carved pillars.
The Wind Terrace was stark and empty. Prince Chang seldom had visitors, so no tables or couches were arranged there. Instead, layers of embroidered gauze curtains hung heavily, and a single target stood to the west, already dotted with a few arrows.
A boy of about ten stood at the easternmost end of the terrace, his stance firm, an arrow nocked but not yet drawn.
The child wore a plain, everyday white silk robe. As it was not a military uniform and slightly too tight, he had removed the left shoulder and sleeve, letting them hang at his waist in the Eastern Continent fashion. He wielded a three-stone ebony bow, far too powerful for a child. His arm trembled from the prolonged strain of holding the drawn bow, making his slender body appear as taut as the bowstring itself. Yet he remained focused, his gaze unwavering from the bullseye. The filtered daylight through the gauze curtains cast a golden hue over his small face, like a gilded clay statue, his pupils two intense dots of ink.
The young general did not disturb him, instead crossing his arms and watching quietly.
Back in the Eastern Continent, there had been no shortage of military instructors to train the princes in martial arts, but most were opportunistic. Prince Chang, with his limited influence, naturally received little attention. Among the imperial youths, the most outstanding were the Third Prince, Zhong Xu, and Fang Jianming, the eldest son of the Duke of Qinghai. Wherever these two went in the imperial gardens, military instructors would flock around them like stars surrounding the moon. Ji Chang was only half a year younger than Fang Jianming and had begun his martial training in the same year. Without proper guidance, however, he had made little progress.Not long after arriving in Chola, Prince Chang expressed a desire to learn horseback riding, archery, and swordsmanship. Tang Qianzi was quite surprised—how had such a shy child suddenly taken an interest in martial arts? Yet, on this matter alone, Ji Chang was unusually resolute.
Bipolo was a city crisscrossed with waterways, where all transportation relied on canals. Even within the royal city, there was no open space suitable for riding. Tang Qianzi had light, dense curtains hung around the Wind Tower, set up archery targets, weapons, and straw dummies, and stationed six imperial guards at the base of the tower to prevent anyone from entering. Thus, the Wind Tower became Prince Chang’s private training ground.
After all, Ji Chang was still a child. Upon seeing the setup, he was delighted and ran forward to inspect everything before turning back to ask, “So, who will teach me?” Tang Qianzi seemed caught off guard by the question and didn’t know how to respond, awkwardly clearing his throat instead. Ji Chang glanced around and realized that aside from Tang Qianzi and himself, there was no one else on the Wind Tower.
“Could it be… you, General Tang?” Ji Chang blurted out, his eyes wide with surprise. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he had spoken out of turn, his ears flushing red with embarrassment.
Tang Qianzi, equally uncomfortable, turned aside and picked up a longbow. He ran his right index finger along the taut leopard-tendon bowstring before reaching into the quiver and retrieving three arrows, tucking them between his fingers. One by one, he nocked the arrows and shot them toward the target. Though the technique resembled the swift and fluid “chain shooting” style, Tang’s movements were deliberate and steady rather than fast. The first arrow landed slightly off-center, but the next two struck the bullseye—so close together that the birchwood shafts vibrated and knocked against each other with a dull thud.
Ji Chang was speechless with astonishment.
“Would Your Highness like to give it a try?” the young general asked with a smile, bending down to hand him the bow.
Ji Chang took it, looking up at Tang with a bright, eager grin. “You teach me.”
“But, Your Highness,” Tang Qianzi’s smile faded as he looked intently at the boy, “if you practice archery in private and an arrow misses the target, falling from the Wind Tower, it could lead to gossip if outsiders find out.” Ji Chang’s smile vanished as well. After a moment’s thought, he lifted his head and declared, “Then I won’t let a single arrow miss.” And he kept his word.
Over two months of practice, he had shot fewer than a hundred arrows. Each time he drew the bow, he would hold the position for a long while before quietly setting it down to rest. Then he would draw again, aim at the bullseye, and repeat the process for one or two hours at a time. Even as his strength improved and his form became more refined, he still refrained from releasing the arrow nine times out of ten. Yet, whenever he did shoot, he never missed the target—even if the shot was slightly off, it never went astray. In just two months, a deep groove had formed on his right thumb from the bowstring, a testament to his enduring patience and determination that was almost heartbreaking to witness.
