The Xiongnu immediately made their request, and the emperor readily agreed. He didn’t, however, directly announce that the Chuguo Princess would be sent.
By custom, the emperor would hesitate for about ten days, then with a look of regret, tell them:
“I have a daughter—beautiful, intelligent, gentle, and wise—perfectly suited for your mighty Chanyu. I shall marry her to your Chanyu.”
If a royal daughter wasn’t chosen, they’d pick an adopted daughter. The script remained the same.
After this process, the Ministry of Rites would formally prepare the princess’s dowry, select attendants, and arrange the marriage alliance.
The Ministry of Rites’ role ended once the Xiongnu were brought before the emperor. After that, the department handled all the logistics—food, lodging, and care for the Left Wise King and his entourage.
Normally, preparing from proposal to princess departure would take two to three months. But whether the Chanyu was too impatient or the Left Wise King cunning, they specifically chose this timing—to depart soon after the Longevity Festival, ensuring the princess traveled while the weather was still mild.
They repeatedly told the emperor that the Xiongnu winters were long and harsh, so it was best to travel in warmth to avoid harming the precious princess. The emperor agreed, not wishing the Xiongnu to linger too long in Daqi. They would depart on September 15, traveling with the escorting party.
September 15 was deep autumn. The journey to the Xiongnu court would take roughly a month, arriving around October 15—when heavy snow would be falling. The princess would be safe and well cared for in the Xiongnu court, but the escorting officials would face the treacherous snowbound return journey, perhaps suffering the same fate as the previous Ministry of Rites minister, trapped in snow with no aid.
During this period, the Ministry of Rites was destined for headaches. They not only had to prepare the princess’s dowry, but also select suitable attendants. Attendants weren’t like the escort party—they would remain with the princess long-term. Even if the princess were gone, they couldn’t return home; they’d stay to serve the Chanyu or another master.
For a while, the palace was in an uproar, and the Ministry of Rites felt their consciences pinch.
This wasn’t a list of attendants—it was clearly a list of exiles.
“Alas! I have lived a life of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness—how did I end up with such a task that offends so many people?!”
…
Being in the Ministry of Rites was tough; being Grand Minister Yan Shunying was even tougher.
Yan Shunying oversaw the Secretariat, which meant the escort party fell under his jurisdiction. Attendants were selected by the Ministry of Rites—they were palace maids, eunuchs, or guards, permanently stationed in the palace with no chance of sneaking out. But escort personnel were officials. To avoid being on the list, these people would go to any lengths: bringing in their eighty-year-old mothers, their wives four months pregnant, or bribing him in creative ways.
Yan Shunying had a splitting headache. If he spoke honestly, he’d have to admit that the Xiongnu weren’t exactly wolves or tigers, and it wasn’t as deadly as everyone acted. In the past… out of a hundred sent, eighty might return. That casualty rate wasn’t so bad!
Even thinking it in his head made Yan Shunying uneasy, let alone saying it aloud.
Frowning, he studied the list. The Ministry of Rites’ Grand Minister was one of his men. At his age, he certainly wouldn’t be sent to die. The Vice Minister was younger, not even forty, but he was the one who had bawled to him about his eighty-year-old mother, presenting a gift of filial respect. Yan Shunying hovered his pen over the name a few times and finally scratched it off.
The ministry only had these two high officials. If they didn’t go, the lower officials had to. And one wasn’t enough—two were needed. Yan Shunying quickly chose one. For the other, he hesitated.
Thinking of the man’s attitude since entering office—indifferent to him yet fawning over the elderly Minister Situ—hmpf, a fool. Let him go. He was young, his survival chances were decent, and he’d learn who to flatter and who not to, once he suffered a bit.
With the Ministry sorted, the next was the Honglu Temple. The Privy Council was independent and outside his jurisdiction.
The Honglu Temple’s roster was simpler: a fourth-rank minister and a sixth-rank vice minister. Nothing else of note.
Yan Shunying eyed Meng Xizhao’s name with a strong desire to send him.
