Two days before the Spring Terrace Chess Tournament was set to begin, the streets of Huiyang Gate were already being prepared. The ward officials had driven away the nearby peddlers, clearing a space large enough to hold several thousand spectators for the board games.
Spring brought frequent rain, so a canopy was erected over the playing field to ensure the matches wouldn't be interrupted midway.
Chess masters from all the prefectures had gradually arrived, filling the capital's inns and taverns to bursting. The bustle was no less than that of the imperial examinations.
Shang Zhiqin said that the Ministry of Works had spent a fair sum erecting the platform at Huiyang Gate and needed reimbursement.
Emperor Shunyuan turned his gaze to Bu Zhangyi.
Both were members of the Wise Prince's faction—what was yours was mine, after all—so Bu Zhangyi hastily said, "Reimburse, reimburse. I'll immediately verify the expenditures with Minister Shang."
Luo Mingpu seized the opportunity to mention that the Ministry of Justice was also short on funds, complaining that the wood in the prison cells had been gnawed through by rats, and a vigorous rat-eradication campaign was urgently needed.
Bu Zhangyi immediately launched into a litany of grievances: "Money is needed everywhere. The Ministry of Revenue has no surplus grain left. Please ask your brothers in Justice to hold on a little longer."
Luo Mingpu fumed: "The Ministry of Justice deals in matters of grave importance!"
Bu Zhangyi: "And who here doesn't, pray tell?"
Luo Mingpu: "Bu Zhangyi, you're doing this on purpose!"
Bu Zhangyi: "Luo Mingpu, don't slander me!"
And so the two resumed their daily back-and-forth bickering at court.
One might say that factional strife soars into the clouds—what did victory or defeat have to do with the common folk?
But the connection was right there.
In the twenty-fourth year of Emperor Shunyuan's reign, the capital was struck by an unprecedented plague of rats. Hundreds of thousands were infected, and the dead piled up like mountains.
Corpses lay unclaimed in the streets and alleys.
Yet even knowing all this well in advance, so what?
In times of peace, the struggle continued as always. As for preparing for the storm before it arrived—that was a matter to consider only after gaining the upper hand.
Some mistakes are destined to happen—for the individual, and for the nation alike. A wrong decision, even when everyone knows it is wrong, must be pushed forward until it can go no further. For in many hearts, execution matters far more than right or wrong.
The man on the dragon throne tapped the armrest, his face etched with weariness, looking as though he wished to flee this clamorous place.
"Wanshan."
"Your servant is here."
"I hear that the chess players from Nanping have already reached the capital and are making a racket outside the Four Great Chess Halls, hurling insults left and right, treating our Great Qian chess masters as if they were nothing. Is this true?"
Wen Zhuo lowered his gaze: "It is indeed so."
Emperor Shunyuan suddenly smiled: "These Nanping folk—still so ignorant of heaven and earth. No need to lower ourselves to their level for now. Once the Spring Terrace Tournament begins, we'll show them the profound depth of our Great Qian chess heritage, let them know what it means to stand on the bones of a celestial dynasty!"
Wen Zhuo tugged the corner of his lips upward, though the emperor did not catch the mockery flickering in his eyes: "Then when I meet with the Nanping envoys tomorrow, I shall convey Your Majesty's gracious pardon to them."
Little did Emperor Shunyuan know that, due to the tangled interests between the eight great lineages and the princes, the Great Qian would ultimately suffer a crushing defeat.
And he, turning a deaf ear and blinding himself to the rot and decay festering through court and country, would brutally cast the consequences of it all upon that unfamiliar son of his.
As soon as court was dismissed, Wen Zhuo was about to keep his appointment with Shen Zheng when he found himself cornered by members of the eight lineages.
"Director Wen, would you take me along tomorrow when you meet the Nanping envoys? The disciples of my Shi Sect have been sharpening their blades—their hands are itching for action."
"Count me in, from the Helian Sect. I hear these three wonder boys of Nanping are barely nineteen—at such a tender age, what achievements could they possibly boast? Nothing but hot air."
"Our Great Qian is overflowing with talent. Even the founders of the eight lineages were past thirty before they established their schools. Are these Nanping folk supposed to surpass them?"
"Exactly. In the Great Qian Dynasty, being awarded the title of National Master at twenty-two is already a rare achievement—how dare Nanping send a nineteen-year-old?"
"This time we will bring glory to our nation! The Xiao clan will rise to the challenge!"
"Save your breath, colleague. Our Xie clan is sending a true scion of the main bloodline, personally trained by the full lineage of National Masters."
Wen Zhuo watched them, one by one, their faces flushed with fervor, and found it a rather exquisite sight.
