The procession left the city of Shengjing, moving forward along the official road. Morning light spread across the eastern horizon, bathing the long, winding column in a warm golden glow.
The cavalry of the Third Thousand Camp were split into two sections, front and rear, guarding the grain carts and carriages in the middle with tight security. Hooves struck the damp surface of the official road, producing a steady rhythmic clatter, mingling with the rumbling of wheels. The sound carried far across the open fields.
On the distant slopes, the grass had been washed clean and green by the rain. A few old locust trees stood at the hilltops, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, as if seeing off the procession as it moved away.
Pei Cijing sat at the front of the carriage.
He leaned back against the shaft.
One leg dangled over the side, the other bent with his foot planted on the board. His posture was as carefree as if he were sunbathing in his own courtyard.
Yuanbao sat beside him, clutching the reins, looking full of vigor. His back was straight, his chin held high, with the air of someone ready to "do great things with the young master."
The carriage was not moving fast.
To be precise.
The entire procession was slow. The grain carts were too heavy, their wheels too wide. Rolling across the damp, muddy road, they left two deep ruts behind them.
The cavalry's horses couldn't run freely either. They stepped along at a quick trot, matching the unhurried rhythm of the grain carts. Every now and then, a cart wheel would sink into soft mud, and it would take several soldiers working together to heave it out. Each delay cost precious time.
Pei Cijing watched the fields slowly receding by the roadside, but his mind wandered far.
Six hundred li.
In his previous life, what was a distance like that?
By car — hop on the highway, step on the gas, and it would be three or four hours.
By high-speed rail — even faster. He'd scroll through some silly short videos on his phone, his wife leaning against him watching a movie, and by the time it was done, the scenery outside the window had changed completely.
By plane.
There was no need to even mention that.
In the space of a nap, you'd cross half the map, from one colossal metropolis of ten million people to another equally bustling city.
Disaster relief — why would it ever need so much time on the road?
Half a day.
At most, half a day.
Personnel, supplies, equipment — all in place.
But this was ancient times.
No cars, no high-speed rails, no planes. Only horses, carriages, and this one official road that had been soaked by rain all night.
Having a carriage to ride in.
That was already a privilege.
Pei Cijing turned his head and glanced at the long column behind him.
The soldiers of the Third Thousand Camp — most of them were marching on foot. Only officers above the rank of centurion had horses to ride. The petty officials, couriers, and laborers walking with the procession carried their own bundles, trudging knee-deep through mud, each step heavy, sweat pouring down their faces.
They hadn't left the capital too far behind yet.
This official road they were on.
It should be the best road in the Great Qian Empire.
The surface was firmly packed, drainage ditches ran along both sides, and relay stations stood at regular intervals. It was far better than some country path.
But even so.
It was nothing compared to the roads of his past life.
Pei Cijing still remembered the wide, smooth asphalt roads from before. Eight lanes in both directions, the surface nearly as flat as a mirror. When the wheels rolled over them, all you heard was a faint, rustling whisper.
Even country roads back then were concrete.
Clean and neat.
No mud on rainy days.
But this road, though it was the best in the Great Qian, was in the end nothing but packed earth.
At least the rain had stopped the night before. The road was still passable, not too muddy, and not kicking up dust either. The wheels rolled over the damp surface, leaving only a shallow trace behind — no splashing mud, no rising dust.
It was actually a fine day for travel.
But no matter how fast they pushed.
The pace of the column was what it was.
Pei Cijing calculated silently to himself. At this speed, in a full day, they could barely cover fifty li.
Six hundred li.
That was at least twelve or thirteen days of travel.
And that was if all went smoothly. If something unexpected happened along the way — if heavy rain washed out a section of road or a bridge — then it would take even longer.
The column came to a halt on a wide stretch of open ground not far from a river.
It was already noon.
The sun had climbed to its peak. Though it wasn't scorching, after more than two hours of continuous marching, both men and horses were tired.
The commanding officer of the Third Thousand Camp passed down the order: rest here for half an hour.
Set up camp and cook a meal.
At the order, the column moved like a precision machine, clicking into gear with orderly efficiency.
The cavalrymen dismounted and led their horses to the river to drink, then pulled out the bean cakes they carried to feed them.
The infantry scattered in groups of two or three. Some sat by the roadside rubbing their sore calves. Others went to the river to wash their faces. The grain carts were gathered at the center of the clearing, and a few soldiers set up sentry posts around them, taking turns keeping watch.
The cooks moved fastest of all.
Several large pots were set up, firewood stoked. They hauled millet, dried vegetables, and salted meat off the grain carts, dumped everything into the pots, added water, and let it boil.
Before long, the pots were bubbling away, and a steam rose that mixed the scent of millet and salted meat, spreading through the camp.
On any normal day, it was just plain rations.
But for men who had been on the road for over two hours, it was the closest thing to delicacies on earth.
