At this time, the Yellow River was not yet called the Yellow River.
Later records said that in ancient times it had been called simply the River, the Turbid River, or the Long River. But since arriving in this era, Meng Xizhao had never heard anyone use those names.
People here did not treat it as a single continuous river at all. Instead, each stretch had its own name.
For example, the section they crossed today was called the Luo River.
The very same river mentioned in Rhapsody on the Goddess of the Luo.
Wearing the skin of an ancient man, Meng Xizhao felt absolutely no emotional connection to the Luo River. At most, he just trembled nervously when crossing it.
Everyone else was different. Knowing they had crossed the Luo River and arrived in the northern region of Qi, many of them felt a sense of emotion.
Of course, there were plenty of moments worth feeling sentimental about along the journey, so after a brief sigh or two, everyone went back to their duties.
After disembarking from the boats, the convoy traveled a few more miles before reaching a rather shabby relay station. There they unloaded the supplies and prepared to stay the night.
Meng Xizhao had remained in the Crown Prince’s carriage the entire time and had never gotten down. Now he pushed the door open and stepped out.
As expected, he immediately sensed a number of gazes landing on him.
Meng Xizhao pressed his lips together. He neither looked pleased nor displeased. He simply walked toward the rear to retrieve his belongings.
This only made the people around him even more curious.
What had the Crown Prince called him for? Was he reprimanding him again? But it didn’t look like that.
Pretending not to notice their probing looks, Meng Xizhao took out his waterskin. He had just opened it and taken a sip when he saw something ahead—
The Princess of Chu stepping down from her carriage.
Throughout the entire journey, the Princess of Chu had always been extremely low-key. She had almost no requests at all, so easy to serve that the attendants nearly wanted to cry from gratitude.
Even the Crown Prince occasionally asked someone to fetch him something tasty. But the Princess of Chu had quietly remained inside her carriage the entire time.
Because of that, her action now seemed somewhat unusual.
After stepping down, she did not immediately enter the relay station. Instead, she turned around and looked back in the direction they had come from.
The Luo River was already out of sight. Looking back now, all that could be seen were sparse woods.
The Princess of Chu seemed to realize this as well. Lowering her eyes, she turned around and, surrounded by her maids, walked into the relay station.
This relay station was truly shabby…
The place was small. The tables and chairs looked like they had been used for over ten years. From the outside, the paint on the walls looked new, but up close, you could still see places where it hadn’t even fully dried.
Once the local officials learned that the bridal escort would be passing through here, they had hurriedly repaired the relay station. Even after the repairs, it still looked this shabby—before the repairs, it must have been far worse.
That was why, the moment everyone crossed the Luo River, they began sighing with emotion.
The Luo River was a dividing line. South of it, life was good. North of it, life was harsh.
There were many reasons for the stark contrast between the two sides. For example, the north lay closer to the Xiongnu and the Yuezhi, whose people frequently rode south to plunder. There were also the repeated droughts in the north—followed by locust swarms after the droughts. When nothing could grow in the fields, poverty naturally followed.
But in Meng Xizhao’s opinion, those were not the fundamental reason.
The real reason was that this entire region had already been sacrificed by the imperial court.
Because they could not control their neighbors and did not dare to fight them, the court simply turned a blind eye whenever the people were harassed. Meanwhile, Shandong—being closer to Ying Tian Prefecture and blessed with a humid climate that produced abundant crops—was protected by the court. Anyone who dared to cause trouble there would immediately be met with imperial troops.
But the lands north of the Luo River were already troublesome to begin with. Either drought or flooding struck them. In bad years, the court practically had to send relief funds every year. So if those places were plundered… it was annoying, but so be it. Better to give the Xiongnu a little benefit and keep them from causing chaos elsewhere.
The emperor did not care. The faction of corrupt officials merely drifted through their days.
In their eyes, as long as Great Qi still existed while they were alive, that was enough. What happened afterward didn’t concern them. By then they would already be dead, unable—and unwilling—to care.
More and more collaborators like Commander Jin’s father appeared.
Sometimes it wasn’t fair to blame these people for having no conscience. Their conscience had already been devoured by the court’s dogs.
