The ninth month of the twenty-second year of Yongle. Beijing.
The hall was very quiet. After listening, Zhu Gaochi didn't speak immediately. He sat at the head, holding that bowl of already cold tea, looking at the tea soup. The tea leaves sank at the bottom of the bowl, motionless. He looked for a long time, as if waiting for something to float up. Then he put down the tea bowl. The movement was very slow, just like when he reviewed memorials. He sighed. Very light, so light it was like just exhaling a breath. There was something in that breath, heavy, pressing on his chest, unable to come out. He glanced at Zhu Zhanji. That glance was very short, so short it was like just confirming he was still there. But I knew, he saw. He saw the scar on his hand, he saw the things in his eyes, he saw that he was waiting. He knew everything. He just didn't say.
"This matter," he said. "Ends here."
I was stunned. Standing at the door, peering through that crack, looking inside. Zhu Zhanji stood below, his back very straight, as always. The scar from where the gauze had been wrapped on his hand was still there, pink, very faint under the lamplight. He lowered his head, not moving. The lamp shone on him, casting his shadow on the ground, very long. His fingers hung by his side, slightly closing, then opening. Closing, then opening. Like counting something. Like counting those clues, those names, those things he had found but couldn't use.
"Yes." He said. His tone was very flat. Like saying "drink tea." Like saying "I know." Like saying "okay." But I knew, it wasn't the same. When he said "yes," he wasn't agreeing. He was saying—I heard. Zhu Gaochi looked at him, not speaking. He also looked at Zhu Gaochi. Neither spoke. The lamp was on the table, the light very bright, shining on their faces. Their brows and eyes were very similar, their noses were also similar. But the way they looked at people was different. Zhu Gaochi looked at people, flat, like looking at a pool of water, knowing there were fish below, but not wanting to disturb. Zhu Zhanji also looked at people flatly, but like looking at a chess game, knowing where every move would go, already thinking about how to place the piece. He was just waiting. Waiting for that right moment.
"Do not investigate further outward." Zhu Gaochi said. His voice wasn't loud, but very heavy. Heavy like a stone thrown into water, sinking to the bottom, no splash. He picked up that bowl of cold tea and drank a mouthful. The tea was already ice cold, he frowned, and swallowed it. He didn't put down the tea bowl, holding it in his hand, his fingers pausing on the rim. Like waiting for something. Waiting for those tea leaves to float up, or sink down. He knew they wouldn't float up. What sinks, just sinks.
Zhu Zhanji stood there, not moving. His fingers clenched inside his sleeve, then released. Then he lowered his head. "Yes." Same tone as before. Like saying "drink tea." Like saying "I know." Like saying "okay." But I knew, it wasn't the same. When he said "yes," he wasn't agreeing. He was saying—I heard. But I won't stop.
Zhu Gaochi looked at him. Looked for a long time. There were things in his eyes, very deep, very heavy. He had suppressed them for a long time. Now he wasn't suppressing. Letting it out, letting Zhu Zhanji see. There was exhaustion, helplessness, and "I know you won't stop." Also—he didn't want him to stop. He just couldn't say. He was the emperor. He had to stabilize the situation, suppress matters, make everyone think the wind had stopped, the water was calm, people had withdrawn. He couldn't let people know the wind was still blowing. The water was still moving. People wouldn't withdraw. He could only suppress it alone. Like suppressing a stone, pressing it at the bottom of the water, not letting anyone see. Zhu Zhanji looked into his eyes. That glance was very short, so short it was like just confirming he was still there. But I knew, he saw. He saw the things in his eyes. He saw he was suppressing, he saw he didn't want him to suppress, he saw he couldn't help him suppress. He stood there, not speaking. The lamp shone on him, his shadow cast on the ground, motionless. The scar from where the gauze had been wrapped on his hand was still there, pink. That was left from the alley. He didn't dodge. He said there was no time. I knew it wasn't. He didn't want to dodge. Now too. He didn't want to stop. He wouldn't stop.
