With the military token in hand, Chen Danzhu’s movements met no resistance.
“Brother is gone, Sister carries a child,” she told the guards. “Father has sent me to see my brother-in-law.”
Her words brought sorrow to their faces. For decades, the realm had been unsettled. Grand Tutor Chen had fought in armor, marrying late, crippled by wounds, and in recent years neglected by the Prince, his command scattered. Yet his children had seemed promising.
The eldest daughter married a humble officer, fierce and bold, reminiscent of Chen Lietu himself. The son had trained in the army since the age of fifteen, and was now capable of leading troops. The Chen retainers had been heartened—until, in the clash with imperial forces, Chen Danyang fell, trapped by false reports and left without aid.
Now, with no son left, only a daughter could take the field. The guards swore bitterly to escort their young mistress safely to the front.
Once outside the city, Chen Danzhu abandoned the carriage for horses. The rain never ceased, sometimes heavy, sometimes light. The roads were muddy, and along them she saw groups of refugees—families with elders and children—fleeing toward the capital.
The guards were alarmed. Wu lands were rich, untouched by famine. How could there be so many refugees? The capital itself was still prosperous.
At a roadside halt, guard Chen Li whispered, “I’ve heard some even come from Jiangzhou.”
The men were stunned. Fighting in Jiangzhou? Impossible. They had only heard of imperial forces massing fifteen legions on the northern front, while Wu held twenty there, with the Yangtze as a barrier. There should be no fear. But if Jiangzhou was aflame, the situation was dire—the court had managed to deploy troops south as well.
Chen Danzhu gnawed at a hard cake in silence.
Another guard rushed up, tense, holding a crumpled sheet. “The refugees are passing this around.”
The men crowded close. Though the ink was blurred by rain, the words were clear enough: *Twenty crimes of Prince Wu, to be punished.*
Their faces turned pale. Such treasonous writings—how could they spread within Wu?
Because imperial spies already filled the land. Their armies were not only on the northern front. From the eastern coast to the western Sichuan, Xia’s fleets and legions encircled Wu.
Wu had long boasted of natural defenses, but it was the Chen army’s campaigns that had won respect, keeping enemies at bay. Without that, Wu would have been carved up like Yan or Lu.
Natural barriers alone? Ha. Since Prince Wu stripped Grand Tutor Chen of command, in less than ten years, Wu had become riddled with holes.
And compared to the new emperor—who ascended at fifteen, tempered by twenty years of hardship, as wise and bold as the founding ancestor—the vassal kings were decadent. The emperor dared to divide rewards, dared to move against them. While the princes wasted themselves in pleasure, the throne grew strong.
Chen Danzhu ate her cake, drank cold water, and said nothing.
Chen Li hesitated. “Second Miss, should we report this to the Master?”
Chen Danzhu’s gaze lingered on the muddy road. The rain, briefly eased, fell again in fine drizzle. It would last ten days. Rivers would swell. Once breached, the first to suffer would be the people outside the capital. Refugees sought life, but walked into death.
“No need,” she said. “It’s useless. The capital knows but hides it.”
Her father had already reported these movements to the court. But the court refused to act. Officials bickered. Prince Wu dismissed it, insisting imperial troops could not prevail—and more, he would not strike first, preferring to wait for the Zhou and Qi kings to act, lest his annual grand sacrifice be disturbed. At the sacrifice, he prayed for the emperor’s death, planning to choose a new prince as heir—just as his father had once done. He would not repeat his father’s mistake of choosing an unworthy emperor. To select well, he must preserve strength. That was Prince Wu’s reasoning, praised by his courtiers as sagacious. Only Grand Tutor Chen had collapsed in fury, carried away unconscious.
Back then, even upon hearing of Chen Danyang’s death, Father had not fainted.
Chen Danzhu swallowed the last bite of cake, drank, and rose. “Let’s move on.”
