The first year of the Zhongyuan era, twenty-sixth day of the first month.
The trail had gone cold at Wang Heng, and it was also from him that it picked up again.
The day after Liu Che finished interrogating Wang Heng, the Commandant of Justice's office sent over an old file—before Wang Heng was transferred, he had borrowed a roll of documents from the warehouse without registering them. The warehouse clerk had felt something was off at the time but didn't dare to ask. By the time Wang Heng was transferred, that roll of documents had never been returned.
What was the content of the documents? A copy of the gift lists Li Yan had sent to the Princess's residence over the years.
"Gift lists." Liu Che slapped the page of silk book onto the desk, his eyes shining terrifyingly bright. "How much money Li Yan sent each year, what items, through whom—it's all here. Wang Heng stole this roll of documents."
"Why did he steal this?"
"To save his life," Liu Che said. "He knew that after changing his testimony, he would sooner or later be silenced. So he stole this roll of documents as a talisman."
"Where are the documents now?"
"Wang Heng said he hid them in his old home outside the city. His parents still live there."
Liu Che stood up. "Let's go."
"Now?" I glanced out the window; it was already dark.
"Now. Before the news leaks out. If the Princess's people find that roll of documents first—"
He didn't finish. I stood up and packed away my tools.
"Let's go."
This time, there was no carriage. Liu Che said taking a carriage was too conspicuous and easy to be tracked. We changed into commoner's clothes; he wore a half-worn hempshenyi, and I wore a coarse cloth short jacket, my hair wrapped in a cloth scarf. In the bronze mirror, we looked like a young couple going to visit relatives outside the city.
He glanced at me in the mirror, the corner of his mouth curving slightly.
"What are you smiling at?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said. "Let's go."
Wang Heng's hometown was a small village twentyli east of Chang'an. We left the city gate and walked along the official road. The night wind of the first month was very cold, freezing one's ears. He walked in front, and I followed. After walking for a while, he stopped and turned to look at me.
"Cold?"
"It's okay."
He reached out and took my hand. His hand was very hot. "Walk faster; it won't be cold when we arrive."
We quickened our pace. The moon emerged from the clouds, illuminating the dirt road white. The fields on both sides were barren; withered grass rustled in the wind.
After walking for about an hour, a few lights appeared ahead. We had arrived at the village.
Wang Heng's parents lived in a mud-brick house; the courtyard was small, and the wattle fence was crooked. Liu Che knocked on the door; an old voice came from inside, "Who is it?"
"Uncle, we are friends of Wang Heng. He sent us to fetch something."
The door opened. An old man with white hair stood at the doorway, his face full of wrinkles, his eyes cloudy. He looked at us for a moment, then stepped aside. "Come in."
The room was very simple. One couch, one table, a few pieces of coarse pottery. An old woman sat by the stove boiling water; seeing us, she stood up trembling.
"Wang Heng said there is a roll of documents hidden here," Liu Che said.
The old man looked at him for a while, then turned and walked to the corner of the room. He lifted a movable earth brick. Underneath was a hole, stuffed with a roll of bamboo slips. He handed the slips over.
"He left them when he departed," the old man said. "He said if someone comes looking one day, give it to them. If no one comes, burn it."
Liu Che took it and unrolled it. Reading by the light of the oil lamp. I couldn't see the content, but I saw his expression change—first grave, then cold, and finally something I couldn't describe. It seemed like anger, yet also sorrow.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
He handed the bamboo slips to me.
They recorded Li Yan's gift-giving records for the past three years: money, silk, jade, gold, spices, silk fabrics—each year equivalent to no less than a thousand catties of gold. The recipient was the head steward of the Princess's residence, but next to the last entry, a line of tiny fly-head characters noted:First year of Zhongyuan, fifth day of the first month, received personally by the Princess.Received personally by the Princess.
Not the steward, but the Princess herself. She had personally accepted Li Yan's gifts. This meant—if this roll of documents fell into the Emperor's hands, the Princess's selling of offices and titles would be proven beyond doubt.
"Let's go." Liu Che tucked the bamboo slips into his sleeve. "Return."
We thanked the old couple and turned to leave.
