Jianyuan Era, Year 1. The 15th Day of the 7th Month. Chang'an.
The day the urgent border report reached Chang'an, the sky was overcast. The clouds pressed down low, gray and murky, like a piece of worn-out cloth draping the entire city. Cicadas chirped in the willow trees outside the palace walls, a noisy, grating sound that scratched at the heart like an itch.
I sat in the Jiaofang Hall looking at account books. Having exempted the State of Liang from taxes for three years, the national treasury's income had to be recalculated. The numbers were dense; the ink on the bamboo slips was slightly blurred from repeated rubbing. I pressed my fingers on those numbers, going over them one by one. By the third count, the tea beside me had gone cold, untouched. Ajiao sat opposite me, piecing together the third fragment of a copper mirror broken into four pieces. Her fingers were wrapped in cloth strips; the wounds from the shards hadn't fully healed. The candle flame flickered, and her shadow wavered on the wall.
Suddenly, hurried footsteps came from outside the hall. Not one person, but several. Boots striking the stone slabs, frantic and chaotic, like a pot of boiling porridge. My heart skipped a beat. That rhythm wasn't the normal changing of the night guard; something was wrong. I looked up. Qingxing ran in, her face as white as paper, lips trembling as if she had run a long way.
"Niangniang, urgent border report. The Xiongnu are moving south; three commanderies are in dire straits—"
My hand paused. The cinnabar at the tip of my brush bled into the account book, a small patch of red like blood, slowly seeping into the texture of the bamboo. Ajiao put down the copper mirror, her fingers hovering in mid-air, the bandaged fingertips trembling slightly. The hall was silent, silent enough to hear my own heartbeat.
Xuanshi Hall. The atmosphere was like a dry, scorching pot. When I walked in, everyone looked up at me. Those gazes held surprise, scrutiny, and fear—a Empress appearing at a court session regarding an urgent border report. Liu Che sat on the Dragon Throne in casual clothes, without a crown. A silk scroll was spread out before him, the edges still stained with mud, as if sent directly from a horse. There were sweat stains on the scroll, blurring the characters. His fingers pressed on the silk, knuckles white, fingernails turning blue.
"Your Majesty, the Xiongnu's force moving south this time is the largest in nearly ten years." Li Guang's voice came from the hall, urgent and heavy, like a stone hitting the ground. "Three commanderies are in dire straits; over three thousand civilians are dead or injured. The border army requests reinforcements. The front line is barely holding."
The hall fell silent for a moment. Three thousand people. Not a number, but people. People with names, with families, with unfinished business. My chest felt blocked, suffocating. But my hands were steady.
Someone spoke up in court, their voice light, tentative, like a cat pawing at the water's surface. "Your Majesty, the Xiongnu are powerful. Perhaps—heqin (marriage alliance)."
I raised my head, looking at the speaker. It was the Minister of Ceremonies (Taichang Qing). His head was bowed low, almost touching his chest, jaw clenched, mouth corners drooping. No one responded. Liu Che said nothing. He stared at that silk scroll for a long time. The candlelight danced on his face, illuminating it in patches of light and dark.
"Heqin?" His voice was flat, like a frozen river surface. "How many years would that buy?"
The Minister of Ceremonies said nothing. His lips moved, wanting to say something, but nothing came out. Everyone knew—heqin wouldn't buy years. The Xiongnu didn't want princesses; they wanted money, grain, and the right to open the border gates. Give it, and they retreat. A few years later, they return. Give it again, retreat again. Until the treasury is empty, the border is rotten, and only then will they stop. History wrote it clearly.
"Your Majesty," the Imperial Censor stepped forward, his voice steady. His beard looked whiter under the candlelight, wrinkles carved like knife cuts. "This humble servant believes war is not advisable at this time. The Prince of Liang has just been pacified, the treasury is empty, and the people's strength has not recovered. If we go to war with the Xiongnu again, I fear—"
"Fear what?" Liu Che looked at him. His eyes were bright, sharp as a blade. Beneath that brightness, something was burning.
"Fear—that we are overreaching our strength."
