General Changning— Chapter 9
Jiang Zuwang was startled. The faint irritation he had felt moments earlier—born of his daughter’s sudden disappearance without a word—vanished at once. He paused, turned to gaze at the distant city still shrouded in the remnants of night, and ordered the guards nearby to withdraw. Then he said: “Hanyuan, I know you are unwilling. I had already decided—just now I was preparing to ride into the city to give Prince Xian my final reply, to refuse this marriage. You needn’t torment yourself with worry. Rest easy, I will take care of it.”
With that, he moved toward his horse.
But Jiang Hanyuan, watching his back, spoke again: “Father, you misunderstand. I said just now—the marriage is acceptable.”
Jiang Zuwang stopped, turned, and studied his daughter.
The torches at the camp gate burned through the night, their flames leaping in the cold wind, casting light across her face. Her expression was calm, though weariness lingered between her brows.
A heavy wave of guilt surged once more in the father’s heart.
The Regent had proposed marriage, even enlisting Prince Xian to press the matter. Clearly, it was a union he was determined to secure, with his own designs behind it.
Jiang Zuwang knew well what refusing at this moment would mean—especially after learning of the grave events that had shaken the capital.
At first, when the proposal came so suddenly, he had not dared defy imperial will. But after witnessing his daughter’s fierce resistance, paternal instinct had risen above all else. He had erred once before through weakness. If he yielded again, bowing to fear of authority and betraying his own heart, without even attempting to fight for her, then even in death he would have no face to meet his departed wife.
“Come with me!” He turned and strode inside.
Jiang Hanyuan followed him into the command tent.
“Hanyuan,” Jiang Zuwang said at once, “you must not force yourself for my sake, agreeing against your will and wronging yourself. You were right before—the Regent is no worthy husband. Not only can I not give you to him, but by your nature, you cannot accept it. You grew up on the frontier, used to freedom. The capital is a cage—it would suffocate you.”
He continued firmly: “West of Yanmen lies Xingguan, where the armies of the realm will one day gather. The Regent’s intent in marrying you is truly directed at me—more a gesture of favor and binding than affection. He needs me, so this matter is not without room to maneuver. Besides, when he was young and patrolled the border, I spent a few days with him. Though youthful, he carried himself with breadth and dignity, a man who could listen to counsel. On this matter, my mind is set—I will refuse the marriage!”
His tone was resolute, no trace of earlier hesitation. Yet his daughter’s eyes remained fixed on him, silent, unmoved.
“Did you hear what your father said?”
She seemed to stir from a trance. “I already said—I accept the marriage.”
“Zizi!” he called her childhood name, voice heavy. “I told you, you need not worry! I will bear everything. The court needs me now—the Regent will not dare harm me!”
She slowly lifted her gaze to him. “Thank you for thinking of me. But answer according to my will. And—”
She paused. “I do not know when the wedding will be. If time allows, I wish to go once to Yunluo.”
She bowed to him, then turned and left.
Jiang Zuwang could scarcely believe it. His daughter, missing for days, had returned utterly changed.
A father’s instinct told him: at first, upon hearing the proposal, she had been fiercely opposed. Where had she gone these past days? What had happened to transform her so?
Watching her departing figure, he could not help but call out again: “Zizi! What has happened to you? Do you truly consent? Where have you been all this time?”
At the tent’s threshold, she halted briefly. “Father, you yourself said this pass will one day be the gathering place of the empire’s armies.”
She turned back to face him. “Shu Shenhui needs a general like you. And you need a sovereign like Shu Shenhui. This marriage, for me, is not impossible. I accept it—willingly. You did not need to feel any guilt. Only sharpen your blades and prepare your troops, and wait for that day to come.”
With that, she walked out.
Jiang Zuwang came back to himself and rushed out of the command tent, only to see his daughter already far away. Her stride was steady, her lone figure gradually fading into the pale light of dawn.
In the east, the horizon turned white. As the first ray of sunlight pierced the frost-covered plains, Prince Xian’s carriage and retinue sped out of the city, racing south toward the capital.
Deep into the night, the faint sound of the water clock drifted from the endless halls and towers of the palace, reaching the ear.
It was the second quarter of midnight. The young emperor had long since retired to his chambers. At this hour, only one place in the palace remained brightly lit. That was Wenlin Pavilion, tucked in the northwest corner within the second palace wall, not far from the main hall of governance. It was here, after court sessions, that the Regent handled daily affairs and sometimes took his rest.