The prosperity of Ying Tian Prefecture today had been built by draining the strength of the entire nation. No one knew how many more years such prosperity could last.
…
This relay station was far too small. There were not enough rooms.
Aside from the Crown Prince and the Princess, and four civil and military officials who were given their own quarters, everyone else had to set up tents outside.
After organizing his belongings, Meng Xizhao stepped out of his room. He had barely opened the door when he saw Yu Fulan bow toward him.
“Vice Minister Meng, His Highness requests your presence.”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Arriving at the Crown Prince’s room, Meng Xizhao saw that Cui Ye was the only one inside. He walked over and said, “Your Highness seems to be inviting me rather frequently.”
Cui Ye was brewing tea. Hearing this, he let out a soft, questioning hum.
“Am I?”
Of course you are. In the past they sometimes went seven or eight days without seeing each other. Now they met twice a day, and each time for quite a long while.
Meng Xizhao sat down and asked, “Aren’t you worried that when we return, people will embellish the story?”
Cui Ye looked at him and smiled faintly. “Even without embellishment, simply stating one or two facts would have the same effect.”
Meng Xizhao imagined Emperor Tianshou’s expression upon hearing that he frequently entered and left Cui Ye’s quarters. He couldn’t help nodding.
“True.”
With Emperor Tianshou’s petty nature, he would definitely overthink it.
But halfway through nodding, Meng Xizhao suddenly realized something. He looked at Cui Ye with surprise.
“Your Highness doesn’t care anymore?”
Before, he had cared desperately—so much that he had even considered cutting ties with him completely.
Cui Ye had been lowering his eyes while pouring tea. At those words, the hand holding the teapot paused. He lifted his eyelids slightly and looked at Meng Xizhao’s curious and somewhat puzzled expression.
Then he said softly, “I don’t dare to care anymore.”
The words were extremely quiet—so quiet that the sound of the tea pouring from the spout was louder.
Meng Xizhao didn’t hear clearly. He leaned closer in confusion.
“What did you say?”
Cui Ye shook his head. “Nothing. Come—have some tea and warm yourself.”
Interrupted like that, Meng Xizhao couldn’t help forgetting what he had just asked.
Sipping the slightly scalding tea, Meng Xizhao suddenly thought of the Princess of Chu standing there earlier, turning back to look behind her.
He couldn’t help sighing. “The princess is marrying three thousand miles away. She hasn’t even left Great Qi’s borders yet, and she’s already homesick. The world is unfair to women. The higher a man’s status and power, the less he trusts his own harem—so he confines them for their entire lives within a tiny courtyard.”
Cui Ye said, “Because people always remember the second half of the saying—‘make things convenient for yourself.’ Even when they remember the first half, ‘make things convenient for others,’ they only do it in order to achieve the second.”
Meng Xizhao tilted his head. “Then how will Your Highness treat your wives and concubines in the future?”
Cui Ye froze.
In the past, Meng Xizhao had never spoken to him so boldly. Perhaps because their last conversation at the villa had already crossed certain boundaries, he no longer weighed every word so carefully. Occasionally he would even say something shocking.
Meng Xizhao was not a typical minister, and Cui Ye was not a typical crown prince.
So Cui Ye merely paused for a moment before actually thinking seriously about the question.
“I’ve never considered such a matter…”
He spoke slowly.
“If such a person truly appeared, I would not restrain her. Whether she wished to go or stay would be entirely her own choice.”
After saying this, he pressed his lips together.
Mainly because he still believed that wives or concubines would never exist at his side.
He was destined to be alone.
If one day a woman were truly forced into his life, the most he could probably do would be to ignore her existence.
If she wished to leave, he would not stop her—and would even send someone to escort her away safely.
If she wished to stay, then… he would probably buy another residence and send her there, arrange a couple of attendants, and ensure she lacked nothing in food, clothing, or shelter.
As for what she did there, he would not interfere.
Whether she took a lover or spent her days embroidering—her choice.
This was the first time Cui Ye had truly thought about such a question.
And the more he thought about it, the more it startled even himself.
