All of these stories…
Of course, were compiled by Meng Xizhao himself.
He narrated them, and Jin Zhu copied them. Since Meng Xizhao knew Jin Zhu’s annual salary was so high, he always thought of her first for any task, seemingly determined to recover the five thousand taels he had spent.
Poor Jin Zhu. Normally she oversaw the estate, but whenever she got a moment of leisure, just returning to the administration office without even greeting her friends, Meng Xizhao would pull her aside to copy yet another book.
The literary inquisition was a hallmark of the Qing dynasty, but that didn’t mean other dynasties never punished people for what they wrote. To avoid future controversies, Meng Xizhao deliberately wrote each story in a veiled manner.
Except for the first story, where the heroine kills her “nominal” husband, the others had nothing to do with spouses.
In the second story, she kills her elder brother. In the third, the victim is a brothel madam. The fourth story is even subtler: the female protagonist doesn’t kill anyone at all but plays the role of a detective, investigating a cold case.
A couple had died under mysterious circumstances, and for over ten years no clues were found. After some investigation, the heroine discovered the events were connected to a maid the couple had employed. They had mistreated the maid, forcing her to do all the work and denying her food, leaving her to eat only weeds from the courtyard. One day, the master fell into a well while drunk. The heroine, in a panic, shoved the maid aside to save him. The maid’s steps were slow, so the heroine yanked her by the hair and struck her hard. The maid, in pain, pushed back; the heroine stepped on some dew-soaked weeds, lost her footing, and fell—just enough to land on the axe in the courtyard, dying instantly.
The maid panicked, and seeing the master had drowned, seized the opportunity. She ran to report the incident, claiming she had been out and returned to find the house in chaos.
Ancient times had no detective novels, and the Princess of Chu held her breath as she read, especially when she saw the footprints by the well and how the maid’s steps mirrored the heroine’s disorderly movements. Was it really a coincidence? Could it actually have been the maid?
With no evidence to convict, the maid tearfully recounted the events. Soon, the heroine was moved, promising that since it was an accident, she would never reveal it, allowing the maid to live an honest life.
The Princess of Chu lingered on that final phrase, “live an honest life”, staring at it for a long while.
The first story was simple and blunt—a hook to immediately capture her attention, showing that murder could be the key to resolving conflicts.
The second story reinforced this impression: every protagonist was oppressed, gradually allowing her to relate to the situations.
But the real key was the fourth story.
Murder, though spoken of lightly, was terrifying in reality. Unless the victim was truly wicked, who wouldn’t shake their head in disbelief at the thought?
Better to live poorly than die gloriously. From emperors to commoners, everyone accepted this truth: killing might prevent oppression, but the killer must still pay the price. The endings were still bleak.
The ideal scenario would be a miracle, something utterly impossible—say, she hadn’t yet reached the Xiongnu and the Chanyu suddenly died. Then she wouldn’t have to marry.
At the thought, the Princess of Chu’s heart leapt with hope, but in the next instant, her lips curved downward again.
What use would the Chanyu’s death be? Xiongnu custom allowed men to inherit the wives of their fathers or brothers. Even if this Chanyu died, another would rise. And even if every single Chanyu refused her, once she returned to Daqi, her father would inevitably send her to some strange land, to serve as a concubine to an unknown foreigner.
So even a miracle couldn’t save her.
Meng Xizhao left the Princess of Chu’s tent and headed for the Crown Prince’s tent.
The guard at the entrance saluted him and entered to report. Unlike with the princess, no attendant came out first. Soon, the guard returned, drew back the curtain, and gestured him inside.
Nearby, Zhan Buxiu paused mid-step as he came out to feed the horses.
Meng Xizhao’s relationship with the Crown Prince… seemed to grow closer with each passing day.
Whether due to internal circumstances or habit, there were no eunuchs attending closely to Cui Ye; only guards followed him.
At this time, the fewer people around, the better. Cui Ye leaned against the head of his bed with eyes closed, resting, while Yu Fulan sat at the desk nearest the door. Seeing Meng Xizhao enter, he rose and greeted him: “Young Master Meng.”
Meng Xizhao nodded. “Commander Yu.”
Yu Fulan returned to his seat, and Meng Xizhao moved to Cui Ye’s side.
