First Year of Jianyuan, April 29th. Early Morning.
The lamp in the workshop was still burning. Fragments of the bronze mirror covered the desk, and that pair of tweezers hung off the edge, half outside, reflecting a glimmer of light under the candle flame. I leaned against the corner, listening to my own heartbeat. One beat, one beat, one beat. Very steady.
When Qingxing found me, it was early morning. She stumbled into the workshop, saw the empty room, and her legs gave way, causing her to kneel on the floor. Later, she told me that in that moment, only one thought existed in her mind—find His Majesty.
His Majesty was in the study.
She knelt at the door, trembling all over. "Y-Your Majesty... Lady Lu is missing. The lamp in the workshop is still on, but she is not there. The tweezers on the desk—they are hanging off the edge, half outside. She never puts her tools like that. Never."
She said that Liu Che's brush stopped. For a long time, it did not move. Then he stood up without speaking. As he walked past her, his steps were so fast she had to jog to keep up.
The lamp in the workshop was still lit. He stood there, looking at those tweezers. The candlelight danced on his face; his expression was calm. But everyone knew what that calm meant.
"Summon the Commandant of Justice," he said. "Investigate. Who entered or left the Eastern Palace tonight. All palace gates, all side gates. I want answers within half an hour."
A hidden agent knelt on the ground, daring not to lift his head. "Your Majesty, there is one more thing. People from the Eldest Princess's household entered the palace tonight. They claimed to be delivering medicine to Empress Dowager Dou. But they did not use the main gate; they used the eastern side gate."
Liu Che said nothing. He stood there, the candlelight flickering on his face, creating patterns of light and shadow. His finger tapped lightly on the desk once. Just once. Very briefly. Then he picked up the tweezers and placed them in his sleeve.
"Prepare my horse."
The agent looked up. "Your Majesty, the Eldest Princess's residence—"
"I said, prepare my horse."
Moonlight shone on the imperial road, the stone slabs glowing with a greenish-white light. The sound of hooves echoed through the empty palace grounds, one beat after another, like strikes on the heart. He rode very fast; wind rushed into his sleeves, the tweezers pressing against his chest, ice-cold.
What was he thinking? Qingxing asked me later. I did not know. But I guessed he was thinking of nothing. When a person sharpens a blade to its keenest edge, there is no need for thought.
The Eldest Princess's residence was in the east of Chang'an, not far from the palace. When he arrived, dawn had not yet broken. Moonlight struck the vermilion大门 (main gate), the door studs gleaming coldly. He did not dismount; the horse spun in front of the gate, its hooves striking the stone slab and sparking a few embers.
The door opened. The Eldest Princess stood at the entrance, wearing casual clothes, her hair not yet combed. Seeing Liu Che, her face changed color, but she quickly regained her composure.
"Your Majesty, so late—"
"Where is she?" He dismounted, his voice flat.
"Who?"
"You know who I am talking about."
The Eldest Princess looked at him, silent for a moment. Moonlight fell on her face; her expression changed in that instant—not fear, but something more complex. "Your Majesty," her voice lowered, carrying a hint of testing, "are you going to turn against your own aunt for a woman?"
Liu Che looked at her. He did not answer. He walked in, his boots striking the stone path, every step steady. The Eldest Princess shouted a few times behind him, but he did not turn back.
Ajiao was sitting in the side hall. The tea before her had gone cold; she had not drunk it. Hearing footsteps outside, she stood up, her fingers clutching her sleeve, knuckles turning white. The moment the door was pushed open, moonlight surged in, making her squint. Liu Che stood at the doorway, moonlight falling on him, his face in shadow, his expression unreadable. But she saw his eyes—very bright, bright like a blade.
"Where is she?"
Ajiao's lips trembled. She looked at him, the man she had known since childhood she would marry, the one who never looked at her, who never called her by name. Now he stood before her, asking not about her, but about someone else.
"I do not know," she said.
Liu Che looked at her for a long time. In that gaze was scrutiny, judgment, and something she could not understand. But it was not anger, not hatred—it was something colder, something that frightened her even more. His Adam's apple rolled, as if suppressing something.
"Ajiao," he called her name, his voice flat, "I will ask you one last time. Where is she?"
Her tears fell.
"You have never called my name," she said. Her voice was light, light like a thread about to snap. "From childhood until now, you have never called my name. You call her—you call her Lu Xingye. When you call her, your voice is different."
The corner of her mouth twitched; cold sweat from her palm dampened her sleeve.
"The first time you met me, you called me 'Lady Chen'. Every time you call me 'Lady Chen'. Like calling a stranger."
She raised her head to look at him. Moonlight streamed in from the window, falling on her face. There were tears in her eyes, hatred, fear, and something even she could not define.
"Why?"
Liu Che was silent for a moment. The candlelight danced behind him, casting his huge shadow upon her.
"Because I do not know you," he said.
Ajiao froze. Her lips parted, then closed again.
"I know your mother, I know your family, I know your status. But I do not know you." His voice was very calm. "And you do not know me. The one you are to marry is not me. It is the Crown Prince. It is the Emperor."
Ajiao's tears fell drop by drop. She lowered her head, looking at her hands. Those hands were trembling. "Then what should I do?" Her voice was low, low like talking to herself. "Since childhood, I knew I would marry you. I learned everything I was supposed to learn, did everything I was supposed to do. What else can I do?"
Liu Che looked at her. Under the moonlight, her shoulders shook. He was silent for an instant. That instant was brief, but Ajiao felt it—his gaze toward her changed. It was no longer scrutiny or judgment, but something deeper, something perhaps even he could not define.
