“You people, did you really take me for a miracle doctor?!”
Grass withers in late years, fierce winds split the high ridges.
The Summer Capital had long since donned its winter coat; even the usually lively Yu Jinnian could not help but add another robe. Ji Hong’s room, meanwhile, was stoked so warm by Yu Jinnian that it felt like a furnace, causing Min Xuefei to break into a sweat every time he came by for discussions. Back in Xin’an County, Ji Hong had delighted in helping the youth run errands and offer a hand; now, though pardoned, he found little he could do for the youth, and—granted leave—he simply lazed about indoors, scribbling who-knew-what in the warm chamber.
Min Xuefei entered trailing the aura of a killer, peeked in, and was so startled that he forgot what he’d intended to say, reaching out to snatch the paper beneath his pen: “Since when are you so flush with cash? When did you buy these properties and shops? Even I didn’t know!”
“Give it back.” Ji Hong set down his pen. “It wasn’t for your eyes.”
Min Xuefei didn’t hurry to return it, but instead glanced carefully, flipping it back and forth, and said curiously: “What’s all this, a betrothal list? Whose house are you sending a proposal to?”
Ji Hong ignored him and only said, “You’re here so early—must’ve had a great victory this time.”
Min Xuefei, at a loss for words, wilted like frost-beaten grass: “Why must you always touch on the sore spots?”
Though Baota Temple was only a river away from Zhongling City, the distance from the city gates was still considerable. The anti-rebel army camped at the foot of Baota Mountain split off into tens of thousands to engage Yan Chang’s Yue army in fierce, drawn-out battles by the Miluan River, with neither side gaining ground—neither victory nor defeat.
Zhongling became the secondary capital precisely because it was easy to defend and hard to attack. The Miluan River was swift and deep, with only a single broad stone bridge of one hundred and twenty pillars spanning it. Since ancient dynasties, this bridge has performed meritoriously in defending Zhongling, earning it the name “General’s Bridge.”
To cross the river and attack the city, the bridge had to be captured.
But the rebels defended the Miluan’s banks, and the General’s Bridge shone with blazing lights. When a barrage of arrows fell from the bridgeheads, dense as flocks of crows, no force could break through the pass so held.
In past months, Min Xuefei had won countless victories on the western front; even setbacks were minor. He’d become somewhat proud, feeling Yan Chang’s hastily assembled rebel army was just so much scattered sand. Ji Hong had warned him not to underestimate the enemy, but Min hadn’t quite accepted that, thinking Ji Hong too cautious. Now, frustrated at the Miluan, he realized Yan Chang’s elite guards in Zhongling were truly formidable.
Not like those flaky commanders on the Western Front, who collapsed at the first touch.
Now, Zhongling was in sight. Since the assault on its outskirts, a month had passed. The Miluan below ran red with blood, reeds tinged crimson. Yet Min Xuefei could not advance an inch.
—That fire in his liver, just suppressed with endless medicine and tea by the young physician Yu, began to flare up again.
Attack, retreat, then attack again; the bridge, just over two hundred paces, remained unbroken. Min had no better plan and could not just keep waiting them out, so the army withdrew to the river’s far side, reorganized, and stared Yan Chang down across the water, leaving Wei He in camp.
Vice General Wei He had been a Central Guards’ commander of kin to the Min family, coming from a line of officials. He was upright, with a record of respectable merits and a reputation in both army and court. With a shortage of generals, court ministers only evaded when the Emperor sought advice. Choosing a vice general, Min Xuefei saw Wei He’s dependable nature and bold, decisive conduct, so he took it upon himself to recommend him.
But Wei He proved an undisclosed firebrand, ambitious and frustrated. Unable to swallow his frustration, he seized on Min’s absence, and at night led three hundred vanguards in an assault on General’s Bridge—only to fall into a Yue army ambush before halfway, taking an arrow in the left arm, and losing nearly half his men.
All such men could fight ten each—every loss a blow.
Then, the Yue army struck back fiercely, pressing almost to the riverside camp, forcing Wei He, wounded, to withdraw ten miles, stopping only at Meiwu Village.
