Hongzhi Year 17, Twelfth Month (Layue).
The winter in Beijing was cold enough to freeze your ears off.
I huddled in the side room of the Eastern Palace, rubbing my hands over a basin of charcoal fire that was on the verge of going out. Outside the window, the north wind howled, whistling like someone weeping. In the distance, the muffled voices of eunuchs drifted over, indistinct and blurry.
It had been nearly a month since I transmigrated.
Zhu Houzhao's arm was healing faster than expected. Partly because young people's bones grow fast, and partly because the Imperial Hospital's splinting technique wasn't actually that bad—they just lacked the concept of asepsis and systematic rehabilitation training. Every day, I changed his dressings, adjusted the tightness of the splints, and guided him through finger flexion exercises to prevent joint stiffness. The swelling in his forearm had mostly subsided, the fracture alignment was stable, and in another two weeks, we should be able to remove the splints.
But the problem wasn't the arm.
The problem was—the Imperial Hospital.
"Jiang Li."
Liu Jin lifted the curtain and entered. A gust of cold wind flooded the room, causing the charcoal flame to flicker violently. His expression wasn't good. "The Director of the Imperial Hospital, Director Wang, is here. He says he wants to 'inspect the Prince's injury.'"
My hands froze.
Director Wang. The old physician who had been kicked to the ground by Zhu Houzhao that day. Ever since I took over Zhu Houzhao's treatment, no one from the Imperial Hospital had set foot inside the sleeping quarters. Zhu Houzhao's remark, "I don't feel safe with anyone else," had effectively blocked the entire Imperial Hospital from the door.
They were certainly not happy about it.
A sweeping maid stealing the Imperial Hospital's job—if word got out, where would the Imperial Hospital put its face?
"What did His Highness say?" I asked.
"His Highness said to let them in." Liu Jin's expression was subtle. "And he said he wants you there too."
I followed Liu Jin toward the sleeping hall. The wind in the corridor poured down my collar, making me shrink my neck, but there was a thin layer of sweat on my back—not from cold, but from nervousness.
The Imperial Hospital was coming to hold me accountable.
The sleeping hall was heated with charcoal, and warmth hit me as I entered. Zhu Houzhao was leaning against a large bolster pillow, his right arm resting on a soft cushion, flipping through a book with his left hand. He wore a slightly worn round-collar red robe, the collar slightly open to reveal a small section of his collarbone. His posture was so lazy he didn't look like a Crown Prince at all, but more like a boneless big cat.
Seeing me enter, his eyelids lifted slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching up, before he lowered his head to continue reading.
The sound of pages turning was exceptionally clear in the quiet hall.
Director Wang stood in the center of the hall with two middle-aged physicians. Their official hats were perfectly straight, but the knuckles of the fingers gripping their robes were white. The old physician I had clashed with was also there, his face a mix of green and pale, his eyes darting around—looking at the floor, looking at me, but never daring to look at Zhu Houzhao.
"Your Highness," Director Wang bowed, his voice tight. "We are here by imperial decree to inspect Your Highness's injury. We wonder how the recovery has been these past few days?"
"Not bad." Zhu Houzhao didn't look up, turning a page.
Rustle.
"May we… be permitted to take a look?"
"Sure." Zhu Houzhao tossed the book aside, lazily extending his right arm. "Look."
Director Wang stepped forward.
His gaze fell on Zhu Houzhao's right arm—the splints were fixed neatly, the gauze was clean and white, the tightness of the bandages clearly carefully adjusted, and even the knotting method was different from the Imperial Hospital's. He reached out to gently touch the splint, then pinched Zhu Houzhao's fingers to check mobility and blood circulation.
I stood to the side, silent.
The hall was so quiet you could hear the charcoal crackling. Every time Director Wang pinched a finger, he glanced at Zhu Houzhao's expression—no pain, no frowning, no movement. The expression on his face grew more and more complex.
After the examination, he looked back at his two colleagues.
The two physicians kept their heads down; neither spoke.