The hall fell silent again. Liu Che said nothing. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. His hand rested on his knee, clenched tight, knuckles white as bone. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking of the numbers on that scroll. Three thousand people. He was thinking of the Prince of Liang's prisoner cart, of that old man with patches on his knees, of those ox carts, donkey carts, wheelbarrows. He had just fought a war and won. But the cost of winning was an empty treasury and tired people. Now, war again.
"Heqin." Someone spoke again, it was Zongzheng Liu Li. He stepped out from the corner, his voice coming from the dark like a soft knife. "Your Majesty, the late Emperor also practiced heqin with the Xiongnu. This is not showing weakness, it is—"
"It is waiting." Another voice suddenly rang out.
Everyone turned. It was me. I stood in the center of the hall, wearing the Empress's ceremonial robes, the deep cyanYudi. The pheasant patterns shimmered with dark gold light under the candle flame, every feather of the golden-threaded birds reflecting light. My voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the hall heard it. That voice was flat, as if stating a very ordinary matter. But only I knew my fingers were clenched in my sleeves, knuckles white.
"The late Emperor's heqin was not showing weakness. It was waiting. Waiting for the treasury to be full, for the army to be strong, waiting for a time when we could fight."
Liu Che opened his eyes, looking at me. His gaze passed through the swaying jade beads, landing on my face. The beads swayed gently, the sound of jade clinking light as wind chimes, exceptionally clear in the quiet hall. The hall was quiet enough to hear the wick cracking,pi-pa, pi-pa. I looked at him. Dark circles were under his eyes, marks of sleepless nights.
"Is now the time?"
No one spoke. Liu Che said nothing. He looked at the silk scroll on the desk for a long time. His hand withdrew from the scroll, resting on his knee. Then he raised his head, looking at the courtiers.
"Court dismissed," he said. His voice was flat. No one dared speak.
The courtiers retreated. The sound of boots on stone slabs grew distant, the hall growing quieter. Finally, only he and I remained. He stood up and walked to the window. Sunlight streamed through the lattice, hitting him, casting a long, thin shadow on the floor. He faced away from me, shoulders slightly slumped. Only I saw it.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"Do you think we can fight now?"
"No."
He turned, looking at me. Sunlight came from behind him, his face unclear in the backlight. But I saw his eyes—very bright, but beneath that brightness, there was something. Not anger, not disappointment, but something more complex, something he couldn't explain himself.
"Why?"
"Because the treasury is empty," I said. I walked to him, standing by his side. Sunlight hit my face, making me squint. "Exempting Liang for three years reduced this year's income by thirty percent. The Northern Army needs rest, the border army's armor needs replacing, and grain needs stockpiling. Fighting now, we won't win."
"Then when can we fight?"
"Three years," I said. I looked into his eyes, which held fire, steel, and the loneliness of an emperor. "Give me three years. In three years, the treasury will be full, the army strong, and the border defenses solid. Then, if you want to fight, I will fight with you."
He looked at me for a long time. A cicada chirped outside the window, then stopped. Wind blew through the lattice, carrying the scent of dust and rust from the north. He reached out, touching my cheek. His fingers were cool.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"Do you know why the Xiongnu came now?"
"I know."
"Why?"
"Because the Prince of Liang was just pacified," I said. "They are testing. Testing if we have the strength to fight. Testing if we dare to fight. If we show weakness, they will push their luck. Today they want heqin, tomorrow tribute, the day after the border."
He walked over, standing in front of me. He was half a head taller, looking down. Sunlight from behind outlined him in gold. His face had dust, sweat, and the fatigue of half a month without sleep. But his eyes were hot.
"Then tell me, how should I respond?"
"Fight," I said.
He paused. His brow furrowed, as if hearing words he didn't understand.
"You just said we can't fight—"
"We can't truly fight, but we must dare to fight," I raised my head, looking into his eyes. "The Xiongnu are testing. If we show weakness, they will think we are afraid. Once we retreat, we will never stand up again."
He looked at me for a long time. Then he smiled. Faint, genuine. That smile spread from the corners of his mouth to his eyes, lightening the dark circles slightly.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"Those words you said in court just now—were they planned long ago?"
"Yes."
"When did you start thinking about them?"
