Year 12 of Yongle, September. Beijing.
The Great General had been in exceptionally good spirits lately—almost too good.
I noticed this while feeding sheep's milk to Huang Tuan (the puppy). The Great General let out a chirp from its jar, the sound as clear and bright as striking a porcelain bowl. I listened for a while longer, feeling something was off—not bad, but too perfect. It was as if the cricket had poured all its energy into that single chirp, leaving no stamina for what followed.
I put down the milk bowl and squatted beside the jar to observe closer. The Great General's antennae trembled slightly, and its abdomen rose and fell faster than usual. It wasn't exactly sick, but there was an indescribable tension—a sense of overexertion.
"Ruolan," I stood up, "What is His Highness doing today?"
"Replying to Miss, His Highness is at the martial arts field. It seems the Prince of Han has arrived again for a cricket fight."
My hands paused. "Again? Didn't he lose last time?"
"I heard he brought a new one this time, called 'Iron General'. People in the mansion say it's even three points more formidable than the previous 'Purple Overlord'."
I thought for a moment, stuffed Huang Tuan into Ruolan's arms, wiped my hands, and headed out. Ruolan shouted after me, "Miss, where are you going?" I didn't look back: "To take a look."
The martial arts field was on the west side of the Eastern Palace, an open space surrounded by high walls. Usually, this was where Zhu Zhanji practiced martial arts, but today a red sandalwood table stood in the center with a fighting basin on it. Two people sat on either side of the table—he facing west, the Prince of Han facing east. Several eunuchs stood nearby; Eunuch Li was at the front, holding a stick of incense, his expression tighter than usual.
The Prince of Han looked even more triumphant than last time. The jar before him was brand new black pottery, engraved with the characters "Iron General," accompanied by an exquisite silver water basin. In contrast, the Great General's jar was still the original gray pottery, looking somewhat shabby amidst the array of refined objects.
I quietly slipped to the back of the crowd, standing on tiptoes to peek inside.
The Great General looked wrong today.
It stood in the jar, its six legs straightened rigidly, antennae held high, appearing spirited. But the longer I stared, the more I realized this "spirit" was forced—like a person standing on a stage under the gaze of hundreds, daring not to show a hint of fatigue. Its wings were slightly spread, a bit wider than usual, a sign of accelerated breathing.
He seemed to sense something; he turned his head slightly and glanced at me. That glance was so quick that those nearby didn't notice. But I did. He wasn't searching for someone in the crowd; he knew I was there and was merely confirming it.
"Second Uncle is in high spirits today," he turned back, his tone flat.
The Prince of Han slapped the table: "Last time, 'Purple Overlord' wasn't prepared. This time, I've brought my best, 'Iron General'. Dare you compete again?"
"If Second Uncle is interested, Your Grandson will accompany you."
"Good!" The Prince of Han laughed loudly, pulling a cloth bag from his sleeve and throwing it onto the table. "Three hundred taels. Dare you accept?"
He didn't even glance at the bag, simply smiling slightly: "Second Uncle has the final say."
The Great General and "Iron General" were placed into the fighting basin.
"Iron General" was jet black, a full size larger than the Great General, with antennae as thick as iron wire. As soon as it entered the basin, it began to chirp—a sound deep and loud, like drumming.
The Great General stood at the other end of the basin, its antennae trembling slightly, but it did not chirp. It just stood there quietly, its six legs straightened rigidly. Too straight. My brow furrowed. Normally, crickets would bend their legs slightly during a standoff, coiling like springs ready to launch. The Great General's legs were stiff, like a string stretched to its limit.
"Begin," Eunuch Li's voice was slightly tense.
"Iron General" charged first. The Great General dodged sideways; the movement was still crisp, but it slipped slightly upon landing. It was very subtle, so subtle that those nearby didn't notice. But I did.
"Iron General" spun around sharply and pounced again. This time, the Great General didn't dodge; it met the attack head-on. The mandibles of the two crickets locked together with a sharp "click," exceptionally clear in the quiet arena.
I squeezed forward.
The Great General's movements were wrong. Not slow, but stiff. Like a person with lead poured into their legs, every step requiring three times the effort. When it should have advanced, it hesitated for a split second; when it should have retreated, it paused. That split second was so short that anyone not watching it daily would never notice. But I watched it every day. I knew every angle of the Great General's mandible strikes, every speed of its dodges, every height its antennae reached after a victory. Today, every single metric was wrong.