Director Wang's Adam's apple bobbed.
"This injury of Your Highness… is indeed recovering quite well." His voice was a bit dry. "The splinting was appropriate, the swelling has subsided, the bone alignment is correct… We are impressed."
Zhu Houzhao hummed.
The tone went up at the end, as if saying: And?
The air in the hall stagnated for a few seconds.
Director Wang gritted his teeth and suddenly turned to me.
"Young lady." His gaze was like a blunt knife—not sharp, but pressing down heavily. "May I ask who your teacher was? What art did you study? In all the典籍 (classics) of the Imperial Hospital, we have never recorded such a bone-setting method. His Highness is the heir to the throne. If anything were to happen—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
But the temperature in the hall dropped a few more degrees.
Outside, the wind moaned, as if sighing for someone.
Zhu Houzhao finally lifted his head.
He looked at Director Wang.
Just one look.
Not angry, nor impatient—it was a look I couldn't quite describe. Like a cat watching a mouse that had wandered into its territory, not rushing to pounce, just watching quietly.
"If anything were to happen, what?"
His voice wasn't loud. But Director Wang's knees buckled slightly.
"I… I meant," his voice began to tremble, "this girl's background is unknown, her medical skills have not been verified by the Imperial Hospital. We are worried…"
"Worried about what?"
Zhu Houzhao's tone was very light, each word like a nail hammered into the floor. His left fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the bolster, tap, tap, unhurried.
"Worried that she treats patients better than you?"
Thump. Director Wang dropped to his knees.
The two physicians followed suit, their foreheads hitting the cold brick surface with a dull sound.
"We dare not! We absolutely have no such intention!"
Zhu Houzhao didn't tell them to get up.
He tilted his head and looked at me, the corners of his mouth lifting—that mischievous smile floated up again, as if saying: See? I knew it would be like this.
Then he turned to the physicians kneeling on the ground, his tone suddenly becoming light and cheerful, as if chatting about something fun:
"Director Wang, you say her background is unknown—then let me ask you, how does her bone-setting technique compare to yours?"
Silence.
The blue veins on Director Wang's forehead were throbbing.
"This… I…"
"How does she compare to any physician in your hospital?"
Deeper silence.
Outside, the wind roared, shaking the window lattice with a clatter.
Zhu Houzhao smiled. That smile held the edge of a young Son of Heaven, like light reflecting off a blade, flashing and vanishing in an instant.
"All of you from the Imperial Hospital knelt on the ground, no one dared to touch my arm. A sweeping maid stepped up and set it in the time it takes to burn a stick of incense. And now you come to tell me 'background unknown'?"
He paused.
His voice suddenly turned cold, like the Layue wind pouring down a collar:
"Then tell me, why didn't you, with your 'known background,' dare to lay a hand on it?"
Director Wang knelt on the ground, his forehead pressed against the cold bricks, his shoulders trembling slightly. The two physicians didn't even dare to breathe, their robes crumpled into deep folds from being gripped so tightly.
The hall was quiet enough to hear the charcoal crackle.
I stood to the side, my palms full of sweat.
Not from fear.
But because Zhu Houzhao was standing up for me.
And the way he stood up for me was by stomping the Imperial Hospital's face into the ground.
—This was not good for me.
The Imperial Hospital wouldn't dare hate the Crown Prince, but they would hate me.
"Your Highness," I spoke up, trying to keep my voice steady. "Director Wang has a point. My medical skills indeed haven't been verified by the Imperial Hospital. If Your Highness is worried, you could have the Imperial Hospital send someone to assist in the care—"
"I won't."
Zhu Houzhao cut me off.
Clean and crisp, like stating a fact that required no discussion.
He looked at me. There was no mischief in those eyes, no joking. It was something that rarely appeared on his face—seriousness.
"I trust your treatment."
Then he turned to the physicians on the ground, his tone reverting to that casual laziness:
"Get up. Go back and tell the Imperial Hospital, you don't need to worry about my arm anymore."