Though they hadn’t exchanged a word, he sensed this man was his nemesis—any encounter meant trouble. If he could use this opportunity to let him die on the steppe… how perfect.
However, the Ministry of Rites hadn’t sent a single high official. If Honglu Temple followed suit, the emperor might think he was deliberately neglecting the Xiongnu. And Meng Xizhao’s father, Meng Jiuyu, was not someone to be trifled with. If he learned his son was sent to die, he might not intervene personally, but he would open his estate and free his wife.
Yan Shunying recalled how Lady Meng once verbally eviscerated Grand Tutor Gan’s wife—reducing the seventy-something-year-old to trembling lips and silent fear. She had tried to faint, but Lady Meng lifted her like a chicken, prompting the tutor’s wife to scream as if slaughtering pigs.
“…”
Recalling this, Yan Shunying felt both respect and fear.
“Enough, let Han Daozhen go. Meng Jiuyu is right—he’s been in office long enough; he should do some real work for the court.”
For now, none of this concerned Meng Xizhao. He was accompanying the Xiongnu on a tour of Yingtian Prefecture.
The rest of the entourage were all dilettantes, leaving everything to Daqi officials. Their days were spent eating, drinking, and enjoying themselves—rinsed and repeated—apparently intending to continue until the Longevity Festival, before packing to return to the Xiongnu.
However, their leader, the Left Wise King, didn’t join in the fun. On the first day, he had gone with them to survey the city, but afterward, he mostly stayed at the villa.
When not at the villa, he went to the Xiongnu inn to chat with resident envoys or strolled along the street, checking in on Xiongnu merchants doing business there.
As the Chanyu’s right-hand man, the Left Wise King was no delicate ornament. He ignored Daqi’s flattery, while Meng Xizhao remained undeterred, blending with the Xiongnu nobles and keeping them entertained with new diversions at every meal. Some expenses went through the Honglu Temple’s accounts, but most were on his private account.
Though the group had dozens of mouths, the Xiongnu were used to scarce resources on the steppe. Meng Xizhao could win them over with ordinary Daqi dishes; after a few days, he had spent less than the red envelope given to Officer Qin.
Not every Xiongnu looked down on Daqi. After a few days under Meng Xizhao’s guidance, some even called him brother. He played up the honor and then escorted them to Zhongshan, a hunting ground for the elite.
After enjoying Daqi’s fine food for half a month, the Xiongnu were eager for action. Cheerfully, they rode out to hunt. Meng Xizhao didn’t join, claiming poor hunting skills. Recalling Daqi’s clumsy horseback techniques, the Xiongnu laughed heartily and went off on their own.
Meng Xizhao smiled as he watched them leave the city. He then turned to the remaining attendant:
“Since they’ve all gone hunting, why don’t you, Commander Jin, come with me to my tavern today?”
Commander Jin, whose full name was Jin Tuzhe, had been keeping close watch over Meng Xizhao and the Xiongnu nobles and warriors while the Left Wise King remained secure in the city. His role was twofold: to make sure these people didn’t cause trouble and to keep an eye on Meng Xizhao, preventing him from doing anything reckless.
The Xiongnu prided themselves as kings of the steppe; everyone was a skilled hunter. The Left Wise King might worry about Meng Xizhao poisoning food or drink, but he wouldn’t suspect anything at a hunting ground. So today, Jin hadn’t accompanied the hunting party. When Meng Xizhao mentioned the tavern, Jin raised an eyebrow in mild disbelief: “You… opened a tavern yourself?”
Meng Xizhao smiled. “It’s on Baihua Street.”
They had visited Baihua Street many times over the past few days, yet Jin had never heard him mention it. His eyes darkened with suspicion.
A little embarrassed, Meng Xizhao explained, “Please forgive me, Commander. My tavern isn’t like the others—it only admits scholars and literati. In Daqi, they call them men of great talent. The gentlemen of the Xiongnu are all strong and capable, but in this particular regard… Commander, you meet the tavern’s requirements far better than they do.”
Jin cast him a glance, then gave an enigmatic smile. “Or is it simply because I look more like a Daqi man that you’re favoring me?”
