To help Wen Zhuo improve his habits and nurse his health back to strength, Shen Zheng had recently been accompanying him on mountain hikes.
That day, the two were taking a leisurely stroll through Jingshan when the heavens abruptly changed. The clouds and light twisted as though woven into some strange pattern. When they opened their eyes again, they had returned to Great Qian—to the day the sacrificial rites had ended.
This meant that, from Great Qian’s perspective, time in the modern world had stood still.
Shen Zheng guessed it was some sort of distortion in time and space, triggered only when certain conditions were met. Those conditions remained unknown for now, but so long as they stayed within the imperial palace, there would most likely be another chance to return to the modern world.
Wen Zhuo was silent for a long while. Then the first thing he said was, “I still have seventeen ice creams in the freezer.”
Shen Zheng had been about to offer a few reflections of his own, but at this, he laughed. Reaching out, he wrapped an arm around him. “The urgent matter is getting you back to the palace and into a different set of clothes.”
Only then did Wen Zhuo look down and realize that he was still dressed in modern clothing.
Shen Zheng had returned to his own body in Great Qian, while Wen Zhuo had crossed over in the flesh. His outfit was perfectly ordinary in the modern world, but in Great Qian, it would frighten the palace servants and guards half to death.
Shen Zheng hastily untied his dragon robe and wrapped Wen Zhuo up tightly in it. Hunching their shoulders, the two hurried stealthily toward the Palace of Heavenly Purity.
As they walked, pressed close together, they whispered in low voices.
Shen Zheng said, “Wanshan, take a look. Did you bring anything from the modern world that might be useful?”
Wen Zhuo immediately began patting himself down. At last, he pulled a crumpled supermarket receipt from his pocket.
Shen Zheng unfolded it and read aloud, “Milk-skin candied hawthorn skewers? Solid mango-pomelo sago?”
Wen Zhuo’s cheeks flushed. With a whoosh, he snatched the receipt back and crushed it into a ball in his palm.
He had secretly bought them after seeing them recommended in videos. In order not to interfere with his allotted two ice creams every two days, he had not told Shen Zheng.
Amused and exasperated, Shen Zheng gave his backside a light pat through the dragon robe. “I stopped being this greedy for snacks by middle school, my Imperial Tutor.”
Wen Zhuo replied with perfect seriousness, “Your Majesty has lived in the modern world for twenty-three years. This subject has spent less than one there.”
Chen Ping watched in bewilderment as the Emperor and his Chancellor slipped hurriedly into the bedchamber. The Chancellor was wrapped up from head to toe in the Emperor’s clothes, and the doors slammed shut behind them. They had not even summoned attendants.
Understanding at once, Chen Ping quickly waved the palace staff away. “All of you, keep your distance. Do not disturb His Majesty and the Chief Minister while they discuss ‘state affairs.’”
Having reclaimed control of the Forbidden City, Shen Zheng felt as though he had merely taken a long vacation. Now that he had to resume governing, he was so busy his feet barely touched the ground.
In the blink of an eye, late autumn arrived, and the capital grew steadily colder.
Shen Zheng suddenly proposed that he and Wen Zhuo travel incognito to Mianzhou once more, while the weather was still cold.
For one thing, he wanted to inspect how Mianzhou’s development was progressing. For another, he wished to meet the Master Faji who had spoken of “a heart torn between two loves.”
He had an instinct that this man was no ordinary person.
They set out with a contingent of guards, accompanied by Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü, while affairs of state were temporarily entrusted to the Grand Secretariat.
They traveled on horseback. When they reached the foot of Mount Qingping, Wen Zhuo suddenly raised a hand and pointed ahead. “Your Majesty, we have arrived at your ‘home.’”
At the sound of this, Liu Qiying turned her head, only to see Shen Zheng smiling as he leaned close to whisper something into Wen Zhuo’s ear—then stole a kiss. She promptly turned away again, pretending to admire the scenery.
The journey went smoothly. More than twenty days later, they finally arrived at the foot of Mount Zhe.
No proper path yet existed on Zhe Mountain in Great Qian. The stone steps were slick with mist, and ancient trees twisted and knotted along both sides, their branches sprawling in wild disorder, untouched by human pruning.
Gazing into the dense forest, bottomless in its depths, Wen Zhuo found it hard to imagine how Ying Xingluo had once survived here alone, keeping company only with deer and other wild beasts.
