Luling County, since the Chen dynasty, had been a favored choice for imperial fiefdoms granted to royal offspring.
The region was home to several fertile fiefs, densely populated, and adorned with poetic place names.
When King Ning was enfeoffed here, nearby fiefs were held by Princess Xingping, Princess Dongchang, and Princess Taihe.
All three princesses perished during the blood-soaked night when Qi replaced Chu in Taijing.
Unlike princes, who were often required to reside in their fiefs, King Ning had been in his estate at the time, narrowly escaping death. Chu dynasty princes held only titles of honor and no real power. They couldn’t interfere in local governance, were prohibited from maintaining private armies, and their estates were staffed with officials appointed from the capital, rotated every three years.
Originally, Prime Minister Deng and others had strongly opposed the idea of imperial sons taking up fiefs.
Like princesses, princes were expected to remain “raised” in the capital since powerful princes had been a perennial threat throughout dynastic history.
But Li Yuanze refused to comply, instead instituting a rule that princely titles wouldn’t be hereditary. For example, the son of King Ning would be reduced to a county duke, required to relocate to a new fief, and barred from inheriting his father’s estate. All other offspring had to return to the capital.
After Lu Zhang’s usurpation, the south underwent a sudden upheaval.
Officials in princely estates had no choice in the matter, and local bureaucrats lived in constant anxiety. Before long, military officials began defecting to the princes.
At the time, the people of the south cursed Lu Zhang with one voice, eager to cross the river and dismember the usurper for his crimes.
Now, even the people of Luling County no longer thought about it. According to local officials, the Qi emperor was a tyrant, and those in his domain lived in unrelenting misery. The south, always prosperous, might no longer enjoy its former glory, but avoiding life as Qi subjects was enough. Fighting required conscription, and what family would welcome that?
Moreover, King Ning enjoyed his indulgences. Ningtai City, where his estate was located, had expanded several times over its original size.
Eight-foot-high walls were built and reinforced, canals dug, and a palace constructed. The city was filled with beauties from all over the south.
This wasn’t unusual. King Jing and King Wu did the same.
Although they stopped short of declaring themselves emperors, their systems of governance, attire, and ceremonies mirrored those of imperial courts.
Privately, Ningtai City had come to be called “Taijing.”
The name resembled Tai, the former Chu capital, and when drunk, it was easy to indulge in self-deception.
Ningtai was no ordinary small town. Its gates were heavily guarded, and all comers were questioned. Even travelers with permits couldn’t enter alone; they needed a sponsor.
On one side, lines of commoners waited patiently; on the other, the carriages of officials and nobles passed freely. As long as the driver presented a waist token, no one even glanced inside the carriage to see who was riding.
Mo Li couldn’t decide whether this level of city defense was strict or lax.
On reflection, it might be what Meng Qi had described: excellent regulations undermined by selective enforcement.
As dusk approached, the gate used by commoners slowly closed. Torches were lit along the walls, making the entrance as bright as day, with patrols constantly passing.
Having traveled over a hundred miles, Mo Li was tired and decided against scaling the walls.
He moved effortlessly, silently following a line of carriages preparing to enter the city.
The torches illuminated the gate, but where there was light, there were shadows. The luxurious carriages of the wealthy cast large, dark shapes as they passed.
Mo Li glided through these shadows without raising the slightest breeze. Occasionally, someone sensed a flicker of movement but dismissed it as the shifting of a flag or lantern.
Once inside the city, the carriages formed a more orderly procession, though their occupants remained rowdy and unrestrained.
They were likely scions of noble families returning from their estates. Summer in the city was stifling, unsuitable for leisure, so they had likely retreated to country estates—some for peace, others for indulgence. This group was clearly the latter.
Laughter and the scent of alcohol spilled from the carriages.
A gust of wind carried the cloying mixture of perfume and wine out from the curtains.
Mo Li turned his head slightly, visibly repulsed.
As the carriages passed the outer city and stopped at a district gate, Mo Li slipped into the darkness.
Free from their proximity, the air was immediately fresher.
