Sugar with knives, read with caution
The Emperor suddenly fell ill, his decline swift and fierce.
The Emperor’s health had never been robust; he was beset with minor ailments, never truly recovering, and the imperial physicians had frequently advised him to rest more. Yet state affairs were unending. The Emperor belonged to all under heaven, and so did the nation; how could he afford leisure? His crown prince was still young, and the Empress even younger. There were simply too many plans unfinished, not a single day when he could pause.
The imperial physicians took his pulse and applied acupuncture, but the Emperor remained unconscious, hovering between waking and delirium. The courtiers were terrified, not because they could not diagnose him, but because none dared speak the truth. In haste, they summoned Chen Yang from outside the palace. He now led the Imperial Medical Bureau and had studied modern medicine under Superintendent Yu, lending even greater weight to his words.
Sadly, Superintendent Yu had taken leave half a year ago and had yet to return home; otherwise, he would have been called to treat the Emperor.
Chen Yang, carrying his medicine chest, went straight to the Emperor’s bedchamber. Before even drawing back the curtains, he heard a deep rumble in the Emperor’s throat. Without hesitation, he opened his chest, poured out a dark brown pill from a white porcelain bottle, and said, “Angong Niuhuang Wan from Guangji Medical Bureau. Ingredients: bezoar, musk, realgar, borneol, gardenia, coptis, honey—formed into pills to clear turbid phlegm, open orifices, calm convulsions, and restore consciousness. Do you still wish to verify it?”
Who had time to verify? They trusted Superintendent Yu’s skills, and the Empress was confident in Physician Chen’s character. Both sides nodded, and Chen Yang immediately had the pill dissolved and fed to the Emperor, followed by further acupuncture to stimulate awakening. After approximately half a stick of incense, the rattling in the Emperor’s throat gradually subsided. He seemed more at ease—still half asleep, half awake, but far improved.
They had seen the efficacy of Angong Niuhuang Wan from the Guangji Medical Bureau, famed for reviving countless patients from critical conditions. Now employing the pill, the Emperor’s malady became unmistakably clear.
The physicians all looked to Chen Yang. After a moment, he drew the Empress aside and whispered, “Your Majesty, His Majesty has suffered a stroke.”
The Empress staggered, mute with shock.
Physician Chen moved as if to steady her, then—remembering propriety—drew his hand back. “Do not be alarmed, Your Majesty. Strokes vary in severity. If His Majesty regains consciousness soon and is promptly treated with appropriate medicine and acupuncture, he will recover fully within a few months and, with continued care, could live a long life. However, this illness is born of prolonged stress and exhaustion. Even after recovery, he must cultivate his health and must avoid emotional agitation and excessive worry.”
The Empress was, after all, the daughter of a military officer—steady by nature. She gathered herself, posed several careful questions, and listened to Chen Yang’s answers, gradually understanding that if the Emperor awoke tonight, there was hope.
So long as there is hope, so long as he can be saved…
Chen Yang prescribed medicine to promote circulation, dispel wind, and restore the mind—a potent formula that alarmed the Medical Bureau. Yet, as the Empress now presided, she raised no objections, instructing Chen Yang to proceed without reservation.
From noon to dusk, three doses were administered. Stimulating sneezing to induce consciousness, needles to calm spasms—the Empress sat beside the dragon bed, clutching the Emperor’s hand. By dawn, she suddenly felt a twitch in his palm.
“Su Niang…”
Lianzhi had been watching over the attendants preparing the decoctions, unwilling to entrust anyone else. The frightened underlings, fearful of making mistakes, spilled boiling broth on the back of Lianzhi’s hand while straining the liquid. At such a critical moment, Lianzhi endured the burn without flinching, then calmly wiped his hand and hurried off with a bowl of thick medicine.
At the entrance, he was stopped before crossing the threshold.
One of those guarding took the bowl, inspected it carefully, then looked up at him. “Eunuch Lian, His Majesty has awakened and is out of danger. You’ve worked hard enough—go and rest now.”
He couldn’t tell whether this was carelessness or a deliberate attempt at humiliation, but the medicine was poured into a flowerpot. Lianzhi froze for a moment. When he saw the guards barring the doors, his heart sank, and he turned at once toward the Sigong Terrace.
