In just two days, it would be October 29.
To ensure that everyone could enjoy the feast on the wedding day, the Xiongnu brought hundreds of cattle and sheep from nearby pastures. The animals streamed through the streets toward the palace, bleating loudly. Whether there was no special route for livestock or they wanted the Qi people to see their efforts for the wedding, no one knew.
Meng Xizhao stood at the gate, hands tucked in his sleeves, silently watching the parade of livestock.
The Ministry of Rites official covering his nose in disgust muttered, “What a stench.”
Meng Xizhao: “It’s winter now, so it’s not too bad. In summer, the smell would be unbearable.”
The official, Lu Fengqiu, was plump and round-faced, a stark contrast to his refined name. From the start in Ying Tian Prefecture, his face was round enough to be a ball; now it was more oval, all thanks to a road of eating meat.
On the road, they could still send people to nearby villages for vegetables and fruit. But here among the Xiongnu, that wasn’t possible. Except for the Crown Prince and the princess, who could ensure a balanced diet, everyone else survived mostly on meat and bread.
Now, Meng Xizhao’s nose ached from the smell of meat, and everyone else fared no better. They relied on tea to survive, eating a meal of meat, drinking a couple of pots of tea, and forcing down as much fat as possible.
Lu Fengqiu sighed. “Anyway, at least we’re heading back. Once we return to Ying Tian Prefecture, I’ll go to Wangjiang Tower and order a huge table of vegetables. Meng Shaoqing, you’ll join me for a drink, won’t you?”
Meng Xizhao smiled: “Of course.”
The journey had gone smoothly, and especially after entering Xiongnu territory, friendships had begun to form. Lu Fengqiu laughed in return, the cold air biting slightly. He greeted Meng Xizhao before returning to check the baggage, making sure nothing was missing for the trip home.
Many others, like Lu Fengqiu, were eager to return to their country. Even the two craftsmen Meng Xizhao brought along, after finishing their buns and hand-made firecrackers, counted down the days to returning home. To them, once the princess was delivered, attending the wedding seemed optional—they weren’t her true family anyway.
Meng Xizhao nodded to Lu Fengqiu, then continued standing there, observing the tracks left by the cattle and sheep. After a while, he turned and entered the inn.
The Right Wise King, in an attempt to appease Meng Xizhao, used a fully obliging demeanor before heading to see the Elder Chanyu, reporting Meng Xizhao’s response.
Of course, he embellished the account.
“…The Qi people are audacious. That Meng Xizhao told me, if the Xiongnu raise prices, that’s fine, but as long as we raise our prices, Qi wouldn’t buy their horses anymore. Such arrogance, unheard of!”
The Elder Chanyu flew into a rage. “The horse trade was arranged by me and their late Emperor Renzong. How dare they openly break the contract?!”
The Right Wise King: “……”
Perhaps he hadn’t realized yet—our price hike came first. They only broke the contract in response, so we’re not entirely in the wrong.
The Elder Chanyu ignored that, his hand instinctively reaching for his whip in anger. Containing himself, he instead struck the ground hard. “Go tell them: horse prices will rise this year! If they dare not buy, then they need not return to Qi either!”
The Right Wise King: “……”
Aren’t we bandits? How come we’re suddenly talking about kidnapping now?
…
This kind of decision could not be left solely to the Elder Chanyu. So, under the persuasion of the Right Wise King, the Elder Chanyu convened another council of nobles. The Right Wise King relayed Meng Xizhao’s stance, and the nobles quickly became roused. Much like the Elder Chanyu, they wanted to forcibly raise prices and compel Qi to buy their horses.
The Right Wise King, already disdainful of these rough men, grew even more so seeing them mirror the Chanyu’s own temperament. After the nobles had vented their frustrations, he finally told them: the Qi people are well-prepared. Having suffered losses over the years, they’ve become clever, developing a weapon that compensates for insufficient cavalry. The Qi are confident in it—perhaps they don’t even need to buy horses from the Xiongnu at high prices anymore.
Some doubted: “What weapon could possibly replace horses? Right Wise King, are the Qi deceiving you?”
The Right Wise King: “I know there’s no proof in words alone. But on that day, the Qi used a weapon called the hand thunder [shoulei] to blow open the palace gates. Have any of you seen such a thing before?”
The nobles whispered among themselves.
Indeed, none had seen it.