The emperor slept on the Dragon Bed, and even favored concubines weren’t allowed to lie on it—they had to go to the side chamber. Whatever the Crown Prince’s bed was called, it wasn’t something Meng Xizhao could just flop onto.
Yu Fulan glanced at Meng Xizhao’s natural ease as he sat, lips twitching, but quietly lowered his head.
A good subordinate doesn’t fuss over small matters.
Crown Prince happy, Crown Prince happy, Crown Prince happy.
He repeated this mantra three times, successfully convincing himself.
The Crown Prince had already noticed Meng Xizhao approaching. Half-opening his eyes, he habitually offered a faint smile before fully seeing him.
“Not busy today?”
Meng Xizhao shrugged. “Everyone’s safely in their tents. Even if they wanted to be busy, they couldn’t.”
He then noticed the Crown Prince’s pale, bloodless lips and furrowed his brows. “Your Highness, did you take your medicine?”
Cui Ye nodded.
Meng Xizhao frowned further. “Even with the medicine, it’s no use?”
Lowering his gaze, Cui Ye replied, “It fluctuates naturally; it’s not the medicine. My body is simply weak.”
Meng Xizhao remained silent, his expression far from relaxed.
It seemed he had startled the Crown Prince. Meng Xizhao had witnessed several of Cui Ye’s episodes before, but this was the first time he had looked so worried.
Cui Ye suddenly felt a warmth spreading through his body, as if a current of heat was running along his meridians.
Even the heaviness and fatigue weighing on him seemed to lift.
He laughed again, and the smile looked incredibly sweet.
Meng Xizhao: …Wait, describing a man’s smile as sweet probably wasn’t quite right.
But before he could dwell on that, Cui Ye spoke: “It’s nothing. Er Lang, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m used to it.”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Used to it? Doesn’t that make it even more worrying?!
He was beginning to suspect that the Cui Ye in the book hadn’t been faking death—he had actually died in that coffin!
How could that be?!
He had poured so much of himself into this—his time, his emotions, all of it, a wholly sincere offering, blazing in the light of day. If someone else had been in his place, let alone whether he could trust them, his own energy wouldn’t even have been enough to keep up.
So Cui Ye had to live—had to live long and well. Otherwise, all his early investment, all the risks he’d taken from getting beaten by his parents, would be wasted.
If Cui Ye knew what Meng Xizhao was thinking right now, he’d probably burst into tears on the spot.
Meng Xizhao wanted to call Teng Kangning over to check Cui Ye’s pulse, to see exactly what was going on, but he couldn’t.
The poisoning could only be revealed by Cui Ye himself; Meng Xizhao could not discover it on his own. Human nature was fragile. No matter how good Cui Ye was to him now, if Meng Xizhao uncovered his deepest secret, what if Cui Ye, in a moment of despair, decided to kill him to keep it hidden?
So, he would proceed slowly, very slowly.
But not too slowly. Meng Xizhao could spend twenty years perfecting a weapon or a lifetime breeding new species, but when it came to antidotes, one year was already his limit.
Even when he discovered the lingering effects of his own lovesick tendencies, he immediately went to a brothel to verify the situation. For Cui Ye—completely in the dark, with no one knowing if he might suddenly succumb to poison—Meng Xizhao wanted every possible piece of information.
Holding his breath, he said nothing while with Cui Ye. When leaving the tent, Yu Fulan escorted him out. Just as Yu Fulan was about to leave, Meng Xizhao suddenly grabbed the cloth on his shoulder and pulled him aside.
Thankfully, it was already dark; no one had seen.
In a pitch-black area without lanterns, Meng Xizhao and Yu Fulan stared at each other, wide-eyed.
Right now, we’re all in the dark like Africans.
Meng Xizhao asked: “Commander Yu, what exactly is His Highness’s chronic condition? Why does it flare up so predictably?”
Always on the first day of the month—was this poison being controlled by someone, or did his previous life involve a severe case of obsessive-compulsive disorder? It was just too precise.
Yu Fulan: “……”
He looked surprised. “You’re asking me?”
Meng Xizhao: “…If I don’t ask you, who else can I ask?”
Yu Fulan blurted out: “Ask His Highness!”