Coming out of the hall, the moonlight shone on my body, cool. He walked in front of me, his pace neither fast nor slow, as every day. I stepped on his shadow, step by step. The alley was very narrow, the walls very high, the stone slabs very slippery. As every day. But it wasn't the same. When he said "yes" just now, his voice was very flat. So flat it was like nothing happened. But I knew, he was already thinking. Thinking about how to collect that net, thinking about how to cut those threads, thinking about how to keep that person in the dark, not letting anyone know. He wouldn't stop. Nor would he let anyone know he hadn't stopped.
I couldn't help asking: "Really not investigating anymore?"
He looked at me. "What do you think?"
I thought for a moment. "I think you won't obey."
He paused. The moonlight shone on his face, his expression very calm. But I knew, he was thinking. Thinking about why I understood him so well. Or, thinking about why he couldn't hide. He didn't deny. Only looked at me. That glance was very short, so short it was like just confirming I was still there. But he didn't say "yes," nor did he say "no." He walked forward, I followed. After walking a few steps, he spoke.
"Replace the people."
I was stunned. "What people?"
"That batch of Jinyiwei." His voice was very flat, like saying "drink tea." But I knew, it wasn't the same. When he said "replace the people," he wasn't replacing people. He was cutting threads. Cutting off those people hidden in the dark, one by one. Replacing those who weren't his people, one by one. Dismantling that net, piece by piece. Not moving that person, but moving his people. Not flipping the table, but collecting the cards. When that person finds out, there will be nothing left in his hands. Only himself. Standing in the dark, looking at empty hands. He could wait. He could also wait.
My heart tightened. Suddenly understanding. He wasn't moving that person. But starting to move his people. That net was still there, but the threads were already cut. That person was still there, but the hands were already gone. He stood there, looking at the net, looking at the threads, looking at the hands. He knew. He knew everything. He just didn't say. When he said "yes" in the hall just now, he had already thought it through. Thinking about who to replace, thinking about how to replace, thinking about after replacing, how that person would move. Step by step, not rushing. He could wait. That person could also wait. But between them, only one person could win.
I couldn't help saying: "You two are too complicated."
He looked at me. "Only now you think so?"
I paused. Then laughed. "No. I thought so long ago. Just today more so." The corner of his mouth moved, very light, very fast. Like being poked by something, couldn't help it. I saw it. He also knew he was seen. But he didn't dodge. Just walked forward, his pace neither fast nor slow, as every day.
I suddenly wanted to laugh. But halfway through the laugh, I stopped. Because I suddenly realized one thing—this matter, it looked like it ended. But actually it was just beginning. When he said "replace the people" just now, he wasn't replacing people. He was playing chess. Placed a piece. That person would see, would think, would move. Then he would place another. Step by step, not rushing. He could wait. That person could also wait. But between them, only one person could win. I looked at his back. He walked in front of me, the moonlight shone on him, his shadow cast on the ground, very long. The scar from where the gauze had been wrapped on his hand was still there, pink, very faint under the moonlight. He walked very steadily, as every day. But I knew, every step he took was calculated. A move made cannot be undone.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"When did you start thinking about it?"
He didn't answer. After walking a few steps, he said: "Just now."
I looked at him. He walked in front, his pace neither fast nor slow. The scar from where the gauze had been wrapped on his hand was still there, pink. That was left from the alley. He didn't dodge. He said there was no time. I knew it wasn't. He didn't want to dodge. Now too. He didn't want to stop. He wouldn't stop. Zhu Gaochi said "Ends here," he said "Yes." But he was already thinking about the next move. When Zhu Gaochi said "Do not investigate further outward," he was already thinking about how to replace. When he said "yes," he had already decided. He wouldn't stop. From the alley it was so. From the northern frontier it was so. From the first day it was so. He wouldn't stop. I wouldn't let him stop either.
(End of Chapter 40)