Now, with three or four arrows already embedded in the target, it meant Prince Chang had been on the Wind Tower for nearly half an hour. At times like these, Tang Qianzi would wonder what kind of man Chu Ji Chang would grow up to be. But he would quickly sigh and abandon the thought—after all, he himself was only a fifteen-year-old youth.
The bowstring sang with a clear, crisp twang as the arrowhead buried itself deep in the bullseye. The boy lowered his hands, still holding the longbow, and turned to look at Tang with a smile.He sighed, "Your Highness, have you been penalized with meal restrictions again?" The child still smiled but nodded with a hint of embarrassment.
"Why? Did you write a character incorrectly? Or recite a text inaccurately?" Tang Qianzi crouched down in front of him and draped an outer garment over his shoulders.
The child shook his head, pursing his lips, and said, "The old man quizzed me on what is most crucial for a ruler in governing the world. You know how it is—these fishermen only understand navigation and trade, trade and navigation. I was distracted and blurted out that it was martial arts and strategy. The old man was so angry he could barely speak. You weren’t there, and no one dared to stand up to his temper, so of course, I was penalized again—both lunch and dinner." Tang Qianzi chuckled. The so-called "old man" was the tutor assigned to Prince Chang by the palace, who came daily to teach subjects like statecraft, compassion for the people, economics, and land calculations. Since beginning martial training, Ji Chang’s temperament had gradually grown a bit wild.
"For a ruler governing the world, a full granary is the most important thing. On an empty stomach with no provisions, all talk of martial arts and strategy is nonsense. Are you hungry?—Today, the merchant ship from Fengyuan Trading Company has returned to port." Tang Qianzi pulled an oil-paper package from his robe and unwrapped it layer by layer.
Ji Chang’s eyes lit up. He sniffed the air, catching the rich, sweet aroma of roasted rice, and exclaimed joyfully, "It’s oil tea cake!" He grabbed the package and buried his face in it with the ferocity of a wolf.
Oil tea cake was a common snack in Ranzhou. It smelled sweet and fragrant but felt coarse in the mouth. When they were young, Tang Qianzi often bought it—a large piece for just one copper coin—though it left them parched and crumbs dusted the corners of their mouths. Prince Chang’s mother, Consort Nie, was from Ranzhou. In earlier years, before she fell ill, she likely made it for him herself. After all, the lives of disfavored consorts were often bleak and monotonous, with little to pass the time except pouring all their energy into their children. Because it was such an inexpensive snack, it held no trade value. Merchants from the Eastern Continent, nostalgic for home, would rather buy a girl from Ranzhou than this humble treat. Thus, in the bustling port of Pipaluo, filled with exotic goods, finding oil tea cake was nearly impossible—it had to be specially requested from familiar merchant ships traveling from the Eastern Continent. After a journey of one or two months, the originally soft and glutinous cake would become greasy, dry, hard, and sticky, making the child hiccup as he ate.
"I’ll fetch some water for Your Highness," the youth said, standing up to leave. But Ji Chang reached out and grabbed the hem of his robe, shaking his head urgently. "No, no! If I drink water, it won’t taste as good." As he spoke, another loud hiccup escaped, jolting his slender frame.
Tang Qianzi had no choice but to sit back down beside him, patting his back to help him catch his breath. It wasn’t necessarily out of deep affection—if the child were to choke to death, Tang Qianzi himself, along with the five thousand Imperial Guards, would likely have to return to the Eastern Continent to face punishment. Though the child’s mother had long fallen out of favor, and he was the farthest of Emperor Da Zheng’s four sons from the crown prince’s position—sent abroad as a hostage at a tender age, not even daring to retort when reprimanded by the Champa envoys—nonetheless, this frail child was still Chu Ji Chang, the biological son of the Emperor of Da Zheng. No matter how much others looked down on him, they had no choice but to address him as "Your Highness, Prince Chang."The whole affair was nothing but a farce. In those years, Tang Qianzhi often wondered whether, many years later, during the intermission of storytelling performances, Heluo performers singing humorous tunes would enact their story on stage. An eleven-year-old prince, a fifteen-year-old Imperial Guard general, and the five thousand soldiers under his command who hadn't even begun to grow mustaches. Just the cast of characters alone, once narrated, was nothing short of a fine joke.