Mo Li quietly walked along the wall of the district. The pastries in his bundle had long been consumed during his journey, and the remaining clothes were packed into the rattan trunk, sparing him from carrying an extra load.
He quickly located what appeared to be a marketplace.
“This Ningtai City seems rather bustling,” Mo Li remarked to the sand rat nestled inside his lapel.
Meng Qi had planned well ahead. His striking appearance, whether he appeared forty or sixty, was too conspicuous.
Knowing that Fengxing Pavilion held significant influence here, Meng Qi had transformed into a sand rat, confident that in this form, he wouldn’t be recognized.
Mo Li had slightly altered his appearance, resembling more the hermit he had posed as when crossing the river.
He masked the brilliance in his gaze, hunched his shoulders, and adopted a shuffling gait. With his new clothes and rattan trunk, he passed for a destitute, nameless old man.
Still, the new garments and trunk caught attention.
Not long after he began walking the lamplit streets, he noticed two thugs trailing him.
They were likely planning to follow him to a secluded spot, rob him, and then flee.
Mo Li nonchalantly entered a crowded teahouse by the roadside.
In the center of the hall, a storyteller was in the midst of a thrilling tale.
“…With a thunderous roar, the Chiru warrior raised his eight-point silver mace, aiming straight for the Marquis Jingyuan’s face. But just as he swung, a flash of silver light streaked through the air. In an instant, the Xiliang general’s horse bolted away, his head rolling to the ground. The Marquis Jingyuan, sword in hand, stood tall and issued a sharp whistle. His army of a hundred thousand surged toward the fortress!”
Mo Li paused briefly at the mention of “Marquis Jingyuan,” then quickly wove through the crowd, leaving the two would-be robbers behind.
The sand rat darted out a paw and, as Mo Li exited through the back door of the teahouse, he noticed it clutching a sunflower seed.
Amused, Mo Li asked, “Want to keep listening?”
The plump sand rat shook its head.
Meng Qi had heard the story of *The Battle of Xiliang* no fewer than eight times. The tale exaggerated the accomplishments of Chu dynasty ministers, particularly the Marquis Jingyuan.
In truth, the Marquis was a scholar-general. Though skilled in martial arts, decapitating a Xiliang warrior with one stroke in a face-to-face duel was beyond him. At the time of the Xiliang campaign, the Marquis was nearly fifty years old. No commander of a three-pronged army would personally fight a vanguard officer in battle—his subordinates wouldn’t even allow it!
What commander would steal their subordinates’ credit?
The Xiliang campaign had been meticulously planned by Chu’s court and monarch. While there were challenges, it was far less dramatic than the storyteller claimed.
The tale even fabricated a Xiliang princess—beautiful, skilled in battle, and smitten with Duke Wei, Yin Qingheng, upon meeting him on the battlefield. In the end, unable to reconcile love and loyalty, she took her own life atop the walls of Xiazhou.
While Yin Qingheng was indeed a distinguished scholar with charm to spare, he had only one wife in his lifetime, a childhood sweetheart with whom he shared a devoted bond.
Oddly, the man most embroiled in romanticized scandals in these tales wasn’t the carefree Zhu Yan or other flamboyant ministers, but Yin Qingheng, who epitomized loyalty and restraint.
The sand rat cracked its sunflower seed, reflecting that the more implausible a story, the more people seemed to enjoy it, and the more penniless storytellers relished writing it.
Ningtai City was a mix of old and new. Half its buildings were dilapidated remnants, while the other half were new constructions for the city’s wealthy and powerful.
Mo Li deliberately headed toward the rundown areas, where the lights gradually diminished.
Without a travel permit, he couldn’t stay at an inn.
But that didn’t mean he had nowhere to go.
Feigning the appearance of a frail old man, he entered a temple.
King Ning was a devout Buddhist, so the city had numerous temples with flourishing incense offerings.
Mo Li chose a particularly old and inconspicuous temple, donated some incense money, and requested shelter from the monks.
Temple annexes often housed impoverished scholars seeking a quieter environment than inns or pious pilgrims staying to offer early prayers.