Meng Xizhao studied him.
His refined speech revealed his deliberate attempt to imitate Daqi manners—not out of admiration, but to gain trust within Daqi circles. In reality, he was a thoroughbred Xiongnu, his resemblance to a Daqi man only skin-deep.
That was why his mimicry was awkward; no subtle Daqi man would phrase things this way. Only a Xiongnu could so confidently challenge someone.
Pausing only briefly, Meng Xizhao smiled again. “Talent knows no borders. Commander Jin, if you were illiterate, not only would your appearance as a Daqi man matter little, even if you looked like Pan An, you’d still be denied entry. Conversely, if you earn respect through knowledge, no matter if you are Xiongnu, Xia, or even from Nanzhao, you are welcome here.”
That struck a chord. Jin’s estimation of Meng Xizhao rose.
Raised by the Left Wise King, Jin had absorbed much of his mentor’s character: contempt for cowards and respect for bold, spirited men. He nodded and followed Meng Xizhao to the tavern, Bu Xun Tian.
The taverns they had visited previously had been bustling, with crowds pouring in and out. This one, designed for distinguished guests, was Jin’s first experience—and he immediately liked it.
Who wouldn’t enjoy exclusive privileges?
The dishes at Bu Xun Tian, however, impressed Jin even more. They were far superior to what they had eaten in the past few days.
Observing his reaction, Meng Xizhao poured him a cup of wine. “What do you think, Commander? The chef who prepared these dishes used to work exclusively for my family. We loved her cooking. When I opened this tavern, I brought her along, though I rarely let her show her skills. Until now, she has cooked for only three esteemed guests.”
This was true. The chef had real talent. After the Emperor Tian Shou tried her dishes, Meng Xizhao decided not to underestimate the petty-minded emperor and elevated her position. On most days, she did nothing, only serving when the emperor, the Crown Prince Cui Ye, or Meng himself visited.
Such chefs weren’t unique—some top-tier ones worked in other taverns, but each dish cost tens of taels of silver. Meng Xizhao couldn’t afford to treat dozens of guests to such extravagance, which was why Jin was astonished today.
Jin, who prided himself on knowing Daqi affairs, now realized this junior officer wasn’t ordinary. He could host guests, run a tavern, and even employ a private chef. Could a simple sixth-rank official really possess such wealth?
Thinking this, he asked directly. Meng Xizhao had been waiting for that question. Had Jin not asked, Meng would have been anxious.
Seeing his “prey” finally took the bait, Meng Xizhao smiled faintly and said modestly, “I am flattered. Though only a sixth-rank officer, my father holds a high post. You must have seen him at the Chongzheng Hall—he stood beside the Left Wise King, Meng Canzheng.”
Jin blinked. He knew the post of Canzheng, equivalent to Daqi’s Chancellor.
And the surname Meng triggered recognition. “Isn’t he called Meng Jiuyu?”
Meng Xizhao was surprised. “Yes. Have you heard of my father?”
Jin said nothing at first—of course he had.
Daqi’s most notorious schemer.
The war god of Daqi, once a mighty warrior, had crushed the Xiongnu repeatedly. They had expected him to restore Daqi’s founding glory. Instead, he died at the hands of Meng Jiuyu, who even drove his family out of Yingtian Prefecture, leaving the Xiongnu unsettled.
A neighboring general’s death was good news, but seeing such a hero felled by a schemer felt like a colossal waste. They regretted not capturing Zhan Shenyu alive to serve the Xiongnu—then he wouldn’t have ended up a mere skeleton.
Zhan Shenyu had fought the Xiongnu, defeating three kings. The Left Wise King hadn’t been involved, guarding the Chanyu. Jin, as the Left Wise King’s adopted son, stayed at the Chanyu’s court. At barely ten, he heard the retreat reports daily, leaving a psychological imprint.
Zhan Shenyu seemed unbeatable, yet he was undone by a civil official—using only words. How formidable must such a scholar be?