Was he always this generous?
Meng Xizhao had felt a bit strange after hearing Cui Ye’s words. It was as if Cui Ye had no expectations at all for his future wife. He had just been about to ask when he saw Cui Ye lost in thought, his expression growing increasingly subtle.
Meng Xizhao: “…Your Highness?”
Cui Ye immediately snapped back and instinctively asked, “Vice Minister, is something the matter?”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
It was the first time he had seen Cui Ye daydream like that. Meng Xizhao felt speechless. Apparently, any man’s intelligence diminishes when he starts imagining his future wife…
And while he felt speechless, Meng Xizhao also felt a twinge of annoyance.
In his mind: I, a handsome, talented, and flourishing young man, with a face as beautiful as a flower, have already decided to remain single. And yet you—a man with a house full of noble dependents, no personal wealth, and a job at the very bottom of the matchmaking market—actually dare to think about leaving singlehood behind?!
Even worse, despite Cui Ye’s poor circumstances, if Emperor Tianshou truly wanted to arrange a marriage for him, there would be plenty of noble women eager to be paired with him.
Meng Xizhao’s irritation surfaced a little on his face. He tilted his head to the side, resting the back of his head against Cui Ye.
Cui Ye, not yet familiar with him, didn’t realize this was a sign of displeasure. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he resolved not to dwell on such thoughts in the future. Then he said to Meng Xizhao, “In a few days, it will be the first day of the month. I will order the troops to halt and rest here for two days. If there is anything you wish to do, now will be the time.”
Meng Xizhao froze. His head snapped around. “The first day… your old ailment—is it not healed yet?”
Cui Ye smiled. “I already said it’s an old ailment. How could it heal so quickly?”
He thought of something, lowered his eyes, yet the smile on his lips didn’t fade: “Perhaps… it will never be fully healed.”
Zhang Shuogong had once heard that someone in Yangzhou could cure poison, but that was years ago. At the time, Cui Ye had refused to listen and ignored the matter entirely. Now, thinking of that person again, Zhang Shuogong had gone to check—but found that the man had passed away two years ago.
This time, Zhang Shuogong didn’t accompany him because Cui Ye had returned, feeling low for several days before picking himself up and volunteering to seek out a folk healer. With four schools of folk medicine, surely one could neutralize the poison in Cui Ye’s body.
Zhang Shuogong was optimistic, but Cui Ye did not dare assume fortune would smile on him so easily.
He did not pessimistically conclude he was doomed, but he had grown used to imagining every possible outcome and checking each one, not seeking perfection, only wanting no regrets.
So when he said that, it was essentially a precaution for Meng Xizhao.
If the worst happened… at least Meng Xizhao would be prepared.
He also didn’t intend to frighten Meng Xizhao outright. He planned to approach the topic gradually, and next time he mentioned it, he would say his old ailment could worsen.
Cui Ye’s plan was clever. Yet Meng Xizhao blinked in surprise: “Never fully heal?”
“How could it not heal?” he thought. He had always been seeking the antidote—was it not effective? Or had the story not yet reached that point, and Cui Ye still needed years to find the cure, currently experimenting one by one?
Of course, there was a third possibility.
That his butterfly-wing interference had thrown the plot off, making a previously solvable poison now incurable.
Honestly, Meng Xizhao knew this third possibility was slim. He had only been here a short while, and Cui Ye could still muddle along for another ten years.
But even imagining it made his heart skip a beat.
He had altered Zhan Buxiu’s fate and felt proud. Kicking the Third Prince into lifelong confinement at his fief filled him with even greater pride. But if all of this caused Cui Ye’s fate to falter…
Cui Ye noticed Meng Xizhao’s expression growing increasingly blank, staring at him like he had at the unfathomable river earlier that day.
Cui Ye froze, instinctively reaching out to bring him back, only for Meng Xizhao to suddenly recover on his own.
Looking down and to the left, he habitually bit his lower lip. Then he raised his head, expression back to normal, and said, “Matters of illness are always to be approached slowly, with caution and patience. A fortunate man like Your Highness will surely turn danger into safety.”