In reality, many years later, when Chu Jichang's half-sister, Princess Yanling, asked her younger brother about the night of the Panxiao Rebellion, the tall young man in a crimson robe embroidered with three-clawed golden dragons lazily replied, "Ah, that night when the fire broke out, I had eaten too much oily tea cakes and was hiccupping." Returning to his bedchamber, he gulped down a large mouthful of water, only to choke violently. A Cholan maidservant gently patted his back to help him breathe more easily. After a while, the child felt the obstructed lump of dough gradually slide down his stomach and finally plop into his belly like a solid little fist punching downward. The hiccups eased somewhat but did not stop entirely.
After this ordeal, the sky had darkened completely, and a gloomy rain began to fall again.
"Zhenchu," the child called out, having caught his breath, using Tang Qianzhi's courtesy name.
The young general, lost in thought, started slightly before raising his eyes to respond, "Your Highness, are you feeling better?" "Zhenchu, what are you doing?" Tang Qianzhi did not answer but instead strode over and asked the maidservant in Cholan, "In your banquet performances, do you have the 'Dance of Breaking the Formation' or sword dances?" "General, the palace has never performed music or dances from the Eastern Lands," the maidservant replied.
Tang Qianzhi pondered for a moment before suddenly commanding, "Dress His Highness in his outer robe and cloak." The maidservant, though only seventeen or eighteen years old, responded with practiced ease, "General, without the king's explicit permission, you and His Highness are not allowed to leave at night. Please do not make things difficult for this servant." She stood as tall as Tang Qianzhi, but her chin was arrogantly raised, her uniquely Cholan dark eyes narrowing as she glanced at the youth.
Prince Chang leaped barefoot from the Huanghuali wood couch. "Zhenchu?" The child looked at his guard general, his eyes filled with confusion.
With a metallic clang, the youth's saber left its sheath. It was no famed blade, merely a standard-issue saber of the Zheng dynasty army, clearly an old piece. The spine of the blade was dark and steady, like blood-soaked black earth, without a trace of the glossy sheen of recent tempering, yet the edge had been meticulously honed, gleaming under the lamplight like a dim half-moon.
A handful of jet-black hair, along with the beaded hair tie, was severed by the sweeping arc of the blade and fell directly onto the maidservant's bare feet, which were painted with patterns using madder flower juice.
The maidservant let out a sharp, short cry before the tip of the saber pointed at her throat.The young man’s expression was cold and rigid. His hand gripped the blade with unnecessary force, his knuckles white, yet his eyes held a steady, sharp intensity. His gaze never left the tip of his sword as he switched to the language of the Eastern Land: “Your Highness, please change your clothes at once.”
The night rain fell in a dense curtain, shrouding everything like a heavy, hazy veil. The exquisitely crafted golden royal city lost its contours, leaving only the crimson glow atop the sacrificial tower, like a burning ember, and the countless domes and eaves that faintly reflected the dim light in the darkness. From the distant, dark sea to the harbor dotted with pearl-like lanterns, through the murky and grimy waterways, and even into the cracked bowls of the commoners catching leaks—every surface of water rippled with overlapping patterns, accompanied by the desolate, rustling sound of rain. Amid this vast symphony of rainfall, the clashing of metal grew increasingly distinct.
Ji Chang’s small, trembling hands, fumbling with his buttons, stilled. “Zhenchu! What is that sound…” He swallowed the last word.
The noise grew clearer. Even a child like him, raised in the deep palace and unacquainted with the ways of the world, could recognize it. It was not a military drill, nor the dance of breaking formations or swordplay. It was the sharp, piercing sound of blades slashing, stabbing, and clashing—less than a mile away, within this royal city. Two hundred, no, perhaps three hundred swords and blades, along with their wielders, were locked in a desperate struggle.
