That single remark sent a chill of cold sweat down Liu Ling’s back. The frontier was riddled with long‑festering corruption. When his father sent him off, he had urged him to strike boldly, to act without hesitation. Such entrenched rot was not something a young man could untangle—but the Emperor clearly intended to wield him as a blade.
If this idle prince refused to be a weapon and instead sought to play the sage, returning with a reputation for virtue, was he trying to rival the Crown Prince himself?
Awakened to his role, the imperial blade was drawn from its sheath. Along the way, memorials impeaching Liu Ling poured in, yet no imperial edict of censure ever came.
Unexpectedly, it was not the Emperor’s wrath that struck, but the wrath of local tyrants. Today’s ambush—had it not been for Situ Sheng’s skill—might have ended in disaster.
Thinking of his tutor’s calm in crisis, Liu Ling’s respect deepened. He asked what should be done next. Situ Sheng advised the prefect to arrest the culprits and suggested they leave quickly. The mission was nearly complete; the prince longed to return to the capital and rest.
But Situ Sheng said instead: “Lianzhou has fine food, and its mountains and hot springs are worth enjoying. Your Highness might linger a few days to ease your mind.”
At eighteen, Liu Ling was still full of youthful playfulness. His journey had been filled with grim trials and executions. Rarely did he leave the palace—why not relax for once?
His mood lightened, and he spoke idly with his tutor: “Today was perilous. Luckily, we met that magistrate’s wife. Who would have thought such beauty could be found in the frontier? A pity she is already wed…”
Situ Sheng glanced at the prince’s wistful face and replied coolly: “If Your Highness finds the nights long, the prefect could host a banquet. There would be no shortage of beauties to ease your fatigue.”
It was not the sort of thing a stern tutor should say, more like the mischief of a wayward companion.
Situ Sheng was not a man of indulgence. The guards said he lived simply, never drinking or seeking pleasure. His refined features remained expressionless as he spoke, his tone calm, carrying a faint irony rather than invitation.
The prince, sensitive to scorn since childhood, suddenly realized: his father had entrusted him with real responsibility. How could he slacken now, chasing fleeting pleasures? He waved off the thought, declaring he had official duties and no interest in women. Then he excused himself to rest.
Situ Sheng returned to the window. Snowflakes drifted like willow catkins. He drew from his sleeve a page of accounts, his gaze cold. When he looked up again, a flash of red appeared outside—
Chu Linlang, searching frantically. She had lost the forged account page she had tucked into her pocket. It was nowhere in the carriage—likely dropped in the yamen. If Zhang Xian or another schemer found it, disaster would follow. Sweat steamed from her brow beneath the falling snow. She shook her tortoise shell, hoping for guidance, but a coin slipped out and rolled away. She chased it, stooping to pick it up—only to see a pair of worn boots before her.
She looked up. A handsome man in white stood there, his cold eyes deep as a dark pool, gaze piercing enough to make her flinch away.
She tried to leave, but he followed, asking evenly: “I saw you searching here. May I ask what you seek? Perhaps I can help.”
She bowed her head: “I lost a hairpin… nothing of value. I will find it myself. Please, sir, do not trouble yourself.”
Ordinarily, a man would avoid lingering with a married woman. But he did not move, his voice cool as the snow swirling above: “You seemed most anxious. It did not look like something worthless.”
She raised her eyes, meeting his fathomless gaze. Steadying herself, she smiled lightly: “Do you mean I am deceiving you? I lost something—it is not bandits dividing spoils. Even if it were precious, I would have no reason to hide it from you, would I?”
This woman, who had once held a hairpin to the prince’s throat, clearly had a streak of boldness. Yet when kneeling before him, she had seemed fragile. Now, facing Situ Sheng, her sharp words showed again.
He replied calmly: “I only wished to help. Do you find me a hindrance?”
Chu Linlang studied him. Outwardly refined, yet she remembered his ruthless blade cutting down attackers without hesitation. She had heard of him from the prefect’s wife: Situ Sheng, the Sixth Prince’s tutor, once a poor scholar who had risen to third place in the imperial exams. With no family backing, he had been assigned to idle duties in the Hanlin Academy, entertaining princes with chess and poetry. Yet somehow, this rootless man had climbed steadily, becoming tutor to the Sixth Prince and now accompanying him on official duty.