Director Wang stood up shakily. His knees seemed stiff; he swayed slightly before regaining his balance.
He looked at me.
I saw clearly what was in that look—not gratitude, not relief. It was resentment born of humiliation, like a thorn buried in charcoal—not hot, but prickly.
He wouldn't hate Zhu Houzhao.
But he would hate me.
After the physicians retreated, the hall fell silent again.
The charcoal occasionally crackled; the wind outside sounded exceptionally distant.
Zhu Houzhao leaned back against the bolster, tilting his head to look at me, his expression returning to that lazy, annoying look.
"Were you scared just now?"
I looked at him.
"Scared of what?"
"Scared that I offended the Imperial Hospital too badly, and they'll make trouble for you later."
I fell silent for a moment.
This guy noticed everything.
"A little," I said.
"Don't be afraid." He reached for a tangerine on the table. His left hand wasn't very dexterous; his fingertips fumbled on the tangerine skin a couple of times, failed to grip it, and the tangerine rolled onto the floor, spinning twice before stopping at my feet.
The snap of the tangerine peel being torn open was exceptionally crisp in the quiet hall.
I bent down to pick it up and handed it to him.
He didn't take it.
He looked at me, just one word: "Peel."
Me: "..."
Fine. Bone-setting, changing dressings, serving tea, pouring water, and now peeling tangerines.
I sat down on a small stool by the bed and started peeling. The sweet scent of tangerine peel spread through the warm hall, mixing with the smell of charcoal, strangely comforting.
"That bunch at the Imperial Hospital," he suddenly spoke, his tone as casual as discussing the weather. "Don't worry about them. As long as I'm here, they won't dare touch you."
I handed him the peeled tangerine. A few strands of pith still clung to it, the white filaments standing out against the orange flesh.
He took it, broke off a segment, and stuffed it into his mouth, one cheek puffing out. He spoke含糊ly (indistinctly):
"Besides—they aren't capable anyway. When I was eight, I had a high fever. They force-fed me medicine for three days, and the more they fed me, the hotter I got. I was so feverish I started talking nonsense—do you know what I said?"
He chewed the tangerine, his eyes bright, as if telling a funny story rather than nearly frying his brain.
"I said I wanted to ride an elephant to court. It made Father laugh in anger."
"..."
"In the end, Mother invited a doctor from the common folk, and one dose brought the fever down." He stuffed the last segment into his mouth and clapped his hands. "Since then, I haven't trusted them."
I looked at him.
A fourteen-year-old boy, wearing a round-collar red robe, leaning against a bolster eating a tangerine, his cheeks puffing in and out, his eyelashes casting a small shadow in the charcoal light, looking like an ordinary neighborhood boy.
But just a few sentences ago, he had stomped the Imperial Hospital's face into the ground.
For a sweeping maid.
"Your Highness," I said. "Aren't you afraid they'll gossip behind your back?"
"Say what? That the Crown Prince uses an unknown maid and ignores the Imperial Hospital?" He brushed the tangerine juice off his hands, his tone disdainful. "Let them talk. Anyway, they wouldn't dare say it to my face."
He paused, then suddenly leaned in a bit closer.
The smell of tangerine peel hit me.
"And—"
His voice lowered, carrying a distinct youthful cunning:
"You are much more interesting than them."
I paused.
This distance was too close. Close enough for me to see the curve of his eyelashes—slightly upturned, like two small fans. Close enough for his breath to brush against my cheek, carrying the sweetness of tangerines.
I leaned back.
"Your Highness, please mind the distance."
"What distance?"
"...Just don't get this close."
"Why?"
"Because... it's against the rules."
He laughed.
Revealing two little tiger teeth, that youthful energy dispelling all the sharpness from earlier. His eyes curved like crescent moons, holding the firelight of the entire winter night.
"You're talking to me about rules?"
I shut my mouth.
Talking about rules to a Crown Prince who climbed trees for bird nests and broke his arm was indeed overestimating myself.