Cui Ye opened his mouth to speak, but Meng Xizhao continued: “Your Highness, may I serve beside the princess?”
Cui Ye: “…”
＊
Meng Xizhao, an outsider, had no real connection to the princess, even on this journey of escorting her for marriage.
Yet the next day, as the entourage continued, the Crown Prince suddenly ordered Meng Xizhao forward. From then on, he would handle all matters for both the Crown Prince and the Princess behind them.
Everyone heard this and thought nothing of it.
If he were left idle at the back, he would trouble others. Perhaps the Crown Prince simply noticed he had too much free time and gave him a task.
It was said that last night, Vice Minister Meng had spent some time in the Crown Prince’s room. When he emerged, his expression was grave. The Crown Prince had surely scolded him thoroughly.
And yet… though a punishment, it had become Meng Xizhao’s chance to shine. Why must such an opportunity be his?
Privately, some complained. Another asked: If the opportunity were yours, would you want it?
The first considered carefully. Serving the princess wholeheartedly was pointless—it might even be too effective, leaving him stuck in Xiongnu lands. And serving the Crown Prince wholeheartedly…
He fell silent.
Fine. This perfect chance to demonstrate himself would remain Meng Xizhao’s.
…
From that day on, Meng Xizhao became busy. Life at home was easy; once outside, life was hard. Even though both masters were not prone to making things difficult, royal protocol was full of trivialities. Everyday there was a basket of menial matters. Meng Xizhao, who had only managed the Honglu Temple before, now felt as if his head would explode.
On the first day of the month, the Crown Prince said he felt unwell and needed to stop and rest for two days. The Xiongnu weren’t happy about it—they were almost out of Daqi territory. Another two hundred li and they’d see the grasslands. Why on earth stop now? What did this mean?
Meng Xizhao had just dealt with the attendants’ complaint that there wasn’t enough firewood, and he hurried over to soothe the Xiongnu.
Having drunk a few rounds with Commander Jin, he had developed a bit of rapport, so he sat in the same tent and earnestly tried to reason with him: “You may not know this, but our Crown Prince has had a weak constitution since childhood. For the sake of his health, on the first and fifteenth of every month, he observes strict Buddhist rituals. For ten years, come rain or shine, never missing a single one. Today, that routine has been interrupted, which unnerved him so much that it triggered an old ailment he hasn’t experienced in a long time.”
Commander Jin no longer held back his own feelings the way he had initially; he was direct now, showing clear impatience: “Weakling—being a Crown Prince is no job for the frail!”
Meng Xizhao raised an eyebrow immediately: “Commander, isn’t that a bit… impertinent?”
Did he really think the Daqi had no temper at all?
The words had barely left his mouth when Commander Jin realized his misstep. “Apologies… I was just anxious.”
Meng Xizhao, instead of responding with his usual cheerful smile, now wore a displeased expression. “Really, what’s there to be anxious about? You’ve all made it this far. Are we supposed to turn back? Two days of rest won’t affect anything.”
Commander Jin: “……”
If only you knew!
Two years ago, the Chanyu had fallen from his horse and stayed bedridden for several days. When he could finally stand again, people noticed a change in him.
He had changed before, in his fifties—suddenly sensitive and suspicious, repeatedly calling the Left Wise King to the court to ask seemingly strange questions, even sending him hunting. The Left Wise King was almost forty then, an age at which most could be grandfathers. Yet he was being sent out to hunt for the Chanyu—was this mockery, or mockery?
Back then it was only suspicion, and over the following two years, he seemed much better… until this injury.
The Xiongnu prided themselves as kings of the steppe. From birth, they could walk and ride horses. And yet their Chanyu had fallen from horseback. The blow to his pride was massive. When he got up, he felt as though he had aged overnight, unable to perform even simple tasks.
The Xiongnu’s history is complex.
They practiced aristocratic rule. The division of their state into three parts, with leaders like the Left and Right Wise Kings trusted so deeply, shows that the Chanyu’s power was never as centralized as that of the Central Plains emperors. A Central Plains emperor, through years of consolidating imperial power and ideological indoctrination, could command the entire nation regardless of personal competence. But the Chanyu’s power was inherently divided. To secure his position, he had to be stronger than everyone else, relying on bloodline and luck alone wouldn’t suffice.