Anshun had been assigned to sweeping duty but remained good-natured, calling out when he saw Lianzhi stride in. Lianzhi went to his room in Anrong Residence, retrieved a box of letters from a secret compartment, drew over a brazier, and began to burn the letters one by one, silent and composed. He had wondered, if such a day ever came, what he might feel—but now that it arrived, there was little left to feel.
Reaching the last letter—Min Xuefei’s, which said “We shall meet soon, awaiting good news”—Lianzhi suddenly faltered, a sharp pang twisting in his chest.
He went to the desk, seized some stationery, and quickly scribbled a few lines—then thought better of it, blotted out what he’d written, tore up the paper, and threw it into the fire. Taking a fresh sheet, he hesitated long, and finally managed only two words: “Take care.”
There was nothing left to say.
Rising, Lianzhi took another secret missive from the compartment, and—unable to find Wu Ji—handed both letters to Anshun, busy sweeping. “Take these to Zhaohua Palace, to Deputy Supervisor Fu. Remember: deliver them into his hands, and quickly!”
Though slow-witted, Anshun was loyal; seeing the urgency, he abandoned his broom and sped off with the letters.
From the day he pledged himself to Feng Jian, Lianzhi had anticipated this outcome. At first, he cared little—no ties, no regrets. Now, however… With the messenger still not returned, Lianzhi never truly expected him to come back. He sat burning every belonging tied to Min Xuefei, leaving nothing behind.
He must not be implicated.
It hadn’t seemed so much, yet, collecting it all now, the pile never seemed to diminish. Suddenly, an unsettling thought surfaced: why not set the whole house alight and be done with it…?
Before the notion fully formed, clamor arose outside. Fusheng appeared with a retinue, parading around the Sigong Terrace, ordering everyone to assemble in the main hall.
By the time Lianzhi arrived, Fusheng was seated at the front, sipping tea, coolly surveying the gathered crowd. Only when most had arrived did he lazily announce, “Manpower is needed at Zhaohua Palace—some attendants for the Crown Prince as well. It seems you have an abundance here, Supervisor; may I borrow a few?”
Lianzhi replied, “Deputy Supervisor Fu, take whomever you wish.”
Fusheng, thoroughly prepared, selected several attendants, inspecting every face as he went. Suddenly, he spotted Wu Ji hiding among the crowd and strode over, raising his voice. “Eunuch Wu, why stand so far away? I hear your calligraphy is most excellent, even praised by His Majesty. Well then, Eunuch Wu, come with us.”
Wu Ji protested, but refusal was futile; Fusheng was not here to borrow but to seize.
As Wu Ji was dragged out, Lianzhi said nothing—only watched him go, utterly still.
Once outside the Sigong Terrace, Wu Ji wandered the winding palace corridors in a daze. After passing through several gates, it dawned on him: Fusheng was deliberately removing all of Lianzhi’s trusted attendants!
He’s taking everyone from Lianzhi’s side! What will become of him? Why didn’t Lianzhi resist? Does he know something?
A chill shot through Wu Ji’s heart. He pushed past the others, breaking into a sprint. Fusheng, turning, barked, “Hold him!”
Seven or eight eunuchs pinned Wu Ji to the ground, grinding gravel into his face until it bled. Still, his thin, wiry frame struggled fiercely. “Fusheng! What are you doing? Let me go—something terrible will happen, something will happen to him!”
No one listened. A gag was stuffed in his mouth, and he was hauled away, locked in a room at Zhaohua Palace.
Wu Ji’s eyes blazed red. Breaking free, he lunged at Fusheng, striking him hard across the face. “Scoundrel! When you were alone and bullied, who fed you, taught you decorum? On your climb up, who sheltered you? Now you thrive in Zhaohua Palace—this is how you repay him?”
Fusheng stood upright. “Didn’t he do the same to Feng Jian once? It’s all the same now.”
Wu Ji fell speechless.
Fusheng wiped his face and left, slamming the door. Wu Ji pressed himself against the locked door, peering through the crack; he could see nothing—but he knew: Lianzhi was different from Feng Jian. Feng Jian had always meant them harm, but Lianzhi had always tried to save them. During those years under Feng Jian’s tyranny, had it not been for Lianzhi, who knew how many times they might have died?