Walking into the courtyard, Liu Che suddenly stopped. His hand gripped my wrist, very tightly.
"What's wrong?"
"Don't make a sound." His voice was pressed very low, almost inaudible.
I followed his gaze. Outside the courtyard gate, under the moonlight, there were several figures. They weren't passersby—they stood there, motionless, like wooden stakes nailed into the ground. They had been following us since we entered the village. We had been in such a hurry coming here that neither of us noticed them behind us.
"How many?" he whispered.
"Five," I said. "No—six."
He released my wrist and placed his hand behind his waist. Only then did I notice a short knife tucked at his waist, wrapped in cloth; one wouldn't notice it unless looking closely. His grip on the knife was skilled, as if he had practiced for many years.
"Go inside," he said. "Close the door. No matter what you hear, do not come out."
"Liu Che—"
"Obey."
He pushed me toward the room, then turned and walked toward the courtyard gate.
I didn't go inside. I stood at the door, watching his back. Under the moonlight, his silhouette was thin. A fifteen-year-old boy, wearing coarse clothes, holding a short knife, facing six men in black.
"Hand over the item," the leader spoke, his voice hoarse, like stones grinding against stones.
"What item?" Liu Che's voice was very calm.
"You know. Hand it over, and spare your life."
"That depends on whether you have the ability."
The men in black drew their knives. Moonlight danced on the blade, cold as ice.
Liu Che moved.
His movements were fast, so fast I couldn't see clearly. The short knife in his hand was like a black lightning bolt, cutting through the air and clashing against the opposing blade. The sound of metal colliding exploded in the night, crisp enough to make one's teeth ache.
When the first person fell, I hadn't even reacted. His knife dropped to the ground; he clutched his neck, blood gushing from between his fingers. Under the moonlight, the blood was black.
The remaining five rushed up simultaneously. Liu Che stepped back, sidestepping a slash, and backhandedly sliced the second person's arm. That person screamed, his knife flying from his hand. But the third person's knife had already arrived—Liu Che didn't have time to dodge; he could only block hard with his left arm. The blade slashed across his forearm; the fabric tore, and blood immediately seeped out.
He didn't stop. He didn't even glance at the wound. Switching the short knife to his other hand, he stabbed into the third person's shoulder. That person staggered back, crashing into the wattle fence, which collapsed with a crash.
I stood at the door, my heart beating so fast it felt like it would jump out of my throat. Beside my hand was a pottery jar the old woman had placed at the door to feed the chickens. I bent down, picked it up, and held it. The jar was heavy; there was still half a jar of water inside.
The remaining three exchanged glances and charged up together. Liu Che's breathing became heavier, but his movements didn't falter. He ducked under a slash, swept his leg, and the fourth person fell to the ground. The short knife slashed across the fifth person's chest; not deep, but enough to make him retreat.
The sixth person—the leader—hadn't moved until now. He stood at the very back, watching Liu Che take down his men one by one, as if watching a play unrelated to himself.
When the fifth person fell, the leader finally moved.
His knife was faster than everyone else's. The sound of the blade cutting through the air was like a whistle, sharp and piercing. Liu Che raised his knife to block—the two blades collided, sparks flying. The leader's strength was immense; Liu Che was shaken back two steps, his heel hitting the threshold.
I stood behind him, reaching out to support his back. His hand was shaking, but he didn't lower the knife.
The leader charged again. This time Liu Che didn't block hard; he sidestepped the blade, and the short knife slashed upward from below—tearing the leader's arm. The leader grunted闷哼 (a muffled groan), his knife nearly slipping from his hand. But as he retreated, he kicked Liu Che squarely in the chest.
Liu Che fell backward, crashing into me. We both tumbled to the ground. The short knife in his hand flew off, landing in the muddy ground a few steps away; the moonlight shone on the blade, reflecting coldly.
The leader walked over, knife in hand. Moonlight illuminated his face; his eyes were like two stones, expressionless.
"Hand over the item," he said.
Liu Che didn't move. His left arm was bleeding; his chest heaved violently. He had no knife in his hand.
The leader walked up to him and raised his knife.
I hurled the pottery jar in my hand.
