Wen Zhuo caught sight of the date cake in his arms and froze for a moment.
He hadn’t expected that Shen Zheng, drunk as he’d been the night before, would still remember a promise made in passing. Though he couldn’t help but wonder just how much of the drunken rambling the prince actually recalled.
Those words—spoken between teacher and student, harmless enough to anyone else—were enough to turn his heart over and leave him at a loss for how to act.
And Shen Zheng, of course, was the type to say whatever crossed his mind.
“Your Highness, step outside for a moment. I have something to ask you later,” Wen Zhuo said, glancing at the date cake again before handing it off to Liu Qiying, then turning to Jiang Mannü. “Boil some hot water, would you?”
“Why?” Shen Zheng asked, puzzled. His hand was still resting on Wen Zhuo’s back, stroking the soft, warm strands of hair there.
From the corner of his eye, Wen Zhuo stole a quick glance at Shen Zheng’s arm. He knew full well that such gestures between two men were perfectly ordinary—but he happened to be fond of men, so how could he ever treat it as ordinary?
He looked away and said quietly, “I’m all sticky with sweat. I want to bathe and change.”
Oh?
Bathe and change.
Shen Zheng studied him. He could see the slight crease in his under-robe, the strands of dark hair clinging to his neck, trailing down into his collar—who knew how far they went. The thought made his blood run hot.
He raised a hand, pointing at Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü, one eyebrow arched in a lively sort of mischief. “Why not have the two of them leave, and I’ll stay and help my teacher bathe?”
Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü exchanged a look. Even Jiang Mannü, blunt and simple as she was, flushed and turned away, too flustered to say a word.
“Nonsense—how could Your Highness ever serve anyone?” Wen Zhuo’s ears went pink, his tone half scolding, half bemused. “I’ve always bathed alone. I’m not used to having anyone in the room. All of you, out.”
Jiang Mannü hurried off to fetch hot water, Liu Qiying busied herself arranging the folding screen and towels, and Shen Zheng found himself unceremoniously barred from the bedchamber, left staring at the lush pear tree in the courtyard with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
He really needed to find the Grand Astrologer of the Great Qian Dynasty and ask just how much of the History of Qian was made up.
Where was the fabled “frequenter of pleasure quarters, surrounded by painted ladies, wanton and unrestrained, repeatedly cautioned yet unrepentant, so notorious that no one in court dared act as his matchmaker, to the point that social mores themselves decayed”?
How was the Little Cat Traitor in person this conservative?
What was wrong with a teacher and student helping each other with hot water, wiping down, or slipping on an under-robe?
Inside, the hot water was ready. Fresh clothes hung from a wooden rack. A folding screen hid the wooden tub completely, and through the window’s translucent panes, not even a shadow could be seen.
Liu Qiying stepped out and shut the door behind her. Catching sight of Shen Zheng’s expression, she offered gently, “Your Highness, don’t take it to heart. Our master truly isn’t used to having anyone help him change or bathe. If you wish to repay his kindness, there will be plenty of chances later.”
“…Thanks for the reassurance,” Shen Zheng muttered, crestfallen.
He stared at the window, listening to the faint splash of water, and couldn’t stop himself from grinding his teeth. “So who exactly is our Grand Astrologer? I’m going to pay him a little visit tomorrow.”
Liu Qiying, though puzzled by the sudden question, answered honestly, “It’s Zhu Xiwen, Lord Zhu. I hear he’s upright and unbending, from a family of astrologers. Is there something wrong?”
Shen Zheng whipped his head around, a chill running down his spine.
He’d completely missed this key figure!
Right—at this time, the Grand Astrologer was still Zhu Xiwen, not Zhu Xibang.
The History of Qian, covering the twenty-third year of Emperor Shunyuan’s reign through the end of Emperor Shengde’s, was actually written by Zhu Xiwen’s younger brother, Zhu Xibang.
And there was an unsolved mystery at the heart of it: the death of Zhu Xiwen.
The official history recorded that he died suddenly of a chill in the deep of night at the end of Emperor Shunyuan’s reign, at only forty-eight.
Because he was a solitary man, keeping to himself and leaving behind messy, difficult notes, many major events had yet to be entered into the Veritable Records when his younger brother Zhu Xibang took over, revising the Veritable Records of Qian and continuing the task until Emperor Shengde’s death.
During Emperor Shengde’s reign, an unsuccessful scholar privately compiled a work called the Unofficial Collection of Spring Terrace, which claimed that Zhu Xiwen had been secretly executed by Emperor Shengde—because he refused to falsify historical records according to the emperor’s wishes—and that Zhu Xibang, by contrast, knew how to bend with the wind, and thus lived a life of wealth and ease.