At last, they climbed to the mountainside. The gates of Wangxiang Temple stood half-closed, and a young monk was sweeping the grounds.
Shen Zheng revealed his identity. Startled, the novice dropped his broom, hastily bowed, and led the two inside before turning to inform the abbot, Wuzhen.
Wuzhen hurried over. Upon hearing that the Emperor wished to see Faji, his face showed hesitation. “Martial Uncle Faji has devoted his heart to enlightenment and long since transcended worldly affairs. He is now in seclusion, cultivating in silence—neither eating nor speaking—as he awaits his passing. I fear he cannot receive visitors. I beg Your Majesty and Your Highness the Empress to be understanding.”
Shen Zheng paused before saying, “Ask him this for me: to save him would be to disrupt the chain of cause and effect; not to save him would be to betray compassion. Caught between these two dilemmas, how can one transcend the mortal world?”
Wuzhen’s expression changed abruptly. He cast Shen Zheng a startled glance, then hurried toward the rear courtyard.
Before long, a young monk came to announce that Master Faji invited His Majesty and the Empress to speak with him in the meditation chamber behind the temple.
The room was austere, with space for only an old bed, a meditation cushion, a wooden Buddha statue, several Buddhist scriptures, and an elderly monk.
A faint scent of pine needles lingered in the air. Master Faji sat cross-legged upon the bed, his beard and hair entirely white. His eyes were half-lidded. Though gaunt and withered in appearance, he possessed an indescribable air of compassion.
When the two entered, he slowly opened his eyes. His gaze rested on Shen Zheng and Wen Zhuo, yet he showed no surprise. He merely said, “When the spirit returns to its true state, all things return to themselves.”
Wen Zhuo exchanged a look with Shen Zheng. Then he stepped half a pace forward, his voice calm and unruffled. “Your insight is keen, Master. The person who has left you so conflicted has some connection to me. We have come today hoping to hear of his past.”
Master Faji’s eyelids stirred faintly; even the rhythm of his breathing was nearly imperceptible. “Does Your Highness the Empress not wish to ask why this old monk did not save him?”
Wen Zhuo lowered his eyes, his tone quiet. “You could not see through it. I will not ask.”
Master Faji had seldom encountered one with such spiritual understanding. A trace of relief passed over his weathered face.
“When this old monk first encountered him, he already had the form of a youth. Winter in the mountains was bitter to the bone. Desperate with hunger and without so much as a covering against the cold, he came to the temple to steal food and clothing. My disciples raised their brooms to drive him away, but this old monk stopped them.
“His origins were pitiable, and I could not bear it. So each day, I left some vegetarian food outside the gate. He could not speak. He would only watch with eyes like those of a wild deer, timid and wary, daring to approach only after everyone had gone. As time passed, he came to understand this old monk’s goodwill and stopped hiding from me. I taught him to understand human speech, to learn the Buddha’s teachings, and spoke to him of the principles of doing good.
“This old monk could have taken him in, but he had no affinity with Buddhism. At the sight of a wooden fish, he would flee; at the sound of sutras being chanted, he would grow restless. He could not endure the monastery’s strict rules. So I did not force him. I continued to leave food for him each day, watching him come and go freely through the mountains.”
“Until that day, when the wind in the mountains fell still, this old monk personally sewed a rough hemp garment and hung it before the door, hoping he would come to collect it. Yet I waited three days, and never saw him again. There are two hardships in this world: being unable to bear letting go, and being unable to put something down. If one cannot see through them, then that attachment itself is also a form of cultivation.”
From Faji’s few sparse words, the full outline of Ying Xingluo’s past finally came together.
Wen Zhuo was silent for a long while before he softly asked, “Master, do you not wish to ask what became of him?”
Faji’s gaze drifted toward a corner of the meditation chamber, and something like a smile seemed to surface. “When did he die?”
“The seventeenth day of the tenth month, in the final year of Kangzhen. His humble dwelling caught fire.”
Upon hearing this, Faji slowly closed his eyes. “A dream, a hidden truth; a thought, a delusion of dust. Only one year... only one year...”
Incense smoke curled from the burner, yet in that instant, the scent of pine needles seemed to scatter. The faint light spilling through the window lattice appeared tainted by dust and ash, flickering violently. Several old sutras by the couch were swept up by a wind from nowhere, their pages rustling wildly as they flipped at dizzying speed.