Not threwsmashed. With all my might, I smashed it onto the back of his head. The jar shattered; water splashed everywhere, fragments flying. The leader stumbled forward a step; his knife went askew. That slash didn't come down.
Liu Che didn't waste that instant. He sprang up from the ground, slamming his shoulder into the leader's chest. They both fell to the ground together. Liu Che straddled him, punching him in the face. Once. Twice. Thrice. The leader struggled a few times, then went still.
Liu Che remained straddling him, his chest heaving violently, his fist clenched tight. His knuckles were broken; blood and mud mixed together.
"Liu Che," I called him.
He didn't move.
"Liu Che." I walked over, squatted down, and placed my hand on his shoulder. "That's enough. He's not moving."
He slowly loosened his fist and turned to look at me. Under the moonlight, there was blood on his face. Not his own—it was the enemy's. A streak of blood slid from his cheekbone to his jaw, dripping slowly. Dripping onto his collar, onto his chest. The moonlight shone on his face; that drop of blood was dark red, like a凝固 (congealed) star.
His eyes were very bright. Brighter than the moonlight.
"You smashed him?" he asked.
"Mm."
"Where did you get the courage?"
"I don't know," I said. "I just smashed him."
He looked at me; the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, but something softer.
"Let's go." He stood up and reached out his hand to me.
I took his hand. His hand was shaking, but steady.
We ran for a long time.
I didn't know how far or how long we ran. I only knew we kept running, kept running, until the village was gone, the official road was gone, and even the moon hid behind the clouds.
Finally, we saw a light ahead. It was a household, standing alone by the roadside.
Liu Che stopped, bending over to catch his breath. His left arm was already completely red; blood dripped from his wrist, leaving a string of dark spots on the ground.
"Knock," he said.
I supported him and walked over, knocking on the door. The door opened; an old man with white hair stood at the doorway, holding an oil lamp. He looked at us—two young people covered in blood, standing in the night wind of the first month—and without asking, stepped aside.
"Come in."
The old woman was boiling water behind the stove; seeing us, she was startled. "Heavens, what happened?"
"We met bandits," Liu Che said. His voice was very calm, as if talking about something ordinary. His face looked very pale under the oil lamp; his lips had almost no color.
The old man said nothing, pointing to a low couch in the corner. The old woman went to get cloth and medicine.
I helped Liu Che sit down. The wound on his left arm was still oozing blood; his sleeve had a long slash, the flesh turning outward, horrifying to behold. I dipped cloth in hot water and gently wiped the blood around the wound. He gritted his teeth, making no sound, but the blue veins on his forehead were jumping.
"Endure it," I said. I sprinkled golden wound medicine on the wound; he exhaled deeply through his nose, his fingers clutching the edge of the couch, his knuckles turning white. I tore a strip of cloth and began to bandage. One circle, two circles, three circles. My hand was very steady—the hand that had repaired artifacts for five years, steadier than countless fragments—at this moment, it was as steady as when repairing artifacts.
"Done." I tied the cloth strip.
He looked down at it; the corner of his mouth twitched. "More careful than repairing a bronze mirror."
I said nothing. There were still dried bloodstains on his face; I helped him wipe them with a wet cloth. From forehead to cheekbone, from cheekbone to jaw. When I wiped to the corner of his mouth, he suddenly raised his hand and grasped my wrist.
"That's enough," he said. His voice was very low.
I didn't pull away. His hand was very hot; there were thin calluses on his palm.
The old woman brought two bowls of hot soup and placed them on the table. "Drink something hot to warm your bodies."
The old man sat opposite, smoking a dry pipe, watching us. His gaze lingered on Liu Che for a while, then on me for a while, and then he smiled.
"Young couple, your affection is truly good."
I paused. Liu Che also paused.
"Meeting bandits, you didn't run alone but dragged your wife along with you," the old man exhaled a puff of smoke. "Men like this are rare."
Liu Che lowered his head, picked up the soup bowl, and took a sip. The roots of his ears turned red.
I lowered my head and also took a sip. The soup was very hot, numbing the tip of my tongue.
The old woman sat down beside us and chattered on, "When we were young, we also met bandits. Back then, the old man dragged me and ran for threeli; I even lost a shoe. And then? Then I married him."