In Jin’s mind, Meng Jiuyu had not only a silver tongue but was also the most trusted person of the Daqi emperor. Whatever he said, the emperor obeyed unquestioningly.
…how a rumor grows step by step.
Commander Jin could hardly have imagined that Meng Xizhao was actually the son of Meng Jiuyu. He was still staring in disbelief when Meng Xizhao added, “But this chef wasn’t hired by my father—it was my mother. Commander, since you’ve heard of my father, perhaps you’ve also heard of my maternal grandfather. He was the Duke of Wu, Li Mi. You know General Li Chuang of the Great Victory, right? My grandfather was his grandson.”
Jin’s jaw dropped. “…………”
Li Chuang had lived during the Yue dynasty and was a famous war god in the Central Plains, who had forced the Xiongnu into repeated retreats.
Jin was momentarily stunned.
It was all Meng Xizhao’s fault. He had seemed so ordinary and down-to-earth recently—who would have guessed he came from such a powerful lineage? In the Xiongnu’s hierarchical, aristocratic system, someone of Meng Xizhao’s status would surely have been made a minor king.
Jin had spent his life at a disadvantage without family connections. Although the Left Wise King didn’t care, many aristocratic youths looked down on him, calling him a lowly, dirty half-breed.
Meng Xizhao had just revealed his pedigree, shaking Jin a little, yet still treated him with the courtesy of a normal official. The difference between a regular official being polite and a scion of a great noble family being polite was unmistakable. Jin didn’t even realize it, but he found himself more affable toward Meng Xizhao.
As they ate, Meng Xizhao chatted lightly, avoiding sensitive topics and instead swapping stories of their respective upbringings.
Jin had been an orphan. His father had been a Daqi man—not a slave, but a traitor to Daqi… a so-called collaborator.
This traitor had voluntarily entered the service of the Left Wise King to gather intelligence on Daqi. But within a year, he was discovered, executed by Daqi forces. The Left Wise King, impressed by his talent and regretting his early death, took Jin in as an adopted son.
Yet even this status was hardly prestigious. The Left Wise King had over a hundred adopted sons; Jin reaching his current position was no small feat. He fondly recalled his days training in archery, horsemanship, and riding. He also thought of his deceased father with a measure of nostalgia.
Meng Xizhao, for his part, was momentarily at a loss for words.
Rubbing his temples, he smiled wryly. “I haven’t had a life as extraordinary as yours. My past is a mess: I chased cats and dogs as a child, lingered among flower gardens as a youth. Now I finally have an official post, a gift from His Majesty himself. To be honest, I never attended any formal school. It’s all thanks to the emperor’s favor that I got a post at all.”
Jin couldn’t help but feel envy and frustration. How could it be that he, working so hard just to earn the Left Wise King’s trust, was now on equal footing with the son of a treacherous minister so effortlessly?
Yet, looking rationally, it showed that Meng Xizhao, like his father, had the emperor’s trust.
Jin spoke in Daqi: “You… have a bright future ahead.”
Meng Xizhao smiled, thanking him. “I’ll take your good words to heart. I want to do the things a man of honor should. My father needs an heir, and I can’t afford to continue my past foolishness.”
Jin was about to ask what he meant when Meng took a sip of wine and curiously asked, “I heard that in the past, the Left Wise King held the title of crown prince among the Xiongnu. But now he doesn’t. Will the Xiongnu ever appoint another crown prince?”
Jin looked into Meng Xizhao’s blinking eyes, expression neutral but with a flicker of scrutiny in his gaze.
That evening, back at the private villa, the hunting party had returned but soon went out again for dinner and entertainment. Jin stood in the Left Wise King’s room, recounting Meng Xizhao’s actions that day. He wasn’t a perfect recorder; he could only relay the key points—Meng’s extraordinary identity and his feigned innocence, which in reality was a subtle probe into the Xiongnu royal court.
The Left Wise King asked, “Anything else?”
Jin shook his head. “Nothing more.”
When the king said nothing further, Jin asked, “Your Highness, what does this Meng Xizhao want?”