This meditation chamber seemed to be bound to Faji’s mind and spirit. As his heart surged and churned, questioning the karmic causes and consequences of the past, the chamber too lost its tranquility.
Wen Zhuo and Shen Zheng felt their vision blur. In the next instant, they plunged into an illusion.
They were still in the same meditation chamber, but the man seated cross-legged upon the couch was no longer the aged Faji at death’s door. He was Faji in his forties.
His eyes were clear and bright, his figure upright and imposing; between his brows remained the sharpness that time had not yet worn away.
A young monk shouted from outside, “Master! Master! Jinghe has run into the mountains again!”
Faji abruptly rose to his feet, frowning as he strode outside.
He passed directly through Wen Zhuo and Shen Zheng, his voice ringing like a great bell. “Go and bring him back!”
Startled, Wen Zhuo and Shen Zheng could only follow him out.
Before long, Ying Xingluo—going by the name Jinghe—was dragged back by the young monks, half pulled and half forced along.
His coarse monk’s robes hung crookedly on him. His head had not been shaved, and his unruly black hair still fell loose. He carried the wild, untamed air of the mountains about him, utterly at odds with the strict monastic rules of Wangxiang Temple.
“Master! He sneaked into the mountains again, caught a wild chicken, and roasted it to eat!” one of the young monks complained indignantly.
Jinghe merely looked at Faji with wide, innocent eyes. His lips still glistened with grease, and he did not resemble a disciple of the Buddhist faith in the slightest.
Faji appeared to have run out of patience for him long ago. Without a ripple of expression, he said, “Lock him in the meditation chamber. He is to listen to sutras for ten days and is not permitted to leave.”
A young monk beside him muttered under his breath, “There’s no use locking him up. His feet are nimbler than a monkey’s. If he wants to run, he’ll run.”
Just as the commotion continued, another monk hurried over from the temple gate to report, “Master! His Majesty has come to the temple with Consort Cao, Consort Zhen, and Consort Liang to fulfill a vow and thank you for saving his life in the past!”
Faji froze for a moment, then hurriedly adjusted his robes, his expression turning solemn. “Quickly! Prepare several meditation chambers!”
No sooner had he spoken than Shen Zhaoxi entered the temple with Cao Xiruo, Li Rouzhen, and Jun Mulan. Several dozen Imperial Guards remained outside the mountain gate.
Curious, Jinghe craned his neck to peer into the crowd.
Fearing that he might cause more trouble, the young monk hurriedly seized his arm. “Oh, come on—come with me, quickly!”
Hearing the commotion, Shen Zhaoxi instinctively turned to look. But Jinghe had already been forcibly turned around and dragged away by the young monk, leaving behind only a stubborn, unruly silhouette, his long hair streaming in the wind.
Very few people in the temple wore their hair long. That head of black hair, sleek as silk and wild beyond taming, held Shen Zhaoxi’s gaze for a moment, stirring something inexplicable in his heart.
Just then, Faji hurried forward and stepped in front of him, bowing deeply. “This humble monk, Faji, pays his respects to Your Majesty.”
Shen Zhaoxi immediately gathered his thoughts and raised a hand with a smile. “Master, there is no need for such ceremony.”
With that interruption, that fleeting silhouette was soon forgotten.
Watching the scene, Wen Zhuo murmured to Shen Zheng, “I understand now. When Faji entered meditation all those years ago, he had already glimpsed Consort Chen’s troubled fate. Yet he had been unwilling to forcibly interfere with another person’s karma, and so he let everything unfold. When I just told him the day Consort Chen died, the regret in his heart became unbearable. This illusion is another choice he might have made.”
Shen Zheng said, “So this time, he intends to forcibly keep Consort Chen at the temple, severing the chance for her and Father Emperor to meet for the first time. The one who saved Father Emperor from the brink of death was no longer Consort Chen, but Faji himself. After Father Emperor ascended the throne, he came to Wangxiang Temple with his consorts to fulfill a vow, in gratitude for that kindness.”
At that moment, the cry of a young child suddenly shattered the temple’s tranquility.
Shen Zhaoxi’s face darkened at once. “I told you already—there was no need to bring him!”
Jun Mulan held a two-year-old child in her arms, her expression strained. Yet she offered no defense, merely lowering her head to soothe him softly.