She smiled and glanced at the old man.
"Following him this lifetime, it was bitter, yes, but solid."
The old man said nothing, just smoking, the corner of his mouth curved.
"Life nowadays is much better than before," the old woman continued. "The court reduced taxes; this year's harvest was decent."
Liu Che held the bowl, his finger slowly tracing a circle along the rim.
"Elder," he said, "what kind of emperor do you think is a good emperor?"
The old man looked at him. That gaze was deep, as if seeing through everything, or as if seeing nothing at all.
"One who can let the common people eat their fill, that is a good emperor," the old man said. "No wars, no tossing and turning, letting the farmers plant their fields in peace. It's that simple."
Liu Che was silent for a long time.
"It will be so," he said. His voice was light, but firm.
The old man said nothing more, knocked off his ash, and stood up. "Sleep early. You have a long journey tomorrow."
The old woman laid out a quilt on the couch and turned to leave. The room fell silent; only the flame of the oil lamp flickered.
Liu Che sat by the couch, saying nothing. I looked at his profile. The shadow of the lamp danced on his face, outlining him softly. There were still bloodstains I hadn't wiped clean on his face, a fine line under his cheekbone.
"Your Highness," I said, "your wound—"
"It's nothing," he interrupted. "Just a flesh wound."
"Those few people—"
"Dead," he said. "I struck too hard."
His voice was very calm. But I saw his hand shaking.
"Liu Che," I called his name.
He turned to look at me. Under the oil lamp, his eyes were very bright.
"You just asked that old grandpa what kind of emperor is a good emperor," I said.
"Mm."
"You will be a good emperor."
He looked at me for a long time.
"How do you know?"
"Because you aren't afraid of pain," I said. "You were injured, yet you dragged me and ran so far. Your face was covered in blood, yet you were still thinking about how to let the common people eat their fill. An emperor like that won't be bad."
He said nothing, lowering his head to look at his bandaged left arm. The cloth strips were tied very neatly; I had tied them.
"Lu Xingye."
"Mm."
"In the future—" he paused, "in the future when I become emperor, will you be by my side?"
I froze.
He didn't look at me; he looked at his hand.
"You know how to repair things. I don't. You can see those traces I cannot see. You won't lie to me. You won't just agree with everything because I am the emperor."
His voice grew lower and lower.
"With you by my side, I feel—I can be a good emperor."
The wind outside the window stopped. The flame of the oil lamp jumped once, then stabilized.
"I will," I said.
He raised his head and looked at me.
"I will be by your side," I said. "No matter if you are the Crown Prince or the Emperor. No matter how many people want to harm you, deceive you, or use you in the future. I will be by your side. Helping you repair those broken things. Helping you investigate those unclear cases. Helping you—"
I didn't finish. He lowered his head, his forehead resting against my shoulder. Heavy, as if something he had been holding up finally let go.
His breathing slowly stabilized.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
"No pain."
"Liar."
He laughed. The laughter was muffled against my shoulder.
"A little," he said.
I reached out and gently placed my hand on the back of his head. His hair was very hard, just like him.
"Sleep," I said.
He didn't move. His forehead rested against my shoulder; his breathing gradually became even.
I leaned against the wall, looking at the moon outside the window. The clouds dispersed; moonlight streamed in, spreading a layer of silvery-white frost on the ground.
The old grandpa said that one who can let the common people eat their fill is a good emperor. Liu Che sat by the stove, holding the soup bowl, and when he said "It will be so," his voice was light, but I heard it clearly.
He will. He will become a good emperor. Not because he is the Crown Prince, not because he is Liu Che. But because at fifteen, with blood on his face and wounds on his hands, sitting at a strange old man's stove, he seriously thought about—what kind of emperor is a good emperor.
He will.
The moon outside the window was very bright. The youth on the couch was asleep, his brows still furrowed. I reached out and gently pressed his brow with my thumb, smoothing it out.
"It will be so," I whispered.
He moved slightly, leaning closer to me. He didn't wake.
The oil lamp went out. Moonlight streamed in, illuminating everything very quietly.
Only crops. Endless crops. Golden yellow, rustling in the wind.
[End of Chapter 18]