Meng Xizhao felt like he had misjudged him. Yu Fulan’s intelligence seemed on par with the Third Prince.
“Exactly because I can’t ask His Highness, I’m asking you. If I could, why waste time with you?”
Yu Fulan looked even more perplexed than Meng Xizhao: “Why not ask His Highness? His Highness has always spoken openly to Young Master Meng. You don’t need to worry. If an answer can be given, His Highness will answer. If not, he won’t be upset with you.”
He added with some exasperation: “After all, you painted that picture. I thought you knew your influence with His Highness and did it intentionally.”
Meng Xizhao froze. Then, stammering slightly, he asked: “Y-you also saw that painting?”
“His Highness showed it to you?”
“…I was just messing around. A joke, really. No need to take it seriously! Why would His Highness show it to you?”
His voice rose with each sentence, though kept under control, so no one far off could hear. Yu Fulan could still sense Meng Xizhao’s embarrassment and irritation.
He didn’t even bother asking about the Crown Prince’s matters and simply turned to leave. Yu Fulan stared after him in shock before returning to the tent.
Cui Ye, wondering why he had been gone so long, saw Yu Fulan approaching with a blank expression, bowing deeply.
“Your Highness, I’m sorry. I may… have made Young Master Meng upset again.”
Cui Ye: “…………”
It took him a while to process what Yu Fulan had said. He looked at Yu Fulan slowly, tempted to leave him in the Xiongnu lands, never to bring him back.
Meng Xizhao was indeed a bit angry.
That painting—he hadn’t even shown it to Qingfu, Jin Zhu, or anyone else. He had tucked it into his sleeve immediately after finishing it. Yet Cui Ye, so generous, had taken it and shared it.
Did he not realize it was a portrait of him?
Or did he realize and simply not care? By now, the entire Eastern Palace might know that Meng Xizhao could draw a pig’s head.
Meng Xizhao: “……”
He went silent for a moment. He didn’t want to sit stewing in his anger, so he had someone fetch Teng Kangning to check his pulse for reassurance.
Back in Yingtian Prefecture, Meng Xizhao ate meat daily and frequently had his personal physician examine him for signs of maladaptation to the local conditions.
Everyone around him: “……”
Don’t you know if your body is adapting or not?
People afraid of death, yes—but never had they seen someone this scared of it.
Still, Teng Kangning did find a minor issue: Meng Xizhao had been eating too much meat, weakening his digestive system and causing constipation. He advised cutting back, warning that on the Xiongnu steppe, where fresh vegetables were scarce, Meng Xizhao could risk severe discomfort.
Meng Xizhao: “……”
He had been getting Teng Kangning to check his pulse in full view of everyone, and everything Teng Kangning had said had been said publicly as well.
Those around them didn’t dare laugh in front of him; behind their backs, they were nearly cracking themselves up so hard it was like Parkinson’s.
But Meng Xizhao couldn’t say anything. He already knew Teng Kangning’s personality well: a man like him, the same breed as the Xiongnu, couldn’t read social cues and never gave anyone face.
After this, he remembered to be cautious. From then on, whenever he called Teng Kangning over, the doors were closed—convenient for Meng Xizhao to ask him things privately.
Teng Kangning entered, checked his pulse as usual, and gave the same diagnosis: Meng Xizhao had been a little overheated lately and should drink more cooling herbs.
Meng Xizhao waved his hand to show he understood, then leaned in and asked quietly: “You know how to make poison. Can you also make an antidote?”
Teng Kangning looked at him, then let out a smug, triumphant snort: “Have you ever heard of someone who can cook but doesn’t know how to eat? Anyone I’ve poisoned, I can bring back to life.”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Stop bringing up your past “glories.” If it weren’t for your usefulness, I’d have sent you straight to the Dali Temple to help Lord Jiao rack up some points.
Meng Xizhao wasn’t joking—he really had thought about it. With Teng Kangning’s contribution alone, countless old cases might finally see the light of day.
…but ultimately, Teng Kangning was just a technician. Like some scientists, he provided the technical skill without personally harming anyone. And so far, Teng Kangning had never actually sold a lethal poison—the deadliest thing he’d sold was the muting potion for the Third Prince.
This really showed just how unlucky Meng Xizhao and Meng Xiang were…
In short, this man was a convict, someone who could redeem himself through merit.
