Ning Nuannuan’s judgment took less than a breath.
A Mongolian horse—about four and a half chi at the shoulder, weighing roughly six hundred jin. In a narrow alley like this, its speed after being startled would be greatly reduced. The high walls on both sides limited its ability to turn—it could only charge straight ahead.
A horse charging in a straight line fears not a side interception, but a frontal obstruction.
When a horse sees an unmoving obstacle ahead, its first instinct is to avoid it. But in a panicked state, its judgment drops to near zero—it will only charge forward blindly until it crashes into something or runs itself to exhaustion.
Ning Nuannuan chose the front.
She didn’t go for the reins—the horse had already broken free, nothing remained around its neck.
She didn’t try to block its chest either. With six hundred jin of weight and charging speed, meeting it head-on like that would be foolish.
What she aimed to control was the horse’s head.
A distance of one zhang was covered by the startled horse in less than a breath.
Ning Nuannuan’s right foot slammed against the ground as her body stepped forward—not retreating, but advancing.
At the moment the horse’s head reached her, her right hand rose, fingers spread wide, striking down onto the crown of its head.
The horse’s skull was one of the hardest parts of its body—striking it directly would be useless. What she needed wasn’t impact, but leverage.
The instant her palm met the horse’s head, her fingers hooked into the depression behind the base of its ear—the tendon attachment point on the skull, where a natural groove existed in the bone structure.
Her grip locked tight.
The muscles in her right arm tensed.
Power surged from the soles of her feet, through her waist and hips, up her spine, into her shoulder, and poured into her arm.
She pressed the horse’s head downward.
The horse’s neck bent under the force.
Under the inertia of its full-speed charge, the six-hundred-jin Mongolian horse had its head forcibly driven down, its center of gravity pitching forward. Its front hooves stumbled, iron shoes scraping against the stone pavement and throwing out sparks.
The horse let out a scream—not one of panic, but of pain.
Ning Nuannuan didn’t let go. Her fingers clamped the horse’s head like iron tongs, her body lowered into a deep stance, legs bent as her boots screeched against the stone.
The horse’s front legs buckled.
First the left foreleg—its knee struck the stone with a crack, scattering fragments—then the right followed. The entire front half of the horse collapsed to the ground.
Its hind legs still kicked wildly, its rear raised high as it struggled desperately to wrench its head free from that single hand.
Ning Nuannuan’s arm muscles were pushed to their limit. This body’s strength had not fully recovered—subduing a six-hundred-jin horse was already near its threshold.
Gritting her teeth, she forced the horse’s head down another half inch.
Its jaw slammed against the stone.
A dull thud.
The horse stopped moving.
Not dead—but its front half was completely pinned, and even the kicking of its hind legs gradually weakened. Its eyes bulged wide, foam spilling from its mouth and pooling on the ground.
Ning Nuannuan crouched beside the horse’s head, her right hand still gripping its skull. Her breathing was heavy, sweat covering her forehead.
The alley fell into absolute silence.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
Of the six guards, four who could still stand were frozen in place, mouths agape.
He Yuzhu peeked out from the base of the wall, took one look, and shrank back—not out of fear, but because his legs had gone weak.
Yin Jiu stood less than three steps behind Ning Nuannuan, his legs rooted to the ground.
He had rushed over just now—wanting to stop it, to pull her back, to do something—but he hadn’t managed to do anything at all.
From the moment Ning Nuannuan stepped forward to when the horse was forced to its knees, it took no more than three breaths.
Three breaths.
He hadn’t even managed to take a single full step.
The Mongolian horse lay on the ground, panting heavily. Its nostrils flared, releasing bursts of hot air. Ning Nuannuan slowly loosened her grip, stood up from beside its head, and stepped back.
The horse did not rise again. Its front legs were not broken, but its spirit had been completely crushed. It lay trembling on the ground, no longer even trying to struggle.
“Find a rope and tie it up,” Ning Nuannuan said to the nearest guard.
The guard responded with a hurried “Yes!” and scrambled to find a rope.
Ning Nuannuan flexed the fingers of her right hand. All five were numb, and the skin between her thumb and index finger had been scraped raw, faint streaks of blood seeping out from where she had gripped the horse’s skull.
Yin Jiu walked over, his steps unsteady, as if he were walking on cotton. He stopped in front of her and opened his mouth.
“You… are you alright?” His voice was hoarse beyond recognition.
“I’m fine.” Ning Nuannuan shook her hand. “Just scraped it a bit.”
Yin Jiu lowered his gaze to her hand. The wound wasn’t deep, but it stood out sharply against her pale skin.
He reached for his belt, then his sleeve, fumbling around before finally pulling out a neatly folded white silk handkerchief.
He handed it to her.
Ning Nuannuan glanced at him, then took it and wrapped it around her injured hand.
“Let’s go. Don’t just stand here,” she said, turning toward the overturned sedan chair.
Yin Jiu remained where he was, staring at her back.
He Yuzhu finally crawled out from beside the wall and hurried over. “Master, the sedan chair has overturned—it needs to be reset.”
Yin Jiu ignored him. His gaze fixed on the Mongolian horse lying on the ground, then shifted to the side, where the broken carriage shaft ropes lay scattered. The shaft itself had splintered into several pieces.
He crouched down and picked up a fragment of the shaft.
At the broken edge of the wood, a sharpened bamboo spike was embedded. About two inches long, one end pointed like a needle, the other tied with hemp rope—it had been fixed beneath the shaft.
The spike was stained with dark red blood. Horse blood.
The horse’s panic had not been an accident.
Yin Jiu gripped the broken shaft, his knuckles turning white.
This route—from the western gate of the imperial city back to the Ninth Prince’s residence—was a fixed one. Few people knew it. The route had been reported in advance to the ceremonial guards by He Yuzhu just the day before.
Those who could access this information were either people from the palace—or those connected to the ceremonial guards.
Zhao Quanyi from the Eighth Prince’s residence had just visited two days ago, and Advisor Shen had spent quite some time in the study. During their comings and goings, they had seen the residence’s arrangements clearly.
Yin Jiu tucked the broken shaft into his robe and stood up.
His expression was grim—not the pale shock from earlier, but something darker.
“Master?” He Yuzhu stepped closer.
“Return to the residence,” Yin Jiu mounted his horse. This time, his hands were steady. “Bring that startled horse back. Have someone examine it.”
“Examine what?”
“The bamboo spike,” Yin Jiu said in a low voice. “Find out which workshop it came from.”
The sedan chair was reset, and the group returned to the Ninth Prince’s residence.
Ning Nuannuan entered the main courtyard. The maids brought water for her to clean the wound on her hand. It wasn’t serious—some medicinal powder and bandaging were enough.
Yin Jiu didn’t return to his own courtyard. He stood outside the main courtyard for a while before coming in.
Ning Nuannuan was sitting at the table drinking water. Seeing his expression, she set down her cup.
“Find anything?”
Yin Jiu took out the fragment of the carriage shaft with the bamboo spike and placed it on the table.
Ning Nuannuan picked it up and examined it.
“Someone tied a bamboo spike under the shaft. Once the horse started running, the spike pierced into its belly,” Yin Jiu said in a low voice. “This wasn’t an accident.”