But that didn’t necessarily mean the Qi truly possessed a weapon that could replace horses!
For a moment, the meeting reached an impasse.
The crux of the matter was that no one could tell if Meng Xizhao was telling the truth or bluffing. If true, it would be a catastrophic development for the Xiongnu. If false, they couldn’t let the Qi manipulate them so easily.
The Left Wise King remained silent throughout, while the Second Prince impatiently interjected: “Who cares if it’s true or not? Meng Xizhao spoke so confidently. Didn’t he say these weapons would be used on the Nanzhao battlefield soon? Then let’s wait. This year we sell at the original price; next year we’ll see if they really can produce such a weapon, and then we can revisit this.”
The Left Wise King lowered his eyes, thinking that having a Second Prince was less useful than having a lamb bun.
The Crown Prince, who had recently suffered a setback and thus kept a low profile before the Chanyu, could not resist mocking his brother: “Wait until next year? If they don’t produce it, fine—but if they do, and we refuse to raise prices, would they still buy? When they realize they don’t even need our horses, they might not pay a single coin!”
The Right Wise King nodded: “The Crown Prince is reasonable. Meng Xizhao never said they intend to stop buying horses. From his tone, the weapon is newly developed and untested. They’re unsure if it works, so if they can buy our horses, they will.”
The Crown Prince’s voice dropped: “But that’s only for this year. The future is uncertain. Father, why not call Meng Xizhao over and rewrite the contract? The previous one was signed twenty years ago, with Emperor Renzong, and doesn’t reflect the closeness between the Xiongnu and Qi now. By rewriting it, we establish friendship with their current emperor. We can add a clause requiring Qi to purchase a sufficient number of horses annually. If they fail, it’s a breach of contract, giving us a legitimate reason to act.”
The contract signed with Renzong lacked any mandatory purchase clause; it only covered prices and transport. Back then, it was unnecessary—Renzong was a gentle, even-handed emperor who would not arbitrarily raise prices or break contracts.
Now, the emperor has changed, his ministers have changed, and the Xiongnu have a Crown Prince like this. His resentment toward Qi rivals even that toward the Yuezhi. Once his father dies, he intends to punish Qi severely. This new horse contract is perfect justification for action.
Others only saw the clause as sensible, unaware of the Crown Prince’s hidden intent. With it, no matter what happens next year, Qi must continue buying horses.
Among the chattering nobles, the Left Wise King raised his eyes briefly to look at the Crown Prince opposite him. Yet he said nothing, soon lowering his head to continue sipping tea.
After this meeting, the Right Wise King brought the new council decision to Meng Xizhao.
With the wedding in two days, the Qi delegation was about to depart, so the horse-buying issue had to be resolved quickly.
Meng Xizhao sat across from the Right Wise King, listening as he spoke at length, his expression flickering slightly. He instinctively looked aside, avoiding the Right Wise King’s gaze. After a moment, he returned his eyes and offered a polite smile: “I will relay these words to our Emperor.”
The Right Wise King: “…Relay? You’re here, and as an official of the Honglu Temple, you have authority. With the Crown Prince present, rewriting a contract shouldn’t take long.”
Meng Xizhao: “It wouldn’t take long.”
Then, pausing briefly, he wore an expression of mild embarrassment: “But I still need to report it first.”
The Right Wise King frowned: “Why?”
Meng Xizhao sighed, looking utterly helpless: “Your Highness, when I firmly told you earlier that if the Xiongnu raised prices, we would not buy horses, that was not my personal decision… sigh… it was the Emperor’s instructions.”
The Right Wise King froze: “You mean your Emperor really doesn’t intend to buy horses from the Xiongnu anymore?”
“Not exactly,” Meng Xizhao said, a little embarrassed. “But His Majesty wants to discuss the horse prices with you once more.”
The Right Wise King: “…………”
“So, after all this, it turns out you actually want a price reduction!”
The Right Wise King was momentarily stunned. What kind of situation was this? No wonder Meng Xizhao had been so firm when he first heard the Xiongnu wanted to raise prices—turns out they had opinions about horse prices too!
At this point, Meng Xizhao began to explain in his usual measured way: “Your Highness, as you know, our country Qi has been at war with Nanzhao for twelve full years. War is the most exhausting and costly affair. To be frank, our treasury can barely cover disaster relief, let alone buying horses.”