"Get it! Bite it!" The Prince of Han shouted from the side.
He said nothing, only using the probe tube to gently guide the Great General's direction. His fingers were steady, his expression calm, but I noticed his technique was different from usual—normally he "guided," today he "pushed." He was forcing the Great General to exert effort.
My gaze shifted from the Great General, sweeping across the fighting basin, the tabletop, the jars, the water basins, and finally landing on the white mud at the bottom of the basin.
The base mud used for the basin was replaced before every fight, sifted through a fine sieve, leveled, compacted, and spotless. Today's mud looked no different from usual, but I felt the color was off. Not pure white, but with a faint hint of blue-gray. That blue-gray didn't look like soil; it resembled—
I had seen a similar color in an Australian laboratory. The wood shavings at the bottom of a white mouse cage, mixed with trace amounts of sedatives, would turn this blue-gray. Very faint, so faint that one wouldn't notice unless looking closely.
My fingers tightened slightly.
On the field, the Great General suddenly stumbled. "Iron General" seized the opportunity and pounced fiercely, its mandibles locking tightly onto the Great General's hind leg. The Great General was flung to the edge of the basin, flipped over, and struggled to stand up, but its six legs were noticeably weaker.
"Good!" The Prince of Han jumped up, triumph almost spilling from his face. "Victory!"
He put down his probe tube, looking at the Great General in the basin with a calm expression.
"Second Uncle's 'Iron General' is indeed formidable."
"Hahaha—" The Prince of Han laughed loudly, reaching for the money bag on the table. "Last time was your luck; this time you know better, right?"
He smiled but didn't respond. His gaze swept over the fighting basin, over the white mud at the bottom, and finally landed on me squatting at the back of the crowd. Just for an instant, then he withdrew it.
The crowd gradually dispersed. The Prince of Han left with the money bag and "Iron General," his laughter echoing loudly from outside the courtyard wall. Eunuch Li directed the young eunuchs to clear the table. He squatted down to carefully return the Great General to its jar.
"Don't pack it away," my voice came from behind.
His hand paused. He turned his head and saw me walking out from the back of the crowd, my expression grim.
"What is it?"
"Don't touch the mud at the bottom of the basin." I walked to the table and looked down at the fighting basin. The white mud had been churned up by the crickets, but the faint blue-gray layer was still visible at the edges. I extended a finger, wiped a bit of mud from the basin's edge, and brought it to my nose to smell.
Eunuch Li stood nearby, rubbing his hands together nervously: "Miss Song, what's wrong with this mud?"
I didn't answer. After a moment's hesitation, I put the mud on the tip of my tongue and tasted it. Bitter. Not the astringent bitterness of earth, but the clear bitterness of herbs—Coptis (Huanglian), Scutellaria (Huangqin), Phellodendron (Huangbai). Herbs that clear heat and reduce fire; they make humans drowsy and leave insects powerless.
Eunuch Li's pupils dilated in shock.
He jumped up, grabbing my wrist: "What are you doing?"
"Tasting it," I said calmly, spitting out the mud and wiping the corner of my mouth with my sleeve. "It's bitter. Not the bitterness of mud, but of herbs. The likes of Coptis and Scutellaria. They make humans drowsy; they make insects weak."
The arena fell silent for a moment. Eunuch Li's face turned pale. Several young eunuchs cleaning up stopped their work, looking at each other in confusion.
"Are you sure?" His voice was low.
"Sure. When I was abroad, I saw someone use the same method—not poison, but a sedative. It's hard to detect because it's not toxic; it just makes livestock lethargic." I paused. "The same principle applies here."
He released my wrist, squatted down, and also wiped some mud from the basin's edge, rubbing it between his fingertips. He couldn't smell anything, but he trusted me.
He stood up, looking at that fighting basin, silent for a long time.
"Li Quan."
"This servant is here."
"Who changed the basin mud today?"
Sweat beaded on Eunuch Li's forehead: "Replying to Your Highness, it was... it was Xiao Dengzi. He is specifically in charge of the fighting basins."
"Bring him here."
"Yes."
Eunuch Li hurried off. Only he, I, and the listless Great General in the jar remained in the arena. The autumn wind blew in from outside the courtyard wall, carrying the scent of osmanthus, mixing with the earlier excitement of the cricket fight, creating an indescribable sense of dissonance.
