Hongzhi Year 18, Twenty-Second Day of the First Month.
The sky wasn't fully bright when we left the palace.
Zhu Houzhao wore that black Jinyiwei outfit, hair tied neatly, the short sword at his waist replaced by a long sword. He walked in front, his pace much faster and lighter than in the Eastern Palace. Without the heavy Gunfu pressing him down, without the Yishan crown箍 (箍) ing him, he was like a horse released from a stable, full of an unstoppable energy.
I followed behind, carrying the medicine box, panting from the exertion.
"Slow down—"
"Almost there." He didn't look back.
Jingjiao Great Camp. Farther than I imagined. We walked for nearly an hour. The sky went from black to gray, from gray to white. The scenery changed from brick walls in the city to withered grass in the wild, from withered grass to the fences of a military camp.
The camp gate was low. Wooden, with several planks already cracked, bound with iron wire. The guards at the door saw Zhu Houzhao's waist token and let us pass without a word. But their eyes were wrong—not reverence, but a kind of numbness, like "here comes another one."
The road inside the camp was dirt. Snow had melted two days ago, making it very muddy. My shoes were caked with thick mud, every step like stepping into paste. There was an indescribable smell in the air—not horse manure, not fodder, but another heavier, more stifling smell, like something slowly rotting in a corner.
Zhu Houzhao's pace slowed down. Not tired, but sensing something.
"Where?" he asked.
The Hundred-Hu (百户) leading the way pointed to a row of low houses: "Over there."
The low houses were adobe. The wall roots were damp, gray-green mold spots crawling up from the ground like a hand. The windows were small, the paper pasted on them torn with several holes. Wind blew in through the holes, and blew out, carrying a—
I stopped.
I had smelled this smell before.
In the emergency room of Peking University First Hospital. In the isolation wards of Khon Kaen University Hospital. In places where disinfectant couldn't cover, under those hospital beds, in the corner cracks, in the fibers of the bedding.
It was decay.
Not one person's decay. Many people's, mixed together, fermented by time and temperature. Sweet, stifling, like a piece of rotten meat wrapped in a wet cloth, stewed until juice came out.
Zhu Houzhao smelled it too. His steps paused for a moment, then continued forward. His hand pressed onto the sword hilt at his waist, knuckles slightly white.
The Hundred-Hu stopped at the door, didn't go in. His boots sank into the mud, his whole body like a wooden stake nailed into the ground.
"This is it."
Zhu Houzhao pushed the door open.
The door was light, opened with one push. The light inside was dim. The windows were blocked by something—not curtains, but straw mats, nailed to the window frames, not letting light in. Also blocking the wind. The air inside was dead, stifling, thick, like a pot of soup boiled too long, emitting invisible heat.
My eyes adjusted for a few seconds.
Then I saw clearly.
Straw mats covered the floor. Not one, but many, pieced together, like a giant, tattered carpet. People lay on the mats.
Not one person. Many.
Some covered with quilts, dark patches on the quilts—blood, or pus, or something else that seeped out and dried. Some had no quilts, just lying there, clothes torn with several holes, revealing the skin underneath—no, not skin. Wounds.
My fingers tightened on the medicine box. Knuckles white, palms sweaty.
Zhu Houzhao stood at the door, unmoving. His hand still pressed on the sword hilt, but his knuckles were already white as bone. His breathing became very light, so light I could barely hear—he was holding his breath.
"When did it start?" he asked. Voice very flat, but the ending note a bit tight, like a string twisted to the limit.
"Last month." The Hundred-Hu stood outside the door, voice muffled, like coming from far away. "First a few people had fever, thought it was a cold. Then more and more, some started vomiting, some rotting on their bodies—"
He didn't finish.
Zhu Houzhao walked in.
His boots stepped on the muddy ground, no sound. He walked to the nearest person, squatted down. The black hem spread on the ground, stained with mud, he didn't care.
That person was very young. Not much older than Zhu Houzhao. His face was gray-yellow, like a piece of cloth left too long. Lips chapped, dark red blood scabs seeping from the cracks. Eye sockets sunken, cheekbones protruding, the whole face like a layer of paper pasted on bones.