Min Xuefei was enraged, breaking out in mouth ulcers overnight. Lian Zhi fretted over him, but Min, too furious for concern, had the wounded Wei He tied up and hauled back to Baota Temple, where he flogged him before the troops, scolding until he burst out laughing himself: “Am I too lenient on you lot, letting you run wild!? Without an order, you dare march out alone! What next, surround Baota Mountain and take me too?”
“—Bastard!”
Kneeling in the cold and soaked with blood, not a word of defence left Wei He’s lips.
Such grave insubordination frightened the others into silence; not even a plea for Wei was ventured. What was Min but that notorious smiling tiger of the court? His sly smile could ruin you, but since the Zhongling campaign, how many smiles had been seen?
Hard to see any glory in suppressing rebellion, whatever the talk.
A few major eunuchs hid behind the curtain, snickering, already composing memorials denouncing Min Xuefei.
Yu Jinnian led half the medical officers to Meiwu to treat the wounded, pressed empty houses into service and built emergency medical shelters to barely accommodate the wretched. Most of the wounds were from arrows and burns, a few from blades. The doctors were overwhelmed; the next attack could come anytime, so local labourers and peasants were conscripted to boil large vats of water.
The pitch-black village was soon alight with hundreds of candles.
At least no medical man could be all that clumsy. Everyone was quick to adopt Yu Jinnian’s disinfecting protocols, and under his direction, fell seamlessly into order. No one complained. But the theory for sewing bone and skin still faced skepticism—very few learned it, and only Su Ting dared try.
Of all that, only the two of them knew sewing. So many wounded, so many needing stitches—Yu Jinnian felt he would die here tonight. He moved from house to house, tent to tent, numb from exhaustion, his hands working mechanically, cursing silently: “I’m a traditional physician, why am I working as a surgeon!”
At least Su Ting advanced rapidly; from avoiding any imperial physician out of shame, he now dared to argue with them. War presented every disease; the camp would test any doctor. By campaign’s end, surely Su Ting would be a veteran, battle-hardened physician.
Yu Jinnian and his men spent a sleepless night treating wounds; the last dozen lightly injured were left for Su Ting. He finally sat down, numb and sore, hands red and raw from constant washing and scrubbing, burning in the cold wind.
He had not touched hot water before officers from the camp descended—adjutants assigned to Meiwu, with Wei He conspicuously absent.
It was said that Min had whipped Wei more than twenty times; Wei had not moved from his knees. Yu Jinnian leapt to his feet, grabbed his kit, and dashed back up the mountain, ignoring all who called after him.
At dawn, returning to Baota Temple, he found Wei He as expected, kneeling ramrod-straight in the courtyard, blood crusted on his shirt like stiff parchment. Yu Jinnian ran to help him up. The man, wounded and flogged, had baked in the cold all night; now, his skin burned like an oven, yet seemed unaware. Yu Jinnian couldn’t budge him, and so instead shed his own robe, draping it over Wei’s shoulders: “You can’t let this wound catch a chill! Keep kneeling, and you’ll be a ruin tomorrow!” He crouched to open his medicine box.
Wei, pale and swaying, refused cooperation: “I am guilty.”
Seeing Min’s chambers still lit, Yu Jinnian barged in, kicked open the door, and found Lian Zhi examining mouth ulcers by lamplight, a teacup of bitter coptis before him. He drank, retched from the bitterness, wiped his mouth with Lian Zhi’s handkerchief, which came away streaked with blood. Lian Zhi frowned and looked at Yu Jinnian pleadingly.
Yu Jinnian felt his head was splitting: “Do you both take me for some miracle doctor? I can’t go on! Find someone else!”
Lian Zhi hurried up: “Little divine doctor Yu…”
Yu Jinnian ignored him, strode out, and on the steps saw Wei He slumping, soldiers peering into the yard, and—in turning—caught sight of Min Xuefei looking pale. All his patients were stubborn and unruly; Yu Jinnian fumed, exhaling a cloud of white, then pointed at Min’s door and shouted, “Bastards, the lot of you!”
Dazed and exhausted, Yu Jinnian returned to his own quarters. Starving as much as tired and angry, he pushed the door open to be greeted by a burst of tea fragrance. After tagging along with Ji Hong for some time, he’d come to distinguish some qualities: this tea, smelling bitter, was surely nothing fine, but in wartime, one took what one could get.
