Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Emperor Yongchang’s Concerns

Emperor Yongchang and the Virtuous and Gentle Imperial Noble Consort Yuan Chuxia approached Yongkang Palace together, and Yuan Chuxia quietly sat beside him. In the most concise words, Emperor Yongchang confided his perplexities to her, and as she listened, a trace of surprise flickered across her face.

She asked, “Your Majesty, what has led you to such thoughts?”

Emperor Yongchang remained silent, and Yuan Chuxia understood that this was a secret, the very thing that troubled him most.

“Your Majesty,” she spoke softly, “it is said that with bronze as a mirror, one can straighten one's attire; with history as a mirror, one can see the rise and fall of dynasties; with people as a mirror, one can discern gains and losses. The matter that troubles you arises because you have never truly considered it before. But with so many subjects beneath the heavens, if Your Majesty does not concern yourself with their suffering, the dynasty will surely perish before its time.”

“There is a saying: the people are water, and the ruler is but a boat; water can bear the boat, but it can also capsize it.”

“In truth, you are correct—if there is fault, it lies with the rulers, not the people. The Manchus may not know proper conduct, but we do. If we welcome them with open hearts, guide them, and offer some assistance, their lands will also become yours.”

“Only thus can you truly rule over all under heaven, so that every inch of land is royal soil, and all who dwell within are your subjects. In this way, you will usher in a flourishing era of Yongchang.”

Yuan Chuxia spoke each word with care, and suddenly, Emperor Yongchang felt enlightened. On impulse, he embraced her.

“Chuxia, thank you,” he said, his arms tightening around her like an exuberant youth.

Yuan Chuxia gazed at him, noticing the silver in his hair, and a faint, bitter smile appeared on her lips.

He had come so suddenly, and left just as quickly. Yuan Chuxia ran her prayer beads through her fingers and glanced at the nursemaid, Madam Zhao, behind her.

“Madam Zhao, who was the person His Majesty spoke of today?”

Standing nearby, Madam Zhao replied, “It was a secret memorial, and the person who delivered it was Shadow Dragon.”

Yuan Chuxia smiled at Madam Zhao and said, “It matters little to me who it was. I suspect this person is now close to my son, otherwise the Emperor would not have come here.”

She left the rest unsaid. Meanwhile, Emperor Yongchang returned to his study, only to find a man lounging carelessly in a chair.

With a glance, he said, “Li Zheng, could you please sit properly?”

But the man remained slouched, replying, “I am merely a spoiled young lord. Please do not hold me to the standards of imperial kin.”

Emperor Yongchang pressed his brow with his fingers, just as the man—Li Zheng—called out, “Li Zuo, what’s wrong with you? Are you so unsettled by the words of a mere child?”

Emperor Yongchang shot him a look—the very instigator of his troubles. Li Zheng, sensing his own guilt, rubbed his nose and fell silent.

Then, as if struck by a thought, Li Zheng remarked, “You and your son are both cunning. When you were young, you fell for Yuan Chuxia and married her. Now your son has found himself a fine young lady.”

“She’s lovely, spirited, clever—yet because of your son, her parents and brothers are all dead.”

“The girl, traumatized, forgot her past, and your son claimed she was his child bride. Ah!” Li Zheng sighed, shaking his head in mock regret. “Had I been born a few years earlier, perhaps she would’ve been mine instead.”

“And now your son relies on a young girl for support. I bet those women in your palace haven’t a clue—how amusing!”

He stroked his chin flamboyantly, tapping his fan as Emperor Yongchang’s expression grew ever darker.

“Why take it so hard?” Li Zheng continued. “You went through all this yourself as a prince. Back then, weren’t you much the same?”

Emperor Yongchang knew that as emperor, impartiality was impossible, and that parents are always soft-hearted toward the weak. But he also knew his second son was not weak—in fact, if he had no ability, he would never have managed to seize military command at Da’an Pass at the age of fourteen.

Li Zheng watched the changing expressions on Emperor Yongchang’s face and sighed. “Why keep doubting? Once you trusted Yuan Chuxia with all your heart. On the battlefield, you must never suspect those you employ, nor employ those you suspect. If you fear Prince Shengxuan, simply summon your second son back and let your third son take over.”