The quilt was lifted a corner, revealing an arm. Black spots on it, not bruises—bruises are purple, will fade. These were black, edges unclear, like ink drops on rice paper, slowly, slowly spreading. Necrotic tissue. The skin was already dead.
Zhu Houzhao looked back at me.
There was no fear, no disgust in that look. Something I couldn't describe—like a person seeing something he shouldn't in the dark, he wanted to look away, but he couldn't. His eyes were nailed there, nailed by those black spots, gray-yellow faces, sunken eye sockets.
I walked over.
Squatted down. Opened the medicine box.
Gloves. I had no gloves. I wrapped gauze around my hands a few times, then gently lifted that person's arm. His arm was very light, abnormally light—not thin, but that kind of lightness that lost all strength, like carrying a piece of wet clothes, water drained, only cloth left.
Skin very cold. Not normal cold, but that kind—blood couldn't reach cold. I pressed lightly, skin didn't rebound, the pressed place left a white mark, took a long time to slowly turn back. Edema. No, not edema, dehydration. Two contradictory signs existing simultaneously, like a person both drowning and dying of thirst.
I opened his eyelids. Conjunctiva pale, like old cloth washed many times. But blood vessels were dilated, red, thin, like a crumpled red paper spread on the eyeball.
"When did he start having a fever?" I asked.
The Hundred-Hu's voice came from outside: "Early Layue. At first thought it was a cold, drank ginger soup, didn't work. Then started vomiting, diarrhea, rashes on the body—"
"Rashes?" I turned to look at him. "What kind of rashes?"
"Red. Patches. Later turned into blisters, didn't heal after breaking."
I turned back, looking at that soldier's arm. Black spots, edges unclear. Not rashes. Gangrene. Tissue died while still alive.
I looked at a few more.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
Some had fever, bodies hot like stones baked by the sun. Some no longer had fever—hypothermia, felt like winter well water. Some had diarrhea, dark water stains soaking the straw mats. Some had constipation, bellies swollen like drums, sounded peng peng when knocked. Some had rashes on their bodies, red, purple, patch by patch. Some didn't. Some had ulcers in their mouths, white, like a layer of milk skin stuck on the oral mucosa. Some had bleeding gums, loose teeth, seeped blood with a light touch.
Symptoms were different.
Completely different.
Same camp, same time, same sickness—but symptoms different. Some like typhoid, some like dysentery, some like scurvy, some like poisoning. They were stuffed into the same room, covered with the same quilt, called by the same name—"Epidemic."
But this couldn't be the same sickness.
I stood up. Legs a bit weak—not scared, but squatted too long, blood suddenly couldn't rush up. But my fingers were trembling. That trembling wasn't from cold, but adrenaline receding, body finally remembering—what I just touched.
Zhu Houzhao stood beside me, silent the whole time. He watched my hands trembling, frowned.
"How is it?" he asked.
I looked at those people on the ground. On straw mats, under quilts, piled in corners. Some still breathing, chests slightly rising and falling, like bellows slowly pushed and pulled. Some breathing very fast, throats making hiss hiss sounds, like kettles boiling. Some breathing very shallow, so shallow I had to squat and watch for a long time to confirm they were alive.
One wasn't moving anymore.
His face towards the wall, features unclear. But his hand was outside the quilt, fingers curled, fingernails black—not dirty black, but black from inside out, like ink poured under the nails. Skin on the back of the hand was gray-purple, like a piece of meat left for many days.
I walked over, squatted down, reached to feel his neck.
No pulse.
Skin was cold. Not "cooled down" cold, but "cold through" cold. Like touching a stone, a stone soaked in winter river water for a long time.
I withdrew my hand.
Fingers trembling.
I stood up.
Turned to look at Zhu Houzhao.
His eyes were very black. Not that "I don't know what to do" black, but that "I know something is wrong, but I can't say where" black. He was waiting for me to speak. His lips pressed into a line, jaw muscles slightly tense, like gritting teeth.
"This isn't natural death." I said.
His eyes brightened slightly.
Not happy. A kind of "as expected" weight. Like a person waiting for an answer, finally got it, but that answer was heavier than he thought.
