According to ancient legends, the Great Sheng Dynasty’s founding emperor, Taizu, endured great hardships before establishing the dynasty. Before rising to power, he lived as a monk and survived by begging for alms. During a period of nationwide famine and severe food shortages, he nearly starved to death. It was only thanks to the generosity of kind-hearted people in the outskirts of the capital who offered him bowls of porridge that he managed to survive.
After he achieved success and went to find his benefactors, he learned that they had all perished during the famine. To express his gratitude, he built an altar at that spot on the capital’s outskirts. Every spring, a formal sacrifice is held there to pray for the nation, for bountiful harvests, and for favorable weather.
That formerly remote corner of the capital’s outskirts has undergone immense development over time. The office of the Governor of the Capital, Jingzhao Yin, has been relocated nearby after several moves.
High stone stairs lead up to a circular structure standing on a flat, blue-stone platform. The building is adorned with solemn cloisonné and peacock-green dragon motifs, and its great red doors, trimmed with gold, stand open to the air.
Inside, the Emperor, dressed in heavy, intricate ceremonial robes, kneels before the statue of the deity. He takes three incense sticks from Shen Heng and inserts them straight into the censer. As he bows his head, the pearls hanging from his imperial crown chime with a solemn sound. The ministers follow, kneeling outside the hall to perform the rites of heaven. Amidst the elegant and austere ritual music, Song Nanqing’s voice, as he recites the sacrificial text, sounds exceptionally clear and dignified.
Within the sound of bells and ceremonial music, the smoke from the censer drifts with the wind, resembling clouds and mist. As it drifts past Song Nanqing’s face, it adds an air of divine serenity to his features.
He follows Shen Heng’s invocations, offering incense and performing the ritual of three kneelings and nine kowtows. The scent of the burning incense makes his throat itch, yet he dares not cough. The jade bead tassels brushing against his face feel bothersome, and despite the soft cushions provided, his knees ache from the kneeling.
Finally, the first part of the ceremony concludes. Song Nanqing eagerly rises from the cushion, resting his hand on Shen Heng’s arm for support as he shifts his weight to ease his aching knees.
Outside the door, the guards of the Yiluan Office, dressed in uniform, move in perfect synchronization, carrying a bronze tripod to the center of the hall entrance. Amidst the rising smoke from the burning silks and ritual objects, Song Nanqing walks slowly toward the furnace, watching the blue smoke curl upward.
Before him stand the officials of Great Sheng, and behind him are Shen Heng and the divine statue protecting all living things. The smoke rises to mid-air, a peaceful aura winding upwards.
The guards, with short swords hanging from their waists, take a step back and stand at the four corners of the furnace. Song Nanqing catches the eye of one of them, his gaze flickering slightly.
Once the altar rites are finished, Song Nanqing changes his clothes and moves to the nearby Jingzhao Mansion. He suddenly proposes to see how the local farmers till their land, having recently performed a ceremonial plowing at the palace and wishing to see the reality of the people’s labor.
Yao Shun, the Governor of the Capital, leads the way, saying respectfully, “The nearby fields are all cultivated by these farmers. They are grateful for Your Majesty’s grace, and to have you visit them personally will surely move them to tears.”
Passing a lush, green area, they arrive at the farmlands adjacent to the Jingzhao Mansion. Before the sun has fully risen, the farmers are busy working; their dark skin is a testament to their constant exposure to the sun.
Song Nanqing watches expressionlessly as he crushes a caterpillar that has crawled onto his shoe. He inspects the neatly planted peanuts in the field and offers a few words of praise to Yao Shun.
Just as he feels the wind blowing tree fuzz toward him and his face begins to itch, a farmer wearing a hat runs up to Yao Shun, his face brimming with uncontrollable joy. “Lord Yao, great news! My cow just gave birth to a two-headed calf. It is a sign of a divine cow—an auspicious omen!”
“Who dares to clamor before the noble presence?” a minister behind Song Nanqing frowns and barks.
Song Nanqing waves a hand, indicating it is of no consequence. Looking interested, he asks the farmer, “Draft oxen are the backbone of farming and vital to the nation. You mentioned a two-headed divine cow?”
The farmer, seeing the Governor of the Capital, Yao, acting so deferentially to the group, realizes they are high-ranking officials. He had approached in hopes of a reward, but upon getting closer, he realizes the radiant, young man in the center is the one everyone is surrounding. He is momentarily stunned.