Stomach rumbling, drowsiness gave way to hunger. Ji Hong put aside his book, opened the stove’s vent to add charcoal, understanding at once: “Here—freshly cooked jade ball soup.”
“Jade ball soup?” Yu Jinnian blinked, walked over, sat beside him, and peered into the little pot. Lifting the lid released a fragrant aroma that masked the bitter tea; he gaped, “It smells so good!”
Ji Hong ladled a small bowl, smiling: “The young monks of the temple fetched water from the river and found some nice water chestnuts and lotus root, so they brought them back. Wu Ji, out fishing for the camp, also netted a fish and shrimp. I remembered you once made something similar, so I described it to Wu Ji.” He passed the bowl, noticed the red-welted backs of the youth’s hands as he reached for the spoon, then got up to fetch some salve. “Wu Ji has a knack for cooking—he came up with this jade ball soup.”
Sitting back as Yu Jinnian noisily downed a bowl and ladled a second, Ji Hong smiled. The broth was superb: rich fish stock simmered all night from fish heads and bones, with balls of fish meat and chopped water chestnut pounded into a fine, smooth paste. Both snow-white, pinched to the size of a fingertip, floating in the broth like pearls.
Seeing his hunger, Ji Hong produced a lunch box—salty shredded lotus with a large bowl of emerald green rice.
“Still warm.”
Yu Jinnian inspected the rice, finding tiny green tea leaves atop the glossy grains—ah, this was green tea rice, hence the lovely aroma
With his right hand, he scooped the rice, picking up some lotus, which the cook had stir-fried with salted vegetables and chillies to his taste; he wolfed it down, his cheeks bulging. Ji Hong watched, gently reminding him to eat more slowly as he massaged salve into the cracked backs of his hands.
After a bowl of rice, barely half-sated, Ji Hong sent Wu Ji for more, using the chance to apply ointment to the other hand.
Fed, Yu Jinnian perked up, recalling the trouble next door: “Why aren’t you in a hurry?”
Ji Hong asked, “For what?”
Yu, thinking he was unaware of the crisis outside, urgently whispered: “Rebels before us, but our own commander and vice-commander are fighting each other—is that not urgent? And Wei He, only wounded in one arm, now beaten and feverish, the major general is in grave danger!”
Ji Hong replied indifferently: “He did violate orders and must be punished. There are rules; an army needs discipline, or how will a leader command?”
He knew everything. Yu muttered, “True, but not an unpardonable crime—can’t he atone with service?” He recalled Wei’s flimsy, swaying form, and, though he’d just called them both bastards, couldn’t help worrying. “He’s burning up badly. And the one inside’s just relapsed. What doctor could endure this endless torment!”
Wu Ji returned with the rice.
After the imperial pardon, Ji Hong was no longer disgraced and should have gone back to serve Lian Zhi. But Lian had not called, and Wu Ji stayed, moving from a spy-eunuch to a serving eunuch, quite content. Quiet and diligent, he was handy to have around.
“Don’t worry about them,” Ji Hong said, taking the food as Wu Ji bowed out. “They’re both injured and sick—let the imperial doctors attend them. Let them chill a few days, and a solution will come.”
Yu, holding his bowl, thought of the pile of wounded in Meiwu, and hesitated: “But what if Yan Chang attacks again…”
Ji Hong answered calmly: “He won’t dare.”
…
Yan Chang indeed did not attack.
Not for lack of desire, but the risk was too great—Ji Hong was right.
Zhongling was draining resources, inside and out; panic, suspended trades, officials fighting over power. Supplies dwindled, and nerves frayed. Armies, inside and out, burned through everything. Senior officers withheld army funds, provisioning themselves first—robbing money, grain, even women.
Zhongling’s wealth!
All this pillaging, Yan Chang remained unaware, or dared not hear. Once a man occupies a palace, big or small, it’s as if he gains a blind eye and a deaf ear; all outside news comes veiled, appearing luscious but illusory, gone at a touch.