"What does it mean?" he asked. Voice very low, so low almost covered by the wind outside.
I looked at him. Then looked at those people lying on the ground. Some moaning, voices very light, like cats meowing. Some panting, throats hulu hulu, like something blocked. Some not panting anymore.
"If it were an epidemic," I said, voice pressed very low, so low only he could hear. "Seventeen people's symptoms should be about the same. Fever, rash, diarrhea—should be consistent."
I pointed to that feverish soldier on the left, then that hypothermic one on the right.
"But they are different. Some fever, some no fever. Some rash, some no rash. Some diarrhea, some constipation. Some mouth ulcers, some bleeding gums."
I paused for a moment. Looking at that dead soldier. His hand outside, fingernails black.
"This doesn't look like sickness."
"Like what?" he asked. His voice very flat, but his hand—that hand pressing on the sword hilt—knuckles white as bone.
I looked at that soldier's fingernails. Black, black from inside out.
"Like poison." I said.
Zhu Houzhao didn't speak.
He stood there, black clothes almost merging into the shadow in the dim room. Sunlight shone in from the broken window, shining on him, lighting up half his face, the other half hidden in darkness. His hand moved from the sword hilt, hung by his side, fingers slightly curled.
Silence for a long time.
So long I heard my own heartbeat, beat by beat, muffled.
"Can we find out?" he asked.
I looked at the medicine box. Gauze. Splints. Silver needles. Moxa sticks. No microscope, no blood routine, no gas chromatograph. No gloves, no masks, no disinfectant. What I had, in this era, couldn't even set up the simplest lab.
But I had eyes. Had hands. Had epidemiology learned at Peking University. Had cases seen in Khon Kaen ER. Had experience judging causes from signs and symptoms in places where tests couldn't be done.
"Can." I said.
He didn't ask how. Just nodded.
"Need what?" he asked.
I thought about it.
"Water. Clean. As much as possible."
"Mm."
"Gauze. Clean white cloth."
"Mm."
"And—" I looked at those people lying on the ground, mixed together, lying in this stifling room. "Separate them. Feverish and non-feverish separate. Rash and no-rash separate. Vomiting and non-vomiting separate. Diarrhea and constipation separate."
He looked at me. Those eyes very bright in the dim room, like two lit lamps.
"Can cure?" he asked.
I was silent for a moment.
That sweet decay smell surged up again, clogging the throat.
"First find out what it is." I said.
He nodded. Turned and went out. Black hem swept over the threshold, bringing up a small patch of dust.
I squatted down, reopened the medicine box. Gauze not enough. Silver needles not enough. Nothing enough. That little stuff in the medicine box, in this room, like a drop of water falling into the sea.
But had to do something.
I tore a strip of gauze, dipped in the water bucket—didn't know if clean, but better than not wiping. Water cold, soaked gauze, dripping.
I wiped that soldier's face. His eyes closed, lips chapped, dried blood in the cracks. Forehead very hot, so hot the water on the gauze evaporated as soon as it touched, turning into a thin layer of white mist. Wiping the forehead, his eyebrows frowned slightly.
Still alive.
I wet the gauze, applied it to his forehead. Then went to see the next one.
Zhu Houzhao came back very quickly. With several people, carrying water buckets, holding bolts of cloth. He didn't stand there commanding—he did it himself. Carrying water buckets, sleeves wet halfway. Laying cloth strips, squatting on the ground, knees stained with mud. Moving people one by one to different areas, his hands supporting their shoulders, backs, arms, movements very light, like afraid of breaking something.
His black clothes got dirty quickly. Cuffs stained with mud, hem rubbed with dust, chest had a dark water stain, didn't know if water or something else. But he didn't care.
He squatted in front of a soldier, helping him turn over. That soldier cried out in pain—a very short cry, like a cat whose tail was stepped on. His hand paused, hung in the air, then continued turning. Movement lighter.
I looked at him. Sunlight shone in from the broken window, shining on him. Black clothes stained with dust and blood, hair scattered a few strands from the tie, hanging by his face. A thin layer of sweat on his forehead, bright in the light.
He didn't look like the Crown Prince.