“Researching weapons is also a last resort. We are forced by circumstance. Thankfully, our ancestors’ blessing has guided us to a solution—but, as you can imagine, creating these weapons costs money. By chance, after consultation with several ministers from the Ministry of Revenue, we calculated that producing enough weapons to attack Nanzhao would cost at least 3.5 million taels of silver—tens of thousands less than buying horses from you, plus an additional hundred thousand shi of grain saved.”
The Right Wise King: “……”
He stiffened. “Tens of thousands of taels is nothing. Buying horses from the Xiongnu gains your friendship. Spending it on weapons, however, would undermine nine years of peace between our nations, and there’s no guarantee your weapons would even work.”
Meng Xizhao raised his teacup and took a calm sip. “Your Highness is not wrong. But His Majesty is deeply invested in these weapons and has great confidence in them. As his servants, we cannot sway him.”
Indeed, it was the same everywhere—Elder Chanyu was no different in this regard.
Just as the Right Wise King’s mind began to wander, he snapped back. “So, Meng Shaoqing, you actually still want to buy horses from the Xiongnu, right?”
Meng Xizhao set down his cup and smiled wryly. “Of course. Matters of state cannot rely solely on luck. Everything must be handled carefully and steadily. His Majesty is adventurous by nature, skilled in both civil and military matters; I, however, do not possess such boldness.”
The Right Wise King’s eyes brightened immediately. “Meng Shaoqing, do not underestimate yourself. An official bears responsibility for all the people. Your desire for caution is commendable. That said, I must speak plainly: a price reduction is impossible. The Xiongnu have suffered years of disaster, and the Jurchens are stirring nearby. We rely on this horse revenue to survive; we simply cannot lower prices.”
Meng Xizhao inwardly chuckled.
True to form, Xiongnu negotiators pounced the moment they sensed any weakness. He could use a weapon not yet revealed to temper the desire to raise prices, but it was much harder to use the same tactic to force a reduction.
After all, raising prices is gilding the lily, while lowering them means clawing real profit from the Xiongnu. And the Right Wise King was not wrong: the Xiongnu truly were weaker than in previous years. Natural disasters and human calamities had taken their toll. Only a capable new leader—the Crown Prince—could restore their fortunes.
The Xiongnu, trained year-round in archery and cavalry, may be somewhat less sharp intellectually, but anyone with self-interest knows not to give ground. Unless Meng Xizhao could produce that weapon on the spot and show the Right Wise King its advantage over horses, they would never agree to a reduction.
Negotiation is a psychological game—strike at the opponent’s weak points. But once they are steadfast, psychological tactics fail.
Meng Xizhao observed the Right Wise King for a long moment, then straightened his posture: “Your Highness, Qi does not wish to fall out with the Xiongnu.”
Seeing his serious expression, the Right Wise King straightened as well. Up to now it had been minor skirmishes, but this was formal negotiation between states.
Meng Xizhao continued: “Regarding horse prices, I must apologize. His Majesty has instructed me to ensure a reduction.”
The Right Wise King, expecting him to back down, was taken aback and darkened his expression. “Then we must assume Qi intends to take advantage of the situation. Meng Shaoqing, for a thousand years the Central Plains have suffered at the hands of the Xiongnu—has that not been enough?”
Meng Xizhao smiled reassuringly. “Please do not rush to judgment. We are both serving our sovereigns. His Majesty has issued orders, and I must obey. Yet we do need the Xiongnu’s friendship—not only because we are at war with Nanzhao, but also because the Princess of Chu is about to marry your Chanyu. If relations between our nations turn cold now, how would the Princess fare? She is both Your Highness’s and our sovereign’s charge, so naturally we must consider her well-being.”
Hearing this, the Right Wise King’s view of Meng Xizhao improved. Previously, when a Qi princess married off, she might as well have disappeared from her family’s concern. The Xiongnu never treated their daughters that way. Seeing Meng Xizhao’s difference, he felt a subtle respect.
“So what exactly do you propose?”
Meng Xizhao smiled faintly. “I suggest we follow the Chanyu’s idea: draft a new contract detailing the trade. My request is that we continue buying horses, but because we have new weapons, the horse price should drop slightly. The Xiongnu’s request is that we do not reduce the price—meaning the funds you receive cannot be diminished, ensuring you survive the coming hardships, correct?”