When the Central Plains fell into chaos, rebel armies would rise, conquering cities and overthrowing dynasties. The Xiongnu, however, never experienced dynastic change. They didn’t rely on naming a new state or era; more importantly, anyone could appear, overthrow an incompetent Chanyu, and assume leadership—and the people accepted it, as long as you didn’t harm your own. Even if you led the entire tribe westward, they’d recognize your authority.
The current Chanyu’s ancestors were simply Xiongnu nobility. His ancestor seized the position by killing a weak Chanyu and claiming the title.
So now he was scared.
Afraid, unwilling to lose, unwilling to age. Coupled with his position, his fear caused disaster among the Xiongnu.
Heavy drinking, excessive feasting, summoning young men to dance, young women to sleep with him, neglecting all responsibilities, hunting obsessively. Anyone who dared admonish him got whipped until their flesh was torn.
This year, he had the audacity to decide to marry another Daqi princess. Nine years ago, the Daqi had sent a princess—but only a subordinate one. This time, he demanded the Emperor Tianshou’s own daughter.
The Daqi considered it troublesome to marry off a princess. So did the Xiongnu! They had to build her a palace, prepare countless items, all to please the Chanyu.
The Chanyu looked forward to this wedding, insisting on Daren-style ceremonial practices. But for him, the princess was just another ordinary Daren woman—a foreigner, a frail Daqi woman. They looked down on her and had no desire to do so much labor for her.
But if they dared to slack off, the Chanyu would whip them.
The Xiongnu were miserable. The Left Wise King, assigned to escort the princess, was extremely unlucky—if he did well, there was no reward; if poorly, he’d be scolded by the Chanyu on the spot.
Steppe people weren’t restrained like Emperor Tianshou. Even a scolding could make veins pop on your forehead. The Chanyu combined anger with violence—who could endure that?
Commander Jin had accompanied the Left Wise King twice and seen the Daqi emperor in person. He envied Daqi for having such a composed ruler. Meng Xizhao, upon hearing his envy, felt like his face was about to freeze.
Truly… one man’s honey is another’s poison.
Even someone like Emperor Tianshou could be envied?
Meng Xizhao laughed and cried at the same time: “Here’s what we’ll do—once we reach the Xiongnu, I’ll tell your Chanyu it’s not that the Left Wise King handled things poorly, it’s just that our escort has too many people and can’t move quickly. Surely he won’t whip a foreign envoy like me, right?”
Commander Jin thought to himself: that would have been impossible before, but the Chanyu is so unpredictable now that even he couldn’t say for certain.
However, if someone was willing to take the blame, Commander Jin wouldn’t refuse. He nodded. “Then let’s handle it that way.”
Meng Xizhao didn’t leave immediately. He grabbed a nearby water jug, poured himself a cup, and looked as if he intended to kill some time. “Don’t envy us,” he said. “Our emperor may not strike people with his own hand, but when he gets angry, no one can stand against him.”
Commander Jin frowned. “What do you mean?”
Meng Xizhao recounted the story of how Emperor Tianshou once held grudges, even forcing ministers to marry off their concubines.
Commander Jin’s face went blank in shock. “……Your Daqi place so much importance on legitimate and illegitimate children, right? After this, how can anyone tell the difference between them?”
Meng Xizhao shrugged. “You can’t. Back then, people even died over it.”
He added a clarifying note: “But as ministers, all we can do is try to ease the emperor’s burdens. If we fail to do so properly, that’s what provokes his anger. In the end, it’s always the ministers’ fault.”
Commander Jin: “……”
Seeing Meng Xizhao with such a thoroughly indoctrinated look, his expression shifted subtly. “If this happened to you, wouldn’t you be angry?”
Meng Xizhao glanced at him.
Commander Jin often tested him, but usually with some pretense of mystery, not like now, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. He wasn’t the gossip type—every word had purpose, every question served his own interests. So even though he was asking about Meng Xizhao, he was really talking about himself. He was angry watching the Left Wise King treated this way.