The Left Wise King thought for a moment, then chuckled. “Daqi people are crafty. He flatters you desperately to make you his opening into the Xiongnu court. Just observe for now.”
Jin immediately nodded. “Understood, I will not disappoint Your Highness.”
Meanwhile, at the administration hall, Meng Xizhao lay on a couch like a ragdoll. With all the attendants dispatched, his personal attendant, Qingfu, replaced them to massage his back and legs. Qingfu was sweating from the exertion, yet Meng still whined in discomfort.
Wiping his brow, Qingfu urged, “Sir, since you’re so tired, why not skip it next time? Look at Lord Han—he never went once. In my view, the Xiongnu are ungrateful. You treat them well, and they’ll forget you in an instant.”
Meng weakly stretched a leg and kicked him. “You don’t understand! Appearances matter. You must cast a long line to catch a big fish. The Left Wise King is clever. If I don’t approach him tactfully, should I just watch him leave?”
Rubbing his sore back, Meng fell silent for a moment. “Bu Xun Tian has stabilized now. In a couple of days, summon two of my former maids back—ones skilled in massage, preferably those who can work through every muscle and joint.”
Qingfu asked, puzzled, “Sir, do you want to practice martial arts?”
Meng laughed bitterly. “Do I look like the type to practice martial arts? If I wanted that, maybe next life. But it’s still necessary to exercise the body.”
The Xiongnu royal court was located in what is now Chifeng, Inner Mongolia. Though not as cold as the Northeast, temperatures could drop below ten degrees Fahrenheit in winter, and extremes could reach minus twenty. With no down coats at the time, travelers relied entirely on thick animal fur. Anyone serving in the Xiongnu court needed a strong constitution.
He had made up his mind: from today onward, he would train for half an hour every day!
…
No one knew that Meng Xizhao had already set his sights on the Xiongnu. The marriage delegation list had been drafted by the Right Prime Minister, first reviewed by Meng Jiuyu, and only then sent to the Left Prime Minister.
Meng Jiuyu saw that his son’s name wasn’t on the list and felt satisfied. Without changing a single word, he sent it to the Department of the Palace Secretariat.
The Left Prime Minister at the Secretariat saw the list and immediately got angry, wanting to replace all the Ministry of Rites personnel. Only the patient persuasion of his subordinates stopped him.
In truth, the list wasn’t that important. Those sent had no extraordinary merits or failures; the Xiongnu would hardly mistreat them. They would simply spend three months abroad and then return home, with no impact on their careers. There was no reason for the two prime ministers to fight over it.
Those who were upset now would likely regret it in a few months. In fact, if they knew the returning delegates would receive promotions and titles, they might even fight ten battles for this opportunity!
Anyway, the list was safely delivered to Emperor Tianshou, who didn’t even bother to look at it before approving it.
Once the list was officially sealed, Han Daozhen looked twenty years older.
Though still meditating as before, he now sat with eyes open, his gaze vacant and eerie.
Meng Xizhao watched him quietly for a while, then entered his room. “Lord Han, if you’re feeling down, why not join me for a drink?”
Han Daozhen stared blankly at him and nodded. “Sure. One drink less, one less regret.”
Meng Xizhao: “…you really don’t have to be so dramatic.”
But, the more fearful Han Daozhen seemed, the higher Meng Xizhao’s chance of success. They skipped Bu Xun Tian and instead went to a nearby restaurant, sitting in a private room where Meng poured wine for him.
Meng Xizhao wore a melancholy expression. “When I first met you, Lord Han, I still hadn’t shed my roguish nature, and I was rather forward with you. This drink is my apology.”
Han Daozhen: “…even at the moment of death, a foe’s words can sound kind. Even Meng Xizhao, that scoundrel, feels sympathy for me!”
With grim dignity, Han Daozhen drank the wine and began to dictate his last wishes. “After I’m gone, the Honglu Temple will be entrusted to you. You… well, you do have some talent. I can trust it to you.”
Meng Xizhao was moved to tears. “Lord Han!”
