Hongzhi Year 18, Twenty-First Day of the First Month.
The sky wasn't bright yet.
I was woken up by Liu Jin banging on the door.
"Jiang Li! Jiang Li, wake up! His Highness is going to court!"
I sat up groggily. Outside the window, it was still dark. The moon hung on the eaves corner, pale and惨白 (deathly white), like a lamp about to burn out, ready to extinguish at any moment. Only one sentence floated in my brain: Court? What does that have to do with me?
But he said yesterday—"You follow."
So I came.
Fengtian Hall.
The hall was huge.
So huge that standing behind the corridor pillar, I felt my whole self could be blocked by this single pillar. The golden brick floor inside shone like a mirror, reflecting people's shadows, blurry, like people from another world walking.
There were many people.
So many I couldn't count. Crimson, cyan, green, standing layer by layer, like a faded rainbow. The hu tablets (ritual batons) in their hands reflected light in the candlelight, looking from afar like a field of moving fish scales.
The speeches were long.
So long that after standing for half an hour, they hadn't even finished the first person's speech.
Zhu Houzhao sat on the chair next to the Dragon Throne.
Gunfu (ceremonial robe) proper, Yishan crown impeccable. His right hand rested on the armrest, hidden by the wide sleeve. His left hand lay on his knee, fingers slightly curled.
Expressionless.
Eyes gradually glazing over.
I stood outside the hall, dozens of steps away, yet could tell he was zoning out. His eyes looked forward, but that "forward" wasn't ministers, wasn't the dragon throne, wasn't anything—it was empty.
I suddenly felt that after listening to three sentences, he already didn't want to be Crown Prince anymore.
"Now, the foundation of the state is not solid, the people's livelihood is difficult, border troubles are not quelled, the tax system should be discussed at length..."
It was Yang Tinghe.
He stood at the head of the civil officials, holding the hu tablet, voice neither high nor low, like a river that wouldn't break. Every word I understood, but strung together, they became a wall.
State foundation. People's livelihood. Border troubles. Taxation.
Every word was huge. So huge I didn't know what they meant.
Zhu Houzhao sat there, listening.
His eyelashes moved once.
Just once.
Then continued zoning out.
Yang Tinghe finally finished. The hall was quiet for an instant. Another person stepped out, read a string of numbers, another person stepped out, talked about border affairs, another person stepped out, spoke for a long time about sacrificial rules.
Ministry of Revenue. Ministry of War. Ministry of Rites.
Afterwards, five or six more people stepped out in turn, reading about granaries, military pay, sacrifices, river works, cases—everyone's voice sounded like reading memorials, not speaking.
In my heart, I dismantled them all, finally dismantling them into the same sentence:
You have to work.
Zhu Houzhao sat there. His right hand—that right hand with the splint—moved slightly under the sleeve. Not pain, wanting to make a fist, then releasing.
He held it back.
He knew this was Fengtian Hall, not the Eastern Palace.
I stood outside the hall, watching him. He sat in that chair, wearing that几十-jin (dozens of jin) heavy Gunfu, wearing that neck-pressing crown. He looked like a person nailed into a picture frame—good-looking, but didn't belong here.
Yang Tinghe stepped out again. This time his voice was lower than before, like winter river water, flowing slow, but heavy.
"The way of governing a country lies in its discipline. If discipline is not established, nothing can be accomplished..."
Discipline.
Another big word.
I dismantled this word in my brain, dismantling it to the smallest, understandable meaning—Rules.
Zhu Houzhao tilted his head slightly.
Very light. So light the ministers in the hall didn't notice. But I noticed—he was looking for me.
In the shadow behind the corridor pillar on the hall side, he found my position.
Then he slightly tilted his head, lips barely moving, saying a sentence only I could hear:
"Is he done?"
Voice very low, low as if wind blowing through a door crack.
I moved half a step forward, voice lowered:
"Just started."
He: "..."
He didn't turn around. But I saw his shoulders slump a millimeter.
I leaned in a bit closer.
"He wants you to listen."
His mouth corner finally twitched up.
"When do I ever not listen?" his lips moved slightly.
I didn't even think:
"Since birth."
His shoulder trembled once.
This time really holding back laughter. His left hand moved from his knee, gripped the armrest, then released. Finger knuckles turned white.
He didn't turn to look at me. But I felt he was laughing. That kind of laughter held back with difficulty, about to burst.
The sound in the hall continued. Yang Tinghe's voice echoed in the vast hall, buzzing, like echoes pressing down from the hall ceiling.
Then he suddenly stopped.
The hall suddenly went quiet.