But the convict didn’t see it that way—he still thought of himself as Meng Xizhao’s honored guest.
Meng Xizhao shot him a glare, slammed the table so hard his teacup nearly fell: “Taking a life is something to be proud of?! I warn you—never say that again!”
Teng Kangning: “……You called me here to take lives, and now you’re scolding me?”
Meng Xizhao choked: “Who told you to take lives?”
Teng Kangning frowned, muttering under his breath: “Trying to end a family line—that’s worse than killing someone.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
So you actually know how to write ‘immoral.’
Meng Xizhao fell silent for a moment, troubled. He still didn’t know what to do about the Crown Prince’s affairs. Fine—he would put it off, think it through, and then decide if he’d have Teng Kangning lend a hand.
Putting that aside for now, he put on a serious expression: “Alright, since we’re on the topic… have you figured it out yet?”
Teng Kangning scowled: “Do you think making medicine is as easy as cooking? It takes repeated trials!”
Meng Xizhao: “Then try it! You’re basically on the same level as the imperial doctors now—you’ve got your own carriage, and the herbs no one else can understand. Go ahead and experiment.”
Teng Kangning’s eyes widened: “I’m sitting alone in a carriage—who am I supposed to test on? Those rabbit litters you gave me are more timid than mice. Most of them died during the travel.”
Meng Xizhao sighed: “There’s nothing we can do. Rabbits are all we can bring. Fine, tomorrow I’ll have Zhan Buxiu take people out to catch a few litters of field mice for you.”
Teng Kangning: “……Are you joking?”
Meng Xizhao gave him a strange look: “Why would I joke about this? Don’t worry—we won’t get dirty ones, just some field mice. The results are basically the same. Except for a few special cases, most mammals have similar structures and similar toxin resistance.”
Teng Kangning frowned: “Mammals… what are mammals?”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
“Never mind that. Just focus on your ‘family-ending’ poison.”
After leaving Meng Xizhao’s tent, Teng Kangning instinctively glanced back. He wanted to complain, but the guards walking back and forth in the tent made him hesitate.
Hmph. How dare he call me immoral.
Even if he was, Teng Kangning only worked with poisons that could kill quickly—he never intended to torture anyone.
Even the abortion potion he had made originally was for a woman in dire straits. She had been violated by her brother-in-law, became pregnant, and, too scared to speak up, tried to drown herself. Teng Kangning found her, saved her, took a small reward, and used her as a temporary test subject.
Before leaving, the woman begged him to make a safe abortion potion. Teng Kangning saw the opportunity and created one with no side effects.
Later, he sold the potion to wealthy women in secluded households—not out of kindness, but for money.
But no matter what! Those women could still have children afterward. It wasn’t like Meng Xizhao’s requirement—completely sterilizing them.
Teng Kangning was a medicine enthusiast. Once he had a direction, he was always willing to research. This time, though, he hesitated for another reason:
He simply didn’t believe Meng Xizhao could make every Xiongnu drink this poison.
At first, he thought it might be for the Princess of Chu. When Meng Xizhao denied it, he guessed it might go into the khan’s bowl at the wedding. He wanted to point out that the khan was already sixty-three, and Xiongnu men, though active, had a very low chance of fathering children at that age…
But Meng Xizhao denied that too. Instead, he wanted the poison mass-produced immediately after research.
At the quantities Meng Xizhao requested, Teng Kangning felt it could turn five hundred Xiongnu men into impotent roosters.
…
The Xiongnu weren’t stupid. A poison this strong would cause a huge stir. Wouldn’t they notice immediately? But Meng Xizhao treated his doubts like wind, ignoring them entirely, insisting he continue the research.
Fine. If something goes wrong, he could handle it himself—other people were none of his concern.
＊
They spent two days resting in this nowhere-to-be-found place, and surprisingly, everyone’s spirits had improved considerably.
Before, after traveling nonstop, everyone had looked half-dead, except the Xiongnu, who seemed eager to return home. At night, their tents or rooms echoed with laughter and drinking, while everywhere else was deathly silent.
Now it was the opposite. The people of Daqi greeted the morning sun with chatter and laughter. Even those destined to stay behind with the Princess of Chu were smiling, while the Xiongnu glared silently, full of resentment.
