Voices pleading for mercy echoed through the hall. Chu Linlang knelt below, head bowed, motionless, awaiting the Sixth Prince’s judgment.
Liu Ling had never imagined that one day he would nearly be strangled by a mere village woman. Still shaken, he rubbed his neck and angrily asked the tall, blood‑stained man beside him: “Master Situ, tell me—how should this brazen woman be punished?”
The man called Situ was the one who had driven the carriage. He glanced thoughtfully at Chu Linlang’s slender back as she knelt, and said slowly, “By law, she should…”
Chu Linlang caught the words, fearing he meant “by law, she should be executed.” She quickly lifted her pale face, trembling, and interrupted, “This foolish woman did not recognize a noble person. I deserve a heavy beating. Only… I have one question, though I do not know if I should speak.”
Liu Ling, still unsettled, had not truly looked at her until now. As she raised her head, he saw her beauty clearly. He was stunned—how could the remote borderlands of Lianzhou harbor such a woman, rivaling the famed beauties of Jiangnan?
She bent low, her figure graceful, her fair face glistening with tears, lips trembling, fragile and pitiful.
The Sixth Prince had always been tender toward beauty. Seeing the magistrate’s wife so delicate, he softened, and his voice gentled: “What is it you wish to ask?”
Though her voice quivered, Chu Linlang spoke firmly: “I know I was gravely disrespectful. Yet did I not also save Your Highness? If not for divine prompting that led me to that street, how could I have, by chance, rescued the Emperor’s son? Clearly, Heaven itself protects Your Highness for your uprightness and benevolence, arranging for me to save you, turning calamity into fortune!”
The prince was startled that such a fragile woman could speak with the sly eloquence of a seasoned official. He almost laughed. But before he could reply, Situ interjected coolly: “So, by your words, His Highness should thank you for stabbing his neck with a hairpin?”
Chu Linlang bit her lip, realizing her mistake. She thought bitterly that she should have stabbed Situ instead!
Her husband Zhou Sui’an, face dark as iron, longed to silence her reckless tongue, but dared not. He could only watch as she drew another breath and continued tearfully: “This lord jests. How could a weak woman overpower His Highness? Now I understand—it was His Highness’s magnanimity, his unwillingness to quarrel with a woman, that spared me. I was blind to the mountain before me, gravely wrong. How could I let His Highness punish me, lest outsiders think him cruel? Better that I punish myself—let me kneel in the ancestral hall for a month, praying for Your Highness’s fortune.”
She pressed her forehead to the floor again, though she felt a sharp gaze like a blade upon her neck. Surely it was Situ, displeased with her earlier trickery, and deliberately targeting her.
She thought bitterly: *Such a handsome face, wasted on a petty heart.*
Yet Situ spoke again: “Your Highness, we seized the carriage first. This woman, ignorant of the truth, acted in self‑defense. By law, she should not be punished. Since she volunteers to kneel in her family shrine, that is acceptable.”
Chu Linlang was startled—was he not trying to ruin her? Had she misjudged him?
The prince, soothed by her flattery, felt his anger ease. He was used to meek, proper noblewomen, never one like this magistrate’s wife—her voice clear and bright, her words winding with endless charm. Listening, his fury melted. To punish her would be to admit he had been subdued by a frail woman, which he would never allow.
What mattered now was punishing the true local villains. A woman’s misunderstanding was not worth his energy.
So Liu Ling waved his hand and said warmly: “It was our fault first, leaping into an official’s carriage. No wonder there was confusion. Let the punishment be waived. Madam, whose family are you of?”
Zhou Sui’an quickly stepped forward to claim her. The prince thanked him kindly and even ordered rewards of cloth and silver for Chu Linlang.
After bestowing mercy, he turned to thunder. He demanded the prefect answer for local disorder. Chu Linlang, as a woman, withdrew. Outside the yamen, her back was drenched in cold sweat. She stood in the winter wind to calm herself.
Her maid Xia He, still trembling, asked: “Madam, should we go home?”
Chu Linlang looked at the sun: “Your master will not return early, nor for lunch. We still need cloth. Let’s go buy it.”
Xia He was dumbfounded. After such peril, her mistress still thought of shopping?
In truth, Chu Linlang’s heart still raced. She had gambled with her words, unsure if they would sway the prince. Though danger had passed, her husband’s furious glare promised scolding later. Better to buy gifts to appease him.