Of course, there were many other accounts with different claims. Since the author of the Unofficial Collection of Spring Terrace had neither fame nor office, many scholars classified it as unofficial history.
The reason Shen Zheng stayed fixated on this minor historical detail was that it directly concerned him.
During his junior year of college, a subway construction project had unearthed a solitary grave. Archaeologists determined it belonged to the author of the Unofficial Collection of Spring Terrace. Unfortunately, most of the epitaph had been eroded, and only one line remained legible: “Born into a family of scholars… son-in-law of Grand Astrologer Zhu Xiwen.”
If he truly was Zhu Xiwen’s son-in-law, then the credibility of that unofficial history shot up considerably.
Shen Zheng had a bold streak. Before the academic world had reached any consensus, he used this as the basis for his thesis.
But at his mid-term defense, due to a lack of supporting sources, the associate dean of the College of Humanities shot it down.
There was a saying among students: whenever life gets you down, go pay respects at the Yonghe Temple. Worship with a sincere heart, and the power of faith will smooth things out.
How it smoothed them out didn’t matter—it just did.
As a materialist, Shen Zheng had no choice. To graduate, he went, offered a thousand yuan of incense, and made one single request: that the unofficial collection be true, and that his thesis pass.
No sooner had he stepped out of the Yonghe Temple gates than he blinked, and found himself kneeling in the Little Cat Traitor’s parlor.
He was speechless for a moment, unsure whether to marvel that the Temple really worked, or that it had a wicked sense of humor.
But now, he actually had a chance to uncover the truth of this historical mystery.
Wen Zhuo finished washing and combing his hair, and emerged in a blue robe. His hair was still damp, left unbundled, hanging loose and wet down his back. A faint scent of soap clung to him.
He reached the foot of the steps, gathered his wet hair over one shoulder, and lifted his eyes to look at Shen Zheng.
Perhaps it was unintentional, but his eyes were simply too full of feeling—like spring water rippling—so much so that Shen Zheng desperately wanted to drag him back inside, to let that hair, damp and smooth as silk, brush against his own skin.
Now he understood why Gu Weizhi was so fond of reciting poetry at Wen Zhuo.
His mind was a burst of color, finally coalescing into a poem he longed to speak aloud.
Shen Zheng let out a soft laugh. “The moon shines bright above—how lovely she appears, my teacher.”
“…”
Wen Zhuo tilted his head to look up at the blazing sun overhead and found himself momentarily lost for words.
Granny Wang’s date cakes had been set out on the little stone table. Wen Zhuo, with a mouthful of cake, nonetheless didn’t forget to press Shen Zheng with questions.
“What was all that about the special grace banquet? Why did you hide your skill at Go? Don’t you realize that if you’d told the truth, we wouldn’t have had to go through all this trouble!”
Shen Zheng raised three fingers in all sincerity: “Teacher, so help me, that match I played alone yesterday—I memorized it. My real skill is exactly what you saw when we played. If I hadn’t needed to lose, there’s no way I’d have let you win over that question.”
At the mention of that question, Wen Zhuo nearly choked on his cake, reaching quickly for a cup of tea to wash it down.
“Such an exquisite match—where did you memorize it from? Don’t tell me some temple god revealed it to you in a dream.”
“From where I come from,” Shen Zheng answered.
“Nanping?” Wen Zhuo asked, skeptical. “Nanping has never been known for its mastery of chess. How could there be such a game there, and it just so happens that only you discovered it, with no one else knowing about it?”
Shen Zheng thought to himself, I can't exactly tell him this was made by an AI, an algorithm, something cooked up by computers, can I?
He took the opportunity of pouring tea for Wen Zhuo to think it over briefly, then spun a story: “Aren't I into tomb raiding? There's a tomb in Nanping called the Seven-Star Lupin Palace. Inside, I found a Warring States chess manual that recorded this very game. The two old masters who played it were named AlphaGo and AlphaZero, and they claimed they'd only come to understand this game after mastering a secret technique called Monte Carlo Tree Search. I found it interesting, so I memorized it. And it's the only game I know — if Shen Chen hadn't gotten clever and insisted everyone play against themselves, I'd never have made such a bold claim.”
“Could it be a tomb of a prince of the Han dynasty state of Lu?” Wen Zhuo rested his chin on his hand, lost in thought, murmuring with feeling, “It seems this hobby of yours isn't entirely useless after all.”
His wrist was pale and slender, and on the side pressed against his cheek, faint blue veins could be seen beneath the skin, as if a light squeeze would leave finger marks behind.