The soldiers began to line up for their food.
Pei Cijing jumped down from the carriage shaft and stretched, loosening his stiff back. He glanced at the line waiting to be served, then looked away.
They didn't need to line up.
Because of one reason:
They were riding on his wife's coattails.
The ten female guards had dismounted, moving with sharp efficiency. Five of them stayed around the carriage, hands on their sword hilts, eyes sweeping the surroundings with quiet vigilance.
The other five took cookware and dry provisions from their horses, found a clean patch of ground, and set up camp with practiced speed — starting a fire, setting up the pot, boiling water.
Their provisions were self-supplied: golden-baked flatbreads, air-dried venison jerky, and a small bag of fine white rice.
One female guard rinsed the rice clean and set it to cook into porridge. Another sliced the venison jerky thin and grilled it on a hot stone slab. The fat sizzled and crackled, and the fragrance of roasting meat drifted through the air.
With limited conditions, no elaborate dishes could be prepared.
But even so.
This was already the privilege of a private kitchen.
Yuanbao squatted by the carriage, holding a bowl of hot porridge with a few slices of roasted venison soaked in it. He slurped it down with utmost relish.
Between bites, he sneaked a glance at the long line of soldiers waiting for their share from the big pots, and felt mighty pleased with himself.
Following the young mistress and the young master — that was good fortune!
The female guards split into two shifts. Half remained on alert around the carriage while the other half ate. They ate quickly, without extra words, quietly devouring their meal, their eyes never entirely leaving their surroundings.
When the first shift finished, they swapped places with those on guard, and the next group went to eat.
Pei Cijing watched it all, and he had to admit in his heart.
Now this was professionalism.
The female guards sent by the Empress were no ordinary protection detail.
Their every movement was disciplined and precise — the calculated positioning, the watchful angles of observation, that constant alertness that never tipped into panic. It was the kind of composure honed through countless brushes with danger.
He looked away and brought a bowl of hot congee to Shen Ninghuan.
Shen Ninghuan sat inside the carriage, the curtain lifted halfway. Morning light spilled through the gap, falling across her profile and making her clear eyes shine especially bright.
She took the bowl.
Murmured her thanks.
Scooped up a spoonful, blew on it gently, and brought it to her lips.
“Are you alright, dear? Not too tired?” Pei Cijing leaned against the carriage wall, watching her take small, careful sips of the congee.
Shen Ninghuan looked up at him, the corners of her mouth curving into a smile that held a hint of exasperation and a hint of amusement.
“I’ve been sitting in a carriage — what’s there to be tired about? I haven’t walked anywhere, and I haven’t been exposed to wind or sun.” She set down the spoon, her tone turning earnest. “I’m not that delicate.”
Pei Cijing couldn’t help but laugh at her serious expression.
Right.
His wife may have been born into the Shen household, raised in luxury, but she was no hothouse flower that would wither at the first gust of wind. That night of the coup, she had kept her composure amid flying blades and raised the alarm in time — that courage alone was something few ordinary women could match.
“Good to hear.” He nodded, saying no more, and picked up his own bowl of congee, drinking it down in big mouthfuls.
The dried venison was roasted just right — crispy on the outside, tender within, salty and savory. Soaked in the hot congee, it lent the plain white rice porridge a subtle layer of meaty fragrance.
The flatbread was baked with a crisp exterior.
Torn open.
The inside was soft and fluffy, releasing a full mouthful of wheat aroma with every chew.
Simple fare, just a couple of items, but compared to the mishmash stew bubbling away in the big pot nearby, it was a world apart.
Pei Cijing downed his bowl of congee in a few quick gulps, then tore off half a piece of flatbread. Just as he was about to bite into it, he heard a commotion outside the carriage.
A tall female guard rested her hand on her sword hilt.
The blade slid partially out of its sheath.
A crisp metallic rasp cut through the air.
She stepped forward, planting herself protectively in front of the carriage, and fixed a cold stare in the direction of the approaching figure. “Halt where you are,” she snapped.
Shen Mingxuan stood a few paces away.
Both hands spread wide.
His face wore an expression of helplessness, tinged with a flicker of startled alarm.
Today he was dressed in dark martial robes, a long saber at his waist, his bearing upright and his features square and steady — he did carry himself with the air of a promising young man.
But stopped by this female guard, that air was considerably deflated.
He studied the woman blocking his way — fitted martial attire, saber at her waist, tall and straight, eyes sharp and cold. That fierce spirit reminded him involuntarily of his betrothed, Gu Ruoli.
Same habit of never parting from her blade.
Same look that said “don’t mess with me.”
He’d stood her up once before and ended up with a knife pressed to his throat. The icy sensation of cold steel against his Adam’s apple was something he remembered to this day.
Once bitten, twice shy.