The Right Wise King: “……”
The idea sounded uncomfortable—like the Xiongnu were receiving charity—but the logic was sound. He nodded expressionlessly at Meng Xizhao.
Meng Xizhao’s smile widened. “Excellent. I happen to have a method that allows both sides to get what they want.”
The Right Wise King’s brow furrowed with curiosity. “What method?”
Meng Xizhao feigned mystery, leaning slightly closer. In truth, no one was around—the two guards at the door could not understand elegant speech—but the gesture still piqued the Right Wise King’s interest.
Then Meng Xizhao said, “The difference caused by the price reduction can be compensated with other resources. For example, the copper and iron Qi currently lacks.”
The Right Wise King: “…………”
Immediately, his gaze toward Meng Xizhao shifted.
Qi had established a dedicated office to control iron, called the Salt and Iron Bureau, now headed by Qiu Suming. Throughout history, emperors had tightly controlled iron mines and smelting techniques. Even now, artisans could occasionally leave the workshop; in the past, they were confined for life, only leaving at death.
The Xiongnu’s metallurgy was not sophisticated, but they too understood the value of iron. The steppe contained deposits of gold, silver, copper, and iron; any discovery was reported to the Chanyu’s court and heavily guarded.
And then… that was it.
It was a bitter truth: their technology couldn’t match the demand. They could cast coins, but weapons would dull after only a few uses. Nobles therefore did not rely on domestic iron—they paid dearly to buy from other countries.
The Right Wise King’s first instinct was to refuse—copper and iron were too important to sell, unlike horses, which could be replenished.
But then he reconsidered. Perhaps a refusal wasn’t necessary.
The Chanyu’s personal guard and the nobles all used expensive weapons purchased from the Yuezhi, who demanded exorbitant prices. The Xiongnu year after year mined iron, stockpiling it unused. They claimed an army of 400,000, but the real number was only 250,000. If they could make tempered steel, their reserves would not suffice. They lacked the technique and still hoped someday to acquire it to process their iron. Thus, the mines filled year after year, while their weapons remained the same.
If… they sold part of it to Qi for silver, then used that to buy more weapons from the Yuezhi…
The Right Wise King, like Meng Xizhao, began to envision the plan. The Xiongnu’s current hardship was largely due to the Chanyu; once the Crown Prince succeeded, life would improve immediately—he would lead them to raid, and with proper weapons, the Yuezhi would think twice. Imagining a group of Xiongnu warriors wielding Yuezhi arms sent a thrill through him.
In a split second, his mind raced. Looking at Meng Xizhao across from him, the Right Wise King assumed a stern expression: “Copper is absolutely out of the question.”
After all, copper could be cast into coins, just like gold—it should not flow outward.
Meng Xizhao blinked, not expecting to acquire copper anyway. His real concern was iron. “Then what about iron?”
The Right Wise King snorted. “That depends on whether you can pay.”
Meng Xizhao understood—iron could be sold, though knowing the Right Wise King, the price would likely be inflated.
He leaned back, smiling. “I hope the Xiongnu will consider the friendship between our countries and offer a fair price. I need to return and discuss horse and iron prices with the Crown Prince, and I imagine you need to consult with the Chanyu. Why don’t we pause for now? In a few days, before our return, we can sit down again and negotiate properly.”
Naturally, neither side could set the price unilaterally. The Right Wise King nodded. Meng Xizhao bowed politely and then turned to leave.
The Right Wise King remained seated, making no move to see him out.
Once outside, Meng Xizhao spotted two guards sent by the Crown Prince.
Back at the courier inn, Meng Xizhao did not immediately seek the Crown Prince. He hurried to his room, retrieved a short dagger hidden under his pillow, and examined it.
This dagger had been specially commissioned—a personal defense item and a keepsake, his first. It was exquisitely crafted, the scabbard engraved with intricate designs.
He handed it to one of the guards. “Quietly deliver this to the Left Wise King’s residence, to Captain Jin. Tell him it is a gift from me, hoping he will like it.”
The guard weighed the dagger, sensing its quality, a trace of envy flickering in his eyes. He saluted Meng Xizhao and departed.
Watching the guard leave toward the Left Wise King’s residence, Meng Xizhao returned upstairs, this time to the Crown Prince’s room.
He explained the situation.
Cui Ye paused thoughtfully. “Qi does not currently lack iron implements.”