Tang Qianzi’s eyes darted toward the half-open window.
At the eastern corner of the royal city, a tall pavilion’s viewing platform was ablaze with light. Curtains hung on all sides, but two of them were already fiercely burning, scattering countless sparks into the wind. In the pitch-black night, it resembled a massive torch, illuminating the royal city as if it were daytime. Shadows of people and weapons flickered rapidly across the delicate silk curtains like a chaotic, fleeting dream. Splatters of thick blood, illuminated by the flames, appeared as dark, viscous streams stubbornly and sluggishly dripping downward. That was the so-called banquet hall, the place where the King of Zhuni entertained honored guests.
Even as the tip of his blade pressed steadily against the maid’s neck, Tang Qianzi could feel his own hand trembling.
They could all hear it—the soft, frequent rustling sounds, like a swarm of snakes slithering through grass, stealthily closing in on them. Ji Chang, barefoot, crept to the window and glanced downward before recoiling in terror.
“So many people… they’ve surrounded Jielan’s bedchamber, and some are heading this way…” He struggled to steady his childish voice, but it came out hoarse and broken. There was no need for him to describe what followed—the shrill, mournful cries of the palace maids had already torn through the curtain of rain.
Had the King of Zhuni, Junliang, not been present, the banquet hall would not have been in use. Yet now, hundreds of warriors were locked in a deadly battle within and around the hall, and the Crown Prince’s bedchamber had been drenched in blood. Bipoluo was such a crowded city, and though the royal grounds were spacious, the permanent guard numbered only around a thousand. A clash involving hundreds could only mean one thing—a rebellion. And the vortex of swords and flames was slowly expanding before their eyes, threatening to engulf the entire royal city.
“It seems the rebels intend to take you hostage, Your Highness. Where are your seals and documents?” Tang Qianzi’s voice was low and grave.
Without needing to be reminded, the child had already scrambled onto the bed, retrieving a small silk bundle of vermilion and bright yellow from the bedside drawer. Frantically, he hung it around his neck.The maid's once-bright red lips had lost all color, her severed half-ponytail now loose and covering her face as she trembled uncontrollably alongside her companions.
Tang Qianzi clenched his jaw, reversed his grip on the blade, and drew it across the maid's neck with such force that the edge nearly lodged in her flesh. He yanked it back violently, blood spraying across his face. Without bothering to wipe it away, he scooped up Jifang in one arm, gripping his sword as he strode out. Just then, the twenty imperial guards from Zhen Dynasty stationed upstairs and downstairs, alerted by the commotion outside, burst in with hands on their hilts. Tang Qianzi gave them a curt nod and said briefly, "Let's go." Most of the maids had fled; they encountered only two on their way down. The blood on Tang's blade hadn't yet finished dripping before it was stained anew. Jifang watched wide-eyed as the women collapsed, air rushing into their shattered, collapsing windpipes only to spray back out mixed with blood. Their outstretched hands seemed to plead for mercy. But he didn't stop, nor did he cry. The child's heart sank heavy and cold into bottomless fear, yet something hot and turbulent surged up from its depths.
The small tower stood over water, its ground floor built of bluestone to store new wine in the cool, damp air. Only on the second and third floors were there elegant bridges leading to adjacent buildings. Tang Qianzi led his twenty subordinates straight down to the wine cellar. A low door, usually used for rolling barrels in from small boats, served as their exit as they filed out one by one. The bluestone foundation widened upward like an inverted teacup, its petals splaying outward from the water. Naturally, there were no boats outside now. The twenty-plus men sheathed their swords, entered the water, and hid in the shadow of the stone base. Above them, crisscrossing suspended corridors and bridges swarmed with over a hundred torch-bearing soldiers in Zhuoni attire, shouting as they converged on the tower from all directions.