Wu Ji knelt, sobbing uncontrollably.
–
The Sigong Terrace was raided once more—it had been a mere eight years since the last time, and many still remembered the chaos when Feng Jian was arrested: howling and wailing, desperate struggles ending with blood on the guards’ spears, deaths without peace. Seven or eight corpses were carried out that day, but even their deaths paled next to the trove of treasures unearthed from Feng Jian’s rooms. He’d dug a pit under his bed, stacked with gold bars—a true nest of gold and silver!
The guards, bracing for a fight, stormed into the Sigong Terrace—only to be stunned.
There was no chaos, just a chilly stillness. Fusheng, amid the imposing guards, shuffled slowly toward the gates, craning his neck for a better view. Light snowflakes drifted from the sky. Before the western side-hall bloomed a wintersweet tree, planted two years before. And there, upon inspection, tiny buds had appeared.
Swish, swish—the sound drew Fusheng’s attention. He saw a slender figure in gray sweeping the snow with numb, red fingers. Small groups of eunuchs huddled under the eaves, watching him from afar, or scowling at the guards in silence.
The pathway, swept perfectly clean by Lianzhi, led, step by step, to Fusheng’s feet. He dared not advance further; Lianzhi had cleared this path with his own hands… Fusheng feared he’d lose his composure.
Some guards bypassed Lianzhi, entering his rooms with practiced ease, carting out every piece of silver and gold, not even a slip of paper left behind. The rest were meant to detain him, but, instead, stood in a loose circle, as if this snow-sweeping figure was impervious.
When the forecourt was clear, Lianzhi set aside the broom and brushed the dust from his sleeves. “Very well. Let’s go.”
As Lianzhi passed, Fusheng involuntarily moved closer. Before he could speak, Lianzhi glanced back, cool and impassive, freezing him in place, as he watched Lianzhi escorted away. Feng Jian had been scorned even in arrest; but Lianzhi—with his dignity and poise—seemed wasted as a eunuch, better suited for the opera stage, where he’d charm the entire city. The guards, sneering, still couldn’t help but tease, “Do you know where you’re headed?”
Lianzhi’s crimes were against the nation, not just palace regulations; he was to be delivered to the Ministry of Justice, just like Feng Jian before him.
As they crossed the palace gates, one guard shoved Lianzhi roughly. Fusheng nearly snapped, wishing to cut off the offending hand. When had he ever suffered such indignity? To Fusheng and his kind, Lianzhi was their sky. But Fusheng was no Lianzhi—nor did he possess Lianzhi’s cold composure when he’d taken down Feng Jian. He brushed the rude guard aside, walking miserably beside Lianzhi—looking, in truth, more like the prisoner than the captor.
Arriving at the Ministry of Justice, Lianzhi gazed up at the drifting snow, blinking as flakes melted against his eyes, breathing little clouds of white mist. He murmured, “If only the snow could clear…”
A cleared sky meant a new dawn.
Fusheng lacked the courage to go further.
His crimes—eight counts—were read in full at the Ministry of Justice. Lianzhi listened listlessly. Whether he had committed them no longer mattered; if the Emperor decreed him guilty, so it was. Palace supervisors could once wield power over court officials. But once imprisoned, they were nothing—no one would bother to plead for their review. Best to confess, end matters quickly, and save everyone trouble.
Lianzhi understood: the Emperor could wait no longer. However mighty an emperor, all men fear death—especially one who would leave a powerful eunuch surviving in the court, a threat to the young prince’s future. Only by clearing him away could he be at peace.
The Ministry of Justice’s prison was hardly better than the palace’s dark cells. As a child, Lianzhi knew them all too well—each day, girls and eunuchs died there, their corpses left to rot for days before disposal, the cell merely doused with water before the next victim was confined. Only when he gained power under Feng Jian did he finally claim those cells, emptying them out one by one.
The Ministry… was no different.
A jailer came to check on him, finding Lianzhi still as stone in the corner, gazing up at the small iron-grilled window where grey clouds drifted by, snowflakes now and then fluttering in. He reached to catch one on his tongue. The jailer set a meal box at the entrance, reluctant to come closer, and tossed in a wool blanket. “Eat up!”