The child wailed as though his heart were breaking, his little face flushed bright red. But his eyes were vacant. No matter how Jun Mulan patted and comforted him, his crying would not stop. It was as if he were trapped in a vacuum no one could reach, unable to hear even the faintest sound from the outside world.
Shen Zheng pointed at the child, his face full of astonishment. “Me?”
Wen Zhuo leaned closer, tilting his head as he examined him carefully. “So this is what Your Majesty looked like as a child. Just as the imperial physicians said: born with five congenital deficiencies, his spiritual faculties unopened.”
Shen Zheng: “...”
Whatever affection Shen Zhaoxi still held for Jun Mulan was nearly worn away by the ceaseless crying. He waved his hand and rebuked her, “Take him outside the temple and wait there. Do not disturb the purity of this Buddhist sanctuary!”
Jun Mulan was not one to meekly endure humiliation. Seeing her son so openly rejected, her expression turned cold. Holding the child, she turned to leave.
Cao Xiruo was gentle by nature, but kind-hearted. She hurried forward to stop her. “Sister, wait! Your Majesty, the mountain air is cold. Perhaps the prince has caught a chill.”
Li Rouzhen stood to one side, watching with cold eyes. She understood perfectly well: the Emperor simply despised this son who had yet to speak. Even between father and son in the imperial family, affection amounted to no more than this.
Still, she removed her outer robe and stiffly handed it over. “Wrap him in this. Don’t let the prince catch cold.”
Faji’s gaze suddenly fell upon the young prince. The longer he looked, the more deeply his brow furrowed, and a grave expression gradually surfaced in his eyes.
Shen Zhaoxi followed his gaze, puzzled. “What is it, Master?”
Faji bowed once more, his expression now solemn. “Your Majesty, may this humble monk take a look at the young prince?”
Jun Mulan froze. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned and passed the inconsolably crying Shen Zheng from her arms.
Faji swept back his sleeve and inclined his head. Keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, he extended two fingers and gently placed them over Shen Zheng’s heart.
After a moment, Faji lowered his eyelids, his tone turning graver still. “Has the young prince ever suffered a terrible fright in his early years?”
Jun Mulan shook her head decisively. “Never.”
Faji withdrew his fingers and said in a deep voice, “If he has not, then someone has stolen his spiritual aperture. His soul is incomplete, and his heart channels are weak. That is why he weeps so restlessly upon entering sacred Buddhist ground.”
At these words, everyone present—including Shen Zhaoxi—stared in stunned disbelief.
Faji took two steps back and steadied his breathing. “If Your Majesty trusts this humble monk, leave the young prince at the temple for one month. Before his soul had fully settled, someone drew part of it away. It is now far from here. This humble monk will need to expend some of his cultivation to locate it, return it, and help the prince recover.”
Shen Zhaoxi still had affairs of state awaiting him. He had only come on this journey to fulfill a vow; how could he remain for so long?
Yet Jun Mulan seemed as though she had seized upon a lifeline. Dropping to her knees, she pleaded, “Even if there is only the slightest chance, this concubine is willing to do everything in her power. I beg Your Majesty to allow me to remain in Mianzhou for the time being, until Zheng'er is cured!”
Shen Zhaoxi’s brows drew together, his expression troubled. How could an imperial consort and prince be left outside the palace on their own?
But Jun Mulan appeared to have made up her mind. “In my younger days, I rode across the northern desert. I have always had a wild streak in me, so Your Majesty need not worry. The moment Zheng'er’s soul is restored, this concubine will immediately ride back to the capital!”
Shen Zhaoxi said nothing, doubt and belief warring in his heart.
Could this son of his, dull-witted from birth, truly be cured? But the imperial palace was heavily guarded—who could possibly have the ability to spirit away a prince’s soul without a sound?
Still, he longed for his son to become healthy and clever. After a long silence, he reluctantly nodded. “Then remain in Mianzhou and watch over him for a month. But you are a woman; staying at a temple would be most inconvenient.”
Faji added, “The nearest place to Zhe Mountain is Liangping County. There is a spacious residence there belonging to the Wen gentry family. Her Ladyship may stay at the Wen residence for the time being and come up the mountain each day to visit the young prince.”
At those words, Wen Zhuo’s breath caught. At this time, he was eight years old.