The Crown Prince emerged from the main tent, draped in a moon-white cloak embroidered with subtle patterns. The Minister of Rites stepped forward immediately. “Your Highness, are you feeling better?”
The Crown Prince smiled: “Yes. Tell them to set out.”
The Minister of Rites acknowledged and quickly went to give orders.
Seeing this, the Xiongnu finally relaxed.
Two days later, they arrived in Youzhou, whose other side bordered Xiongnu territory.
Back in the time of Qin Shi Huang, the Great Wall had been built to defend against the Xiongnu. But their territory wasn’t actually that large. Youzhou had belonged to the Yan state. Qin Shi Huang chose it for its naturally defensible location, building the Linlü Pass there. Now, the Wall itself marked the border, and on the other side was Xiongnu land.
As they exited Daqi’s city gates, people were already waiting.
The man in front wore a Xiongnu noble’s hat, with several small braids hanging at the sides of his face. He looked to be in his twenties. Meng Xizhao couldn’t tell for sure—Xiongnu people’s faces were weathered, and appearances were misleading. For example, Jindu Wei was twenty-five but looked thirty-five, and Zuo Xian Wang was over forty but looked thirty-something. Age could not be judged by appearance.
Seeing Zuo Xian Wang’s group, the man immediately cracked his whip and shouted, riding forward alone. His followers lagged slightly behind.
Meng Xizhao lifted his curtain, curious.
The man had a loud voice, but unfortunately spoke entirely in Xiongnu. Meng Xizhao didn’t understand a word—he could only see him laugh loudly and familiarly at Zuo Xian Wang, jabbering away, and Zuo Xian Wang responded with a couple of replies.
Then the man looked first at the Crown Prince’s carriage, raising his brows, then at the Princess’s carriage.
Though he showed no outward reaction, his expression clearly indicated more interest in the Crown Prince than the Princess.
No wonder. Only the Tian Shou Emperor would send the heir apparent out as a sort of “delivery captain.”
The procession moved on. Meng Xizhao lowered the curtain and sat back quietly.
It wasn’t until noon, when they stopped to make a fire and prepare lunch, that Meng Xizhao learned from Jindu Wei that the man who came to meet them was the Xiongnu’s eldest prince, Huriqa.
The Xiongnu population was small, just over five million.
That might seem sizable, but in comparison, the Xiongnu territory was roughly two-thirds the size of Qiguo, while Qiguo’s population was ten times larger and wealthier.
With fewer people came fewer resources. Polygamy was difficult, even for the khan. Even the khan’s harem only had about ten women.
By contrast, the Tian Shou Emperor had slept with thousands of women; at least a thousand of them bore his children.
Fewer women meant even fewer children. The number of a khan’s children matched the number of women in his harem. Of the dozen or so children, only five were princes; the rest were Xiongnu princesses, called Juci by their people.
The five princes spanned a wide age range. The eldest prince, Huriqa, was thirty-one; the second prince, Annuwei, was twenty-five, the same as Jindu Wei; the third prince, Xiugeqi, was twenty. Two younger princes were still minors, so Meng Xizhao didn’t know much about them.
The Xiongnu cared little about legitimate or secondary lineage but valued strength and adulthood. Unless the two young princes displayed abilities akin to their ancestor Modun Khan, they had no chance of succession.
Having read the story, Meng Xizhao knew the two minors were completely suppressed by the new khan. Even their father, the old khan, had skills they lacked.
The new khan in line for succession? Today, the eldest prince who came to meet them.
During lunch, the eldest prince sat with Zuo Xian Wang’s group, poised and commanding. He spoke to everyone in Zuo Xian Wang’s ranks, even slapping Jindu Wei on the shoulder, saying something unknown.
He was physically robust, in his prime, a warrior type the Xiongnu revered. He was also socially adept, knowing how to build relationships.
From first impressions alone, Meng Xizhao could tell he was formidable—a true rival to Daqi.
In the story, after the old khan died suddenly, the eldest prince immediately took control of the khan’s court. The second and third princes hadn’t reacted before he assumed the title. The third prince, weak, did not resist; the second prince, born of the Da Yishi, was influential among the Xiongnu nobility and attempted to challenge his elder brother, but was swiftly suppressed. After confinement, the eldest prince studied him for three days, deemed him unfit, and executed him immediately.
