Year 12 of Yongle, September. The Northern Desert (Mobei).
The wind was fierce.
The tent flapped violently, the ox-hide felt pounding like a drum beaten repeatedly by an invisible handboom, boom, boom—vibrating until my ears went numb. The wind seeping through the cracks in the tent door carried a chill from the depths of the steppe. It wasn't the dry cold of Beijing; this was a cold that drilled into the bone marrow, carrying the腥 (fishy/grassy) scent of raw grass and earth. I had wrapped myself in every piece of clothing I brought, yet my fingertips remained ice-cold.
I huddled in the farthest corner of the tent, my hands nearly frozen numb.
Only one thought remained in my mind:Why am I here?
I really had just come to see someone off. I should have turned back at the relay station. But before we reached the station, the convoy kept moving north. The carriages pressed on, and I remained cooped up inside. I had asked Zhu Zhanji if he could send me back; he replied, "We've already come this far." I asked Eunuch Li; he said, "His Highness hasn't given the order." I asked the commanding officer; he looked at me as if I were a madman who had wandered into the wrong tent.
And so, swept along by the momentum, cooped up in the carriage, I ended up here in Mobei.
Now, I sat in this military tent. To my left was a general I didn't know; to my right was a charcoal brazier burning fiercely—but the wind blew all the heat to the other side, leaving me with none. In front of me lay a piece of roasted mutton, fat rendering and dripping, its aroma drilling into my nose.
I took it, but dared not eat.
Because the atmosphere... it felt like if I ate, I'd be dragged out and executed.
The tent was full of people. At the head sat Zhu Di (the Yongle Emperor), wearing light armor, his heavy cloak undone and draped over the back of his chair. He held a bowl of wine, his face roughened by the grinding wind and sand. In the palace, he was a dignified grandfather figure; here, he was like a sword unsheathed but not yet bloodied.
To his left sat Zhu Gaoxu (the Prince of Han). He hadn't even removed his armor; fatigue from the journey lingered on his face, but his eyes were bright. Not the brightness of obedience, but the brightness of a wolf smelling blood but not yet pouncing. He didn't move, just sat there, but everyone knew he was waiting.
To his right sat Zhu Gaosui (the Prince of Zhao), sitting quietly, holding a bowl of hot tea, maintaining his usual distance—neither too close nor too far.
Zhu Zhanji sat below Zhu Di. He had changed into light armor, looking more heroic than he did in the Eastern Palace, yet his brows and eyes retained that gentle warmth. He glanced at me once, then quickly looked away.
I didn't know why I had been summoned. Probably because I was the only idle person in the entire camp.
"Tell me," Zhu Di put down his wine bowl, his gaze sweeping over the people in the tent, "what is the state of the Great Ming?"
Here it comes.
The tent fell silent for a moment. The charcoal crackled; the wind howled outside.
Zhu Gaoxu spoke first. "We must settle the world with martial force." His voice was rough, carrying the blunt decisiveness of a warrior. "The Northern Yuan is not yet destroyed; the borders are unstable. Without military might, everything else is empty talk."I silently evaluated: Typical warrior mindset. Simple and crude, but not without merit.
Zhu Di didn't speak. He turned to look at Zhu Gaosui.
Zhu Gaosui set down his tea bowl, unhurried. "Preservation is key. Years of continuous warfare have emptied the treasury and exhausted the people's strength. We must rest and recuperate, waiting for the right time."Safe, but useless.
Zhu Di still didn't speak. His gaze shifted to Zhu Zhanji.
Zhu Zhanji was silent for a moment. The quiet in the tent stretched longer than before. Then he spoke, his voice not loud, but steady. "It lies in comforting the people. Martial force settles the nation; civil governance stabilizes it. Beyond conquest, we must consider lasting peace."
I lowered my head, my fingers clenching tightly on my knees. This answer wasn't wrong—but saying itnow was too early. Zhu Di was still on the Northern Expedition, with swords hanging from his saddle; talking to him about "civil governance stabilizing the nation"?
The tent fell silent again. Zhu Di looked at Zhu Zhanji, his expression complex.
Then he turned—
"You. Speak."
I froze completely.
The charcoal fire roasted one side of my face until it burned, while the other side remained icy. The mutton in my hand had gone cold, the fat congealing on the meat, turning white. All eyes in the tent fell upon me. The generals were curious; Zhu Gaoxu looked like he was enjoying a show; Zhu Gaosui was observing. Zhu Zhanji didn't look at me, but his fingers tapped lightly on his knee—a small habit he had when nervous.