That such a man even had someone working connections to ensure his comfort was incomprehensible to the jailers. They locked the door and watched Lianzhi unpack the simple food, unsurprised; only when he reached for the blanket did he show a glimmer of life—hastily clutching it to his face, inhaling the lingering sandalwood scent.
That manner… repulsed the jailer, like the blanket was a lover.
Lianzhi buried his face in the soft fabric, greedily inhaling the faint fragrance, his heart lightened. Min Xuefei had not forgotten him—but anxiety rose; if Min Xuefei came, how wretched he’d appear. He had always cherished cleanliness, tried powder and perfume before, but after following Min Xuefei, he’d imitated that man’s cool, fresh bearing, shaking off old habits, though never losing his fussiness.
Believing Min Xuefei might arrive, he combed his hair, wiped his face, and covered his stained clothing with the blanket, waiting, eyes fixed on the heavy door.
The jailers watched, curious: overnight, the man seemed revived, no longer lifeless. Now, whenever anyone passed by, he looked up, eyes alight with hope. A criminal eunuch, due to die any day—what, or whom, did he expect? The jailers joked, laughing off the possibility of some secret lover.
And yet, someone did come. When he did, even the warden barely had time to dress before crawling over in desperate greeting.
Lianzhi, blanketed and half asleep in the corner, woke with a start to the clang of his cell bars. Through blurred vision, he glimpsed the corner of a brocade robe—immediately turning away to hastily tidy his hair, wiping face and lips in hopes of appearing less wretched.
From outside, a voice frowned and called, “Supervisor Lian.”
Lianzhi slowly turned. Not Min Xuefei. The light in his eyes dimmed. He knelt to bow. “Your Highness.”
Separated by iron bars, Yan Sining regarded Lianzhi. He had never liked the infamous Consort Lian; eunuch politics were filthy, and this one had once been Feng Jian’s protégé—enough for Yan Sining’s disdain. He’d heard of him during the devastating epidemic at Chunan, when Yu Jinnian, to whom he was close, had braved the campaign fields beside Lianzhi. Yu Jinnian might be naive in medicine, but his eyes were keen. If he spoke well of someone, Yan Sining had to look twice.
What he saw was curious: the very one who destroyed Feng Jian—stirred up storms on the Sigong Terrace—whose power rivaled his predecessor, actually possessed true substance. Recently, Geng Zhao Zhong had entered the jail and come out unharmed; earlier, General Wu Rui had been accused of treason, only for the charge to evaporate into farce within days; and still further back—too many incidents to count.
Eunuchs meddling in politics was an unforgivable crime in the imperial household. Yet, a few deft, invisible moves had proved more decisive than months of open debate. Lianzhi’s methods were both feared and admired. Though accused of avarice, the treasures confiscated from his room totaled not even a tenth of Feng Jian’s. And though his conduct was called clean, he reigned peerless in the palace.
“I asked you more than once if you’d thought about your own future,” Yan Sining said. “If you’d heeded my advice, you wouldn’t be here now.”
Lianzhi looked at him. “Had I heeded it, Your Highness would not have come—nor, if given another chance, would my fate be any different. That’s life as a eunuch: one misstep, and every step after is wrong. There’s no turning back.”
Yan Sining was silent, then burst out laughing. “Supervisor Lian, had you served in the previous dynasty, you’d have been a fine minister.”
“Your praise redeems this lowly life,” Lianzhi replied, bowing his head. “But I was destined to be only a base eunuch, unworthy of Your Highness’s favor.”
“In the next life, then,” Yan Sining sighed. “Lianzhi, may you find a better birth.” He turned, silk robes rustling against the bars. After a few steps, he paused, as if recalling something, glancing back. “I see you’re waiting for someone?”
“…”
Yan Sining flicked his sleeves. “Don’t wait—soon enough, you’ll meet them. Better spend your time considering: if you’re truly reborn into an ordinary life… what will you do with it?”
The words held something more, but Lianzhi, played out from a lifetime of palace intrigue, no longer had the strength or desire to parse them. Yan Sining studied him a moment longer and left with meaning only half-hidden.
Lianzhi retreated to the corner, pulling the blanket close.
