Year 12 of Yongle, September. Beijing.
I began to look at Zhu Zhanji anew.
Not at his face—I was already familiar with that. Sword-like eyebrows, starry eyes, the corners of his mouth tilting up slightly when he smiled, and his jawline tightening when he didn't. I was looking at something else.
For instance, this morning, a young eunuch accidentally shattered a jade cup sent by the Prince of Han a few days ago. The cup was entirely emerald green, a reward given triumphantly by the Prince of Han after winning the cricket fight, said to be "for my nephew to drink tea." Shards scattered across the floor. The eunuch knelt there, his face as white as paper, trembling like a sieve.
Zhu Zhanji was sitting at the desk reading a memorial. Hearing the crash, he only lifted his eyelids slightly. He glanced at the shards on the floor, then at the eunuch, before withdrawing his gaze to continue reading.
"Broken is broken. Sweep it clean. No need to make a fuss." His voice was faint, as if discussing something not worth the effort.
The eunuch, as if granted a great pardon, kowtowed three times, frantically cleaned up the shards, and retreated. I stood at the door, witnessing the entire scene. I noticed—he was neither angry nor forgiving from start to finish. There was not a ripple in his eyes; they were like a pool of dead water. He didn't refrain from anger because he had a good temper, but because that jade cup, and even that eunuch, were not worth his emotional investment.
That extreme calmness felt like some kind of cold, hard metal.
This discovery made me distracted all day. I nearly poured too much water when changing the Great General's water, and when feeding Huang Tuan, I accidentally drank some of the sheep's milk myself. I kept thinking—when is he truly gentle, and when is it just that something is "not worth it"? I couldn't tell. This made me uneasy.
"Miss, what's wrong with you today?" Ruolan watched me, full of concern.
"Nothing." I put down the milk bowl and wiped the corner of my mouth with my sleeve. "Just thinking about something."
"Thinking about what?"
"Thinking about..." I paused, "thinking about a person."
Ruolan's eyes lit up. "Is it His Highness?"
I didn't answer. I lowered my head to continue changing the Great General's water, but my ears turned red. Ruolan wisely didn't press further, though the corner of her mouth curled up so high she couldn't suppress it.
In the afternoon, when Zhu Zhanji came to the side room to see the Great General, I was combing Huang Tuan's fur. The puppy had grown a size larger, fluffy and curled into a ball on my knees, humming comfortably.
He pushed the door open, holding a small green porcelain dish with several slices of pear cut extremely thin. He placed the dish on the table and sat opposite me, his gaze falling on Huang Tuan.
"It's grown," he said.
"Mm." I continued combing without looking up. "It can eat solid food now. In another month, it won't need milk."
"Have you decided on a name for it?"
"Huang Tuan."
"...Still that name?"
"Is it not好听 (good-sounding)?"
He looked at the yellowish-brown puppy—it wasn't actually round, its legs were quite long, far from the word "Tuan" (ball/round). He reached out and poked its head, lying against his conscience: "It sounds good. Indeed... very round."
I glanced at him but didn't expose his lie. I put Huang Tuan back in its nest, wiped my hands, picked up a slice of pear, and took a bite. Very sweet, full of juice.
"How is the Great General today?" he asked.
"Recovered. Even better than before." I paused. "Your Second Uncle didn't come today?"
"No. Winning twice is enough to keep him happy for a while."
"And your Third Uncle?"
His hand holding the teacup paused for just an instant, then returned to normal. "Third Uncle is reading books in his mansion. He sent word saying that if you've finished the Compendium of Materia Medica he sent last time, he has a few more copies there."
I didn't pick up on that thread. I watched him put down the teacup, his fingers lingering on the rim for a moment longer before retracting into his sleeve. I suddenly spoke up: "Zhu Zhanji, were you unhappy this morning?"
He looked up at me, raising an eyebrow slightly. "Why do you ask?"
"When that eunuch broke the jade cup. You didn't lose your temper, but you were unhappy."
He was silent for a moment. "You noticed?"
"Mm. Your eyes—they held no anger, but also no warmth."
He didn't speak, picking up the teacup to take another sip. The tea had gone cold; he frowned but swallowed it anyway.
"That jade cup was a gift from Second Uncle," he said.
"So?"
"So—it's better that it's broken." He put down the teacup, his tone flat. "It saves me from seeing it every day and having to remember who gave it, why they gave it, and what they said when they gave it."
I looked at him. His tone was light, but I heard the weight beneath it. That jade cup wasn't just a cup; it was a thread connecting the Prince of Han's triumph, the Third Prince's silence, and everything he himself was forced to remember.
"Then why were you unhappy?" I asked.
"Because of that eunuch," he said. "When he knelt on the ground, he wasn't afraid of breaking the object; he was afraid of me. When he kowtowed, he wasn't bowing to the jade cup, but to my status."