Countless thoughts flashed through my mind instantly. What to say? Say "War is bad"? Zhu Di had just won a victory; telling him war is bad? Say "We should rest and recuperate"? Zhu Gaosui already said that. Say "We should use both civil and military means"? Zhu Zhanji already said that.
Anything I said would be wrong. Saying nothing would probably be wrong too.
I took a deep breath.
"It's pretty good," I said.
The air went silent for a beat.
I quickly added, "It's just... a bit wasteful of people."
The tent suddenly became terrifyingly quiet. Even the wind seemed to grow louder, blowing the tent doorflap-flap. The flame in the charcoal brazier flickered; my shadow danced on the tent wall. The generals looked at each other in confusion. Zhu Gaoxu's mouth twitched, unsure whether to laugh or curse. Zhu Gaosui paused, his tea bowl halfway to his lips.
Zhu Di looked at me. "How is it wasteful?"
I gripped the skewer of meat in my hand. If I didn't speak now, I'd never get the chance. If I spoke, I might die. If I didn't speak, I probably wouldn't die, but I'd never be able to speak my mind again.
"When fighting wars, people are used up too quickly," I said, my voice slightly quieter than usual, but clear enough for everyone to hear in the silence. "Conscripting soldiers, grain, and horses—each conscription reduces the population by a batch. When the war ends and they return, the fields are barren, the houses collapsed, and the people are gone. The next time we fight, we have to start conscripting from scratch."
I paused.
"If we keep fighting like this, we won't have enough people left."
Silence filled the tent for a long time. So long that I could hear the sound of wood snapping in the charcoal fire, the snorting of horses in the distance outside the tent, and the beating of my own heart. I sat there, waiting. Waiting for what? For him to explode? To mock me? To order me out? Nothing happened.
Zhu Di looked at me, his gaze sharp as a blade. That gaze wasn't judging whether I was right or wrong; it was judgingwho I was. I didn't dodge; I couldn't. I just sat there, clutching a piece of cold mutton.
Then, someone beside me spoke.
Zhu Zhanji's voice was unhurried, as if discussing something he had planned long ago. "Beyond conquest, we must consider lasting peace. The use of military force is to defend the land, not to exhaust the people. Miss Song's meaning is—war cannot be abandoned, but the people cannot be harmed. Only when both are achieved can there be longevity."
The tent fell silent for a moment. The generals looked thoughtful. Zhu Gaoxu didn't refute; he simply lifted his wine bowl, took a slow sip, his eyes fixed on Zhu Zhanji, his thoughts unreadable. Zhu Gaosui set down his tea bowl, his gaze circling between Zhu Zhanji and Zhu Di.
I lowered my head, finally letting out a breath of relief.
Only one thought remained in my heart:Thanks.
He didn't look at me. But I saw his fingers move away from his knee and rest lightly on the arm of the chair, steady.
Zhu Di glanced at Zhu Zhanji, then at me. Then he lifted his wine bowl and took a drink.
He let out a short laugh.
I didn't know what that laugh meant. Back in Nanjing, I had heard people say that when the Emperor laughs, it doesn't necessarily mean he's happy. Sometimes it means he finds something interesting; sometimes it means he thinks you're ignorant of your own limitations; and sometimes—it means he has remembered you.
"I understand," he said.
Three words. Impossible to tell if it was praise or criticism.
The atmosphere in the tent relaxed slightly. The generals began to murmur quietly; some poured wine, some cut meat. The charcoal crackled; the wind outside seemed to soften a bit.
I sat in the corner and stuffed that piece of cold mutton into my mouth. Fatty, oily, cold, but delicious. I chewed the meat, watching those people at the head of the tent—the Emperor, the generals, the princes, the heir apparent—discussing the affairs of the empire amidst the wind. Their words were grand, so grand I didn't know how to respond. Yet here they sat, eating meat, drinking wine, discussing where to march tomorrow in the wind.
Suddenly, I felt a bit strange.
What do these matters have to do with me? I am a veterinarian. My job is to treat cows and horses, feed crickets, and groom Huang Tuan (the puppy).Those are the things I should be doing. But just now, I spoke up. In front of the Emperor, in front of the generals, in front of a group of people who decide the direction of this nation, I said, "It's a bit wasteful of people."
I chewed the meat, thinking:I really just came to see someone off.
But even saying that out loud didn't feel quite true anymore, even to myself.
The wind still blew. The tent still flapped. But I felt... perhaps it wasn't so cold anymore.
(End of Chapter 14)