Of course not—Qi had abundant land, producing nearly everything except certain wild animals. In ancient times, with fewer people and soldiers, there was less need for iron. Like the Xiongnu, they held reserves but did not utilize them, strictly limiting distribution to prevent rebellion.
Meng Xizhao: “I am aware. This is merely a temporary measure. The Xiongnu refuse a price reduction—they do not want to lose profit. Bundling horses with iron, on the surface, seems to increase their earnings. But in reality, the horse price decreases while we gain iron. Over time, purchasing iron year after year will gradually reduce their stock.”
Cui Ye looked at him. “Massive acquisitions?”
It wasn’t that he doubted Meng Xizhao, but it did sound risky. The Xiongnu might agree to sell a small portion of their iron, but would they really be willing to sell it in large quantities?
Meng Xizhao pursed his lips and smiled. “Your Highness, this is the Xiongnu. In Qi, selling iron is a matter of imperial decree. Here, their mines are all divided among various nobles. With so many nobles, surely there are a few shortsighted ones who see only the opportunity to make money, not the long-term consequences.”
Cui Ye considered for a moment, then smiled as well. “Especially now that the Chanyu has set the precedent. Seeing that he agreed, others naturally act with more confidence and boldness.”
Meng Xizhao nodded. “Moreover, once we return to Qi, I will present the new steel-making method to His Majesty. Perhaps then all sixty thousand of our soldiers will need new weapons. The more iron, the better.”
Emperor Tianshou was not a warmonger, but he was indeed passionate about war. His twelve-year conflict with Nanzhao showed that he was not the type to frown at training troops or forging weapons. If Meng Xizhao said that using these weapons could defeat Nanzhao, Tianshou would be more concerned than anyone about insufficient iron reserves.
Cui Ye thought carefully through all the intricacies, then looked up. “Er Lang, are you telling me this because you need my help with something?”
Seeing Cui Ye grasp the point, Meng Xizhao boldly smiled. “There is indeed one matter.”
“My status is ultimately low; the Xiongnu do not take me seriously. When the matter is formally brought to the table in a few days, I hope Your Highness can uphold Qi’s presence and properly intimidate the Xiongnu.”
Cui Ye heard him but only smiled silently. Even if Meng Xizhao had not mentioned it, he would have done it.
Still, hearing Meng Xizhao speak, he paused and asked, “You said in a few days?”
Meng Xizhao nodded. “Approximately four days from now.”
Cui Ye instinctively counted. Four days later would be… the second day of the wedding?
The Qi wedding involved extensive prior preparations—rituals and ceremonies could stretch over six months. The Xiongnu had fewer preparations, but the main ceremony was intensive.
A normal marriage could be completed in one day, but for nobility—such as a Grand Prince marrying a Right Wise King’s daughter—the ceremony lasted seven days.
The Chanyu initially intended seven days, following the highest standard, the same as when he married a Grand Lady.
During these days, the groom handled nothing. According to Xiongnu custom, the bride and groom stayed in one room for the entire ceremony. In the past, in tents, outsiders could watch, and any inactivity would invite mockery, suggesting the groom lacked the strength of a true Xiongnu man.
Fortunately, that custom was no longer enforced; otherwise, the Chu Princess might have chosen to end her life while still in Qi.
Regardless, the Chanyu should not emerge on the second day of the wedding, nor discuss price negotiations with Meng Xizhao.
Understanding this, Cui Ye looked steadily at Meng Xizhao, a smile playing at his lips. “Er Lang, you are always so bold.”
Meng Xizhao lowered his head, adjusting his sleeves. “Without boldness, I would not have come this far, nor could I sit here with Your Highness.”
Cui Ye hesitated, then lowered his gaze and smiled. “Indeed, Er Lang is right.”
＊
Time passed swiftly, and the wedding day arrived.
The Chu Princess was awakened early by her maidens, seated before a bronze mirror to have her makeup done and dress in Xiongnu wedding attire.
Even though some traditional rituals—like leaping over the fire or scattering grains—were retained by the Ministry of Rites, the attire and ceremony strictly followed Xiongnu customs, which could not be compromised.
The Xiongnu wedding dress was made of fox fur, adorned with fiery red fox hair. She wore the standard nomadic attire, and her maid styled her hair in the Xiongnu fashion: small braids on either side of the forehead, the majority of hair coiled into a bun atop the Baihui point, secured with silver hairpins, and finally capped with a leather Xiongnu hat with tassels resembling braids. At first glance, it slightly resembled the hairstyle from “Return of the Pearl,” though the Chu Princess had no knowledge of that. She only felt herself increasingly transformed into a Xiongnu.