"Do you think," he suddenly spoke, his voice very light, "is this a problem with the cricket, or with people?"
I froze.
I looked at him; he wasn't looking at me, just低头 (looking down) at the Great General in the jar. The cricket lay at the bottom, its antennae drooping, a world apart from its spirited self of a few days ago.
I suddenly remembered what he had said—he watches crickets, but not just crickets. He watches people. Who is anxious, who is pretending, who can't afford to lose. He saw what I saw today, and perhaps even what I hadn't seen.
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I only know the mud is problematic. Who put it there, why—I don't know. But—" I paused, my voice dropping lower, "This isn't about crickets."
He finally lifted his head to look at me. Sunlight fell on his face; his expression was calm, but there was a coldness in his eyes I had never seen before—not anger, but something deeper than anger. A certain expectation that had been verified.
"Correct," he said. "It's not about crickets."
Xiao Dengzi was brought over. A sixteen or seventeen-year-old young eunuch, thin and small, he knelt as soon as he entered the arena, his face as white as paper, his knees hitting the bluestone with a dull thud.
"Your... Your Highness..."
"Did you change the mud in the basin today?" His tone was very flat, as if asking about the weather.
"Yes... yes, this servant changed it."
"Where did the mud come from?"
"From... from the warehouse. It's always kept in the warehouse; this servant doesn't know—" His voice trembled, shaking like a sieve.
He squatted down, level with Xiao Dengzi. His voice remained very light, gentle as if coaxing a child: "This Prince isn't saying you did it. You only need to tell This Prince: after the mud was retrieved, did anyone else touch it?"
Tears streamed down Xiao Dengzi's face; he shook his head desperately: "This servant doesn't know... This servant put it in the basin immediately after retrieving it; I didn't notice if anyone touched it..."
"And the warehouse? When the mud was in the warehouse, who went in?"
"This servant... this servant doesn't know..."
He looked at Xiao Dengzi for a moment, then stood up.
"Li Quan, take him down. Question the warehouse staff as well. Everyone who touched this basin today, question them one by one."
"Yes."
Xiao Dengzi was led away, sobbing, his knees dragging a white mark on the ground. The arena fell silent again. I stood in place, watching his back. He stood before the table,低头 (looking down) at that fighting basin, motionless. The autumn wind blew, his robe hem swaying slightly; he looked like a sculpture.
"Zhu Zhanji."
He didn't turn around.
"Do you think Second Uncle did this?" I asked.
"Second Uncle wouldn't do such a thing," his voice was calm. "If he wants to win, he will come openly. Drugging is not in his nature."
"Then who?"
He didn't answer. He turned to face me. The sunlight came from behind him, casting his face in shadow, making his expression unreadable.
"When you figured it out today," he said, "what were you thinking?"
I thought for a moment. "I was thinking—the Great General's condition was wrong. I was thinking—the color of the mud was wrong. I was thinking—" I paused, "I was thinking about who did this."
"Did you consider who this was aimed at?"
I was silent for a moment. "...I considered it. But I couldn't figure it out."
"Or you couldn't figure it out, or you dared not think it?"
I didn't speak.
The wind blew; the fighting basin on the table still retained that layer of blue-gray mud. Sunlight shone upon it, reflecting an indescribable color.
"Do you think it's a problem with the cricket, or with people?" he asked again. This time his voice was slightly heavier; he wasn't asking me, he was asking me to answer myself.
I looked into his eyes. There was no anger, no fear, only something very deep and steady. Like a deep well, the surface calm, the bottom unseen.
I suddenly understood.
"It's a problem with people," I said.
It had been about people from the start. The Great General was just a cricket. It doesn't fight for power, doesn't take sides, doesn't threaten anyone. But it is Zhu Zhanji's cricket. To move against it is to move against Zhu Zhanji. To defeat it is to defeat Zhu Zhanji. Today someone made it lose; tomorrow they could make Zhu Zhanji lose. Today someone drugged the mud; tomorrow they could drug something else.
This isn't about crickets.
He looked at me, his eyes shifting slightly. He didn't say "You finally understand," nor "Yes, it's a problem with people." He just nodded, like a teacher hearing a student answer a question correctly.
"Let's go," he said. "The Great General needs its medicine."
That evening, I was in the side room administering medicine to the Great General. Honeysuckle and dandelion juice, the same formula as last time. The Great General licked a couple of mouthfuls; its antennae perked up slightly, but its strength was still insufficient.