Han Daozhen waved his hand wearily. “I’ve made mistakes in the past too. Don’t hold them against me.”
Meng Xizhao quickly replied, “Nonsense. I was the reckless one in the beginning. Lord Han, rest assured—I will manage Honglu Temple well. When you return, I will welcome you back properly.”
Han Daozhen: “…return? Will there even be a day you see me back?”
Even if he returned, could he continue idly at his post?
Shaking his head, Han Daozhen said sadly, “Forget it. Everyone has their fate. Don’t grieve too much for me.”
Meng Xizhao: …
His mouth twitched involuntarily. Quickly, he hid behind his wine cup, frowning, eyes fixed on Han Daozhen.
Han Daozhen, feeling uneasy, asked, “Why are you staring at me?”
Meng Xizhao looked troubled, glanced at the door to ensure no one was coming, then whispered, “Lord Han, if you truly don’t want to go, perhaps—”
Han Daozhen frowned. “Perhaps what?”
Meng Xizhao leaned closer. “Perhaps there’s another way. Honestly, I’ve been dealing with the Xiongnu these days, and someone confided in me that the return will involve a grand, traditional wedding. If the Chanyu is in good spirits, it might even take place in their homeland, up north in the desert…”
Han Daozhen’s heart sank.
The desert? That’s far more dangerous!
Meng sighed. “It’s their sacred land, where generations of Chanyus have made their mark. The original structures have long weathered away. Once there, they’ll live in tents. The person who told me this dislikes tents—he said sleeping on animal skins under the open sky, seeing snowflakes upon waking and touching the sand with your hands, that’s the true experience.”
Han Daozhen: “…sleeping on animal skins in the desert?! You actually thought of this!”
Panicking, he asked, “But… the Daqi people wouldn’t sleep on animal skins, right? The princess, she…”
Meng Xizhao laughed. “Of course not. The princess and the Chanyu will sleep in the grandest tents. Her family will join the Chanyu’s relatives outside, celebrating their union through the night. The Chanyu values our princess highly; this wedding may last seven days. Lord Han, make sure you bring plenty of warm clothing.”
Han Daozhen… was on the verge of tears.
“What good is warm clothing? Even keeping watch for seven days—it’s less than a vigil for the dead!”
Meng Xizhao gasped. “Lord Han, watch your words!”
Han Daozhen sulked but stayed silent.
Meng Xizhao looked at him sympathetically. “I understand, Lord Han. You’re older and won’t endure this easily. Alas, there’s no way around it. Our Honglu Temple is honored to escort the princess. You’re the only one eligible. You’re older than my father; if he were to go to the Xiongnu, I’d be worried sick, even if I spread rumors of his dementia to stop him.”
Han Daozhen: “…dementia?”
He finally realized what Meng had been hinting at before, recalling the story Meng had fabricated.
Frozen for a moment, he asked cautiously, “But… what if His Majesty finds out?”
Meng Xizhao was startled. “I’m just joking, Lord Han. You don’t actually believe anyone would do such a thing, do you? That would be treason!”
Thinking back on what he had just said, he suddenly laughed. “Did you think I meant you when I mentioned dementia? My apologies! It was all my fault back then. I was sulking and even told His Majesty that your health had improved after reading the scriptures I sent. Luckily, His Majesty didn’t ask any more questions.”
Han Daozhen’s eyes widened.
He quickly asked, “When did you tell His Majesty?”
Meng Xizhao blinked. “Uh… a little over a month ago?”
Han Daozhen was overjoyed. That was before the Xiongnu even arrived!
His Majesty already had an impression of the matter, so if he pretended his old ailment had worsened…
Wait, if he pretended to have dementia, how could he continue his official duties later?
His mind raced, and finally, he came up with a plan.
When the time came, he could simply have Meng Xizhao send him two more copies of the scriptures—or no need to wait for that. Whether Meng returned or not, he could just buy them himself!
From the brink of despair, he found a way out. Han Daozhen didn’t even feel like drinking anymore. He quickly left, determined to return home and plot carefully. He hadn’t tried to outsmart Meng Xizhao before because he thought he couldn’t—but now, he felt he could!