He remembered some of their faces all too clearly. On the day he was pierced by a thousand arrows, they had shouted the same impassioned cries of "Purge the traitor, secure the realm," as if raising their voices just a little less, or showing slightly less emotion, would somehow fail to express their righteous fury.
Watching the arrows tear through his body, watching him fall blood-soaked to the ground, they had seemed like bloodthirsty jackals finally spotting a grand feast.
Shen Chen needed their flattery. He needed them to play along in this charade. Together, they had formed an unspoken pact—all the unspeakable deeds of the three-year struggle for the crown would finally be buried and forgotten the moment Wen Zhuo died.
Now the tables had turned. Playing the feast was a bitter meal, and it was time they tasted it too.
Wen Zhuo, suddenly struck with amusement, turned his gaze toward Xie Langyang.
"The Xie clan is aiming high this time, sending its own scion into the fray. Vice Minister Xie, don't you have anything to say?" — something to send him off to his death, perhaps.
Xie Langyang had, at first, desperately looked forward to exchanging a few words with Wen Zhuo. But when the moment actually came, he found himself too timid to speak.
Wen Zhuo had long known he’d react this way. As one who had been reborn, he knew full well the true purpose of the Spring Terrace Chess Tournament. Xie Langyang had had a thousand chances to inform Emperor Shunyuan of the matter—chances that could have saved the Great Qian from defeat and preserved the life of the Fifth Prince he so pitied.
But Xie Langyang had done nothing.
Once, Wen Zhuo had believed himself to walk the path of shadow and schemes, and so he had never consorted with the so-called "pure stream" of scholar-officials.
On later reflection, he realized that the "purity" of such men was nothing more than pure arrogance.
"It seems Vice Minister Xie doesn't have much faith in his clan's talent. In that case, this Director can only pin his hopes on the brilliance of the Helian, Shi, and Xiao clans."
Say goodbye to your precious talents, one and all.
Wen Zhuo smiled, his radiance filling the hall. The elder officials beamed at the flattery, practically floating on air.
A Transmission Officer of the Xie clan surreptitiously tugged at Xie Langyang’s sleeve. He, too, was a branch of the Xie family of Nan Prefecture—come to think of it, he was even Xie Langyang’s uncle by rank.
He leaned close to Xie Langyang’s ear and whispered: "Hengze, you and Director Wen were schoolmates with close ties. Why not ask him to show some leniency, arrange the drawing of lots so that our Xie clan’s players can avoid exhausting themselves..."
Xie Langyang’s eyes shot up—he could hardly believe that an elder he had always respected would voice something so blatantly unjust.
"Uncle!"
The Transmission Officer smiled and patted his arm. "Your cousin Xie Qian is competing in this tournament. Remember? As a child, he was always trailing behind you wherever you went. You must help your cousin."
Xie Langyang was silent for a long time, then slowly revealed a bitter smile.
Of course.
The one who would lose to the Nanping player was his own kin—his cousin Xie Qian. The reason Shen Chen dared to entrust him with this matter was precisely because he knew that, weighing all factors, Xie Langyang had no other choice.
In this world, how could one attain the perfect solution?
He could only do what he could for the Xie clan and for the new emperor.
The Transmission Officer, as an afterthought, offered a casual compliment: "Hengze, that belt tassel of yours is quite nice. Looks hand-woven."
Xie Langyang froze. He looked down and saw, hanging from the sash of his official robes, a small lotus-pink wish-knot tassel—delicate, dainty, swaying with quiet grace.
In the past, his court robes had always been put on him by maidservants. He was accustomed to spreading his arms and lifting his chin, never once looking down, which was why he had no idea when this ribbon had found its way onto his person.
Xie Langyang's thoughts drifted back several years, to when Wen Zhuo was about to depart for Bo Prefecture. Back then, Wen Zhuo had also gifted him these small trinkets, and later, afraid they might invite trouble, he had been forced to sell them off.
When Wen Zhuo returned to court three years later, his temperament was not what it once was, and on the imperial council floor, he never once gave Xie Langyang a kind look.
What if Wen Zhuo had seen that he was no longer wearing the old gifts, and instead had a ribbon given by someone else hanging from his waist day after day?
At the thought, Xie Langyang's knuckles curled, his wrist dropping with sudden force. With a sharp "rip," he tore the ribbon off violently.
A long red mark was left across his palm, but he felt no pain—only a creeping chill.
How many other small details had he failed to notice?
Could it be that there were indeed things he had misunderstood about Wen Zhuo?
Amid the chaos of his thoughts, Xie Langyang grasped at a thread of clarity and wanted to explain himself at once. Throwing propriety to the wind, he shook off the Commissioner of Transmission, and strode toward the long avenue leading to the imperial hall.
Once in his sedan chair, he urged, "To Director Wen's residence!"