The guards exchanged glances. Since such matters were for their elders to decide, they, mere soldiers, had no place to speak. So they pressed on, shielding Chen Danzhu day and night, braving wind and rain at full gallop. Only when her face had turned completely bloodless did they finally reach Li Liang’s camp.
By then, dusk was falling.
Chen Danzhu did not rush straight to the barracks. She halted before the town and called Chen Li over, handing him the military token: “Take five men and go to the Left Wing. Do you know anyone there?”
The Left Wing was stationed along the Punan crossing, guarding the river with hundreds of warships. It was here that her elder brother, Chen Danyang, had once commanded.
Chen Li nodded without hesitation. “Commander Zhou is there—we are as close as brothers.” He looked down at the token in his hand, puzzled. “But what orders does the Grand Tutor give?”
Wasn’t this token meant to deliver Li Liang his command? Why was the young lady entrusting it to him?
Chen Danzhu replied firmly: “The order is this—without the Grand Tutor’s command, the Left Wing must not move.”
Chen Li answered at once, choosing four men. They had set out with only ten guards, thinking they were merely escorting the young lady to Taoshan outside the city. Who would have thought this journey would carry them so far? Instinctively, he kept the five most skilled fighters with him. Perhaps he was being overly cautious—but on the road, instinct was best.
After Chen Li departed, Chen Danzhu still did not continue forward. Instead, she ordered someone to buy medicine.
“Miss, are you unwell?” the remaining guards asked anxiously. Her face was pale and thinner than before, her body trembling. The rain had scarcely let up along the way. Though they wore straw capes and hats and changed clothes whenever possible, they were most of the time soaked through. Even they were struggling to endure it—and she was only a fifteen‑year‑old girl.
Chen Danzhu did not deny it. Fortunately, though troops were stationed here, the town itself remained calm. Life went on as usual. The people of Wu were long accustomed to the Yangtze as their shield. Even with imperial troops arrayed across the river, the kingdom carried on unperturbed, and the common folk felt no fear. How could the court ever strike at a vassal king? The princes were kin to the emperor, guardians of the realm.
The town’s clinic was small, its doctor unimpressive. Chen Danzhu did not mind. She let him examine her and prescribe medicine, then asked for several additional herbs by name.
“What does Miss want these for?” the doctor asked warily. “They conflict with my prescription. If you take them recklessly and something happens, don’t blame me.”
Though she looked haggard and travel‑worn, her bearing was refined, and behind her stood five armed guards bristling with menace. Best not to provoke such people.
Chen Danzhu smiled. “Don’t worry—I’ll only take what you prescribed.” Pointing to the extra herbs, she lowered her voice. “These are for someone else.”
For someone else? Another patient at home? The doctor was about to ask when the sound of hooves and shouting erupted outside.
“Second Miss!” Heavy cavalry dismounted at the clinic door, calling loudly inside. “The General has sent us to fetch you!”
Chen Danzhu looked at the young officer leading them, searching her memory before recalling his name—Li Liang’s personal guard, Chang Shan.
“I was just about to find my brother‑in‑law,” she said, raising a hand to cover a sneeze, her voice thick with congestion. “So he already knows.”
Within Li Liang’s territory, of course, she could not escape his notice. Chang Shan eyed her with concern. “Second Miss, are you unwell? Let the General’s physician examine you.”
Chen Danzhu gave a soft reply and mounted, the armored soldiers surrounding her as they sped through the streets.
The encampment sprawled wide. She passed unhindered and soon saw the man standing before the central command tent.
Chen Danzhu felt a moment’s daze. Li Liang, twenty‑six, was lean from years of campaigning, not yet the stately figure he would be a decade later. He wore no armor, only a blue robe and jade belt. His weathered face was resolute, and when his gaze fell on the girl dismounting, a smile touched his lips.
“Ah Zhu,” he called, “it’s been a long time. You’ve grown taller.”
In truth, they had met only days ago. Chen Danzhu thought, suppressing her tangled emotions, and answered with a single word: “Brother‑in‑law.”