Yet Yan Chang knew it—logistics lagged. For a protracted civil war, endless supplies were essential. Yue was well-off, but too far; southern Jiangnan was closer, but not easily taxed.
Regardless, the Zhongling-Yue line must be held.
This wasn’t Yan Chang’s home ground; few of his methods worked here, and those that did hit only soft resistance—no real obedience. If not by persuasion, then by threat or murder. He, the “god of death” in Zhongling, had little left.
Zhongling’s seventy or eighty officials: some fled as the city fell; over thirty bold old fools killed when he seized the palace; a handful surrendered—the rest jailed.
Dungeons overflowed. Zhou Feng complained daily.
He knew Min Xuefei pressed at the Miluan, but lacked the energy to respond. Zhongling must be held; the line south to Yue—if the rear flared up, the city would become an island, doomed. The thirteen southern counties grew restless; coastal tribes picked at the weakened Yue navy.
The “Great Xia” he wanted, not yet founded, was already torn by internal and external strife.
Yan Chang’s back, indeed his whole neck, felt crushed beneath the weight—half an empire won by his own bloody ambition, that pent-up drive now suffocating him.
A door creaked.
The ancient palace—how many dynasties had rebuilt it, each praising Zhongling’s scenery while seldom living here? Its retainers had grown old and gone; no one expected a new ruler.
Light footsteps echoed in the vast chamber. Through veils, Yan Chang watched a drifting shadow—thinking it was Zhou Feng, he asked, “What of the city, what of the prison?”
“It’s me, Your Highness.” Yu Xu lifted the curtain, holding a wine jug.
He almost saw the gentle Yu Jinnian approaching, malleable as clay, yet with a will of steel.
He watched Yu Xu draw closer, taking the jug. White jade pottery, kept warm, brimming with dark wine—bitter-sweet to the nose and tongue, made with the city’s best stock, brewed with who-knew-what.
Yu Xu sat by his “dragon bed” on the footstool. In such a broad palace and bed, did sleeping alone grow cold? At least Yu Xu thought so. “A recipe from Zhongling’s famous physician—for sleeping and calming the spirits.”
Yan Chang truly could not sleep; with war on his mind, no potion helped. Once, doctors worried only for his shoulder; now they had his insomnia too. Summoning medics merely brought more grievance—a doomed circle.
Zhou Feng wanted to force them; Yan Chang gave up, saying fate denied him sleep. Only Yu Xu persisted.
Yu Xu quietly tended the sleeping incense—useless to Yan Chang, just fragrance, but still, he did it.
Sensing Yan Chang’s gaze, Yu Xu looked up and smiled.
Yan Chang was caught off guard—should he, perhaps, be kinder? At such a time, everyone looked out for themselves; not even medics would attend him, yet Yu Xu still cared about his rest.
Maybe, miraculously, the doctor or the incense finally worked. After the wine, before an incense stick burned down, he grew drowsy. Helped to bed, golden canopy twirling above, even his ailing shoulder eased—he felt eased, almost floating.
Yu Xu hummed at the bedside—he thought, perhaps, Yu Xu too was southern-born.
For a moment, Yan Chang closed his eyes and slept soundly.
He dreamed of his youth, eleven or twelve; adored by his consort mother, entrusted by his father, radiant with promise.
Zhou Feng, as his confidant, headed palace guards and inner troops, directing the city’s defense—overseeing officers by day, joining Yan at night for fencing. Not to spar—Yan’s shoulder barely lifted a bowl, let alone a sword. Just to exhaust himself for a little rest.
That night, Zhou Feng dealt with a squabble in camp and then returned to the city at midnight. He galloped into the palace, only to find all the candles out. Yu Xu emerged, empty jug in hand: “General Zhou, His Highness is asleep.”
“Asleep?” Zhou Feng exclaimed. “How?”
Yu Xu shook the jug: “Some calming wine, that’s all.”
Zhou Feng stepped forward, sniffing the jug—a hint of bitterness. He never trusted Yu Xu, so he went into the chamber himself to check. His Highness slept soundly; nothing was unusual, not even a whiff of strong liquor.
He was stunned. Incredulous.
Yu Xu, clutching the jug, grinned like a blossom, skipping off in delight, chirping, “Calming wine, good stuff!”