Not that kind of "finished a sentence" quiet. It was that kind—when everyone is waiting for something, the quiet that ensues.
Yang Tinghe turned his head.
He looked this way.
Looked behind the corridor pillar.
Looked at me.
His gaze passed through dozens of steps, through the hall door's shadow, landing on me. Not heavy, not light, like a ruler, measuring if I was qualified to stand here.
"Your Highness," he said, voice neither high nor low, every word clear, "Do you have any instructions?"
The whole hall went quiet.
Everyone's gaze followed Yang Tinghe's line of sight. Crimson, cyan, green official robes, turning heads in unison.
Zhu Houzhao sat in the chair.
He didn't panic. But his right hand—that right hand with the splint—gripped tight under the sleeve. I could see the sleeve fabric pulled into a wrinkle.
He didn't understand Yang Tinghe's words.
He needed me.
I moved a step forward. The corridor pillar's shadow just covered my face, but my voice could reach his ears.
"He wants you to make a statement." I said, voice pressed to the lowest.
Zhu Houzhao's eyelashes moved once.
Then he spoke.
"What you just said," he said, voice not loud, but in the quiet hall, every word was clear, "I heard."
Whole Hall: ???
Yang Tinghe's expression didn't change. But his eyebrow moved slightly—very light, like wind rippling a lake.
Ministers looked at each other. Some frowned, some lowered heads, some secretly looked at Yang Tinghe's face.
Zhu Houzhao sat in the chair, expression very calm. Like he said something very normal.
I added a sentence, voice so low only he could hear:
"He heard."
His mouth corner twitched up.
Just once.
Then retracted.
Yang Tinghe looked at him for three seconds.
Three seconds.
Then bowed: "Your Highness is wise."
Retreated.
Court session continued.
But I felt, when Yang Tinghe retreated, his gaze lingered on the direction I stood for an extra instant.
Just an instant.
But I saw it.
When court dispersed, it was already noon.
Ministers filed out. Crimson, cyan, green, layer by layer pouring out from the hall, like receding tide.
Zhu Houzhao walked out from the hall.
He walked very slowly. Gunfu still worn, Yishan crown still on, but his steps were much heavier than when coming. Every step felt like pulling out of mud.
Walking to an empty corridor, he stopped.
"Help me." he said.
I stood on tiptoe, reaching for the Yishan crown on his head. The gold hairpin was stuck tight, I pulled twice before pulling it out. When the crown was removed, a strand of hair fell, hanging on his forehead. He exhaled, like a person holding breath underwater for a long time, finally surfacing. Then he reached to loosen his collar, the Gunfu collar was too tight, leaving a red mark.
His shoulders slumped. Not deflated, but unloading force.
Then he looked at me.
"Are they like this every day?" he asked.
"Mm."
"Then how did you survive before?"
I looked at him. Sunlight shone on his face, his eyes had a bit of fatigue, and a bit of amusement. Stray hairs on his forehead were blown up by the wind, revealing a smooth forehead. He stood under the corridor, wearing that heavy Gunfu, but his posture wasn't as stiff as in the hall—like a tree pressed by snow all morning, finally shaking its branches.
"I didn't live," I said. "I was auditing the class."
He paused.
Then laughed.
Not that light, wind-like laugh. But a real one, floating up from the bottom of his heart. Tiger teeth revealed, eyes curved, like his usual look when drawing a bow and hitting the target at the drill ground—carrying a bit of smugness, a bit of youthful spirit.
"You, this person," he said. "Everything can be translated by you into something that doesn't need brain."
"It basically is," I said. "They talked for so long, isn't it just telling you to work, listen, don't run around?"
He didn't refute.
We continued walking. Corridor sunlight shone in, warm, stretching shadows on the ground very long. He walked in front, I walked behind. His steps were a bit steadier than before. Gunfu was still heavy, but his shoulders weren't as slumped.
Walking to the Eastern Palace entrance, he stopped.
"Lizi." (Little Pear)
"Mm?"
"Tomorrow," he said. "Will you still be outside?"
"I will."
He nodded.
"That's good."
He turned and walked away. Steps lighter than before.
I stood under the corridor, watching his back. Sunlight fell on his shoulder, golden dragon patterns flashing in the light.
He was fourteen.
First court session.
Wearing a dozens-of-jin heavy Gunfu, sitting next to the Dragon Throne, listening to a morning of words he didn't understand.
Then he came back, asking if I was still there.
I suddenly felt, what he asked wasn't "Are you outside".
He was asking—
Are you still there.
"I am." I said.
He was already far away, didn't know if he heard.
But it didn't matter.
I knew he knew.
(End of Chapter 9)