What would he do? Min Xuefei had asked similar, long ago—too distant to remember his answer, for he’d never really believed in a next life. If only, that rainy palace summer at eight, Min Xuefei hadn’t fallen ill, if he’d dared ask the Emperor for a little eunuch from the Garden Bureau, cursed with bedwetting, to take home and tend the flowers—maybe all could have been different.
But time had passed, and chance with it; what’s lost can never return.
…
The jailers noticed that the important eunuch in the deepest cell no longer ate, drinking water only, clinging to his blanket in a daze. Fearing he’d starve to death before sentencing could be carried out, they brought their table closer, eating in full view. A young jailer, unable to bear the sight, offered half a steamed bun, soaked in hot water, through the bars. “Eat something? Even if you must die, don’t go hungry.”
Lianzhi shook his head. He’d heard that the knives used in death by a thousand cuts were so sharp they shaved bone to powder, and if one ate too soon before such execution, undigested food would seep from the wounds. It would be ugly to see.
The jailer left the bowl and returned, mocked by others for his compassion.
While they ate, two eunuchs arrived at the gate, clearly high-ranking. Waving a hand before their noses in distaste, they asked, “Where is Lianzhi? We’re here to take him out.”
The jailers knew at once: time for execution. Hurriedly, they fetched the keys and led the two to Lianzhi’s cell. “You’re just in time! This one won’t eat, and won’t last much longer. We’ll have to force him porridge before long!”
The eunuch signaled for the door to be opened. Seeing Lianzhi huddled, unmoving, he barked, “Lianzhi, hurry up! Don’t delay our business.”
Lianzhi exhaled heavily, propped himself against the wall, and staggered out, tightly clutching his blanket. He did not weep or howl, nor call for justice—only straightened his hair as he walked, asking the leading eunuch whether he might bring his blanket as a keepsake.
“Take what you like,” the eunuch said, unbothered.
A few steps later, Lianzhi stopped again. The eunuch grew impatient. “What is it now?”
Lianzhi hesitated, then asked, “Could I have a sack to cover my face?”
The eunuch raised an eyebrow. “Why cover your face?”
Lianzhi twisted his hem. “I… I just don’t want to be seen.” In truth, he dreaded Min Xuefei’s gaze at the execution ground, lest his mutilated visage haunt the man’s dreams forever.
Sizing up Lianzhi, the eunuch realized this was not the fearsome legend of palace gossip. Still, what did it matter now? “Whether you want to be seen or not, it’s no concern of mine. Once we’re out of here, where you go and what you cover yourself with is nothing to do with us. If you want to kneel in the street and beg, that’s your choice. Understood?”
The jailer, surprised, stammered, “Out? Not… to Wude Gate?”
The eunuch snorted, “Wude Gate? You must be behind on the news. It seems the message is late.” He swaggered off. “You’re lucky—Her Majesty the Empress wished to accumulate merit for His Majesty, so in the first month, no executions. All crimes forgiven. Just as well; someone else will come soon enough. Out with you—someone important is waiting outside, don’t waste their time.”
The jailer ventured, “Forgiven? Is that possible?”
“He loses everything, takes a beating, and is thrown out of the palace,” the eunuch remarked, fiddling with his ring. Unlike previous dynasties where eunuchs could amass wealth and take wives, here this was forbidden.
A eunuch’s savings—meager at best—afforded little more than shelter in the retirement quarters. Though a ‘pardon,’ not a coin would remain to his name; he would be cast out to beg.
Even if he wished to find a living, who would tolerate him? He was a notorious eunuch. He’d be lucky to avoid a beating.
The eunuch, watching him, wondered how long one so used to comfort could survive outside.
“No use debating. The prince regent presides, with the Empress observing behind the veil. The pardon is official, with all the seals. Move along—what is there you’ll miss here?”
At the threshold, Lianzhi murmured, “And the beating…”
Growing exasperated, the eunuch shoved him hard. “Enough talk! Someone’s already paid your beating—now scram! Stay here and you really will be executed!”
Outside was dazzling, a world of blinding white. Lianzhi, gaunt and weakened, teetered on the edge of collapse when shoved; instinctively, he closed his eyes.
