12
Late at night, the Prince Rui Manor was as silent and desolate as ever. The splendor and prosperity of the past felt like nothing more than a fleeting dream. Now, with the dream shattered, all that remained was emptiness.
Shen Jiaqing lay sprawled on the chaise lounge, his robes in disarray, a wine bottle clutched in his hand. Tilting his head back, he took a deep swig. The burning liquid seared his throat, igniting a fire in his stomach, momentarily numbing his senses. A drunken stupor was the only escape from his sorrows.
An old servant led Zhang Wei into the room, accidentally kicking over an empty bottle on the floor. The sharp clatter echoed through the otherwise quiet chamber.
“Who’s there?” Shen Jiaqing slurred, squinting through his hazy, drunken vision toward the doorway.
The old servant stepped forward and announced, “Your Highness, Master Zhang is here.”
Shen Jiaqing, thoroughly inebriated, glanced at Zhang Wei with bleary eyes. Rubbing his face with one hand, he forced himself to focus. “Ah, Zhang Wei, you’re here.”
Zhang Wei approached and immediately noticed the two empty bottles beside Shen Jiaqing. The heavy scent of alcohol filled the air, making him frown. “Your Highness, drinking too much is bad for your health. You should cut back.”
Annoyed by the lecture, Shen Jiaqing snapped impatiently, his voice thick with drunkenness. “What do you know? I have nothing to do all day—if I don’t drink, then what? If you have something to say, say it. Spare me the pointless advice!”
Zhang Wei sighed, knowing it was futile to argue. Instead, he turned to the old servant. “Go prepare some sobering soup. We can’t let His Highness drink himself into oblivion.”
The old servant acknowledged the order and left to prepare the sobering soup.
Now, only Zhang Wei and Shen Jiaqing remained in the room. Zhang Wei finally spoke. “Your Highness, the mark has appeared again—this time at Fahua Temple.”
At these words, Shen Jiaqing’s drunken lethargy vanished. He sat up straight on the chaise lounge, his expression sharp. “Did anyone see who left the mark?”
Zhang Wei reported, “According to our informants, if they weren’t mistaken, the one who left it was the Ninth Princess of Xijiang.”
“The Ninth Princess of Xijiang?” Shen Jiaqing murmured, his brows furrowing in disbelief. “Isn’t she here in Daxia for a political marriage with Xiao Jingyao? How could it be her? And how does she even know about this mark?”
Zhang Wei was just as puzzled. How could a foreign princess be aware of such a crucial secret signal? What was the connection?
“There’s more,” Zhang Wei added. “When the Ninth Princess visited Fahua Temple today, Emperor Xiao Jingyao was also there.”
Shen Jiaqing’s gaze darkened. “Could they be conspiring together?”
“It doesn’t seem like it,” Zhang Wei replied, recounting the events. “The Ninth Princess of Xijiang and Xiao Jingyao appeared to be strangers—she didn’t even realize he was the Emperor of Daxia. When they crossed paths at Fahua Temple, they got into an argument, and she gave him a thorough scolding without the slightest hesitation.”
Shen Jiaqing let out a sharp laugh. “Xiao Jingyao, getting scolded? Now that’s something I’d love to see. I bet his face was as dark as thunder. This Ninth Princess is quite an interesting one!”
Zhang Wei hesitated before asking, “Since she left the mark, should we make contact?”
Shen Jiaqing rose from the chaise lounge, adjusting his robe as he paced the room. After a moment of contemplation, he said, “We should make contact—but not directly. Send someone to investigate first. Find out where she learned about the mark and why she’s reaching out to us. Also, look into her relationship with Xiao Jingyao. Is she truly unaware of who he is, or is she just pretending? Could the two of them be plotting something together?”
“Understood,” Zhang Wei responded.
Shen Jiaqing stopped in front of Zhang Wei, his expression turning cold and severe. “If we discover that she’s using this mark to lure us into a trap, eliminate her without hesitation.” He lifted a hand and made a swift motion across his throat—a silent order for execution.