He looked like a—I didn't know how to describe. Like a person who finally found his place. Like in this room, among these lying people, he finally didn't have to hold himself up, didn't have to sit, didn't have to listen to those words he didn't understand.
He was doing things.
"Lizi." He called me.
I walked over.
He squatted in front of a soldier, that person's pants rolled above the knee, revealing the calf. A large wound on the calf, not from falling, not from bumping—edges neat, like burned by something. Skin around the wound black, hard, like burnt leather. Yellow pus flowing in the middle, thick, like melted wax.
"This," he said. "You look."
I squatted down, gently pressed around the wound with gauze. Skin very hard, couldn't press down, like pressing on a piece of wood. The black edges, I touched with my fingertip—no temperature. That patch of skin already dead, no blood flow, no feeling, nothing left.
"This isn't sickness." I said.
"What is it?"
I looked at that wound. Edges neat. Not irregular edges like ulceration, but neat, clear boundaries, like someone drew a circle with a compass. Black part concentrated in the middle, spreading outward, like ink drops on paper.
"Maybe chemical substance." I said.
"What?"
I thought, finding a word he could understand.
"Poison. Not eaten, but touched on skin. Something—liquid, or powder—fell on this skin, burned it."
He frowned. "How touched?"
"Don't know." I stood up, legs a bit numb. "If epidemic, not only one person would have this injury. Seventeen people, only this one. Means not airborne, not waterborne. He personally contacted something."
"Need to investigate." He said. Not a question.
"Need to investigate." I said.
He stood up, looking at me. Sunlight behind him, outlining his silhouette with a golden edge. His eyes very bright, much brighter than in Fengtian Hall.
"Investigate." He said.
Just one word.
But the thing in that word was heavier than all words spoken in Fengtian Hall.
We stayed until evening.
Looked at everyone. Living, dead. Recorded everyone's symptoms. Feverish, non-feverish. Rash, no-rash. Vomiting, diarrhea. Body injuries, no injuries. I recorded them on gauze—no paper, written with charcoal, characters crooked, but readable. Charcoal drew black marks on gauze, stroke by stroke, like medical records.
I spread the gauze on the ground, arranging them piece by piece. Feverish on the left, non-feverish on the right. Rash on top, no-rash on bottom. After arranging, I looked at them, something moving in my brain—like a puzzle, piecing together piece by piece.
Seventeen people.
Seven feverish, ten non-feverish.
Five rash, twelve no-rash.
Three diarrhea, fourteen constipation.
Two mouth ulcers, fifteen no.
Four bleeding gums, thirteen no.
One chemical burn on leg.
This couldn't be the same sickness. This couldn't be epidemic. Epidemic doesn't pick people—it comes, everyone is hot, everyone is diarrhea, everyone is rash. Not some hot some not, some diarrhea some not.
This isn't natural spread.
This is someone picking.
I stood up. Legs weak, supported the wall. Wall damp, dampness seeped through gauze into palm.
Zhu Houzhao stood at the door, back to the light. His face in the dark, unclear, but I knew he was looking at me.
"How is it?" he asked.
I looked at those gauze on the ground. Black characters crooked, like a person's struggle.
"Seventeen people," I said. "Symptoms divided into four groups. One group like typhoid, one like dysentery, one like scurvy, one like poisoning. One person can't have four sicknesses at once. One camp can't have four different sicknesses breakout at once."
I looked at him.
"This isn't natural death." I said.
He didn't speak.
Just nodded.
He turned and walked out. I followed. Twilight surged up from all sides, dyeing the whole camp gray-blue. Distant barracks lit with lamps, one by one, like fireflies. But this row of low houses had no lamps. Pitch black, like a grave.
Walking to the camp gate, he stopped. Turned to look at that row of low houses.
"Lizi." He said.
"Mm?"
"You said not natural death," he looked at me, his face not very clear in the twilight, but his voice very clear, every word clear. "Then what is it?"
I looked at him.
"Murder." I said.
He didn't speak.
Wind blew over, carrying that sweet decay smell. His hair blown loose, a few strands hanging on his forehead.
He turned back, continued walking.
I followed. Twilight stretched our shadows very long, overlapping, indistinguishable whose was whose.
(End of Chapter 11)