But in that very moment, a small vermilion-lacquered sedan took a turn at the crossroads, heading straight for Guanqi Street, brushing past his own without ever meeting.
The moment Wen Zhuo stepped through the door of JiazI House, before he could even find his footing, a piece of jujube cold cake was pressed right to his lips.
Shen Zheng swung the oil-paper bag in his hand, raising an eyebrow like he was claiming a reward. "I washed my hands. Eat."
Wen Zhuo was taken aback.
Shen Zheng was, after all, an imperial prince and a student, while he himself was a subject and a teacher. There was no way Shen Zheng should be feeding him like this.
It was entirely against decorum and station.
But it was jujube cold cake—his favorite. Granny Wang's shop outside Huiyang Gate, a family recipe passed down for twenty years, with hand-selected golden jujubes from Cangzhou, paired with top-grade fine sugar from Jiangnan, a baker's dozen sold daily at a strict limit of eight hundred pieces. That jujube cold cake.
Wen Zhuo paused briefly, then leaned forward slightly, lips parting as he primly bit into the piece of cake and slowly drew it into his mouth.
The aroma of dates was fragrant and clean, the cake soft and tender—so delicious it made him want to compose poetry.
"No more of that after this," he said once he had finished.
"No more of what? No more buying it, or no more feeding it to you?" Shen Zheng asked, his clarity of thought bafflingly sharp, refusing to let the matter rest without an answer.
Wen Zhuo gathered his robes and sat down, replying with a question instead: "How did you know I love this?"
Shen Zheng dusted the crumbs off his hands. "I asked Miss Liu."
The moment he heard that, Wen Zhuo grew anxious. "Didn't I tell you not to go to my residence!"
Shen Zheng handed him the rest of the bag. "Relax. I asked through a servant at the Marquis of Yongning's household, and we even used a passphrase."
Wen Zhuo's expression eased slightly. "Why did you bother to find out all this?"
Shen Zheng looked completely matter-of-fact: "Given the relationship between us, doesn't it seem only right that I learn your tastes and try to make you happy?"
Wen Zhuo felt a subtle stir in his heart.
He had been moved to tears by Xie Langyang's generous patronage and meticulous care, and he had devoted himself body and soul to Shen Chen over a single word of consideration or a pair of sleeves knitted by Consort Yi. Back then, he had simply assumed that such warmth was rare in this world—never once considering that perhaps it was because he had received so little affection since childhood that he treasured even the slightest offerings from others like priceless treasures.
Wen Zhuo glanced at the bag of jujube cake. It was supposed to be cold cake, but here it was piping hot, warming and sweet once it reached his stomach—the two flavors his past had lacked the most.
"Thank you," Wen Zhuo said, folding the bag's mouth tight and setting it at the corner of the table. From the wooden case, he picked out a chess piece. "Shall we continue yesterday's game?"
"Hold on." Shen Zheng rubbed his hands together, eager to try. "I took a stroll through the East Pavilion today, and I reckon quite a few of those players weren't all that impressive. I want to see what a national champion is really made of."
Wen Zhuo glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
Shen Zheng: "How about you and me play a round? If I lose, tomorrow I'll go queue up at the Huiyang Gate to buy you date cakes. If you lose, you have to answer one question of mine."
It was good that a prince had ambition, and even better that he had curiosity—just a pity that the curiosity wasn't directed somewhere else.
Wen Zhuo raised a hand. "Then let's go."
Black and white stones arrayed in battle formation on the board. Shen Zheng, playing black, advanced with fierce, slicing moves, while Wen Zhuo responded with ease, his white stones falling with casual indifference. Within a quarter of an hour, Shen Zheng was cornered, his pieces cut off at both ends, with no path left to survive.
Shen Zheng wasn't discouraged, though. If anything, he seemed more animated: "Another round!"
A smile flickered in Wen Zhuo's eyes. "How many date cakes do you plan on buying me?"
"A lifetime, if I could." Shen Zheng said it half in jest.
Wen Zhuo didn't take it seriously either. He gathered up the stones and placed a single white one at the tengen.
This time, Shen Zheng put in even more effort, as if trying to unload every trick from those eighty-dollar-an-hour master tutors, but no matter how he varied his play, it was always within Wen Zhuo's predictions.
Within a single hour, he lost three games in a row. He was about to ask for another, but Wen Zhuo held his hand back.
"You should at least be able to calculate five moves ahead, and you missed several obvious traps. Enough—chess can wait for another day. Time to get down to the real business."
Shen Zheng was completely convinced, and it suddenly struck him that the beautiful villain had yet another layer of brilliance to him.
He just feared that question might never get asked now.
Sigh, sigh, sigh. Nothing to blame but his own weak game.
But then Wen Zhuo, while still picking up pieces, lowered his lashes and said, "That thing you wanted to ask me just now—what was it?"