"From the day you left," I said. "The Prince of Liang would rebel, the Xiongnu would come. They would all come. So I was preparing."
He reached out, taking my hand. His hand was hot, palm calloused. Unlike the coolness from before, it was hot.
"Preparing what?"
"Preparing for a war you cannot lose, for when you return."
Jianyuan Era, Year 1. The 18th Day of the 7th Month. Court Assembly.
Liu Che sat on the Dragon Throne in ceremonial robes, the twelve-string crown. I sat by his side in the Empress's礼服. The atmosphere in the hall was different from three days ago. Three days ago, it was fear. Today, it was tension. Everyone knew today a decision would be made—fight, or not. But no one knew he and I had already decided.
"Issue the edict." Liu Che's voice echoed in the hall. "Border commanderies, strengthen vigilance. Deploy fifty thousand troops to garrison Shangjun, Yunzhong, and Yanmen. All military reports to be sent to the capital immediately."
The hall fell silent. No one spoke. Not fighting, nor heqin. It was preparation. It was waiting. It was letting the Xiongnu know—we will not retreat, but we are not rushing. The Imperial Censor stepped forward, lips trembling, sweat on his forehead trickling down his temples.
"Your Majesty, deploying fifty thousand troops, the grain and fodder—"
"Grain and fodder is managed by the Empress." Liu Che looked at him, voice flat. "Ask her."
Everyone turned, looking at me. Over a hundred pairs of eyes, like a hundred blades, stabbing from all directions. I did not lower my head. Sunlight streamed through the lattice, hitting me, the golden threads on theYudi reflecting light.
"The State of Liang is exempt from taxes for three years, reducing treasury income by thirty percent," my voice was flat, as if stating a mundane fact. "But palace expenditures are reduced by thirty percent, imperial clan expenditures by twenty percent, and feudal lord tributes increased by ten percent. In three years, the treasury will be full. Within three years, the border will not lose an inch of land."
The hall was quiet enough to hear breathing. No one spoke. No one dared. The Imperial Censor retreated into the ranks, withdrawing the step he had taken. The Minister of Ceremonies never raised his head again.
"Anyone with objections, speak now," I said.
Silence.
"No objections, proceed as planned."
After court, Ajiao waited for me at the door. She wore plain clothes, no jewelry. Sunlight hit her, making her hair shine. Her shadow on the ground was long, thin, but straight.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"You just now, were like an Emperor."
I smiled. "Not like an Emperor. I was guarding for him."
She looked into the distance, where a line of golden light shone on the horizon, like the rim of a bronze mirror.
"Xingye, you know, my mother said you are a scary person."
"Is that so?"
"She said you don't fight or grab, don't argue or make noise, but everyone listens to you. She said such people are the scariest."
I looked at her. "And what do you think?"
She thought for a moment. The wind blew, scattering her hair; she didn't fix it. "I think you aren't scary. You are—different."
"How different?"
"You fix things," she said. "You fix copper mirrors, lacquerware, fix people's hearts. You piece broken things back together. What others can't do, you can."
She didn't speak again. She turned and walked away. Her footsteps grew distant in the corridor, but this time, not disappearing. Heading in another direction. I stood at the door, watching her back. Sunlight shone on her, stretching her shadow long.
That night, Liu Che was looking at the border map in the study. When I walked in, he raised his head, looking at me. The candle flame on the desk danced, illuminating his face brightly. The map was marked with many signs, the ink not yet dry.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"Those words you said in court—three years. Can you really do it?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I am from two thousand years in the future," I walked to him, looking into his eyes. "People two thousand years later know how to save money, how to train soldiers, how to make a country strong. Do you believe it?"
He looked at me for a long time. Candlelight danced in his eyes, illuminating his face. The corner of his mouth moved, not a smile, but something softer.
"I believe it," he said. "Whatever you say, I believe."
He reached out, taking my hand. Outside, Chang'an's night was quiet. Cicadas stopped, the wind died, the moon hung above the palace walls, big and round. But in the distance, on the northern steppes, wolf smoke was rising. I knew he would have to leave sooner or later. But at this moment, his hand was hot, holding mine, tight.
[End of Chapter 34]