Yongle Year 22, September. Beijing.
Inside the Jinyiwei yamen, it was very quiet. Not the quiet of no one speaking, but the kind where—everyone was standing, but no one dared to move. A lamp hung from the beam, light shining down from above, casting everyone's faces in half-light and half-shadow. When Zhu Zhanji walked in, his pace was neither fast nor slow, just like every day. But those few steps, from the entrance to the center, everyone was looking at him. He stood there and looked around. That gaze was very flat, just like when looking at case files. But everyone felt it—he was looking at them. Looking at who was standing, who was bowing their head, whose hands were trembling. He saw it all. He just didn't say it.
"You've all worked hard recently," he said. His tone was very light, like saying "drink tea."
No one responded. Those men stood there; some looked down, some looked at the ground, some looked at their hands. No one looked at him. Nor did anyone speak. He didn't mind. Just stood there, looking at them. The lamp shone on him; his shadow was cast on the ground, very long. His fingers hung by his side, motionless. He fell silent for a moment. Very short, so short it was like just taking a breath. But in that breath, there was something, heavy, pressing on everyone's chest. Then he slowly spoke.
"You, go to the south."
The first person paused. He stood in the front row, in his forties, square face, short beard. His hands hung by his side, fingers slightly curling. Hearing his name, he looked up at Zhu Zhanji. Opened his mouth, wanting to say something, then swallowed it back. His lips moved twice, no sound. Then he lowered his head. "Yes." The voice was very small, so small it was like just exhaling. He turned and walked out. His steps were very fast, so fast it was like fleeing. Passing by me, I saw his hands were trembling. Not the slight, ignorable tremor, but the kind—even he couldn't suppress, knuckles trembling. He was out. Footsteps grew fainter in the corridor.
"You, transfer to the inner treasury."
The second person stood in the back row, in his thirties, thin long face, thick eyebrows. He didn't pause. He stood there, head down, shoulders slightly slumping. Like something was pulled away, the person was still there, but couldn't hold on. He turned, walked out. His steps were slower than the first person, but still walking. He didn't look back.
"You, rest for a few days."
The third person stood in the corner. He looked up. His eyes were red, not from wanting to cry, but from fear. His lips were trembling, wanting to say something, but no sound came out. His hand gripped his clothes, knuckles white. Zhu Zhanji looked at him, didn't urge. Just waited. Waiting for him to speak, or not. The lamp was on the beam, light very bright, shining on his face. His face was very pale, pale as paper. He stood for a long time. So long I thought he was going to say something. But he didn't. He lowered his head, turned and walked out. His steps were very slow, so slow it was like every step was in mud. He didn't look back.
One by one. Like arranging daily matters. Changing people, reassigning posts, resting. Very normal words. But I stood beside them, inexplicably feeling—a bit cold. Not the cold of weather, but the kind where—you sit across from a person, he is smiling, saying "change a bit," arranging your destination. You don't know why he's changing you, don't know where he's changing you to, don't know if he knows something you don't. You only know he's making you leave. You can't not leave. His voice was very flat, like saying "drink tea." But everyone heard it. He didn't need to explain. Didn't need a reason. Didn't need to tell you why. He was just changing people. You knew he was changing people. You knew why. He also knew you knew. But neither of you said it. You just stood there, waiting for him to call your name. Then leave.
Fewer and fewer Jinyiwei people. Those standing, from over a dozen to seven or eight, from seven or eight to three or four. They stood there, heads down, no one speaking. The lamp was on the beam, light very bright. Zhu Zhanji stood in the middle, looking at them. His expression was very calm, just like every time. On his hand, where the gauze had been wrapped, the scar remained, pinkish. 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 them to know, he knew. He didn't want them to know, he knew everything. He was just changing people. Changing those who shouldn't be there, changing those who weren't his people, changing those standing in the dark, handing him knives. He didn't say you were guilty. But you were already out of the game.
Someone finally couldn't help asking. "Your Highness, why is this?" The voice was trembling. Not the kind that couldn't be suppressed, but the kind where—he was suppressing, but couldn't quite.
Zhu Zhanji glanced. That glance was very short, so short it was like just confirming he was still there. But that person took a step back. Just half a step, very small, so small the person beside him probably didn't notice. But I noticed. His feet were moving back, but his body was still in place. Like a person wanting to run, but his legs wouldn't listen.
"Change a bit," Zhu Zhanji said. Three words. The voice wasn't loud, tone very flat. Like saying "drink tea." Like saying "let's go." Like saying "I know."
