First Year of Zhongyuan, 25th Day of the First Lunar Month.
Before dawn, Qingxing came knocking at my door.
"Lady, His Highness has sent clothes for you."
I opened the door. In her hands, she held a set of garments—not a quju (curved-hem robe), but men's attire. A black shenyi (deep robe) with narrow sleeves, a leather belt for the waist, and a small black crown.
"His Highness said to have the Lady change into this."
"What for?"
"His Highness didn't say."
I took them and unfolded them under the lamp. The fabric was fine hemp, not silk, but the workmanship was excellent, with dense, tight stitching. It felt rough to the touch—the kind of material ordinary clerks wore, designed to go unnoticed.
I changed, bundling my hair up and donning the small crown. In the bronze mirror, the reflection looked like a young scribe: pale-faced, slender, with a quietude in the brows and eyes that didn't belong to this era.
Qingxing watched from the side, her eyes lighting up. "The Lady looks so handsome in men's clothes."
"Let's go," I said, pushing the door open.
Liu Che was waiting for me outside the workshop.
He had changed too. Not into the Crown Prince's regular robes, nor the ceremonial mianfu—but a black shenyi with crimson-black trim on the collar and cuffs. A vermilion leather belt was tied at his waist, the hook made of plain, unadorned bronze. On his head sat a tall Jinxian crown (Cap of Worthies), its beam made of wood wrapped in black gauze.
Black is the color of solemnity and execution; it is the proper color for officials of the Commandant of Justice (Tingwei) when handling cases. Standing there, he looked like a sword freshly unsheathed.
I had seen him in ceremonial robes—solemn, austere, like a deity in a temple. I had seen him in casual wear—youthful, carefree, like any wealthy young master in Chang'an.
But him in the Tingwei official uniform was different.
The black suppressed the youthfulness in him, forcing something else to the surface. Not majesty, but sharpness. Like ice on a winter river; it looks flat, but you never know how deep the water beneath truly is.
"What are you looking at?" he asked.
"Nothing." I turned my head away.
The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"The Office of the Commandant of Justice (Tingwei Fu)," he said. "The case of Li Yan. I will investigate it personally. The place where the seal-verifying craftsman lived before he vanished, and that transferred scribe—I will question them myself."
"Your Highness is going personally?"
"Wearing these clothes means I don't want to be recognized." He glanced down at himself. "The Tingwei Fu is full of eyes and ears. If I go as the Crown Prince, I will find nothing."
He reached out his hand to me. "Come."
I took his hand. His palm was warm.
The Tingwei Fu was located in the southeast corner of Chang'an, not far from the Eastern Palace. The carriage ride took two ke (about 30 minutes).
He disembarked first, then turned to look at me.
The morning light fell upon him, gilding the black official robe with a faint golden hue. The shadow of the Jinxian crown fell across his face, making his brows and eyes appear exceptionally deep. He stood there, behind him the lacquered black gates of the Tingwei Fu, flanked by guards holding halberds.
In that moment, he was not the Crown Prince. He was the youngest official in the Tingwei Fu—cold, capable, and unquestionable.
"Get down," he said, reaching out his hand again.
I held his hand and jumped down. His grip was steady, as if supporting a piece of fragile porcelain.
The guards at the gate blocked us. "Who are you two—"
Liu Che pulled a bronze token from his sleeve and flashed it before the guard. The token was engraved with the characters "Tingwei" (Commandant of Justice), with a line of small text beside it. The guard took one look and immediately bowed with clasped hands. "Officer, please enter."
I followed him inside, lowering my voice. "What is that?"
"An entry token for the Tingwei Fu," he whispered. "I had someone make it."
"Your Highness—"
"Shh." He pressed his index finger to his lips, the corner of his mouth tilting slightly. "Here, call me 'Lord Liu' (Liu Jun)."
"...Lord Liu."
He glanced at me, an indescribable look in his eyes. Satisfaction? Smugness? Or something else?
"Say it again."
"Lord Liu," I glared at him.
He laughed. Not the laugh of the Grand Justice, but the laugh of a youth. But he quickly checked himself, replacing it with that cold expression.