Looking into the boy’s bright eyes, he seems instantly captivated, only repeating, “It is a two-headed divine cow.”
“Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, a two-headed cow is by no means an auspicious omen. It would be best not to look at it,” a Junior Vice Minister of Rites steps forward to advise.
The farmer’s eyes widen. Upon hearing the address, he panics and drops to his knees, forgetting even to kowtow, staring fixedly at Song Nanqing as if to etch the image of the Son of Heaven into his mind. His bronze-colored arm nearly brushes the tip of Song Nanqing’s shoe.
Shen Heng steps forward first to block Song Nanqing, turning his body to shield him from the farmer’s scrutinizing gaze, and casts a cold glance at the man.
Song Nanqing, lost in thought and oblivious to the interaction, asks the Vice Minister, “What do you mean by that, Minister Li?”
“The I Ching (Book of Changes) says: ‘When a cow bears a young, with two heads and one body…’ The Vice Minister kneels and bows, his beard trembling as his voice drops, ‘…it is a sign that the world is about to be divided.'”
A chill runs down the spines of everyone present. No one dares to make a sound.
Song Nanqing’s gaze shifts from the Vice Minister to the farmer, and finally to the Governor, Yao Shun. He remains silent, yet the pressure is palpable.
Sweat drips from Yao Shun’s temples to his collar. He drops to his knees with a thud, taking a deep breath to defend himself, “Your Majesty, please investigate! This has nothing to do with me; it is entirely this farmer acting on his own initiative!”
Having changed out of his ceremonial robes and crown, the “Son of Heaven” who offered incense at the altar—even in his youth—already commands a towering status in the hearts of his ministers. Whether they believe in gods or destiny, Song Nanqing is undeniably the ruler of all in the Great Sheng Dynasty. Every gesture of respect and every prayer reinforces this image in everyone’s mind.
It is very quiet. The outdoor setting remains perfectly still. Song Nanqing takes a step, kicking a small pebble that lands with a patter, right over the crushed caterpillar.
“Investigate this thoroughly,” Song Nanqing says. “I want to see who dares to spread such rumors during the grain harvest ritual.”
He sweeps his gaze over the crowd and tells Yao Shun, “To prevent any talk of the Jingzhao Mansion covering up its own crimes, you should step aside for now. Whether you are innocent, I will decide. Wei Jin!”
At the mention of his name, a tall man in a dark blue official uniform kneels on one knee, his boots planted firmly, his hands cupped in a salute as he lowers his head. “This servant is here.”
“The Yiluan Office guards are all here for today’s ceremony. Use my authority to investigate this matter. You must find the truth and identify the culprit trying to shake the foundations of the country. Anyone who knows and refuses to speak—execute them without mercy.” Song Nanqing rubs his chin, his eyes clear. “Until this is solved, everyone will remain at the Jingzhao Mansion.”
He tilts his head and says to Yao Shun with a faint smile, “Didn’t you say the vegetables you grew recently were fresh? Have them prepared for the officials to taste. Food grown with one’s own labor always tastes better than what is sent by others.”
At the Jingzhao Mansion, those who came for the ceremony crowd into the main hall. It is noisy and chaotic; some are restless, while others are calm. Yao Shun has been the Governor of the Capital for years, yet never has he felt as uncomfortable in his own office as he does today.
He takes a sip of tea served by a servant, sighs, and turns to Jia Liang, “My lord, I truly did not expect this to happen. Even if I were given ten times the courage, I wouldn’t dare stage such a thing in front of His Majesty.”
Jia Liang glances at him coolly, “If it wasn’t you, why be so nervous? The culprit will be the one who is anxious, and His Majesty will surely get to the bottom of it.”
“But the farmer is under my jurisdiction, and that ‘sign of the world dividing’ is troubling.”
“Lord Yao, you should believe Lord Jia’s words. Besides, even if the world were to be divided, who would be dividing it with whom? Are you afraid the fire will reach you?” a person standing beside Yao Shun says softly.
Jia Liang sits upright and says nothing more.
Over an hour has passed since the farmer and the involved parties were taken to the Jingzhao Mansion’s prison, and no news has come out yet. As time drags on, the people effectively placed under house arrest under the guise of “protection” cannot help but feel a shadow looming over them.
In contrast to the tension outside, the West Side Hall is quiet and tranquil. The shadows of two people are faintly visible on a screen made of moon-shadow silk.