Zhang Wei’s expression hardened. “Got it,” he said firmly. After discussing a few more matters with Shen Jiaqing, he took his leave from Prince Rui Manor.
…
At the guest residence, Yu Shu had injured her foot, while Mu Liangzhe had supposedly hurt his arm—though his injury was largely an act. Nevertheless, both claimed to be recovering and in need of rest.
With her foot injury making it difficult to walk, Yu Shu was confined to her quarters, passing the time by reading and practicing calligraphy.
Mu Liangzhe, on the other hand, was anything but a patient convalescent. Despite his supposed injury, he roamed around the guest residence daily, his arm in a sling, chatting up every official from Daxia he encountered. Whenever someone asked about his arm, he would sigh dramatically, putting on a pitiful act and lamenting that he had been injured by Chancellor Liu’s guards. He repeated this claim so often that rumors naturally began to spread.
That day, Mu Liangzhe had just settled down in Yu Shu’s quarters when a servant hurried in to report, “Your Highness, Chancellor Liu is here to see you.”
Mu Liangzhe arched an eyebrow at Yu Shu with a triumphant smirk. “I told you he’d come.” Everything was unfolding exactly as he had planned. His whole performance—the injuries, the bloodshed—had been staged for this very moment.
“I’ll go meet him now.” Mu Liangzhe stood up, smugly straightening his robes before striding out.
Left alone in her room, Yu Shu had no way of knowing what Mu Liangzhe and Chancellor Liu would discuss. Would Chancellor Liu agree to speak on their behalf before the Emperor of Daxia?
Deep down, she hoped he wouldn’t. She still hadn’t found the people her mother had left behind, and her plans were far from ready. The last thing she wanted was to be summoned to the palace to meet Xiao Jingyao so soon.
“Your Highness,” a voice called out.
Just then, Lian Sheng entered, his arms overflowing with an assortment of items—food, trinkets, books, paintings, and calligraphy supplies—piling them onto the table in a messy heap.
Yu Shu stood up, eyeing the table now cluttered with goods before glancing at Lian Sheng. Tilting her head, she teased, “Are you planning to open a shop?”
“Open a shop? Of course not.” Lian Sheng chuckled, flashing a bright smile.
“These are all for you. Since you’re stuck inside and can’t go out, I figured you must be bored. So, I bought some treats, entertainment, and supplies to help pass the time.”
“Look at this—osmanthus cake, candied jujubes, and preserved fruits. They’re much more refined than what we have in Xijiang. These come from Baiwei Zhai, and they’re so popular that people line up just to get a taste. And this box—though it looks like plain wood, if you slide this switch on the bottom, the little figurine on top starts to spin and dance.
“I also got you this set of books—new story collections from Moyun Bookhouse. The storytelling is excellent, perfect for passing the time. This ink is made from pine soot—ideal for your calligraphy and painting. And this…”
Lian Sheng eagerly introduced each item, his words tumbling out one after another. All the while, he kept a close eye on Yu Shu’s expression, afraid she might not like them.
“I like them very much,” Yu Shu said.
Lian Sheng stopped mid-sentence and turned to look at her.
Yu Shu’s lips curved into a gentle smile, her eyes crinkling. “I said, I like all of them.”
“Good… As long as you like them.” A faint flush spread across Lian Sheng’s sun-kissed face.
“Huh? Your clothes are torn here.” Yu Shu’s sharp eyes immediately spotted a small tear in Lian Sheng’s garment.
Lian Sheng tilted his head, trying to see, but the angle made it difficult.
Yu Shu reached out, gently pulling the fabric to show him. “Here…”
As she looked up, she suddenly realized just how close they were. They were practically pressed together—Lian Sheng lowering his head, while she tilted hers up. Their faces were mere inches apart, so close that their breaths intertwined. A charged silence settled between them, the air thick with an unspoken tension.
**