No one asked again. They stood there, waiting. The lamp was on the beam, light very bright. Zhu Zhanji stood there, not speaking. He was waiting. Waiting for them to leave on their own. Or waiting for him to say the next sentence. He didn't say. Just stood there, looking at them. That gaze was very flat, just like when looking at case files. But everyone knew—no need to ask anymore. He makes you leave, you leave. He makes you stay, you stay. You don't ask why. You just stand there, waiting for him to call your name. Then leave.
I stood beside them, watching those people walk out one by one. Their silhouettes disappeared at the entrance, footsteps grew fainter in the corridor. I suddenly felt, the way he stood there was the same as when he stood on the high ground in the Northern Desert. But different. In the Northern Desert, he was waiting for the enemy. Now, he was closing the net. Cutting those threads one by one, changing those who weren't his people one by one, dismantling that net bit by bit. Not moving that person, but moving his people. Not flipping the table, but collecting the cards. When that person discovers it, there will be nothing left in his hands. Only himself. Standing in the dark, looking at empty hands.
I whispered. "This isn't called changing people."
He looked at me. "Then what is it called?"
I thought seriously for a moment. "Clearing the field."
He paused. Very short, so short it was like just being brushed by wind. "No."
I looked at him. "That expression just now looked very much like you were going to wipe out witnesses."
His expression was very calm, just like before. But the corner of his mouth moved slightly, very light, very fast. Like being poked by something, unable to hold back. I saw it. He also knew he was seen. But he didn't dodge. Just looked at me, said a sentence.
"You're overthinking it."
I paused. Then laughed. "No."
His ears weren't red. But his eyes curved slightly, just like when he poked Huang Tuan's head in the Eastern Palace side room. I saw it. He also knew he was seen. But he didn't dodge. Just stood there, looking at me. Just like every day.
The Jinyiwei people were all gone. Only one remained. He stood in the corner, head down, expression unreadable. His fingers were clenched inside his sleeve, knuckles white. He didn't leave, not because he didn't want to, but because he wasn't called. He stood there, waiting. The lamp shone on him; his shadow shrank into a small ball, stepped under his feet. He waited for a long time. So long I thought he wouldn't speak.
Zhu Zhanji looked at him. For a long time. So long I thought he was going to change him too. Then he said.
"You stay."
That person suddenly looked up. There was something in his eyes, not fear, but—he didn't expect it. Didn't expect to be left. Didn't expect not to be the one changed. Didn't expect to still be standing here. His lips were trembling, wanting to say something, but no sound came out. His Adam's apple moved, like swallowing something. Then he lowered his head. "Yes." The voice was very small, so small it was like just exhaling. But he didn't leave. He stood there, just like before. But different. Before he was someone else's person. Now, he was his.
Zhu Zhanji didn't look at him again. Turned and walked out. Pace neither fast nor slow, just like every day. I followed him. Reaching the entrance, I looked back. That person was still standing there, hands still trembling. But he didn't leave. He stood there, waiting. Waiting for Zhu Zhanji to call him, or not call him. He knew. He knew Zhu Zhanji left him, not because he wasn't a mole. Because he was useful. He knew. He knew everything. He stood there, waiting. Just like Zhu Zhanji. Just like those who were changed. Just like those standing in the dark. They were all waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for that net to close. Waiting for that person to walk to him on his own. He could wait. They could wait too. But between them, only one person could win.
Coming out of the Jinyiwei yamen, moonlight shone on my body, cool. He walked in front of me, pace neither fast nor slow, just like every day. I stepped on his shadow, step by step. The alley was narrow, walls high, stone slabs slippery. Just like every time. But different. When he stood there just now, saying "change a bit," his voice was very flat. So flat it was like nothing happened. But I knew, he was already collecting. Cutting those threads one by one, changing those who weren't his people one by one, dismantling that net bit by bit. Not moving that person, but moving his people. Not flipping the table, but collecting the cards. When that person discovers it, there will be nothing left in his hands. Only himself. Standing in the dark, looking at empty hands. He could wait. He could wait too.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"That person you left just now—does he know you know?"
He didn't answer. Walked a few steps, then said: "He knows."
"What will he do?"
He didn't answer. Walked a few steps, then said: "Wait."
Waiting again. He was waiting, that person was also waiting. Waiting for the right moment, waiting for that net to close, waiting for that person to walk to him on his own. He could wait. That person could wait too. But between them, only one person could win. I looked at his back. He walked in front of me, moonlight shining on him, his shadow cast on the ground, very long. On his hand, where the gauze had been wrapped, the scar remained, pinkish, faint under the moonlight. He walked very steadily, just like every day. But I knew, every step he took was calculated. No regrets in moving pieces.
(End of Chapter Forty-One)