Though it was a relay station, because it was the last stop for food, lodging, and changing horses before entering Jinchangcheng, it sat close to Changcheng—not far at all. One could even see the New Year’s Eve fireworks blooming endlessly over Changcheng against the dark, heavy snowy night, and faintly hear the crackle of firecrackers rising and falling from countless households.
Word had it that King Hui of Wei, to honor the Father of the King’s successive victories on the northern campaign, had decreed that all newly acquired northern territories be decked with lanterns and bunting, with gongs struck and firecrackers set off, for both New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.
Indeed—such good times called for a proper celebration.
In the last days of the twelfth month, darkness fell especially early. By the hour of xu, it was already pitch black beyond arm’s reach; only by the flare of sudden fireworks and the warm glow of wind lanterns could one make out the figures outside.
The Father of the King of Wei traveled lightly with a small retinue. The accompanying carriages, horses, and guards stretched into a long column through the blinding wind and snow—a dark, shifting mass, impossible to count.
From the kitchen came the aroma of stewed meat and steamed millet. The station master hurried over, shouting orders amid the neighing of horses: “The Father of the King’s carriage has arrived! Light the firecrackers, quickly!”
The station attendants scrambled to obey. The moment the carriage entered the compound, the great red firecrackers burst forth first.
Attendants shouted as they led the horses to the stables, feeding them well with grain and beans to rest.
The station master, bowing and scraping, helped the occupant down from the carriage, babbling without pause: “The Father of the King honors us with his presence—this humble station is truly blessed! Truly blessed!”
A stream of “Father of the King” and “General” tumbled from his lips as he ushered them inside to warm themselves and dine.
Soon he called for the station hands to bring wine and meat, saying that word had arrived early that the Father of the King would grace Changcheng, so they had slaughtered cattle and sheep, killed chickens, and stewed fish in advance.
The station grew lively at once. A-Pan listened intently from the second floor, catching the station master’s fawning voice: “These fish—all freshly caught from the Yellow River. Relayed by courier horses day and night, they still arrived kicking and leaping! At least we didn’t fail in that.”
And: “This venison—hunted from the mountains just this very day. It’s been stewed until it’s falling apart, most flavorful. Please, Father of the King, do try some.”
Finally, he shamelessly brought up how hard it was that this little station had survived the flames of war to the present day: “The eastern wall is about to collapse, and several rooms in the western wing were burned down. We can’t help but beg the Father of the King to intervene, to allocate a bit more funding, so that we humble folk might have a decent New Year.”
An attendant came to urge that hot water be boiled quickly, saying the generals had ordered it—the Father of the King had finished his evening meal and intended to go upstairs to rest.
Not long after the water came to a boil, there was a clatter downstairs as things were cleared away—the meal seemed finished.
Footsteps mounted the stairs ahead of time: “Quick, bring the hot water! Attend to the Father of the King’s bath.”
An attendant answered, “Right away! It’s all been prepared!”
With that, they called for people to carry the bath tub into the Father of the King’s private chamber. Someone came over and waved at A-Pan, urging in a low voice, “Hurry up and follow.”
The station’s fireworks still popped sporadically. A-Pan’s heart leaped and plunged like a seesaw. She quickly lowered her brows, held up the wooden tray, and followed the attendant toward the private chamber.
But the guard standing outside the door stopped her, saying, “The Father of the King does not like anyone attending him closely during his bath. Wait here—enter only when summoned.”
A-Pan murmured an acknowledgment, but beneath this feigned composure, only she knew the unease, the dread, the terror churning within.
She stood beside the guard, holding her breath, not daring to move a muscle.
All she could do was wait.
Listening to the bursting fireworks, to the sound of water within the room, to the attendants downstairs quietly clearing away cups and dishes.
She dared not let her eyes wander—one glance caught the guard’s icy, forbidding armor, caught the great blade hanging at his waist, caught the hand gripping that blade.
She thought to herself: if she failed tonight, she didn’t know which blade would take her head.
She dared not think further, dared not look again. Dropping her gaze, she saw the wooden tray in her hands.