Tang Qianzi gestured to his men, who silently closed ranks around him and Jifang. The water reached just below Tang's chin; Jifang clung tightly to his neck, only his head above the surface. They moved cautiously northward toward the palace gate. The water reflected a crimson sky and golden sparks drifting like powder, while the overwhelming gold of the royal city, illuminated by the flames, seemed to catch fire itself. The light shimmered on the water as if the entire capital had melted and flowed into the dense network of waterways. A fine, endless rain fell.
Soon, the waterway ended at a waterside pavilion. No sounds or lights came from within—Tang recognized it as the Zhuoni princes' art studio. Not far north lay the Chilan Bridge connecting the inner and outer royal cities.
"Zhenchu," the child whispered suddenly in the darkness.
"Yes, Your Highness," he replied immediately.
"Was that... your first time killing someone?" Tang Qianzi hoisted himself onto the pavilion's railing with one hand as he answered, "Yes, Your Highness." "Were you scared?" Tang fell silent for a moment but didn't stop walking. After another thirty or fifty paces, he finally replied, "Yes, I was." Jifang seemed satisfied with this answer and grew quiet again.
"Why does Your Highness ask?" Tang Qianzi sensed a weighty thought behind the child's words, faintly uneasy.Ji Chang nestled against his neck and murmured, "I don't know how terrifying it is to kill someone for the first time—but I suppose I’ll have to face that day sooner or later." The young general suddenly felt the military uniform, soaked earlier in the water, cling to him with an unusually cold and heavy dampness, sinking deep into his bones. Whether it was the boy’s words or a faint, peculiar sound that had just caught his ear, he couldn’t tell. Without further thought, he raised a hand, signaling his troops behind him to halt.
The pavilion instantly fell into a deathly silence. High above, the long wind carried the roaring crackle of burning banquet halls and watchtowers, along with the clamor of distant battle cries—all seeming to belong to another world. After a moment, everyone heard the faint, strange sound. From behind the row of thirty-two mica-inlaid screens, adorned with gold and pomegranate stones, came the soft patter of hurried bare feet slapping against the cold, hard floor, punctuated by a muffled, bean-washing-like rustle—though no one could tell what was making it.
He set down Ji Chang and slipped alone behind the screen. With a soft whisper, his saber slid an inch from its sheath, brimming with latent force. The back of the screen opened onto a corridor facing the river that separated the inner and outer walls of the royal city. The screen was as heavy as a wall, dotted sporadically with thumb-sized mica flakes that faintly revealed the flickering firelight on the river. The leaping red glow would sometimes be obscured by something, only to seep back moments later—it was clear someone was hurrying along the other side of the screen, their shadow cast hugely upon it by the distant flames.
They held their breath and waited.
When the shadow reached the end of the screen, it rounded the corner. The first thing to emerge was a hand.
Tang Qianzi seized that hand, pulling the person in and tightly gripping their shoulder. His saber leaped from its sheath in a swift arc, coming to rest against the stranger’s neck. In a low voice, he hissed in the Zhunian tongue, “Don’t make a sound!” For a moment, all they could perceive was a flash of light—the saber’s gleam, brilliant as a rainbow or lightning, so sharp it seemed to etch itself permanently into their vision. Yet it felt as though that brilliance wasn’t solely for the blade.
Suddenly, a cascade of bell chimes rang out.
It was as if an entire table’s worth of crystal bowls had been swept to the floor—shattering like crushed snow and jade, tumbling and colliding, breaking into countless thin, sharp, sweet fragments of rock sugar, then clashing together into crystalline powder. Long after the ringing ceased, the lingering resonance still flowed like a murmuring stream in everyone’s ears, like a silver coin bouncing inside the hollow of an impossibly thin celadon vase.
The young soldiers of the Imperial Guard were stunned.
It was just a little girl—so small, only five or six years old—clutching a brocade-wrapped bundle to her chest. Both her wrists were adorned with silver-wire bracelets strung with tiny bells. To muffle their sound as she moved, she had wrapped her shawls tightly around her wrists, leaving only a muffled, bean-washing-like rustle. But when Tang Qianzi pulled at her, the shawls came loose, and the silver bells on one hand rang out freely and unrestrained. She had a delicate, darkly elegant face with sharp features, and her attire was resplendent, like that of a noble child from a palace clan. Yet her curly black hair was disheveled, her clothes askew, and she looked utterly flustered. Her almond-shaped eyes, wide with panic, darted around, but her gaze never settled on anyone—she was blind.