Meng Xizhao blinked, slowly letting out a wry smile. “It didn’t happen to me. And even if it did, what good would anger do? That’s the emperor—his thunder and rain are acts of grace. Ministers are supposed to bear it.”
Commander Jin muttered, “You’re really spineless.”
Hearing it so calmly, Meng Xizhao choked back a laugh, wiped his mouth, set the cup down, and put on a mock indignant expression. “That’s called knowing the times. Besides, life isn’t always so hard.”
Jin furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”
Meng Xizhao glanced at him and said softly, “Which flower blooms forever?”
At first, Commander Jin didn’t understand. When he did, he stared at Meng Xizhao in shock.
Meng Xizhao, meanwhile, was leisurely, even smiling at him.
Commander Jin: “……You’re not really as loyal as you seem!”
Even without knowing Daqi customs, he understood such words were forbidden. No Xiongnu would dare say what Meng Xizhao just did—predicting what happens after the Chanyu dies. And here a Daqi subject spoke it aloud!
Too shocked to think, Commander Jin froze. Meng Xizhao, sensing this, continued calmly:
“I don’t know if you’ve read our Central Plains history. There’s a saying: ‘Iron-clad families, emperors like flowing water.’ It’s quite literal; I’m sure you don’t need me to explain. The great families may fall, but family itself never truly dies.”
He smiled at Jin. “I’m still young, but I know this: if my family thrives, so do I. And I must protect my family.”
Commander Jin’s gaze sharpened. “That’s your business—why tell me?”
Meng Xizhao looked up, eyes oddly intense. “Because we’re friends, and our situations are similar. I believe that if my friends prosper, I won’t do poorly either.”
Jin frowned. “Our situations are similar?”
Meng Xizhao raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t they? You and I serve our lords, and our lords’ lives are difficult.”
＊
Having dropped this little bomb, Meng Xizhao casually walked away.
Commander Jin forced himself to stay a little longer, then rushed out to the Left Wise King’s main tent.
In front of him, he had the others sent out and hurriedly repeated everything Meng Xizhao had said.
Then he asked eagerly, “Your Highness, what does this Meng Xizhao actually want?”
The Left Wise King didn’t answer immediately, just looked at him: “He really trusts you.”
Commander Jin: “……Your Highness, my loyalty to you is absolute!”
The Left Wise King waved him off. “I know. No need to panic. Back in Yingtian Prefecture, I could see that Meng Xizhao was no ordinary man. He won over most of the people I brought, and cleverly avoided appearing in front of me. He isn’t afraid of me—he just knows I can see through his schemes. So he won’t treat me like he treats others.”
Commander Jin’s expression tightened. “Your Highness… does that mean I’m one of the people Meng Xizhao is testing?”
The Left Wise King smiled. “You could say he’s testing you.”
Commander Jin paused. “Testing me… for what?”
He understood that Meng Xizhao was testing him because the Left Wise King needed to gauge Daqi’s situation to protect the Xiongnu. But Meng Xizhao wasn’t loyal to the Daqi emperor, so what’s the point?
The Left Wise King repeated Meng Xizhao’s words: “Serving our lords, our situations are difficult…”
After a moment’s thought, the Left Wise King found it… interesting.
All along, he hadn’t noticed any secret connection between Meng Xizhao and the Daqi Crown Prince. Even when the prince called Meng Xizhao repeatedly, he never suspected anything.
Now that Meng Xizhao had voluntarily revealed it, he could finally see the faintest thread of evidence.
The Left Wise King had also heard something about the Daqi Crown Prince. Apparently, this prince, born of the empress, was never favored by the Daqi emperor. He became crown prince only because, one year, a beauty assassin sent by Nanzhao had infiltrated the palace but failed in her mission. After she escaped, she didn’t immediately leave but instead searched the palace for a certain imperial prince.
The Left Wise King couldn’t recall exactly which prince it was—just that he was the emperor’s favorite. Not long after, the Daqi emperor appointed the crown prince.