I sat at the table, my fingers lightly tracing the rim of the jar. The Great General slowly crawled to the corner, lay down, and the rise and fall of its abdomen gradually slowed.
Footsteps sounded outside the door. Not Ruolan's, but his. I could tell—Ruolan's steps were light and quick, like a bird pecking; his were steady, each step firm.
He walked in, holding a small green porcelain dish with several slices of apple cut extremely thin. He placed the dish on the table and sat opposite me.
"Did you find the people from the warehouse?" I asked.
"Found three. All claim they saw no one else enter the warehouse."
"And Xiao Dengzi?"
"Still being questioned. His story matches the warehouse staff—retrieved mud, laid the basin, no one touched it." He paused. "But the mud was indeed problematic."
"So either Xiao Dengzi did it, or someone tampered with the mud in the warehouse before Xiao Dengzi retrieved it."
"Mm."
"Can it be traced?"
He was silent for a moment. "Not necessarily."
I looked down at the Great General. It slowly crawled a circle in the jar, stopped beside the apple slice, but didn't eat.
"Does your Second Uncle know?" I asked.
"No," he said. "When he left today, he was still happy. He thought he won by his own skill."
"Will you tell him?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because telling him equals telling him that someone tampered with the match between him and me. He will think it was aimed at him." He paused. "He is impulsive."
I looked at his profile. Moonlight streamed through the window, falling on half his face. His expression was calm, as if discussing something unrelated to himself. But I knew he was thinking—thinking about who did this, who it was aimed at, and what the next move would be.
"When you were young," I suddenly asked, "were you like this too?"
"Like what?"
"Just—overthinking everything."
He was silent for a long time. Then he chuckled lightly, a smile containing something indefinable.
"Not when I was young. Back then, I only needed to study hard and practice martial arts. But I don't know when it started—" He paused, "Probably around the first time someone said 'Your Highness, be careful' in front of me."
He didn't say what happened to that person later. I didn't ask.
"As for today's incident," I changed the subject, "what do you plan to do?"
"Investigate. Investigate to the end." His tone was calm, as if saying "It might rain tomorrow." "Once we find out who did it, we'll know who it was aimed at."
"No matter who it was aimed at?" I asked.
He glanced at me. "No matter who. Anyone daring to make a move in the Eastern Palace is no small matter."
I nodded and didn't ask further. I lowered my head to change the water for the Great General, my movements much lighter than usual.
"Song Yu'an."
"Mm?"
"Thank you for today."
I froze, looking up at him. His expression was serious, not polite, but sincere.
"Thank me for what?"
"For noticing. If not for you—" He paused, "The Great General would be gone. And we wouldn't know someone had tampered with the mud."
I was silent for a moment. "I am a veterinarian. Noticing is my duty."
"But you didn't just look at the Great General."
I didn't speak. Of course, I knew what he meant. I looked at the mud, tasted the mud, and spoke up. In the palace, speaking up requires courage.
"In the future, if you encounter such things," he said, "you will still speak up, right?"
I thought for a moment. "Yes."
"Aren't you afraid?"
"Afraid. But some things must be said." I closed the lid of the Great General's jar and turned to face him. "I am a veterinarian. A veterinarian's principle is: no matter whose animal it is, if there's a problem, it must be stated. As for what happens after speaking up—" I shrugged, "That's your affair."
He looked at me and suddenly smiled. Not a warm smile, nor a mischievous one, but a smile of relief.
"Good," he said. "You are responsible for seeing; This Prince is responsible for investigating."
I smiled. "Deal."
He stood up and walked to the door, then suddenly stopped.
"Song Yu'an."
"Mm?"
"Do not speak of today's events to anyone."
"I know."
He nodded and left. This time, he walked neither fast nor slow, his shadow stretching long in the moonlight.
I stood in the side room, watching his back disappear at the end of the corridor. The dish of apple slices remained on the table, cut thinly and arranged neatly. I picked up a slice and took a bite. It was very sweet. But the bitter taste of that mouthful of mud from earlier still lingered.
I walked to the window. The kumquat pot on the windowsill sat quietly; the soil inside was still moist, watered by Ruolan in the evening. I reached out and touched the rim of the pot; it was ice-cold.
"They will sprout," I whispered softly.
This time, I wasn't speaking to myself. I was speaking to this imperial palace. To every cricket in this palace that was treated as a chess piece.
(End of Chapter 7)