…
He killed the Princess of Chu, his brother, and a group of the brother’s supporters, leaving the khan’s court awash in blood. He then replaced those killed with his own followers, consolidating the Xiongnu completely before beginning to think about ruling.
To achieve glory as a Xiongnu khan was simple: conquer, expand territory—this was a “good khan” in their eyes. Developing agriculture, livestock, economy, or building cities like the Central Plains were not priorities. Xiongnu were accustomed to raiding; stolen goods always seemed more satisfying.
During the chaos in Qiguo, he seized the opportunity while Qiguo had pulled most of its forces to fight Zhan Buxiu’s rebel army. He annexed the lands stretching from Youzhou to the Luoshui region into his own territory, even taking parts of Shandong. If someone at home hadn’t reported that the Jurchen and the Yuezhi were stirring, he probably would have continued, potentially reaping huge benefits without lifting a finger.
Back at the khan’s court, he didn’t idle. First, he negotiated with the Yuezhi, questioning their dishonest behavior. The Yuezhi were clever enough to kneel and apologize immediately. But the eldest prince was even more ruthless—he had plotted in advance, and when the Yuezhi sent envoys to apologize, he dispatched a troop of men disguised as bandits and killed them.
Then, sitting in his palace, waiting for the envoys to arrive, he grew furious and decided to lead an attack against the Yuezhi.
When he had plundered Qiguo, he had amassed a huge amount of supplies—especially in Shandong, which was harvest season. The grain and fodder he seized were enough not only for the campaign against the Yuezhi but also to station troops to watch the Jurchen. Naturally, the Jurchen, thinking to take advantage of the situation, hesitated once they realized the Xiongnu were no longer the same as before—stronger and more organized.
The Yuezhi never expected the eldest prince to be so formidable, commanding troops like a master. The Yuezhi had long acted like cultured men, delicate as paper, which the prince quickly saw through. It didn’t take long for the Yuezhi city to fall. The Yuezhi king surrendered voluntarily, accepting a three-tier demotion to become a minor noble under the Xiongnu.
Even later, when Zhan Buxiu restored order and counterattacked, he gained little. Youzhou remained in Xiongnu hands, Shandong had been ravaged, and only the northern stretch of Luoshui—difficult to govern—was reclaimed. On the surface, it looked like a victory, but the national border had effectively become a Xiongnu foothold.
While Zhan Buxiu lived, the Xiongnu likely wouldn’t advance south. Once he was gone, who could say?
All along, the eldest prince remained firmly in the military command tent. Unlike certain stories where the hero must invade the antagonist’s homeland to kill him, the eldest prince’s position as khan was more secure than Zhan Buxiu’s throne. In fact, compared to Zhan Buxiu, he was more like a proper emperor.
At least when the story was completed, the Central Plains still had instability, while the Xiongnu were united under the khan, loyal from top to bottom. Zhan Buxiu would probably never achieve such a feat in his lifetime.
Recalling all this, Meng Xizhao thought to himself: he hadn’t been wrong—this man was truly formidable.
And because of that, Meng Xizhao became even more certain of his own decision:
—Absolutely must not let this eldest prince succeed to the throne!
Casting a glance at the Xiongnu, now lively with drinking and dancing, Meng Xizhao stood and returned to his carriage.
By nightfall, they had entered Xiongnu territory. The Xiongnu didn’t care much for infrastructure—no roads, no relay stations. In their eyes, the borderlands were perfect grasslands; why build roads that would reduce the grazing land for their cattle and sheep?
The khan’s court, fortunately, was well built—a large enough city to host the Daqi delegation.
After several nights of camping, everyone had grown used to it. The place was a bit remote, and when night fell, distant howls of unknown animals could be heard.
Meng Xizhao carried his lunchbox to Jindu Wei’s tent.
Placing it down, he smiled: “From today onward, the people of Daqi are guests here. Captain, aren’t you going to pour me a drink?”
Jindu Wei stood, opening the food box he had brought. His lips twitched: “Again with buns?”
“I like them,” Meng Xizhao replied.
“…But you can’t eat them every day,” Jindu Wei said.