And this “knife” had been handed to him by Meng Xizhao himself. Who else could he blame? The past actions had created the present situation.
As soon as this thought struck, Han Daozhen’s face turned green.
Wait—wasn’t this exactly the cause-and-effect the Buddhists always talked about? A respected Daoist practitioner saying such a blasphemous thing…!
…
After Han Daozhen left, Meng Xizhao didn’t leave either. He continued to eat and drink by himself, seemingly enjoying it even more than when sitting with Han Daozhen.
Regarding his own life, Han Daozhen wasn’t stupid. He didn’t immediately pretend to be on the brink of death. Instead, he planned it step by step: first, complaining about minor ailments, then more discomforts, until one day he pretended to be dazed, accidentally bumping into a wall, unable to get up, and unrecognizable to others.
Dementia couldn’t be diagnosed just by checking the pulse. Many dementia patients, besides not recognizing people, have perfectly healthy pulses. Yet court physicians relied on experience. And the imperial physician sent by Emperor Tianshou could see through Han Daozhen’s act, convinced he was faking it.
But when the physician hesitated, Han Daozhen, smiling, pressed silver coins into his hand. The physician weighed the bundle, his expression instantly full of regret.
Returning to the emperor, he reported that Han Daozhen, due to age, indeed showed symptoms of dementia.
Emperor Tianshou frowned. He had only a neutral impression of Han Daozhen before. Now, seeing him fail at critical moments, his opinion plummeted to outright “poor.”
The Honglu Temple official could no longer go, but the temple still had to send someone. The emperor hesitated only briefly, weighing his fondness for Meng Jiuyu’s son against not losing face, before deciding: “Then let Meng Xizhao go in place of Han Daozhen.”
The emperor also knew the Xiongnu was not a place for just anyone. After speaking, he pressed his lips and added, “When he returns, I will reward him greatly.”
Qin Feimang bowed in acknowledgment.
See, that’s the treatment of a favored courtier. Over two hundred others were going, yet none would receive such words.
Meng Jiuyu learned the next morning. The shock almost made him faint.
But having been scared by Meng Xizhao before, his resistance had greatly improved. He steadied himself and immediately tried to find out what had happened. Had someone bullied his son? Why had the replacement happened so suddenly?
Before he could get answers, a second imperial decree arrived. The originally designated royal relative to escort the Chu princess was the Prince of Liang, the family connection of the Secretariat. Now it was changed to the Crown Prince.
Meng Jiuyu was dumbfounded. Not just him—almost the entire court was stunned.
“I know Your Majesty doesn’t favor the Crown Prince… but you can’t humiliate him like this!”
Throughout history, had any nation’s crown prince personally escorted a princess for marriage? Was it meant to show disrespect, or to elevate someone else’s status at his expense?
Usually, the Ministers of Works and of Personnel didn’t get along, but on this matter, they were in agreement. They petitioned His Majesty to rescind the order—not claiming he mistreated the Crown Prince, but arguing that the Xiongnu shouldn’t think the Daqi were so humble. Yet Emperor Tianshou, willful as ever, didn’t care. His decision was final. The ministers exchanged glances; none dared to speak a second time.
Once was acceptable; a second appeal could be seen as pressuring the emperor.
The Right Prime Minister had a large family; the Left Prime Minister had a close relationship with his wife. No one wanted a “half-wife” suddenly appearing in their household.
Meng Jiuyu didn’t join in the petitioning. This actually improved the emperor’s opinion of him. He didn’t know that the real reason he didn’t go was that he was busy returning home to teach his children with the rod.
Meng Xizhao was summoned by his father. Without a word, Meng Jiuyu threatened the family law, startling Meng Xizhao. “What are you doing?!”
Meng Jiuyu was furious. “You’ve got the nerve to ask? Your name was just added to the marriage list, and then suddenly the Crown Prince’s is added right after. Was it your doing? Never mind, I don’t need to ask—you did it!”
Meng Xizhao: “…wait, this time it really wasn’t me!”