First Year of Zhongyuan, February 25th.
No one knew that the Emperor had summoned me; Liu Che had not mentioned it to a soul. That scroll of silk was hidden by me in a false compartment of a chest in the workshop, covered with tools, showing no signs of tampering. Yet, I knew that from that day on, something had changed.
Liu Che had changed.
He was no longer merely enduring. He began to lay out his strategy.
"Your Highness, the Prince of Liang has constructed a garden estate in Suiyang, spanning three hundred li." The speaker was a face I had never seen before. Dressed in the official robes of the Commandant of Justice's office, his appearance was so ordinary that he would vanish instantly if thrown into a crowd. Yet, when he spoke, there was something in his eyes—cold, precise, like a blade not yet unsheathed.
Liu Che sat before his desk, a map spread out before him. He did not look up.
"How large?"
"Three hundred li. Larger than the Shanglin Park. The specifications are presumptuous; he used the imperial insignia."
Presumptuous. In the Han Dynasty, this word could cost one's head. The Prince of Liang using the Son of Heaven's insignia—this was not greed; it was stupidity. Stupid enough to hand over the handle of the knife to others.
"Record it," Liu Che said. His voice was flat, as if discussing a mundane matter.
The man nodded and retreated into the shadows. I sat in the corner of the workshop, pretending to make repairs, my brush unmoving for a long time.
These were left to him by my father. Those hidden agents, those informants, those eyes and ears concealed within various ministries and offices—they were all laid out by the Emperor over many years. When Liu Che retrieved the silk scroll from under his pillow, he also received these. Liu Che had simply activated them.
February 27th. Another new face appeared in the workshop. This time, it was a merchant, dressed in silk, wearing a jade crown, looking like any wealthy trader from the West Market of Chang'an. Yet, when he knelt, the sound of his knees hitting the ground was hard.
"Your Highness, the Prince of Liang is privately casting ironware in Suiyang, forging weapons. The quantity is unknown, but at least enough to equip five thousand men."
Privately forging weapons. Five thousand men. These were not things a vassal king should possess. This was rebellion.
Liu Che's finger tapped once on the map. Suiyang. The Prince of Liang's fiefdom. Not far from Chang'an.
"Where are the weapons hidden?"
"In the Mangdang Mountains. The Prince has built a secret warehouse in the mountains; outsiders cannot enter."
"Continue watching. Be careful; do not lose any men."
"Yes."
The merchant withdrew. The workshop fell silent again. Liu Che sat at his desk, gazing at the map. The candlelight danced on his face, casting a huge shadow on the wall.
"Your Highness," I spoke, my voice somewhat hoarse, "are you going to move against the Prince of Liang?"
"Not yet," he said. "The time is not right."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Sharpening the blade." He raised his head and looked at me. "Only when the blade is sharp can it kill with a single stroke when needed."
His eyes were calm. But I saw what lay beneath that calm—not anger, not hatred, but something cold and hard, like iron. Like the short dagger he kept by his desk. Usually hidden in its sheath, its sharpness unseen. But I knew that blade was fast.
March 3rd. The Shangsi Festival. The palace was lively; everywhere people were performing purification rites, bathing, and feasting. Liu Che did not go. He was in the workshop, before him lay a thick stack of silk scrolls and bamboo slips—all concerning the Prince of Liang.
"How many people has the Prince of Liang placed within the court?" he asked.
The hidden agent replied: "Two in the Censorate, one in the Chancellor's office, one in the Office of the Grand Ceremonial. And—there is one in the palace as well."
"Who?"
"Zhang Ji, who serves beside the Eldest Princess, is the Prince's man."
Liu Che said nothing. Someone beside the Eldest Princess was planted by the Prince of Liang. This meant that between the Eldest Princess and the Prince of Liang, things were not solid. The Princess thought she controlled the Prince; the Prince thought he was utilizing the Princess. But in reality, they were guarding against and spying on each other.
"Interesting," Liu Che said. The corner of his mouth curled slightly. It was not a smile, but something colder.
March 7th. The Prince of Liang sent an envoy to the capital, claiming to present tribute to the Emperor. The tribute consisted of ten Ferghana horses, ten discs of He's Jade, and ten dancing girls.
"Ferghana horses?" Liu Che sneered. "Where did he get Ferghana horses?"
The agent answered: "Bought from Western Region merchants. The price was exorbitant."
"Where did he get so much money?"
"From the taxes of the Liang Kingdom. The Prince of Liang imposed additional taxes twice; the common people are suffering unspeakably."
Liu Che's finger tapped once on the desk. Imposing additional taxes. To buy horses, buy jade, buy women, he made the common people pay more grain. I stood beside him, watching his profile. His jaw was tense, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Record it," he said. His voice was light. But I heard what lay beneath—anger. Suppressed deeply, like embers beneath charcoal, invisible on the surface, but burning fiercely.
March 12th. A hidden agent delivered a copy of a letter written by the Prince of Liang to the Prince of Huainan. When it arrived, the man had injuries on his face, a fresh scab marking a blood trail from his cheekbone to his earroot.
"Your Highness, the Prince of Liang is contacting the vassal kings. The Princes of Huainan, Hengshan, and Jibei—are all on his list. This letter took us three months to intercept. We lost one man."
Liu Che took the letter and read it through. His expression did not change. But I saw his hand—the fingers gripping the silk scroll, the knuckles turning white.