On it lay neatly arranged a cloth and a thin blanket, the blanket rolled into a cylinder—and rolled inside it, the short blade meant for tonight’s assassination.
Suddenly the sound of water within ceased. The person inside knocked three times on the bath tub—each knock sent A-Pan’s heart pounding with terror.
Changcheng was Wei territory to begin with, and the surrounding lands were all held by Weiren guards, so the guard did not search her. He only ordered in a low voice, “Go in quickly and attend to him,” and let her straight through into the private chamber.
The room was thick with steam, heavy with the fragrance of orchids.
A-Pan steadied her nerves, lowered her head, and stepped forward. Her heart was already pounding like war drums and gongs, while the Father of the King of Wei, draped in a thin blanket, was already waiting to have his clothes removed.
This was the man before whom even King Hui of Wei bowed low and respectfully addressed as “Uncle.”
But his back was turned—she could not see what he looked like.
She spoke in a soft, gentle voice, suppressing the slight tremor in her throat: “This servant will attend to the Father of the King’s bathing.”
She now had a fluent Wei accent as well; unless one listened closely, one would not detect anything amiss.
She picked up the cloth to wipe the man’s back. Her breath was slightly disordered, her steps flustered, her whole body taut as a puppet—yet the man did not seem suspicious. He only asked, “Afraid?”
A-Pan hastily explained, “This servant is not afraid, merely in awe of the King Father’s renowned reputation… This servant is unaccustomed to such company and somewhat nervous…”
The man gave a faint, indifferent acknowledgment. Presumably he felt secure in his own domain, with the general’s shadow guards both inside and out—who would be reckless enough to attempt assassination? There was truly nothing to be wary of. Thus he kept his back turned throughout, neither asking further questions nor turning around.
Good, good—this actually put her somewhat at ease.
After all, at this point, the arrow was already nocked on the string. Whether she steeled herself or not, she had to see it through.
“This servant will fetch a thin blanket.”
A-Pan spoke in a gentle, soft voice, reporting her movements in a timely manner so as not to arouse his suspicion and lose her chance.
Her voice was exquisitely sweet and pleasing to the ear. The man nodded slightly, allowing her to do as she pleased.
A-Pan’s fingertips trembled faintly as she picked up the thin blanket and slowly unfolded it, revealing the short blade within—its cold gleam flashing in the candlelight.
She knew she had only one chance.
Either she killed the King Father, or the King Father killed her.
The Nülü had already failed once before; this time, she must not disappoint her master.
Clenching her jaw and steeling her heart, she spun around, the short blade in her hand thrusting forward without a moment’s hesitation.
She had learned the art of killing with a blade at Qianjimen—she knew how to strike down an opponent in a single move, hitting the target’s vital point.
And if her first attempt missed, she knew how to quickly seize the advantage on her second.
But before the blade could sink into the small of his back, the man whirled around abruptly, grabbing her wrist and pressing her down into the water, nearly tossing her headfirst into the bath.
A-Pan let out a low cry and only then noticed that the man was wearing a mask. In her earlier fluster, she had failed to notice the thin cord tied behind his head.
She struggled desperately, finally managing to surface from the fragrant bathwater, her head and half her body soaked through—only to have the man seize both her wrists and pin her firmly against the rim of the bath.
In this contest of wills, they clashed back and forth, both gasping for breath.
One struggled; the other restrained.
One lunged; the other dodged.
Her hands gripped the short blade tightly, swinging it at him with all her might, but time and again it fell just short of its mark.
She struck his chest, and he hissed in pain, retreating a step.
Then, somehow, he caught hold of her robe—a sharp tearing sound—and the already sodden garment split apart, baring half her shoulder to the air.
But then, inexplicably, the man suddenly froze.
Yes—strange.
A-Pan abruptly sensed that something was wrong. With all this commotion inside, not a single guard from outside had come in. It was truly odd.
Ignoring her exposed shoulder, she spun around with the dagger and drove it straight toward his chest.
Yet the man simply stood there, tall and composed, without even dodging.
But he removed his mask.