As long as one paid generously and offered a reasonable explanation, temple monks wouldn’t pry into one’s background or require travel permits. With the Buddhist principle of aiding all beings, it was against their teachings to turn someone away.
Mo Li wasn’t familiar with Ningtai City or the particulars of its temples. He simply picked one that seemed unassuming and whose monks didn’t appear to practice martial arts.
But as he was about to hand over his silver, a sudden cry rang out behind him.
A scholar lay collapsed on the ground, his face distorted, vomiting uncontrollably.
His companions, startled, rushed to help him.
“Stay back!”
The command came from an elderly monk clad in robes, seemingly the temple abbot.
“It’s Master Mingbian!”
“Master Mingbian is skilled in medicine—there’s hope!”
The crowd quickly stepped aside, clearly recognizing the venerable monk.
The scholar, who appeared to be in his forties, was vomiting black-brown bile, a terrifying sight.
“He’s having a stroke! Fetch my silver needles at once!” Mingbian shouted urgently.
A sudden stroke could be fatal if untreated, and this scholar’s condition was particularly dire.
Mo Li sighed inwardly, opened his rattan trunk, and swiftly retrieved his own set of silver needles. Without hesitation, he began inserting them into the scholar’s key acupoints.
The vomiting ceased, but the scholar’s limbs began convulsing violently.
Amid the chaos, no one stopped Mo Li. Mingbian, initially startled by Mo Li’s actions, observed his precise needlework and gradually relaxed. He turned to a novice monk beside him and ordered, “Bring clean cloth!”
Mo Li tilted the scholar’s head to one side, took the cloth handed to him by the novice, and used it to clear the scholar’s mouth of residual bile, preventing airway blockage.
Taking advantage of Mo Li holding the man steady, Mingbian checked the scholar’s pulse intently.
Moments later, the silver needles Mingbian had requested were brought over.
He performed a second round of acupuncture, focusing on awakening the mind and restoring circulation. The convulsions finally stopped, but the scholar’s face remained asymmetrical, with his right eye drooping and his mouth distorted.
“Alas!”
Mingbian sighed deeply, stroking his beard and shaking his head.
The scholar’s companions were frantic, pressing for a diagnosis.
“Were it not for this doctor’s timely intervention, clearing the meridians, this man would have been left permanently disabled, even if his life was saved,” Mingbian explained.
Though he appeared even older than Mo Li, the treatment had taken a visible toll on him—bending over and focusing so intently left him struggling to stand.
Mo Li had to step forward and steady him.
“Thank you, young man. Alas, these old bones are failing me.” Mingbian ordered the monks to carry the scholar to a side room for further care.
Just as he turned to speak with Mo Li, the thunder of hooves echoed from outside the temple.
Blinding torchlight filled the courtyard as a group of lightly armored soldiers dismounted and stormed into the temple.
The sudden intrusion left everyone shielding their eyes from the harsh glare.
The leader of the soldiers, arrogant in demeanor, shouted, “By King Ning’s decree, Master Mingbian is summoned to the palace for treatment!”
Yet, inexplicably, the soldiers surrounded Mo Li, who was in the middle of packing his silver needles.
Mo Li: “…”
Are King Ning’s men blind? Can’t they tell the difference between someone with hair and someone without?
“Commander, this… doesn’t seem to be Master Mingbian,” one soldier muttered hesitantly.
The leader squinted at the fallen scholar, then glanced at both Mingbian and Mo Li. With a wave of his hand, he barked, “Take them all!”
Mingbian’s expression changed drastically. “I am Mingbian! This man is merely a visitor offering incense—”
“I don’t care if you’re monks or pilgrims!” the commander interrupted impatiently. “A noble in the palace has fallen gravely ill. All physicians in the city are being summoned! Delay His Highness’s orders, and none of you will escape punishment. Move now!”
Author’s Note:
Mo Li: I made it to Luling County’s Ningtai City, now to figure out how to infiltrate the palace to investigate the opium trade.
Fifteen minutes later…
Mo Li, holding a sand rat, stares expressionlessly at King Ning’s guards, who are preparing to forcibly take him to the palace.