Shen Zheng studied him. When Wen Zhuo was deep in thought, he furrowed his brows slightly, his lashes drooping, and that serious, earnest expression was endlessly endearing.
Shen Zheng's heart stirred, and he longed to let him see the true usefulness of this hobby. But the moment he remembered Wen Zhuo's traumatized reaction and the tense, guarded way he slept, he forced the thought back down.
If the History of Qian really had been tampered with, then those thousand characters across two pages about Wen Zhuo — how much was true, and how much was false?
“Let's go. Time is short. I need to pay a visit to Marquis Yongning.” Wen Zhuo finished the jujube cake, brushed the crumbs from his hands, and called for Liu Qiying to style his hair.
“Is this about digging the tunnel?” Shen Zheng stood up as well. “It just so happens Father gave me a hundred taels of gold as a reward. I'll bring it all over tomorrow. Have Miss Liu keep it safe. The craftsmen's expenses will come out of that, and whatever's left is yours, Teacher.”
“It's not just about the tunnel.” Wen Zhuo hesitated for a moment, his expression uncertain, then let out a soft sigh. “I'll tell you once we get there.”
The time after noon had passed. The light at the eaves was gathered up inch by inch, then slanted across the walls in a flood.
Marquis Yongning's estate was separated from Wen Zhuo's residence by only two long alleys, named Xiangshui Street and Luoshui Street.
If one were to walk honestly on two legs, it would be quite far. But if one dug through underground, it instead became much closer.
Wen Zhuo pulled Shen Zheng into the small lacquered sedan chair. The attendant cracked the horsewhip, the wheels rumbled forward, and the carriage swayed and shook as it moved.
Wen Zhuo's sedan was the budget-friendly kind; the space inside wasn't large, fit for at most two people.
Before joining the contest for the throne, he had truly lived quite frugally.
But Shen Zheng, though still skinny, was nonetheless tall and large-framed. Every time the sedan lurched, the two could hardly avoid bumping into each other.
Wen Zhuo knocked into his shoulder once more, and Shen Zheng simply reached out and pulled him close, his right arm circling behind Wen Zhuo's back, coming to rest on his shoulder. The warmth of his palm seeped through the brocade, right against the skin.
“You —”
“Ow... my shoulder hurts from the bumping.” Shen Zheng said as he shut one eye, as if he genuinely had to endure the pain.
This reckless master isn't even the one who complains, and I haven't even said I'm in pain!
So delicate. Utterly useless in a crisis!
Wen Zhuo clenched the hem of his robe in frustration, forced to press against Shen Zheng's body. At least he wasn't being jostled anymore, but his heart was racing like frantic drumbeats.
He was nervous, afraid that if he stood too close, Shen Zheng would hear his irregular heartbeat and discover the shameful, despicable secret he could never put into words.
But Shen Zheng, being completely normal, was utterly oblivious. He even lifted the curtain and pointed excitedly at a flower-decorated stage where a performance was on, urging Wen Zhuo to look.
“Teacher, have you ever heard the opera Farewell My Concubine? I like watching that... uh... that sort of play.”
“I've heard it on occasion, but not enough to recall it clearly.”
Wen Zhuo then fell into self-flagellation again. All the beautiful love in this world followed the proper path of man and woman. If only there were a medicine to cure this affliction of his.
Burdened by his thoughts, Wen Zhuo forgot himself and gradually leaned fully against Shen Zheng.
Shen Zheng had first been thinking that if he could get rubber trees from Peru, he could wrap the wheels in rubber for shock absorption. But as he watched Wen Zhuo continually tumbling into his arms, he immediately shelved that idea.
Being backward has its advantages.
In less than the time it takes to burn a stick of incense, the sedan stopped at Marquis Yongning's estate.
Marquis Yongning, Jun Guangping, was advanced in years and had long retired from office. He no longer held real power, but his prestige in the military remained formidable. The reason Jun Dingyuan had been noticed by the army early on, his talents never buried, was precisely through his residual influence.
Shen Zheng had spent ten years as a hostage, and Jun Dingyuan had been in the army for ten years in that time. Consort Liang had remained deep in the palace, and the old marquise had passed away two years ago.
In the end, only Jun Guangping was left in the vast, sprawling Marquis Yongning estate.
He was a man of deep loyalty and sentiment. In his entire life, he married only once, fathered only two sons, and even after his wife's death, he never remarried. In his position, that was extraordinarily rare and admirable.