"He is forming an alliance," Liu Che said. "Contacting vassals, accumulating troops, privately forging weapons, acting with presumptuous specifications—what is he waiting for?"
He did not finish. But everyone knew. He was waiting for the Emperor to die.
"Your Highness," the agent said, "there is a guest scholar by the Prince of Liang named Gongsun Gui. This man is the Prince's mastermind; all strategies originate from him. If we eliminate Gongsun Gui, the Prince of Liang will lose his right arm."
Liu Che remained silent for a long time.
"Gongsun Gui." He repeated the name. "Where is he from?"
"A native of Linzi in the State of Qi. Skilled in the arts of vertical and horizontal alliances; he once traveled and studied between Yan and Zhao."
"Investigate his background. Family, mentors, past—everything. I want to know who he is, where he comes from, and what he fears."
"Yes."
The agent withdrew. Liu Che leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. I walked over and stood beside him.
"Your Highness," I said, "are you tired?"
"No."
"Liar."
He opened his eyes and looked at me. Then he smiled. Faintly.
"A little," he said.
I reached out and gently placed my hand on his shoulder. He did not pull away.
"Your Highness, you are doing something very big."
"Mm."
"If the Prince of Liang knows you are investigating him, he will strike back."
"I know."
"Are you not afraid?"
He looked at me. The candlelight danced in his eyes, bright then dim.
"Afraid," he said. "But even if afraid, it must be done. My father does not have much time. If the Prince of Liang makes his move before I ascend the throne—I cannot stop him."
His voice was calm. But I knew he was calculating. Calculating how long the Emperor's life could last, calculating when the Prince of Liang's blade would fall, calculating whether the cards in his hand were enough to fight a hard battle. Every step was like walking on the edge of a cliff.
"Your Highness," I said, "you were not like this before."
"Like what?"
"Ruthless," I said. "Before, when you investigated cases, it was for the truth. Now, investigating cases is for—"
I did not finish.
"To kill people?" He finished the sentence for me.
I said nothing.
He stood up and walked to the window, his back to me.
"Lu Xingye," he said, "do you know how many people will die if the Prince of Liang rebels?"
"I don't know."
"At least one hundred thousand," he said. "The people of Liang, the soldiers of the court, the people of Chang'an—one hundred thousand lives."
He turned around and looked at me.
"I am not investigating a case. I am saving lives."
His eyes were very bright. Not the brightness of youth, but another kind of brightness—cold, hard, like the light on a blade's edge.
Looking into his eyes, I suddenly remembered those words from the history books.
Emperor Wu of Han. Possessing great talent and bold strategy, yet also harsh and ungracious. When employing people, he gave his heart and soul; when eliminating them, he struck with the force of thunder. Acting ruthlessly, he never left behind future troubles.
Those words were once just words. Now, they had become a face. A fifteen-year-old face, not yet fully matured, with very bright eyes.
"Your Highness," I said, "you will not lose."
"How do you know?"
"Because you are ruthless enough," I said. "In the history books, only emperors who are ruthless enough can secure the world."
He looked at me for a long time.
"History books?" he asked. "What do the history books say?"
I paused for a moment.
"The history books say you are a good emperor."
"And?"
I looked at him. There was light in his eyes. Not the light of a blade's edge, but another kind—a light of wanting confirmation, wanting to know he would win, the light of a fifteen-year-old.
"And—" I hesitated, "I cannot say too much. If I say too much, it won't come true."
He frowned. "Won't come true?"
"Mm," I said. "Future events, if spoken aloud, may not happen. I don't know why. But I cannot speak of them."
He looked at me, silent for a while.
"Then what can you say?"
"I can say—" I looked into his eyes, "You will win."
He said nothing. He looked at me for a long time.
"Just that?"
"Just that. It's enough."
He lowered his head, looking at his hands. Then he raised his head and looked at me again.
"Lu Xingye."
"Mm."
"Are you lying to me?"
"No," I said. "You will win. For this, I don't need to look at the history books to know."
"Why?"
"Because you are sitting here, in this workshop, investigating these records, laying out these strategies. You are not waiting to win. You are doing what must be done. Those who win are always like this."
He looked at me. The candlelight danced in his eyes. The corner of his mouth moved; it wasn't a smile, but something softer.
"What you said," he said, "is enough."
He lowered his head and continued to look at the map. I stood beside him, watching his hand trace across the map. Suiyang. Mangdang Mountain. Chang'an. Every place was a chess piece. Every step was a calculation.
His hand stopped, pressing on the location of Suiyang. He remained silent for a long time.
"Lu Xingye."
"Mm."
"You said the history books write that I act decisively. Do you think what I am doing now counts as decisive?"
I looked at him. The candlelight danced in his eyes. His face was half-lit, half-dark, like an unfinished painting.
"It does," I said.
He nodded. He said nothing more. But I saw his hand, as he withdrew it from the map, clench into a fist. Briefly, and then release.
Outside the window, the night in Chang'an was deep. He lowered his head, placed the copy of the Prince of Liang's letter into the chest, and closed the lid. That short dagger still lay by the desk; its sheath was black, hiding its sharpness. But I had touched it. The blade was very thin, so thin it was almost transparent.
In the third month of the first year of Zhongyuan, spring had finally arrived. But some people were still sharpening their blades.
[End of Chapter 22]