On a dark wooden table sits a small, dark green ceramic jar, no larger than a palm. Shen Heng rolls up his sleeves, uses a long-handled silver spoon to scoop out a bit of rose-scented ointment, warms it in his palm, and gently applies it to the young man’s cheeks with his fingertips.
The boy’s flushed cheeks show signs of an allergic reaction, with deep pink marks spreading outward. When the cool ointment is applied, the itching subsides. Song Nanqing sits on a low stool, eyes downcast, his lips pressed together. The fragrance of the rose ointment, mixed with the faint scent emanating from the sleeves of the person before him, allows his mind a moment of peace.
He rests his hand on Shen Heng’s thigh, letting the ointment be spread bit by bit, distractedly playing with the embroidery on his clothes.
Shen Heng’s fingers trace the delicate skin. He is earnest and gentle; the hands that once held swords and reins have become increasingly skilled at such meticulous tasks.
The touch is so light that Song Nanqing feels an itch and turns his head slightly. His finger lingers on his cheek, pressing a shallow dimple.
The shadows on the screen overlap with the butterflies embroidered on it; the butterfly’s antennae seem to rest where the two silhouettes intersect. Song Nanqing’s warm breath brushes against the man’s hand, intermittently.
He lowers his head, watching the bamboo leaf embroidery on Shen Heng’s robe. The sunlight slants in, and the shadow of the butterfly moves to the top of his head. He shakes his head slightly and says, “This side feels even more uncomfortable.”
He turns his other cheek toward Shen Heng.
“You knew you were allergic, yet you insisted on going to such a dirty place,” Shen Heng says, his finger lifting the boy’s chin as he studies his face. “It serves you right to be uncomfortable.”
Song Nanqing meets his gaze. “I couldn’t just wait for the filth to spread to the dragon throne before cleaning it up. By then, it would be too late.”
“I wonder if you still remember, Teacher, that I used to have a favorite porcelain bird whistle? I could blow the songs my mother liked with it. But my Ninth Brother and the others bullied me, and they smashed that whistle; it could never be put back together.” He looks through the screen at the treetops outside. “That was when I decided that whoever steals my things will have to pay me back a hundredfold.”
Shen Heng takes a wet cloth to wipe his hands and nods slightly. “That is only natural. ‘Recompense injury with justice’ is advocated by the Analects.”
“I am glad you have read the Analects so thoroughly, Qingqing, but I don’t recall ever teaching you the I Ching,” Shen Heng says calmly.
Song Nanqing blinks and says, “You did teach me. You taught me many things; perhaps you have forgotten.”
Two heads, one body—the world is about to be divided. Aside from the faction led by Jia Liang, the only person capable of dividing the world with Song Nanqing is the Regent, Shen Heng. As for his half-brothers, those who didn’t die were exiled, and the only one still in the capital, the Ninth Prince, has been in poor health and hasn’t been active for a long time.
The appearance of the two-headed cow is suspicious. Song Nanqing did not allow anyone else to handle the investigation, but anyone with half a brain knows the target of this rumor must be one of the two men above. Whether it is a rumor or not, and how to deal with it, is vital.
If it were truly a divine omen, Song Nanqing’s throne would be in jeopardy. If it is the work of agitators, it is a deliberate attempt to sow chaos and division. There are only three people who could have orchestrated this “two-headed cow” scheme, and only two parties who would benefit.
As one of the two parties who might benefit from the rumor, Shen Heng does not seem to have aroused Song Nanqing’s suspicion. After the ointment is applied, the young Emperor lies on the table, opening his mouth and pointing, “I want to eat that plum.”
His eyes are as innocent, clear, dependent, and trusting as ever, yet Shen Heng sees his own reflection in the boy.
A green plum is placed into Song Nanqing’s mouth. He wrinkles his face and mumbles, “Sour… so sour!”
Just as he starts drooling from the sourness and looking for something to spit it out, Shen Heng covers his mouth with one hand. “If you wanted to eat it, finish it.”
Song Nanqing flails, clawing at his arm, and mumbles an accusation, “Let me go… you are bullying a child! You promised to help me later!”
“You want me to help you again? Then I’ll have to make sure I’ve bullied you enough for it,” Shen Heng says, pinching his cheek.
A knock comes from the door. Wei Jin’s serious, upright voice sounds from outside: “Your Majesty, we have a new discovery.”