This was not Shen Zheng's first visit to see his maternal grandfather. Since returning to the capital penniless and hard up, he'd lost no time in extracting silver from both Consort Liang and Marquis Yongning.
Jun Guangping doted on the grandson he hadn't seen in ten years, eyes brimming with tears, as if he would happily move his entire household into Shen Zheng's possession.
“Grandfather, I'm here!”
Shen Zheng went up and knocked on the door, his tone familiar and utterly at ease.
The martial household had no patience for excessive ceremony. Hearing the voice, Jun Guangping hurriedly returned his long spear to the weapon rack, then laughed heartily: “You made quite the spectacle yesterday! I thought His Majesty would keep you in the palace. How is it you have time to come see this old man?”
Jun Guangping stepped out into the courtyard and only then noticed the figure standing beside his grandson.
Wen Zhuo wore a plain blue robe, bearing the full regalia of the Hanlin Academy's Director. His expression was calm, with the faintest smile, and he made no special effort to bow or scrape before Jun Guangping.
Jun Guangping was taken aback; the last person he'd expected to see was Wen Zhuo arriving alongside his grandson. Then he laughed and said, “Director Wen honors my humble home. I failed to greet you properly.”
“Marquis, yesterday the Fifth Prince caused a sensation and regained His Majesty's favor. I've come specially to offer my congratulations.” Wen Zhuo strolled in, casting a sweeping glance at the rows of weapons lined up against the wall.
That he'd regained the emperor's favor was true, but coming from Wen Zhuo's mouth, the words carried an odd weight.
A top-tier official who never allied himself with any faction, known to all as the emperor's favored courtier, had specifically come to congratulate him on this matter.
Jun Guangping couldn't help but wonder if there was hidden meaning behind the words.
Wen Zhuo noticed his reaction but only curled his lips with casual indifference: “Will the Marquis not invite me to sit for a cup of tea? That time when you discussed the scarecrow startling the cranes, I still remember that lecture well.”
“Please.” Jun Guangping gestured with one hand.
Moments later, the three sat in the main hall. The tea was a barley tea from the northern frontier, not as crisp and refined as the celebrated teas of the south, but rich in flavor, carrying a wild, far-flung vigor.
Jun Guangping rested his arms on his knees, smiling affably: “Director Wen, I suspect you're not here merely to offer congratulations today?”
Wen Zhuo blew the steam from his teacup, took a sip of the strong tea, and a fine mist of moisture clung to his long lashes.
“Marquis, do you know who the Blind Crane, the Jackal Dog, and the Farmer were in Xie Langyang's speech the other day?”
Jun Guangping's smile gradually faded, his brow furrowed, his expression growing grave.
He had indeed felt there was more to Vice Minister Xie's words that day, but how exactly had Wen Zhuo come to know of it?
Shen Zheng rested his hand on his knee, his long fingers idly caressing the covered teacup as he gave Marquis Yongning his answer directly: "Grandfather, Blind Crane is me, the Jackal Dog is the one who framed me after the final battle, and the Farmer—well, that would be those among the Eight Meridians who know the inside story."
"What—" Jun Guangping was stunned.
Shen Zheng said calmly, "My claim of reciting three chess formations from memory at Nanping was made up. If Director Wen hadn't gotten word in advance and had me memorize them beforehand to show His Majesty, their scheme to frame me would have succeeded. You'd be visiting me at Fenghuang Terrace right now to console me."
Jun Guangping shot to his feet, breaking into a cold sweat at the sheer machination of the court.
"You mean Vice Minister Xie knew of the Eight Meridians' plot all along and had already decided to frame you right there at the chess gathering?!"
Wen Zhuo said, "Marquis, though you are not in court, you must know that His Majesty is gravely ill, and the struggle for succession grows more open by the day. The Eight Meridians are tied to the interests of several princes; to protect them, someone must be pushed out to bear the blame. The Fifth Prince returned from Nanping with neither imperial favor nor the backing of his maternal relatives—he was the natural choice. Do you know who came up with this scheme?"
Jun Guangping was about to retort that Shen Zheng did have the backing of maternal relatives—his grandfather was still alive, after all—but then Wen Zhuo's question stopped him cold.
He asked cautiously, "...Who?"
Wen Zhuo replied without changing expression: "Xie Langyang. But do you know whose benefit he was really serving with that idea?"
In those few short exchanges, Jun Guangping had absorbed a shock too great to bear alone. He took a deep breath, forcing down his fury: "Surely it was for the Xie family?"
Wen Zhuo smiled, but there was a meaningful sigh in his tone.
"Marquis, you have skill in commanding troops, but no eye for reading men. What a pity."