The Tingwei Fu was vast. The front courtyard was for administration, containing duty rooms, prisons, and interrogation halls. The back courtyard housed the officials and clerks. The seal-verifying craftsman we were looking for, named Chen Fu, lived in a small room in the back.
The room was already empty. The seal on the door had been torn off and haphazardly reapplied. Liu Che tore off the seal and pushed the door open.
The room was simple. One couch (ta), one desk (an), one clothing chest. The bedding on the couch was still there, folded neatly. On the desk sat an empty bowl, a pair of chopsticks, and an oil lamp. Inside the chest were a few changes of clothes, all coarse cloth.
"He left in a hurry," Liu Che observed. "He didn't even take all his clothes."
I squatted down to examine the chest. There was a thin layer of dust on the bottom, but in one spot, the dust had been rubbed away—someone had rummaged through this chest recently.
"Lord Liu, someone has been here. After the official sealing of the door."
He walked over and squatted beside me. "Can you tell who?"
I leaned closer to inspect the dust marks. Fingerprints, very clear. Wide fingertips, thick knuckles—a man's hand. Beside the dust marks were a few tiny fragments. I picked them up.
Charcoal dust.
"Clerks of the Tingwei Fu," I said. "Only they would have charcoal dust on their hands—people who deal with bamboo slips and charcoal brushes all day."
"Our own people rummaging through our own people's things," Liu Che sneered coldly. "It seems someone arrived before us."
He stood up and walked to the desk. He picked up the empty bowl and held it to the light. There was a ring of white residue at the bottom—salt stains. He then picked up the chopsticks and smelled them.
"Before Chen Fu disappeared, he ate a bowl of soup noodles," he said. "Too much salt; the soup was very salty. He left right after eating, without even washing the bowl."
"Someone came to see him?"
"Mm. And it was someone he knew." He put down the bowl. "If it were a stranger, he wouldn't have eaten the noodles. The fact that he ate means the visitor was an acquaintance. After eating, he left with them."
"And never returned."
"Mm."
He stood in the center of the small room, scanning the surroundings. Morning light filtered through the old hemp paper covering the window lattice, casting a few dim beams into the room. The black official robe looked exceptionally dark in the dimness, the bronze hook on his belt reflecting a sliver of cold light. His profile was cut by the light into half-bright and half-dark halves, his jawline tense.
"Liu Che," I called his name—not "Your Highness," nor "Lord Liu."
He turned to look at me.
"This matter goes deeper than we thought," I said. "Chen Fu was silenced. And the person who silenced him could mobilize people within the Tingwei Fu."
He didn't speak. He walked over, took my hand.
"Let's go," he said. "To see the next one."
The second person to investigate was the transferred scribe, named Wang Heng.
He had been transferred to a small county outside Chang'an to serve as a County Magistrate's Assistant (Cheng). Liu Che said he would question him personally. The carriage left Chang'an, traveling for most of an hour before arriving.
Wang Heng lived in a small courtyard behind the county yamen. When he saw us, his face changed color.
"Who are you two—"
Liu Che displayed the token. "Tingwei Fu. We have a few questions for you."
Wang Heng's hands began to tremble.
We sat down in his small room. Wang Heng sat opposite, twisting the hem of his clothes, his knuckles white.
"How much do you know about Chen Fu's affair?" Liu Che asked bluntly.
"I—I don't know—"
"You were transferred out of the Tingwei Fu on the third day after Chen Fu disappeared," Liu Che's voice was cold. "Who signed the transfer order?"
Wang Heng's lips trembled. "It—it was my superior—"
"Which superior?"
"The Tingwei Shi Zhang..."
"Why did Zhang transfer you?"
"I—I don't know—"
"You do know." Liu Che looked at him, his gaze like a blade. "You were transferred, and three days later, Chen Fu disappeared. Do you think this is a coincidence?"
Tears fell from Wang Heng's eyes. "Sir, I really don't know—I just followed orders—"
"What orders?"
"Lord Zhang said... said for me to alter a few characters in Chen Fu's seal verification record. Just a few words. I changed them. Then he said to transfer me, so I transferred. I know nothing else—"
Liu Che was silent for a moment. He stood up and walked over to Wang Heng.
"Wang Heng," his voice was low, "do you know that those few characters you altered could get a man killed?"