Wearing nomadic attire, performing nomadic rituals, marrying a nomad.
Her aunt, the Grand Princess of Shang, died two years after her marriage. Her cousin, the Princess of Zhao, died five years after marriage. These were those close to her, whom she knew—or did not know—and many more beyond.
A vast river of history, countless words, yet not a single word was written for them.
The words Meng Xizhao had spoken seemed like a spell, lingering in the Chu Princess’s mind these days: Qi’s princesses, compared to the commoners…
A maid noticed her staring blankly into the mirror and asked with concern, “Your Highness, are you unwell?”
The Chu Princess snapped out of her reverie, lowered her gaze, and shook her head. “No.”
She looked at her empty wrist. “Fetch the gold bracelet from the box, the heirloom left by Mother. I must wear it for my wedding.”
The maid nodded and went to retrieve it.
＊
The Xiongnu did not perform the marriage ceremony in a hall; friends and family sat in a large circle around the bonfire.
Cui Ye, as the Chu Princess’s brother from her natal family, naturally sat at the front of the circle. Meng Xizhao sat beside him, both watching the unfamiliar wedding unfold step by step.
The old Chanyu was in high spirits today, a smile on his face that, given his features, did not convey warmth but instead made one uneasy.
The Chu Princess had never seen him before, and at first glance, she froze in place. The old Chanyu frowned slightly at her immobility. Meng Xizhao, seated below, looked even more tense than the princess.
A thousand thoughts raced through his mind—he absolutely, absolutely could not falter now!
Fortunately, the Chu Princess managed to compose herself. Adjusting her expression, she lowered her gaze, adopting a shy, hesitant demeanor. She stepped toward the old Chanyu and extended her hand to him. Suppressing her nausea, she inhaled deeply.
The Xiongnu wedding rituals began—one set after another, interspersed with dances. The old Chanyu did not dance; the nobles and accompanying warriors did. Meng Xizhao watched the performances, occasionally glancing at the setting sun. The ceremony was held in the afternoon; now it was dusk, but still some daylight remained.
Everyone present had been coerced into celebrating the old Chanyu, so the atmosphere was waning. Seeing the crowd start to lose interest, Meng Xizhao quietly called over Zhan Buxiu.
Confused at first by Meng Xizhao’s instructions, Zhan Buxiu hesitated, then noticed the hidden tension in Meng Xizhao’s eyes and stood up.
Without a word, he stepped into the crowd of dancers, suddenly shouting, “Who dares to challenge me?”
Dancing might be dull to watch, but a real fight—fist and blade—excited both Qi and Xiongnu alike.
The Xiongnu were naturally aggressive. When challenged by a Qi man who had defeated the Grand Prince, several immediately leapt forward. Within two or three moves, Zhan Buxiu threw the first challenger out of the circle, eliciting a wave of cheers.
After all, it was a competition; there was victory and defeat. Not every Xiongnu minded losing to a Qi man, for he was undeniably strong, and losing to him was no shame.
The crowd’s enthusiasm flared once more. The old Chanyu, who had intended to leave with the princess, now laughed and stayed to watch the warriors fight.
Night fell slowly. The bonfire blazed, illuminating the area. Even with the competition, the old Chanyu could no longer sit still. He grabbed the Chu Princess and tugged her toward the new palace.
The wedding venue was the square in front of the palace; the new palace was only a five-minute walk away.
Because of his previous injuries, the old Chanyu rarely rode horses now, and more importantly, he could no longer show off by riding with the princess. He hurried on foot, dragging her along.
Several times, the Chu Princess struggled to keep up, stumbling under his tug, but he paid no mind. Qi women were fragile, after all.
Once they were out of sight, Meng Xizhao could no longer see them. He paused briefly, then turned his attention back to the bonfire.
After the Chanyu left, the crowd continued to revel for another half-hour before dispersing.
Back at the inn, Lu Fengqiu shivered violently. “What do these Xiongnu eat to grow up so hardy? How are they not cold?”
Ding Chun, a general, frowned, also affected by the cold. “No wonder the Xiongnu always migrate southward.”
If it was this cold here, how harsh must the lands they previously inhabited have been?