Shen Mingxuan instinctively took a half-step back, hurriedly raising both hands higher, wearing the most sincere expression he could muster — as if he had the words “I mean no harm” written across his face.
“I... I’m here to see my sister,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of embarrassment and awkwardness. “My sister is Shen Ninghuan. I’m Shen Mingxuan, her elder brother.”
The female guard gave him a thorough once-over, her gaze traveling from his face down to his feet, then back up again — like she was inspecting a suspicious piece of merchandise.
Finding nothing unusual, and hearing Shen Ninghuan’s voice from inside the carriage, she finally sheathed her blade.
And stepped aside.
Shen Ninghuan lifted the carriage curtain and leaned out halfway, her smile carrying both apology and amusement. “Brother’s here? Please, come closer.”
Only then did Shen Mingxuan approach the carriage.
He walked up, looked at his sister, then at his brother-in-law leaning against the carriage wall with half a flatbread still in his hand, then at the female guards around them, each with eyes as sharp as knives — and let out a long, resigned sigh.
“Well, well,” he said, shaking his head with a rueful laugh. “Didn’t think it would be this hard to see the two of you. This setup…”
Shen Mingxuan’s gaze swept over the female guards.
He could more or less guess the reasoning.
Each of these women was sharp and well-trained — they must have been assigned to protect his sister. After all, she was a lady, and having female guards was more appropriate.
As for his brother-in-law, a grown man — why would he need protection?
But something still struck him as odd.
The famine relief work — sure, his brother-in-law Pei Cijing was involved, since he’d originally proposed the plan and his firsthand participation could help refine it. But why had he brought his sister along?
Shen Mingxuan let his gaze linger on Pei Cijing, brows slightly furrowed, as if expressing silent disapproval.
Disaster zones were dangerous places — floods, refugees, any number of things could go wrong. Who would bear that responsibility?
Pei Cijing felt his brother-in-law’s disapproving glare.
He simply shrugged and spread his hands.
His expression was utterly innocent, like a child wrongly accused.
Watching their silent exchange, Shen Ninghuan couldn’t help but smile at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t blame my husband, brother — he didn’t want me to come either.”
She paused, her tone calm and unhurried. “I’m here at the Sixth Prince’s invitation, to investigate a case.”
Invited? Investigate?
Shen Mingxuan’s brows knitted slightly as he turned this over in his mind. Then the corners of his mouth drooped, and his face fell — as if someone had just dumped a basin of cold water over him, or forced him to swallow three pounds of bitter melon, his features scrunching up in distaste.
The Sixth Prince.
Did he have this little trust in the Dali Temple? Several of their people had already been dispatched, and yet the Sixth Prince had still hired his sister to investigate separately.
What was that about?
Did he think the people of the Dali Temple weren’t smart enough? Or that they couldn’t solve this corruption case?
The defiance welled up in Shen Mingxuan’s chest, but just as quickly, he forced it back down.
If the Sixth Prince had chosen anyone else, he’d have muttered a few complaints behind their back. But the Sixth Prince had chosen his sister, Shen Ninghuan. To that, Shen Mingxuan could only concede — the man had good taste.
All that inner turmoil tumbled round and round in his mind before finally settling into a helpless sigh.
“Fine, then.” He nodded, his tone carrying a note of resigned acceptance. “With you on the case, sister, this investigation might just move a great deal smoother.”
Since her brother was here, Shen Ninghuan took the opportunity to ask about business: “Brother, have you found any leads in this corruption case?”
Shen Mingxuan dropped his earlier flustered demeanor, his face turning more serious.
“Do you still remember, sister,” he began, his voice lowering, “the suicide case of Chen Qiming, the former governor of Yunyang?”
Shen Ninghuan nodded.
Naturally, she remembered.
It was precisely because of this case that on the day when she and her husband went back to her natal family, her elder brother had asked for her help. He said that Chen Qiming's death was suspicious. It seemed that he had been killed by someone else in a locked room, but there were many doubts in it.
Finally, her husband pointed out that it was a suicide.
And deduced the suicide method.
On this basis, she praised her husband's talent, which then shattered her husband's illusions of being idle and content. From then on, he started to study hard, be motivated, and prepare for the imperial examinations. How could she forget all that?
"Before Chen Qiming's death," Shen Mingxuan continued, his eyes becoming a bit sharper. "He submitted a memorial impeaching the prefectural assistant, Zhao Wenhuan, for embezzling funds allocated for river governance, including the 100,000 taels of silver for river embankment repairs. However, due to lack of evidence, the case couldn't be established."
He paused for a moment, and his tone became even more solemn. "Then, not long after that, he committed suicide. I've always felt that there must be something fishy about it."
There was a brief moment of silence both inside and outside the carriage.
The wind blew from the river, carrying a hint of damp moisture and the warm, sun - baked smell of grass.
Pei Cijing was leaning against the carriage wall. Her originally lazy gaze now became slightly concentrated.