Seeing how the prince obeyed him, Chu Linlang realized: this was no lofty, aloof scholar, but a man skilled at climbing the ladder of power.
At that moment, listening to Master Situ’s words, Chu Linlang could not quite discern his intent. Was he coveting her beauty and using idle talk to flirt, or was there a deeper meaning—probing her with questions?
Her heart turned over. She was not afraid of the former—after all, her husband was the magistrate, a proper official. And since the Sixth Prince was on an imperial mission, even if Situ Sheng were bold to the point of recklessness, he would never dare behave scandalously and tarnish the prince’s name.
What she feared most was that forged account page. Could it be that this man had picked it up? Was that why he had come over, speaking in such a probing manner? If her counterfeit account had fallen into the prince’s hands, the trouble would be endless.
Just then, Situ Sheng spoke again: “Madam, your accent does not sound local to Lianzhou. May I ask where you are from?”
Chu Linlang was about to reply that she was from Jiangkou in the riverlands when, suddenly, a voice behind her interrupted: “Why are you still here? Hurry home!”
She turned to see her husband Zhou Sui’an, who had arrived without her noticing, cutting off their exchange.
Hearing that she was searching for a hairpin, Zhou Sui’an waved impatiently: “Since His Highness is still here, do not cause unnecessary fuss. Go home. Whatever you lost, buy another later.”
Chu Linlang lowered her head and obeyed, walking away. After a few steps, she could not resist glancing back. Situ Sheng spoke politely to her husband, his handsome face wearing a courteous yet faintly distant smile.
The walk from the yamen to home was not long, but long enough for Chu Linlang to untangle her thoughts.
The account was false—it could never stand scrutiny. The seal upon it, if examined closely, would reveal its forgery. When the time came, she could simply deny it was hers. At worst, Zhang Xian would discover her bluff; it could not be worse than that.
If Situ Sheng had picked it up, he would surely test Zhou Sui’an. But her husband knew nothing, so there was nothing to fear. She would wait and see.
Thinking thus, the bold Chu Linlang decided not to torment herself further, but to act according to circumstance.
As she stepped down from the carriage, an old servant met her at the gate: “Madam, the Old Madam has guests. She asks that you come at once.”
Obeying her mother‑in‑law’s summons, Chu Linlang did not even change her clothes, but removed her cloak and went straight to Madam Zhao’s quarters.
Before entering, she heard the sound of women’s laughter. Inside were her mother‑in‑law, Madam Zhao, and a stranger, with a lovely young girl seated beside her.
Chu Linlang greeted her mother‑in‑law respectfully, then smiled and asked about the guests.
Madam Zhao said warmly to the shy young girl: “Fang girl, come greet your elder brother’s wife. She is five years older than you—call her ‘elder sister.’”
The girl quickly rose, bowed to Chu Linlang, and softly said: “Greetings, elder sister.”
From Madam Zhao’s introduction, Chu Linlang learned that the mother and daughter were the family of the late official Lord Yin, once a close colleague of her father‑in‑law. She smiled and paid respects to Madam Liu, Lord Yin’s widow.
Then, taking Yin Xuefang’s hand, she said with a smile to her mother‑in‑law: “Mother, since she calls my husband ‘elder brother,’ should she not call me ‘sister‑in‑law’? Why ‘elder sister’?”
It was easily explained, but Madam Zhao acted as if she had not heard, continuing her conversation with her old friend Madam Madam Liu.
Chu Linlang was left aside, her smile fading.
Yin Xuefang, perceptive, quickly smoothed things over: “I have long heard that Brother Zhou married a beauty. Now I see it is true. Elder sister looks younger than me—if Madam Zhao had not said so, I would have thought you my younger sister instead.”
Her words were gracious and flattering. Madam Zhao’s ears suddenly heard again, and she laughed at Madam Liu: “Fang’er has always been clever. Now she is even more gentle and modest. I am delighted. A pity there was no fate back then. Ah, let us not speak of it!”