General Changning — Chapter 3
Liu Xiang froze, staring at the figure before him for a moment, then suddenly exclaimed in delight: “Young Lady! How could it be you!”
Years ago, Liu Xiang had served under Jiang Zuwang, stationed with him in the northern frontier at Yanmen Commandery. They had fought side by side until, more than a decade ago, their paths diverged. Jiang Zuwang continued as Protector of the Northern Territories, holding the imperial seal to pacify the borderlands. Liu Xiang, however, retired due to old wounds and later entered the capital, becoming a general of the Imperial Guards, responsible for the palace gates and inner-outer defenses.
When Emperor Wu unified the Nine Provinces, countless military heroes rose to fame. Liu Xiang, though loyal in service under Jiang Zuwang, had never achieved great merit himself. His appointment owed much to Jiang Zuwang’s recommendation. Though taboo rules kept them apart in later years, Liu Xiang always held deep respect and gratitude for his old commander.
As for Jiang Hanyuan, there was no need to explain. He had watched her grow up in the army camp since childhood.
Recognizing her, his expression instantly softened with warmth. “Young Lady, how come you suddenly entered the capital? Is the Grand General well? Ah, it’s been so many years! You’ve grown so much! Though I’ve been here in the capital, I’ve often heard of your victories these past two years. Truly, you are the daughter of a great house, a star descended from the heavens of war, shaming us idle men who boast of our strength yet do nothing!”
He stepped forward to bow, but Jiang Hanyuan stopped him. “Please, Uncle Liu, no need for ceremony. To be honest, I came today to ask for your help.” She smiled as she spoke.
Liu Xiang nodded at once. “Whatever the Young Lady asks, if I can help, I will never refuse!”
Jiang Hanyuan glanced toward the direction of the Temple of Protecting the Nation.
Amid autumn trees, the high temple walls loomed. From within drifted faint Buddhist chants. Sunlight gleamed upon the golden-glazed roof ornaments shaped like mythical beasts, flashing with dazzling colors.
“Then I must thank Uncle Liu. I wish to go inside.”
Liu Xiang was stunned. “This…” He faltered, unable to speak.
Jiang Hanyuan smiled gently. “I know my request is unreasonable and puts you in a difficult position. But rest assured, I will not cause you trouble.”
Had it been anyone else—even kin—Liu Xiang would have refused without hesitation. But standing before him was the daughter of his old master.
“May I ask, Young Lady, why do you wish to enter the temple today? It is not that I am unwilling, but you know my duty. I cannot afford even the slightest misstep.” At last, he spoke cautiously.
“I wish to see the Regent Prince.” Her tone was calm, almost casual.
Liu Xiang froze again, recalling a rumor.
The Regent Prince was twenty-four years old, yet had never taken a consort; the position of Princess Consort remained vacant.
Months ago, Liu Xiang had heard whispers: the Regent had visited the Dowager Consort of Emperor Wu. The Dowager, pitying that he had no companion to care for him, urged him to marry. He had laughed and replied that he admired the daughter of Jiang Zuwang—if he could wed her, he would have no regrets.
Jiang Zuwang’s wife had died young, leaving only one daughter: Jiang Hanyuan, raised by his side.
And just last month, the venerable Prince Shuyun had departed the capital for the north. No one knew his purpose, but the rumor grew stronger—that he had gone to propose marriage on the Regent’s behalf.
Now Jiang Hanyuan herself appeared here, dressed in plain attire, clearly having entered the capital in secret.
So the rumor was true.
Liu Xiang breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Ah, so that was it.
Though the Young Lady was bold on the battlefield, she was still a maiden. To wish for a glimpse of her future husband’s face was only natural.
Since Prince Qi had taken regency, he worked day and night tirelessly, often staying in the palace to handle affairs. Outsiders had no chance to see him. Today was indeed a rare opportunity.
Liu Xiang studied his old master’s daughter once more. Calm, composed, dignified—she clearly understood the gravity of the matter. He trusted her completely. Even setting aside his bond with the Jiang family, if she truly became Princess Consort, she would reside in the capital. How could he refuse such a small request?
He no longer hesitated and whispered: “Very well. Today I shall make an exception for you. The Regent has just finished viewing the murals in the Hall of Offerings. He now accompanies the Empress Dowager and His Majesty to the Arhat Hall to listen to the Dharma lecture. You may disguise yourself as one of my guards, pass with the secret token, and move freely. Only—Young Lady, remember—do not disturb anyone.”
“The Regent’s appearance needs no close inspection. A single glance from afar will suffice.”
Finally, leaning closer with a teasing elder’s tone, he added: “So, go on then. Just one look, and you’ll know.”
Jiang Hanyuan bowed slightly, smiling. “Thank you, Uncle Liu. I understand.”
Jiang Hanyuan showed no trace of shyness. She only bent slightly at the waist and smiled as she gave thanks.
Outside the Dharma Hall, cypress trees stood dense and solemn, the birdsong fallen silent. In the corridor, a massive three-legged purple-gold incense burner towered above a man’s height, its wide mouth open to the sky, releasing endless curls of pale smoke.
Within the hall, at the northern front, sat Empress Dowager Lan upon a low seat, listening intently to the clear voice of the presiding monk. She was the daughter of Minister Lan, nearly thirty years of age, though she appeared no older than twenty-five or twenty-six. Her cloudlike hair framed a beautiful face, dignified and serene. Fragrant smoke drifted around her, while two attendants fanned her with golden-feathered fans. Beside her sat the thirteen-year-old young emperor.
The noblewomen of the court, from the Grand Princess Nankang downward, were arranged in order of rank along the western side of the hall. Sunlight streamed through the doors, glinting off their jeweled hairpins and embroidered gowns, casting a soft, radiant glow.