Ding Chun habitually worried that further southward migration might pose dangers to Qi. Zang He brushed snow from his shoulders and asked Meng Xizhao, puzzled, “Meng Shaoqing, why aren’t you saying anything?”
Meng Xizhao turned and winked. “I drank too much today. I’m a bit sleepy.”
Lu, the physician, quickly said, “Then go rest. General Ding and Lord Zang, you should as well. Early tomorrow, we have another banquet with them.”
It was already late. Hearing this, everyone bid farewell and prepared for a proper night’s sleep.
Meng Xizhao returned to his room, but sleep was out of the question. Even sitting was uncomfortable.
The last time he had felt this tense was probably the night before the college exam results.
His heart raced, his stomach twisted painfully. Limbs stiff, breathing erratic, throat reflexively swallowing, and suddenly thirsty. He turned and poured himself a cup of water.
He drank an entire pot quickly, then, holding the empty vessel, made a decision.
Setting it down, he strode out. The inn’s guards had doubled, seemingly all called back by Cui Ye, though Yu Fulan was absent.
Meng Xizhao did not speak to them, heading straight to Cui Ye’s room. Some guards, confused, tried to inquire but were stopped by their comrades.
Not all of these guards belonged to the crown prince; some were ordinary palace attendants. Yet after this, they would all shift their allegiance to him.
Pushing open the door, Meng Xizhao entered. Cui Ye was also awake, seated with a scroll in hand, slowly reading.
Cui Ye looked up, saying nothing, then poured a cup of tea for the spot beside him.
Meng Xizhao hurried over and drank it in one go.
Cui Ye murmured, “…Success or failure is already set. Do not let your heart race too much.”
Meng Xizhao nodded but remained tense.
Cui Ye did not know that Meng Xizhao’s anxiety was not about the outcome itself, but about the Chu Princess—whether she could handle it.
The difference between the two situations was stark—whether the Chu Princess could survive this ordeal.
That night belonged entirely to her. There was no one to assist her; from start to finish, she had to rely solely on her own abilities. If nothing went wrong, all was well—but if something happened…
Meng Xizhao resolved that in the future, he would avoid such situations. He hated the feeling of bearing responsibility for an innocent life.
He spent the entire night awake, and Cui Ye stayed with him the whole time. They did not speak, simply sitting in silence, letting the candle beside them slowly burn down.
At the first light of dawn, when the sky was still a deep blue, a commotion sounded outside.
Meng Xizhao sprang up and dashed out, with Cui Ye following, stunned.
Opening the door, Meng Xizhao nearly ran down the stairs, and there, at the inn’s entrance, he saw the Chu Princess. She was supported by her maid, her face pale, hair unkempt, outer garments undone, appearing in nothing but her inner robe.
The guards were even more shocked than Meng Xizhao. They gathered around, bewildered, unable to understand the princess’s state.
The Chu Princess trembled as she raised her head. She first glanced at the crown prince behind her, then at Meng Xizhao, her eyes wide with fear.
“Chanyu…” she began.
“Chanyu…”
She clutched her body and painfully pinched the soft flesh beneath her ribs. Her lips, already trembling, finally spilled tears and sobs.
“He… he’s dead!”
The words struck like thunder, sending the inn into uproar.
Meanwhile, after dawn, officials from the Xiongnu palace arrived at the new palace to check on the Chanyu and princess.
A guard replied, “The princess left half an hour ago, saying she had matters to attend to with the Qi Crown Prince. The Chanyu is still inside, sleeping.”
The officials paused, unease growing. “Half an hour ago? It was still dark then. Why would she visit the Qi Crown Prince at that hour?”
The guard, unaware, did not know that the Chu Princess frequently sought out the Crown Prince, day or night. He had paid no attention.
But the official felt an ominous premonition.
After some hesitation, he knocked on the door. No response. He knocked again—still none.
Alarmed, he ordered the guards to kick it open. Inside, they found the Chanyu lying quietly in bed, seemingly asleep.
But he had no blanket; half lay on the floor, half on the bed. The official hurried over in fear. No need to check his pulse—just touching his body revealed he was ice-cold.
The official froze, then his shock gave way to rage.
“Go inform the Left and Right Worthy Kings, and the other princes. As for you, gather everyone else and come with me to the Qi inn. Everyone—without exception—must be arrested!”