“But you know as well as I do that the third prince lacks the ability to control the forces at Da’an Pass, much less confront Batu. So why not treat Yuan Chuxia well instead?”

As Emperor Yongchang’s face grew gloomier, Li Zheng realized he had struck a nerve—the very thing his brother most loathed to admit.

Emperor Yongchang said nothing, sitting quietly in his chair—a stark contrast to the irreverent Li Zheng.

With a sigh, Li Zheng announced, “I must leave for Changyan County at Da’an Pass and see if I can make a handsome profit with that young lady. That way, I might save enough for a wife and live carefree for a few years.”

With that, Li Zheng turned and disappeared down a secret passage. Emperor Yongchang narrowed his eyes and said to Bai Qiu, the chief eunuch behind him, “It seems I’ll need to fall ill for a few days.”

After Li Zheng left, the emperor pressed his chest and glanced in the direction of Yuan Chuxia’s residence, sighing heavily. That night, when he visited Yongkang Palace, he found Yuan Chuxia writing at her desk.

Seeing him waiting outside, she waved with a gentle smile, and the attendants quietly withdrew.

“I know what troubles Your Majesty,” she said, “but I cannot help you. You come to me only to hear my stance, but I cannot offer you advice. If you seek an answer, follow your own heart. I truly have nothing more to suggest.”

Emperor Yongchang gazed at this woman, always confined to her palace, never concerning herself with outside affairs. Was this the same woman he had once yearned for so deeply? Had she always been like this in her youth? He no longer knew.

As he rode out of the palace through a secret path, he stood on a distant hillside, looking back at the palace gates. That moment brought an ache to his heart, as though something beloved had drifted far from him.

Meanwhile, Lin Miaomiao and Li Yanhe had purchased a shop with a courtyard at the back, all for only fifty taels of silver.

Holding the forty taels that remained in her hand, Lin Miaomiao was overcome with joy—a place this cheap seemed almost too good to be true.

Li Yanhe watched her counting the money and shook his head with a smile. “Let me escort you back,” he said. “I have some matters to attend to.”

Lin Miaomiao replied earnestly, “That’s not necessary. I know the way to the inn. I’ll go myself and bring Hei Qi and the others over. You can go handle your business.”

Seeing her grown-up air, Li Yanhe glanced at the sky and could only nod in resignation. Lin Miaomiao waved him off with a grin and hurried back to the inn, her heart pounding all the way. Stories of child traffickers from television haunted her thoughts, and she began to regret her bravado. She raced the rest of the way, unaware that several shadowy figures followed her in the darkness—those with ill intentions had already been dealt with by her unseen protectors.

Once back at the inn, she found An Qi, and together with the two wolfish children, Lin Langluan and Lin Langze, they carried their bundles to the new shop.

The shop was spacious, with a three-entry courtyard at the back—an extra gift from the previous owner, who simply hoped for some travel money.

Da’an Pass, being at the center of the region, was not without danger; if the border raiders found nothing to plunder, they would strike deeper inland. Safety was never guaranteed.

After arriving, Lin Miaomiao set to cleaning with the others. For a moment, An Qi felt less like a shadow guard and more like a nursemaid tending to children. But soon a carrier pigeon from Li Yanhe summoned him away, and as he rushed out, Lin Miaomiao looked on in confusion.

“Brother Hei Qi, where are you going?” she asked timidly.

“There’s something urgent I must handle,” he replied. “You can go on tidying up. Will you be all right?”

She nodded. “Of course! Don’t worry about me, just take care of your business.”

Still uneasy, An Qi looked at the petite Lin Miaomiao and the two wild children, but she reassured him again. “Go on, Brother Hei Qi. I’m sure Li Yanhe needs you for something important. And we’re just cleaning, nothing special. If we need anything, we’ll wait for your return.”

An Qi could only nod and leave.

Lin Miaomiao found the courtyard well cared for, with little dust and everything in good order. There were beds, but no bedding. She understood—no one would leave behind such precious things, for in these times, cotton and cloth were treasures.

She and the two wolfish children cleaned every corner, gazing at the empty storeroom and the bare rooms, pondering their next steps.