So she purchased cloth for her husband, hairpins and embroidered handkerchiefs for her mother‑in‑law and sister‑in‑law. Disaster had struck; spending money might avert further misfortune.
Yet as she shopped, she grew distracted. That Master Situ seemed oddly familiar, though she could not recall where she had seen him. His fluent capital accent was unlike anything she had known. Surely she would remember such a striking man.
As she reached for her purse, her hand froze. She searched frantically—disaster! The forged account paper she had carried was gone.
Her face changed. Forgetting her purchases, she hurried back with Xia He to retrace her steps.
Meanwhile, the Sixth Prince, after scolding the prefect, sought his tutor Situ Sheng. He found him in the study, blood‑stained robes exchanged for plain attire, standing quietly by the window.
“Master Situ, you are wounded. Do not stand in the cold,” Liu Ling said.
Situ Sheng calmly slipped a paper into his sleeve, then bowed: “Today was tumultuous. Your Highness need only summon me; no need to trouble yourself.”
Liu Ling gazed at him with admiration: “I knew your learning was great, but I did not expect your martial skill as well!”
Situ Sheng lowered his eyes: “As a sickly youth, my mother hired teachers to strengthen me. I never thought it would save my life today.”
Though modest, Liu Ling’s respect deepened.
Among the princes, Liu Ling was unremarkable—his mother of low birth, himself frail, long neglected by the Emperor. His tutor was no grand scholar, merely a minor official of the Hanlin Academy. Liu Ling had once despised him as a useless appointment.
But Situ Sheng was gentle, never lecturing in a pedantic manner. He abandoned the classics, instead telling curious tales, teaching farming and folk customs, even taking Liu Ling to the royal estates to plant crops or catch crickets.
Thus, the neglected prince found joy in his lessons. Among all his tutors, he loved Situ Sheng’s classes most.
The crown prince, burdened by strict masters, sometimes envied his younger brother: “At least the Sixth Prince’s tutor is easygoing, letting him enjoy himself, unlike ours, who demand endless toil.”
And so, master and pupil grew ever closer, their bond strengthened by shared leisure and unconventional learning.
The Sixth Prince gradually came to realize that the lessons his tutor had given him were not entirely useless.
For example, some days earlier, the Emperor had summoned several princes to the garden to sit around the brazier and drink tea, enjoying a moment of family harmony. In casual conversation, the topic of the frontier’s customs and conditions arose.
The Crown Prince and the favored sons spoke only of grand strategies—strong armies, secure borders—yet they knew little of the everyday affairs of the frontier. It was Liu Ling, sipping his tea, who casually described the local geography and the customs of the borderlands.
The Emperor Li Ren, intrigued by this son who so often called him by the wrong name, asked a few more questions. To his surprise, he found that though this frail son was no master of formal essays, he possessed the spirit of a wanderer and spoke of the frontier towns as if they were old acquaintances.
At that time, the Emperor needed someone to inspect the border and cut away corruption. He had many sons, but aside from the youngest, only a few had survived to adulthood and were fit for use. This mission would require dirty work. Sending the Crown Prince might tarnish the heir’s reputation. Better to dispatch a lesser, idle prince—he could still represent imperial authority, and if he failed, little would be lost. If he succeeded, a capable official might be cultivated.
After several tests and observations, the Emperor discovered that his sixth son was well‑versed in common affairs. He was not one of those pampered princes ignorant of grain and toil. It was said that during spring planting and autumn harvest, Liu Ling often went to the royal estates to farm alongside the peasants, demonstrating a grounded, practical approach.
Thus, the Emperor issued a decree, entrusting him with this heavy responsibility—leading to his journey to Lianzhou.
Liu Ling was not born a ruler, but in the palace, survival to adulthood required shrewdness. Only later did he realize that all the questions his father had asked were drawn from the odd lessons of his unconventional tutor.
In truth, though the teachings were few, they had all struck precisely at the blade’s edge.
His former disdain for Situ Sheng diminished greatly. On this mission, he brought his tutor along, treating him as a living storehouse of stratagems.
Yet the ruthless thunder of this campaign was not Liu Ling’s natural style. The corrupt officials were deeply entwined with the capital’s networks; pulling one thread risked unraveling all. As a prince without foundation, he had originally intended to tread lightly, to go through the motions.
But Situ Sheng asked him pointedly: “Your Highness, with such compassion and care for your reputation—do you seek to be remembered as a saintly prince?”