Wang Heng looked up, tears streaming down his face. "Sir, I... I'm just a scribe... My superior told me to change it, I dared not disobey—"
Liu Che looked at him for a long time. Then he leaned down, speaking word by word:
"Wang Heng, do you know that forging criminal documents, according to Han Law, is punishable by death via reciprocal punishment (Fan Zuo)?"
Wang Heng's face turned instantly pale, white as a corpse. His lips trembled; he wanted to speak, but not a single word came out.
"These few characters you altered today," Liu Che's voice was cold as ice, "if Li Yan is sentenced to death because of this false evidence... then you are the murderer."
"Sir... Sir... I didn't know... I really didn't know it would be like this—"
Liu Che straightened up, not looking at him again. He turned and walked out. I followed him.
Reaching the door, he stopped and looked back.
"Wang Heng," he said, "do not tell anyone what you said today. Otherwise—"
He didn't finish. But Wang Heng had already collapsed on the floor in terror, lacking even the strength to nod.
On the return carriage, Liu Che did not speak.
He leaned against the carriage wall, eyes closed. The black official robe almost blended into the darkness of the dim compartment; the shadow of the Jinxian crown covered half his face. I couldn't see his expression clearly, but I could see his hands—resting on his knees, clenched tightly, knuckles white.
"Your Highness," I called.
He didn't open his eyes.
"Liu Che."
He opened his eyes and looked at me.
"Just now, you looked like a true Commandant of Justice."
He paused. Then he smiled. Faint, but genuine.
"I am the real one," he said.
"When you wear these clothes, you look different."
"How so?"
I thought for a moment. "Like an adult."
The corner of his mouth quirked. "I am an adult."
"A fifteen-year-old adult?"
"In the Han Dynasty, one can hold office at fifteen."
"In my place, fifteen-year-olds are still in school."
"Then your place is too slow," he said.
I laughed. He laughed too. The heaviness in the carriage lifted slightly.
But after the laughter, the corners of his mouth slowly flattened again. He leaned against the wall, looking out the window, his eyes empty. The streets of Chang'an retreated slowly in the twilight—gray walls, gray tiles, a gray sky. His eyes were gray too.
"Your Highness," I called softly, "you are unhappy."
He didn't speak.
"Because of Wang Heng?"
"No," he said. "Because no matter who this investigation leads to in the end, someone will die."
He turned to look at me. The carriage was dark, but his eyes were bright.
"What if it really is the Eldest Princess? What if it really is the Prince of Liang? What if..." He paused, "what if, in the end, we find that everyone was involved, that every single person carved a scratch into this mirror? Then what should I do?"
He wasn't asking about the case. He was asking: I am to be the master of the world, yet the people of the world are tearing each other apart. What should I do?
I reached out and cupped his face.
His cheeks were cool; the angle of his jawbone pressed against my palm. His eyes shone in the darkness, like two clusters of fire refusing to be extinguished.
I used my thumb to gently press his tightly pursed lips, then—pulled upwards.
The corner of his mouth was pulled into an arc by me, stiff, forced, like a bronze mirror not yet repaired; the cracks were still there, but the shape of light had begun to form.
"What are you doing?" he mumbled, his mouth being pulled, his speech leaking air.
"Helping you smile," I said.
He glared at me. But he didn't pull away.
My thumb stayed at the corner of his mouth, feeling the muscles beneath slowly relax. Not because I was pulling, but because he himself, little by little, relaxed.
"Liu Che," I said, "this mirror is shattered. But we will piece it together."
He looked at me. For a long time.
Then he raised his hand, grasped the hand I was using to hold his face, and slowly lowered it. But he didn't let go. Our fingers interlaced, palm against palm.
"Lu Xingye."
"Mm?"
"From now on..." He paused, "whenever I am unhappy, you do this."
"Do what?"
"This," he said. "Pull me back up."
I smiled. "Okay."
The carriage moved along the streets of Chang'an, the wheels crunching over the accumulated snow. Outside was the winter of Chang'an, gray and misty, very cold. But his hand was warm.
In the first month of the first year of Zhongyuan, the snow in Chang'an was finally about to stop. And the youth in the Commandant of Justice's uniform was, little by little, piecing together that shattered mirror.
Not a bronze mirror. But the human heart.
(End of Chapter 17)