On the opposite eastern side sat the princes and officials. At the head was the Regent Prince, seated upon a special dais. Beside him was another seat, occupied by a broad-shouldered man with a golden jade-banded belt at his waist. This was Prince Gao, Shu Hui, the Grand Marshal, co-regent of the realm.
Though past fifty, his soldier’s body remained strong from years of riding and archery. If not for the wrinkles around his eyes, he might have been mistaken for a man in his prime. His status was exalted: son of the founding emperor, younger brother of Emperor Wu, famed general of Great Wei, his reputation forged in countless campaigns. With such prestige, even the young emperor treated him with utmost reverence as an imperial uncle. The Regent Prince also showed him scrupulous respect, never daring the slightest discourtesy.
The monk expounded upon the mural of the Wrathful King, painted for the Empress Dowager’s birthday. He explained: the Wrathful King was a manifestation of the Bodhisattva, appearing fierce and terrifying to awaken the greedy and ignorant, striking them like a sudden blow, yet dispelling delusion and karmic obstacles with the light of wisdom.
The monk’s words flowed like lotus petals, but the imperial uncle had no mind for Buddhist teachings. After a short while, his gaze slid sideways to the young man beside him—his nephew, Regent Prince Shu Shenhui.
The Prince’s mother was a princess of Wu Yue, daughter of the Wu Yue King who once commanded a hundred thousand armored troops. Though embroiled in the chaos of the age, he never claimed the imperial title, ruling only as prince. When Emperor Wu swept south, the Wu Yue King submitted, and his daughter entered the Wei palace. She was favored above all, bore the Princess of Anle, and was once offered the position of empress, which she refused. After Emperor Wu’s death, she withdrew to her homeland, devoting herself to Buddhism, never again appearing at court.
In youth, she had the beauty of Xi Shi, and her son inherited her looks. On this day, the Regent Prince wore dark ceremonial robes, a tall crown, a broad sash, and a red-tasseled jade hairpin. His posture was relaxed, leaning slightly against the wide chair, eyes fixed on the monk at the center, expression absorbed, as though immersed in the Dharma—completely unaware of the sidelong scrutiny beside him.
Prince Gao dared not stare too long, fearing discovery. He withdrew his gaze, but his eyes lingered on the belt at the Prince’s waist.
By the court’s dress code, the emperor alone wore a nine-ring golden jade belt; princes wore eight rings, others fewer according to rank. Even with his high station, Prince Gao himself could wear only eight rings. Yet this nephew, barely past twenty, by virtue of his regency, had been granted by the late emperor the same belt as the sovereign. Though the Prince rarely wore it, preferring his usual princely attire, today it gleamed at his waist—an equal to Prince Gao’s own, and all the more offensive to his eyes. A surge of unease struck him, his heart pounding. But he was a veteran of countless battles; storms were nothing new. He steadied himself, glancing toward the sunlight outside the hall. At that moment, he noticed a young attendant—Zhang Bao, if memory served—slipping in at the doorway. The boy crouched low, crept along the wall, and quickly reached the Regent’s side, whispering something into his ear.
The Regent’s expression did not change, but soon he rose quietly and left the hall, his figure vanishing beyond the doors.
Prince Gao’s ears were still sharp, but the boy’s voice was too low; he caught nothing. Watching the Prince depart, he saw the officials around them also glance toward the exit.
Uneasy, Prince Gao waited. When the Regent did not return, he could no longer restrain himself. Claiming the need to change clothes, he too left the hall. Crossing the threshold with two attendants, he followed the corridor where his nephew had gone, turning right, probing cautiously until he reached the end.
There stood a side hall, its door half open. Inside, the light was dim, the golden Buddha statue faintly visible, and incense smoke drifted. The place was empty, not a soul in sight.
Sunlight slanted in, catching the twisted branches of an ancient cypress that reached over the wall, swaying gently in the wind. Pine needles fell, their rustling sound sharp in the silence.
Prince Gao halted, scanning the surroundings. After a brief moment of confusion, a sudden, powerful sense of foreboding swept over him. His instincts screamed—disaster was about to strike.
This was the survival instinct that had saved him countless times in his life—the intuition honed like a cunning fox, trained through endless battles with unseen traps, his secret art for finding the path to life in the shadow of death. A chill ran through his entire body. He made his decision instantly: retreat at once, cancel the operation.
But it was already too late.
Two figures dressed as imperial guards seemed to rise silently from the earth itself, ghostlike, appearing behind him.
A flash of steel, swift as white lightning—his two attendants collapsed to the ground. Their throats had been slashed open with deep cuts. Blood sprayed forth; their mouths gaped helplessly, opening and closing like fish pulled from water, but no sound came—only more froth of blood bubbling endlessly from their lips.
Prince Gao was horrified, but his reaction was quick. Instinctively, his hand flew to his waist to draw his blade—only to clutch at emptiness.
Then realization struck.
Today, accompanying the Empress Dowager and the young emperor to worship, all princes and officials had, by custom, laid aside their weapons. Only the imperial guards and personal bodyguards were permitted to carry arms. What he had thought was Heaven granting him an opportunity was, in truth, Heaven laying a trap to destroy him.
In the blink of an eye, the two assassins struck again, shadows darting forward to hem him in.
Prince Gao felt a sudden chill at his throat.
At that moment, he, the Grand Marshal, imperial uncle of the realm, clearly smelled the terrifying scent of death—stronger than ever before. He froze, slowly lifting his eyes.
From the dark depths of the hall, a figure in black robes stepped forward, unhurried, stopping beneath the shadow of an ancient cypress at the foot of the dais.