The Daqi were cunning and ruthless. The Left Wise King didn’t see anything unusual in this; that was simply how they operated.
Having served as the Chanyu’s right-hand man for decades among the Xiongnu nobility, the Left Wise King wasn’t naive like Commander Jin. He knew that positions, not people, determined authority. Even if the Daqi crown prince was an obvious target, someone would inevitably come forward to pledge loyalty to him.
So it wasn’t strange that Meng Xizhao’s master was the crown prince. What puzzled him was why Meng Xizhao had shared this information with him.
Was he trying to form an alliance with him?
A junior official from the Daqi Ministry of Rites allying with the Xiongnu Left Wise King—did he think he was worthy?
The Left Wise King’s lips curved into a typically Xiongnu cold sneer.
He never allied with the weak. Whether it was this Ministry of Rites official or the puppet crown prince, both were as fragile and lowly as ants.
Meng Xizhao emerged from Commander Jin’s tent and returned to his own. After a brief stay, he made his way to the main tent of the Princess of Chu.
Her tent wasn’t the most luxurious, but it was certainly the most exquisite. By now, the weather had grown quite cold—daily highs rarely exceeded ten degrees Celsius. Outside her tent, Meng Xizhao had a guard announce his arrival. Soon, a palace maid in thick winter clothing came out.
Meng Xizhao bowed. “Could you kindly inform me if there is anything amiss in the tent?”
The maid shook her head. “Thank you for your concern, Young Master Meng. Everything is in order.”
Meng Xizhao smiled. “Good. The princess is delicate, and the days are getting colder. Nothing must go wrong.”
He then produced a book from his sleeve. “I brought this novel from Yingtian Prefecture, called Tōng Yōu Ji. Please deliver it to the princess—it may provide some idle amusement.”
The maid opened the book to examine it. Meng Xizhao did not stop her. After confirming there was nothing suspicious—no possibility of secret exchanges—she nodded to him and returned inside to report.
Once she left, Meng Xizhao finally exhaled.
The maid, though not yet thirty, carried an air of authority that demanded attention. She wasn’t there merely to serve the princess, but to watch over her, akin to a future matron—ensuring the princess harbored no thoughts of escape.
Previous marriage escort parties had no such figure. She existed because, fourteen years ago, the eldest princess of Shang, sent to marry into Xia, had attempted to flee, nearly causing disaster. She was caught and safely delivered, but within a few years, the Shang princess died—whether from illness or despair, no one knew.
The Princess of Chu was Emperor Tianshou’s daughter, the Shang princess his sister. Yet whether daughter or sister, the emperor only demanded obedience: complete the marriage journey, alive or dead, and nothing more mattered.
After the maid delivered the book, she remained standing behind the princess like a wooden statue, eyes lowered.
Even though the maid said nothing and avoided looking at her, the princess felt an irritating weight at her back. She hated the maid, but could not dismiss her, and had to endure her presence.
She wanted to toss the book into the brazier and burn it clean. But after half a month of travel, bored as she was, she hesitated and eventually took the book up.
Seeing the delicate calligraphy of Tōng Yōu Ji on the cover, she recognized it as a woman’s writing. Books copied by women piqued her interest further. She flipped it open, read two pages, and became engrossed.
Tōng Yōu Ji was a collection of tales. The first story followed a wealthy young lady sent to visit relatives who, due to an accident, ended up in the same village as a destitute farmer’s wife. The farmer’s wife, discovering the young lady’s identity, took advantage, claiming the young lady’s status and being received by the family she had never met. Meanwhile, the real young lady was left behind, crying to the heavens in vain.
The farmer’s husband, finding his wife gone, did nothing and married the young lady as his new wife. Enduring humiliation, the young lady eventually killed this despicable man to escape and reunite with her family. The farmer’s wife was exposed and swiftly executed by her furious in-laws.
The concise, blunt, and straightforward story made the Princess of Chu smile. She clearly enjoyed such plots.
She soon opened the second story.
A wicked elder brother repeatedly tried to sell his sister into a brothel. The sister fled each time, only to be sold again. After repeated abuses, she finally killed him.
Another satisfying ending.