"She is in the backyard," Ajiao said, her voice light, light like the final thread snapping. "The side room on the left. Locked."
Liu Che turned and left.
When the lock fell, I heard footsteps. Fast, urgent. Then the door was pushed open. Moonlight poured in, striking him. He stood at the doorway, wearing casual clothes, his hair crown removed, his hair scattered by the wind. His face looked very pale in the moonlight, his eyes very bright. His chest rose and fell slightly; his breathing had not yet steadied. He looked at me, saying nothing.
"You came," I said.
He walked over, squatted down, and took my hand. His hand was hot, his fingertips trembling slightly. His gaze moved from my face to my wrist, then back, as if confirming something.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Did she hurt you?"
"No."
He looked at me for a long time. He reached out and touched my cheek. His fingers were cool, but very light.
"I came too late," he said.
"Not late," I said. "I knew you would come."
He pulled me into his arms. His hold was tight, so tight I could feel his heartbeat—fast, too fast for an emperor. His chin rested on the top of my head, his breathing slowly steadying. I closed my eyes, listening to his heartbeat. One beat, one beat, one beat. Slowly, it became steady.
"The tweezers," he suddenly said.
"What?"
"The tweezers you left on the edge of the desk." He took the tweezers from his sleeve and waved them before me. "When I saw them, I knew something had happened to you. You would never put tools like that. Never."
Looking at the tweezers in his hand, my eyes grew hot. "You kept them?"
"From now on, no matter where you go, leave a mark," he put the tweezers back in his sleeve. "Leave one in every place. I—I will find you."
"Okay," I said.
As we walked out of the side hall, Ajiao was still standing there. Moonlight fell on her, her shadow stretched long. Seeing Liu Che holding my hand, her expression changed—not anger, but something more painful. Her gaze moved from our hands to the moon outside the window.
Liu Che stopped and looked at her.
"Ajiao," he called her.
She turned her head. Under the moonlight, tear tracks remained on her face.
"Today, I will tell you three things."
His voice was flat, like announcing an edict in court. But standing beside him, I could feel his hand gripping mine tighten slightly. Not out of nervousness, but something more complex—he knew these words would hurt, but he had to say them. Because not saying them would be deceiving her.
"First, the matter of the Prince of Liang and the matter of your mother, I will handle separately. I will investigate your mother's crimes clearly. But I will not extend my wrath to you."
Ajiao's lips trembled. Her fingers clutched her sleeve, knuckles turning white.
"Second, I will not marry you."
Ajiao's face turned instantly pale. Pale as paper. The corner of her mouth twitched, as if she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Her breathing became rapid, her chest heaving.
"I will not marry you, not because I hate you, not because of what your mother did. It is because I will not marry someone I do not know. I will not marry a chess piece."
His voice was very calm. But I felt it—the palm of his hand holding mine was sweaty. While saying these words, he did not look at her. He looked out the window. The moon had shifted west, hanging there like a mirror about to set.
"Third—" He paused, then turned his head to look at me.
Moonlight fell on my face. His eyes were very bright. Not the brightness of a blade's edge, but another kind of brightness—the kind a fifteen-year-old boy has in his eyes when he says, "I only want her."
"The only person I wish to marry is her."
Ajiao looked at him, then at me. Her tears fell, but she made no sound of crying. Her shoulders shook, her fingers clutching her sleeve, knuckles white as bone.
"Just her?" she asked. Her voice trembled.
"Just her."
"What about the harem?"
"There will be no harem."
"You do not want an Empress? No consorts? No—"
"No," he said. "I only want her."
Ajiao stood there, moonlight falling on her face. Her tears were bright under the moonlight, falling drop by drop to the ground, silent. She looked at me for a long time. In that gaze was hatred, pain, fear, and something I could not define. In that moment, I no longer saw "Chen Ajiao." I saw a sixteen-year-old girl whose every step had been arranged since birth. She had never chosen.
"Lady Chen," I spoke.
She did not answer.
"This is not winning."
She looked at me. Tears still hung on her face, but her gaze changed. Not hatred, not fear, but something deeper, something perhaps even she could not define.
She turned around and left. The sound of her footsteps grew fainter and fainter in the corridor, until finally, they could not be heard.
Liu Che held my hand and walked out of the Eldest Princess's residence. The night in Chang'an was very quiet. The moon had shifted west, hanging above the palace walls like a mirror about to set. A line of light appeared on the horizon, very faint, very thin, as if someone had sliced the sky with a knife.
"Your Majesty," I said, "the words you just spoke—"
"They are true," he interrupted me. "Every single one is true."
He turned his head to look at me. Moonlight fell on his face, his eyes very bright. Not the brightness of a blade's edge, but another kind—the kind a youth has in his eyes when he says, "I only want her."
"Lu Xingye."
"Mm."
"From now on, do not be alone."
"Okay."
"No matter what happens, do not bear it alone."
"Okay."
He looked at that line of light on the horizon, silent for a moment.
"You once said the history books write that I am a good emperor."
"Mm."
"Then in the history books," he paused, "is there any writing about you?"
I愣了一下 (paused in surprise). Then I smiled.
"No," I said. "The history books do not have me."
"Why?"
"Because history books are written about emperors, generals, and ministers. They do not write about people who repair things."
He looked at me, silent for a long time.
"Then I will write it," he said. His voice was light, but very serious.
That line of light on the horizon slowly brightened. In the spring of the first year of Jianyuan, dawn had broken.
[End of Chapter 25]