The dripping of the clepsydra ceased. In the outer chamber, the old eunuch Li Xiangchun noticed that Zhang Bao beside him was nodding off, his eyelids drooping. He turned to glance inside.
The Regent still sat at his desk, head slightly bowed, absorbed in memorials.
Too many great events had shaken the capital in recent days.
First, on Empress Dowager Lan’s birthday night, Grand Marshal Prince Gao had suddenly died of illness. The Regent personally oversaw the funeral rites. Soon after, commanders of six palace armies—the Guard, Left and Right Guard, Cavalry, and more—were mostly replaced. Then, only days after Prince Gao’s funeral, veteran ministers of the Emperor Shengwu’s reign, one after another, submitted petitions to retire. The court approved them all, granting rich rewards and estates of a thousand to five thousand households. Afterwards, the long-standing offices of the Marquis Wu and Palace Watch were abolished, replaced by two new bureaus—the Heavenly Gate and Earthly Gate—commanding elite troops to defend the capital.
Such reforms had been attempted in Emperor Mingzong’s reign but failed under heavy resistance. Now, Prince Gao’s sudden death had frightened many. Ministers who only months before had opposed every measure now became staunch supporters. Decrees flowed smoothly, reaching every level. Secret memorials denouncing Prince Cheng and his faction poured in like snowflakes, piling high upon the Regent’s desk.
As for the Regent himself, that day he had gone to Prince Gao’s mansion to pay respects. From princes to officials, all bowed low, none daring to meet his gaze. It was after that day that whispers spread: the Regent was ruthless, killing without a trace.
Such talk came from reckless young attendants repeating rumors. Li Xiangchun thought it was nonsense. He had served since the Emperor Shengwu’s reign, had watched the Regent grow from Prince Anle to Prince Qi to his current station. Did he not know his master’s nature?
Those attendants had turned pale with fear, begging forgiveness. Had the Regent heard, he would likely have laughed. Li Xiangchun merely ordered them flogged twenty strokes to teach them a lesson. Even if someone had truly died by the Regent’s hand, they were worthless wretches, wasting food.
The old eunuch thought coldly. His only concern was for the Regent himself, burdened with all affairs of state, while the young emperor…
He sighed inwardly. The Regent had no rest, overwhelmed by endless matters.
It was midwinter. The cold came early this year, seeping through the night. Though charcoal burned in the pavilion, the vast chamber left Li Xiangchun’s hands and feet chilled.
Tonight, ever since leaving the young emperor, the Regent had remained at his desk, not rising once.
Zhang Bao, half-asleep, suddenly shivered awake. Having long served the old eunuch, he noticed Li Xiangchun’s glance toward the brazier and moved to tend it, but the old eunuch waved him back.
Judging the fire weak, Li Xiangchun quietly entered, lifted the lid, stirred the coals, added a few pieces, and covered it again. His movements were light, yet Shu Shenhui was roused, casually asking the time.
Li Xiangchun had waited for this. “The drum tower just struck the second quarter past midnight, Your Highness. You were too absorbed to hear.”
“So late?” Shu Shenhui murmured, his pen still moving.
“Yes. I know matters are pressing, but even iron will wear down. You slept only two hours last night. If you exhaust yourself, how can you aid His Majesty?”
At last, Shu Shenhui set down his brush, looked at the eunuch, and said dryly, “You talk more than Zhang Bao.”
Outside, Zhang Bao’s ears perked at hearing his name.
Li Xiangchun bowed. “This servant spoke out of turn. Forgive me, Your Highness.”
The Regent smiled faintly, waited for the ink to dry, closed the memorial, set his brush aside, rubbed his hands, and walked to the window. He pushed it open.
The sky was heavy with clouds, the moon hidden. In the courtyard, trees stood bare, the pond lined with withered lotus stalks. The distant palace roofs loomed dark against the night, their beasts and ornaments casting eerie shadows.
A gust of cold wind swept in.
Li Xiangchun hurried forward with a cloak. “Your Highness, beware the chill.”
Shu Shenhui did not take it. He gazed outward, murmuring, “Prince Xian has been gone some time now, hasn’t he?”
As if on cue, a young attendant rushed in, whispered to Zhang Bao, who quickly relayed: “Your Highness, General Liu has sent word—Prince Xian has returned! He is at the palace gate, asking if Your Highness has retired.”
Shu Shenhui’s eyes flickered. He turned sharply and strode out.