I didn't speak. I recalled the eunuch's hunched back as he exited, the dull thud of his forehead hitting the bluestone during the kowtow. At the time, I only felt pity. He didn't feel pity; he saw something else.
"When did you start being like this?" I asked.
"Like what?"
"Looking at people this way."
He was silent for a long time. Outside the window, the sunset slowly sank, burning a patch of orange-red clouds in the sky. The glazed tiles of the Eastern Palace gleamed with a cold gold in the evening light.
"During the Northern Expedition," he said, his voice very light.
"I was twelve. Grandfather Emperor took me to fight the Mongols. One night, we camped on the grassland. It was snowing heavily outside, the wind howling against the tent. I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk and saw Grandfather sitting alone in front of the tent, wrapped in a large fur cloak, wiping a sword in his hand. The firelight fell on his face. Clearly, he was the most powerful man in the world, but at that moment, I felt he was like an old lion guarding his territory alone, surrounded by a pack of wolves wanting to tear him apart."
He paused.
"I asked him if he was afraid. He said yes. I asked, 'You are afraid too?' He said, 'The more one is afraid, the more one must see clearly. See who is truly afraid and who is pretending. Who is truly loyal and who is feigning loyalty. Who is waiting for you to fall, and who is waiting for you to stand up.'"
His voice was so light, as if recounting something from a distant past.
"From that day on, I started watching people."
The side room was very quiet. I sat there, looking at his profile. The sunset shone on his face; his expression was calm, but I suddenly felt—that twelve-year-old boy learned more in that heavy snow than anyone else. He learned to watch people, and he also learned to sheath his blade.
"Then what did you see?" I asked.
"I saw many things. I saw that Second Uncle is truly unconvinced, Third Uncle is truly capable of endurance, and Grandfather is truly lonely. I saw that Li Quan is truly loyal, Ruolan is truly timid. I saw those eunuchs and guards—" He paused, "I saw that everyone has their own agenda."
"And me?" I asked. "What did you see in me?"
He looked at me, silent for a long time. The sunset streamed through the window, falling on his face, softening his expression.
"I saw that you are truly unafraid. Not pretending to be unafraid, but truly unafraid. I saw that you truly don't know how to read people's faces, not that you're pretending not to. I saw that you truly treat the Great General as a cricket, not as a chess piece."
I froze. "It is just a cricket."
"Correct. But in the palace, nothing is just what it is. Everything can be a chess piece, everyone can be a chess piece. The Great General can be a piece, the mud can be a piece, a dish of apples can be a piece. But you treat it as a cricket. You treat its illness, feed it, change its water, not because it belongs to someone, but because it is sick."
His voice was very light.
"This kind of thinking does not exist in the palace."
I sat there, looking at him. I suddenly recalled that day—squatting beside the fighting basin, wiping a bit of mud with my finger, and putting it on my tongue. Bitter. At that time, I was only thinking of the Great General, only thinking that the mud was problematic, only thinking that I had to speak up. I hadn't thought about what would happen after speaking up. Nor had I thought about what he saw while watching me.
"You knew that day, didn't you?" I asked. "When I tasted the mud."
"Mm."
"Then why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me you knew?"
He didn't answer immediately. He looked at me, something indefinable in his gaze—not scrutiny, but cherishing.
"Because at that moment, there was light in your eyes," he said, his voice very light. "That was a light I wanted to protect. Once I intervened, that light might have been extinguished."
I froze. I opened my mouth to speak, but swallowed the words back. I lowered my head, unconsciously drawing circles on my knee with my finger.
"Then why do you still ask me now?" My voice was much softer than usual.
"I want to hear you say it," he said. "The words you speak are different from others."
The side room fell silent for a long time. Waves of osmanthus fragrance drifted in from outside the window, mixing with the sweetness of the pears on the table. I sat there, clutching a slice of pear, not taking a bite for a long time.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm?"
"You are really terrifying."
He froze. "Terrifying?"
"Mm. You know everything but say nothing. You see everything clearly but do nothing. You are clearly a blade, yet you insist on pretending to be a piece of wood."
He looked at me and suddenly laughed. It wasn't his usual warm, restrained smile, nor his subtle, sharp冷笑 (cold smile). It was a smile of being seen through, slightly helpless.
"You are right. I am a blade. But a blade cannot let people see its edge. A blade whose edge is seen is one no one dares to use."
"And in front of me?" I asked. "Are you also a blade with its edge sheathed?"
He was silent for a long time. The sunlight outside slowly shifted, falling on his hand. His fingers were long, with distinct knuckles, his nails trimmed neatly—a pair of hands trained for martial arts, yet also for slicing apples.
"No," he said, his voice very light. "In front of you, I want to sheath the edge. But not because I fear you seeing it."