Tang Qianzi could clearly feel the blind girl trembling uncontrollably in his grasp. Though he held one of her hands, she did not struggle or cry out. Instead, she focused all her strength into her legs and feet, trying to stand firm, while her other arm clutched the bundle tightly. Perhaps from the strain, a loud, wailing cry burst from the bundle—the cry of an infant. The little girl started in fright, but with her only free hand holding the swaddled child, she could only clumsily press her face against the baby’s, murmuring soothing words while crying herself from fear.
“Who are you? Who are all of you?” the little girl asked in a faint, broken voice, speaking the Zhunian tongue.
“Your Highness,” Tang Qianzi gritted his teeth and glanced back at Ji Chang. “We cannot let her live.” His expression was stern, as if bracing for an argument.Ji Chang answered sharply, "I understand." They were speaking in the language of the Eastern Hua people, which the Cholan girl could not comprehend. Still, Ji Chang turned his face away as if afraid to meet her gaze—though it was absurd, for what gaze could this girl possibly possess? "Our whereabouts must not be revealed; we cannot take even the slightest risk. If I fall into the hands of the rebels, they will surely use me as leverage against the King of Chola and my father... But once they realize I am not worth that price..." Ji Chang’s words trailed off, the rest bitten back between his lips, his eyes glistening with a thin, stubborn film of tears.
"We would all die," a low voice from a Yu Lin guard interjected softly.
Another youth gritted his teeth and added, "All five thousand of us." Outside, the fire still raged fiercely, the sounds of collapsing wood and stone, of towers and pavilions crumbling, echoing around them. The situation had likely deteriorated beyond redemption.
The little girl had no idea what they were saying, nor could she see their expressions. She only knew that these people had not harmed her so far, so perhaps they were not evil. Clutching Tang Qianzi’s arm, she tugged and cried out, "Go save my mother and my brother, please save them! I’ll reward you with lots and lots of money, and land..." Tang Qianzi tightened his grip on his blade. The girl was indeed of noble birth, but at this point, no amount of prestige or wealth mattered in the face of life and death. He had lost his father young; if he were to die here today, his widowed mother would have no one to rely on in her old age. And if Ji Chang were to die as well, the families of the escort guards would surely be held accountable.
These five thousand Yu Lin soldiers were all young, with parents and siblings, looking forward to long futures—perhaps securing an official post, marrying the second daughter of the Yu family from the neighboring street. Not one of them had planned to die. He was the one who had led these five thousand vibrant youths to this foreign land, and he had to do his best to lead them back safely.
The situation was so perilous that taking this girl along would only add a burden, sealing their fate with no chance of survival. But leaving her behind would inevitably expose their whereabouts.
They had to survive.
He clenched his jaw and gripped the girl’s slender shoulders. Her sightless eyes wide open, she clutched the infant in her arms, her delicate neck largely exposed. She could not see, understood nothing of their words, and had no idea that a military blade was poised just above her throat—a slight inward pressure, followed by a swift pull to the right, and it would be over. Just one pull.
That moment was as brief as the spark struck from flint, yet as interminable as the endless night in the far north of Shangzhou.
In that very instant, the flicker of a torchlight flashed past the corner of Tang Qianzi’s eye. Outside the pavilion, a hoarse voice screamed, "Here! They’re here!" A chaotic chorus of Cholan men’s voices roared in response, "Here! By the king’s decree, no survivors—bring their heads for reward!" A line of torches snaked around the arched bridge opposite, moving like a fiery serpent. In the torchlight, the armor and attire of the men were clearly visible.
Tang Qianzi jolted with alarm, shoved the girl aside, and lunged toward Ji Chang, pulling him behind for protection.
It turned out that the ones hunting them down were the royal guards loyal to King Junliang of Chola.
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