Meng Xizhao shrugged: “Why not? Besides, now we’re in Xiongnu territory. I hear your cattle and sheep have especially tender meat. Have your people prepare it for me one by one—preferably in such quantity that I get sick of it, so I can eat my fill.”
Pleased to hear praise for his country’s livestock, Jindu Wei proudly poured some fine wine he had purchased from Daqi. “You won’t be gone forever. Xiongnu and Daqi maintain peaceful relations; sending envoys back and forth is normal. You, as a junior minister of the Honglu Temple, could even propose to your emperor to make you a permanent envoy here.”
Meng Xizhao paused. If he didn’t know Jindu Wei, he might think the man was deliberately mocking him.
Don’t they know how much Daqi people despise the Xiongnu? Yet he volunteered to be an envoy—what’s the difference from volunteering for exile three thousand miles away?
He smiled faintly, a “seen through it but won’t say” expression: “I probably won’t come again.”
Jindu Wei asked: “Why?”
Meng Xizhao took a sip of wine and sighed: “Being junior minister at the Honglu Temple is a temporary post. Neither His Majesty nor my father would let me stay long. When I return, I’ll likely be promoted—maybe to one of the Six Ministries, or assigned locally as a prefect.”
Jindu Wei knew something about Daqi official ranks. The Three Departments and Six Ministries formed the central government, while a local prefect controlled an area nearly half the size of Zuo Xian Wang’s territory.
He was stunned. A minor sixth-rank official today, a local lord tomorrow?
Meng Xizhao hadn’t finished, his gaze drifting to the distance, as if already seeing the path ahead: “Three years in a local post, maybe less, and I’ll be recalled to the Imperial Capital. Then one of the Central Secretariat or the Chancellery will appoint me. By then, I’ll already be a third- or second-rank minister. How could I ever visit the Xiongnu again? If I did, you’d have real reason to worry.”
Sending an official that high as an envoy could only mean one of two things: either war was imminent, or war had already broken out.
Jindu Wei: “…I see. There’s no helping that. But isn’t that a good thing? Promotion and wealth—aren’t Daqi people most passionate about that?”
Meng Xizhao gave him another long, lingering look. “It’s a good thing, yes, but it means I won’t see you anymore.”
Hearing that, Jindu Wei was momentarily stunned, then his expression softened slightly. “As you Daqi people say, the friendship of gentlemen is as light as water.”
Meng Xizhao: “True. It’s just that when I’m living in silk and fine food later on, I can’t help but think of you suffering here. It makes me… uneasy.”
Jindu Wei: “…”
“The Xiongnu aren’t as terrible as you imagine.”
Only Meng Xizhao could say that. If another Daqi person said it, Jindu Wei would probably punch them on the spot.
Meng Xizhao noticed his reaction and realized the misunderstanding. “I don’t mean the Xiongnu are bad. I mean that in the future, you’ll be serving under Zuo Xian Wang. His life will get harder by the day, and since you’re so loyal, you’ll suffer alongside him. That worries me.”
Jindu Wei’s gaze turned cold. “Junior Minister of the Honglu Temple, aren’t you overstepping with what you just said?”
Meng Xizhao set down his cup and smiled. “Even if I am, I had to say it. I truly want what’s best for you.”
Jindu Wei snorted coldly. “No—you want what’s best for yourself!”
Meng Xizhao’s expression turned serious. “You’re wrong. I’ve long given up on my own life and death. Perhaps you’ve heard of me back in Daqi—when I was still in swaddling clothes, a decree was issued over me. My life was never meant to be long.”
Jindu Wei froze.
The Xiongnu believed in shamans—a faith with some parallels to Buddhism—but far more superstitious, especially about prophecy and spirit possession. Upon hearing this, Jindu Wei’s face changed sharply. “Then you are—”
Meng Xizhao pressed his lips together, reluctant to speak. But after holding Jindu Wei’s gaze, he made a decision and, in a final gamble, spoke: “A scholar dies for one who understands him. What I seek has never been my own glory or wealth, but for you to escape suffering, for friends to have their wishes fulfilled, for family to live in safety and peace.”
He looked at Jindu Wei with a pained expression, his eyes glistening. “You are my friend, Jindu Wei. Why can’t you believe me?”