"Then why?"
"Because—" He paused, as if searching for the precise word, "because in front of you, I don't want to be a blade."
The side room was quiet. Huang Tuan rolled over in its nest and let out a snore. The Great General lay quietly in its jar, antennae trembling slightly. The scent of osmanthus outside was so thick it felt almost solid.
I sat there, looking at him. His expression was calm, but the roots of his ears turned red. I didn't expose him, just lowered my head, picked up a slice of pear, and took a bite. Very sweet. Sweeter than the previous slice.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm?"
"In the future, when you don't want to be a blade," I looked at the pear slice in my hand, my voice not loud but every word clear, "you can come here."
His fingers, which had been stroking Huang Tuan, stopped abruptly. He slowly raised his head, his gaze somewhat stunned, as if he hadn't understood.
"Come here to do what?" His Adam's apple bobbed slightly.
"Come here to be a piece of wood." I pointed to the apples on the table. "Or to be someone slicing pears. Or even—" I looked at Huang Tuan rolling on the ground, "you can learn from Huang Tuan, expose your belly to air, and think about nothing."
The air凝固 (solidified) for a moment.
Then, he burst out laughing. At first, it was a suppressed chuckle, then his shoulders began to shake. That wasn't the textbook smile with a thirty-percent upturn of the lips, nor the cold smile filled with hidden meanings. He laughed so hard that a bit of moisture was forced into the corners of his eyes.
It was the laugh of a fifteen-year-old boy who, after a long period of disguise, had finally found a crack where he could remove his armor.
He laughed for a long time, so long that I started worrying he might have choked on something. Then he stopped, wiped the corner of his eyes with his sleeve, and looked at me.
"Good," he said.
One word, very light, but very serious.
He stood up and walked to the door. Moonlight streamed in from outside, stretching his shadow long. He suddenly stopped, without turning around.
"Song Yu'an."
"Mm?"
"Do not speak of today's words to anyone."
"I know."
"It's not that I fear you leaking it. It's that I fear once you know, you will become like them."
"Like whom?"
"Like those who read people's faces, who calculate gains and losses, who—" He paused, "who sheath their blades."
I was silent for a moment. "I won't."
"Why?"
"Because I am a veterinarian. A veterinarian's principle is: no matter whose animal it is, if it's sick, it must be treated. No matter whose chess piece it is, if it's sick, it's just a cricket. This principle will not change."
He stood at the door, moonlight shining on his back. He didn't turn around, but I saw his shoulders relax slightly—as if he had put down something he had carried for a long time.
"Good," he said.
Then he left. This time, he walked very slowly, each step steady, but lighter than usual. As if he had shed a bit of weight.
I stood in the side room, watching his back disappear at the end of the corridor. More than half the dish of pears remained on the table. I picked up a slice and took a bite. Very sweet. Sweeter than this afternoon.
I walked to the window. The kumquat pot on the windowsill sat quietly; the soil inside was still moist. Moonlight shone upon it, making the soil gleam with moisture. I reached out and touched the rim of the pot; it was warm—where his fingers had lingered earlier.
"They will sprout," I whispered softly.
This time, I knew I was speaking to the kumquats, to myself, and to his words about "not wanting to be a blade." I didn't know when he would be able to stop being a blade. But I knew that today, here, he had been fifteen for a while.
Ruolan popped out from the corner, holding a freshly brewed cup of tea.
"Miss, has His Highness left?"
"Mm."
"Miss, you smiled many times today."
"Did I?" I touched my face; indeed, I was smiling. "Probably because the pears were too sweet."
Ruolan looked at the ordinary plate of pears on the table and didn't expose me. "Miss, the tea is still hot."
"Leave it." I took the teacup and held it in my palms; it was warm.
"Ruolan."
"Yes?"
"What kind of person do you think His Highness is?"
Ruolan tilted her head, gesturing with her hands: "His Highness is a good person. Good to the servants, good temper too. But this servant always feels..." She hesitated, seeming afraid to speak.
"Feels what?"
"Feels like His Highness is like the moon." Ruolan pointed outside the window. "Looks bright, seems close, but if you really reach out to touch it—" She shrank her neck, "it's probably cold."
The teacup in my hand trembled slightly.
"Mm," I responded softly.
I lowered my head, looking at that pot of kumquats. Moonlight spilled onto the moist soil, like a layer of thin frost covering it.
"Ruolan, remember to remind me to water the kumquats tomorrow."
"Isn't that pot a gift from His Highness? Don't you usually water it yourself?"
"Yes." I reached out to touch the cold leaves. "From now on, I must water it with heart."
I didn't need to say more. I just wanted this bit of greenery, in places the moon couldn't reach, to live out a bit of warmth for that person.
(End of Chapter 9)