He leaned back against the bolster, picked up the book he had discarded, flipped two pages, then closed it.
Then he looked at me and suddenly said:
"Are you bored staying here?"
Me: "?"
That topic change was way too fast.
"What?"
"You just change dressings, boil medicine, serve tea and water every day, stuck in the Eastern Palace, can't go anywhere." He tossed the book aside, tilting his head to look at me, his eyes carrying that distinct youthful cunning. "Bored?"
I looked at him.
To be honest—yes, bored.
It had been nearly a month since I transmigrated, and I hadn't even stepped out of the Eastern Palace gates. My daily range of activity was a three-point line between the side room, the sleeping hall, and the medicine room. Although it was better than sweeping, it was essentially still a cage.
But I couldn't say I was bored.
A maid saying she was bored in the Eastern Palace? Wasn't that asking for a beating?
"It's okay," I said.
He glanced at me.
Clearly didn't believe it.
Then he smiled.
There was something in that smile I couldn't quite read—like excitement, like smugness, or like he was brewing some bad idea. The young man's eyes were bright like a rat that had stolen lamp oil, or a cat that had found a new toy.
"Tonight," he said.
His voice was pressed very low, low enough to be almost covered by the wind outside.
"I'll take you out."
I froze.
"Out? Where to?"
He put a finger to his lips, making a shushing gesture. There was still tangerine juice on his fingertip, glittering in the charcoal light.
"Don't ask so much. I'll come find you tonight."
He leaned back against the bolster, picked up the discarded book, and turned a page.
"Alright, go down."
I opened my mouth.
I wanted to say something—ask him how he could go out with his arm not fully healed and splints still on, ask him what he was doing going out on a winter night, ask him what if we were discovered.
But he was looking down at his book, that mischievous curve still on his lips, clearly not planning to pay attention to me anymore.
I stood up, carrying the medicine box, and walked out.
At the door, I looked back.
He was leaning against the bolster, the book blocking his face. But I saw a section of chin and a slightly upturned mouth exposed behind the pages.
As if he was snickering.
I walked out of the sleeping hall.
The wind in the corridor poured down my collar, making me shiver, but the heat on my face hadn't dissipated.
Tonight.
Take me out.
Where was he taking me? How were we getting out? His arm wasn't fully healed, the splints weren't off, running around outside on a winter night—if the palace guards saw us, my "physician" identity would definitely not be saved, and whether I could walk out of the Eastern Palace alive was a question.
When I was studying at North Med, a teacher once said: The most disobedient patients are always those young people who think they are fine.
And Zhu Houzhao was the most disobedient one in the entire Great Ming Empire.
I wrapped my clothes tighter and walked toward the side room, my heart bouncing up and down like it held a nest of rabbits.
But—
To be honest.
I was a little curious too.
Back in Khon Kaen, my roommate always said I wasn't a peaceful person at heart. Otherwise, I wouldn't have gone to Thailand alone for grad school, wouldn't have fought for night shifts in the ER, and wouldn't have dared to set the Crown Prince's bone on the third day of transmigration.
So—
Going out tonight, let's go.
Anyway, if the sky falls, the Crown Prince will hold it up.
Thinking this, I pushed open the door to the side room.
The charcoal fire was almost out, only a few sparks flickering in the ashes, like the breath of the night.
I squatted down to poke the fire. The sparks brightened again, reflecting on my face, the warm yellow light jumping up and down.
Suddenly I remembered the sentence he just said:
"You are much more interesting than them."
The corner of my mouth twitched up.
Then I quickly suppressed it.
Don't think too much, Jiang Li. He just meant you are more fun than that bunch of old fossils at the Imperial Hospital.
That's all.
The charcoal fire burned up again, the flames licking the charcoal blocks, making a faint crackling sound.
I sat on the small stool, staring at the flames in a daze.
But in my heart, I was thinking—
Tonight.
Where is he taking me?
The unknown night road, perhaps made me more uneasy than a fracture.
But I tightened my belt.
Whatever.
(End of Chapter 3)