But there was no pain—a strong arm caught him, lifting him up.
Spinning around, sunlight flooding his vision, Lianzhi found himself staring into the face of the living. From the dark abyss, he emerged into brilliant light.
The human world—scented with sandalwood.
Lianzhi stared, stunned, more wretched than when he thought himself condemned. He had feared death, but facing this man, he trembled, overtaken by dread.
Min Xuefei shed his fox-fur cloak and threw it around Lianzhi, carefully lifting the emaciated man in his arms. The eunuchs watched, dumbfounded. Who was Min Xuefei? A pillar of the realm, a future minister—if two Min brothers reigned, their house would wield unchallengeable power!
A statesman, an imperial attendant—the eunuchs whispered in awe.
No gossip could dim Min Xuefei’s composure. At the carriage, he caught the sound of sobbing—soft, relentless tears falling into the snow, like pearls with broken threads. He placed Lianzhi on the carriage’s bench, gently brushed away his tears, and leaned down to kiss his brow and eyes. “No more tears, don’t cry. When you cry, I hate myself.”
Yet Lianzhi could not stop. Oblivious to dignity, he buried himself against Min Xuefei’s chest, clutching his coat, words breaking apart amid sobs. “I thought, thought you’d never want to see me again…”
“I…” Min Xuefei began to explain, but seeing Lianzhi shivering, ushered him inside the carriage. Those fragile legs were only bone, swaying with each step. Who had eaten the food he sent? Yet, gaunt as he was, Lianzhi clung to him with desperate strength. Min Xuefei’s heart ached where Lianzhi pressed against him, swelling until it was fit to burst.
“Each day I stood outside, listening to them say you were behind that window. I dared not go in.” For all Min Xuefei’s command in council, before Lianzhi, he felt guiltily small. He had orchestrated this.
For someone of Lianzhi’s rank—keeper of the palace’s darkest secrets—surviving the change of reign was rare enough, and fewer still escaped dying in obscurity. For all he had wronged, a single misstep would see him torn to pieces. Yet freeing such a eunuch was beyond precedent.
Lianzhi’s cunning, so ruthless against others, was useless here; he feared any risk might harm Min Xuefei, preferred lifelong imprisonment rather than imperil him for a moment.
Last year, the Emperor’s mounting illness gave Min Xuefei the rare chance he needed. If a grand eunuch could not be released, then perhaps the fall from grace would serve—if the imperial household displayed special mercy for devoted service, one who survived a hundred and seven lashes might be banished to fend for himself. Yet, in history, none had ever survived so many. They were always beaten to death.
But Min Xuefei was Min Xuefei; in scheming, he was second to none. He personally drafted Lianzhi’s charges, signed the order, and deployed the guards—each character costing him dearly.
It ought to have been a death sentence. Yet, with the Emperor bedridden and the Crown Prince young, it was Yan Sining who governed and bore the seal.
Returning from the prison that day, Yan Sining found Min Xuefei standing motionless in the snow and said simply, “He’s waiting for you.”
At first, Min Xuefei could not face Lianzhi. The more ruthless he had been, the less courage he had to seek him out.
“I feared that if I went in and saw you, I’d lose my resolve. I also feared you’d hate me…” Min Xuefei murmured, gently wiping Lianzhi’s dirty, swollen face, cleaning his nails with a cloth, sick with worry at the thought of what Lianzhi had endured. “Did they hurt you when they raided the place? Did they torture you?”
Understanding and not, Lianzhi stared, as if each glance was the last. Tears rolled unchecked as he shook his head and burrowed further into that embrace.
Where was the dreaded grand eunuch now?
“Are you frightened of me?” Min Xuefei held him close, voice uncertain. “After all I did to you…”
Lianzhi tipped his face up, tracing Min Xuefei’s features, still shaking his head. What was there to fear? If anything, he only worried that, had he really died on the execution grounds, Min Xuefei would have witnessed it—haunted by nightmares, haunted by that mutilated face.
Even so, Lianzhi did not blame him. Min Xuefei’s throat tightened. He reached for a food box, ladled hot, plain porridge from a small clay pot, and handed it over. “Warm yourself and drink slowly.”
Lianzhi cradled the bowl, clear broth only. At the first swallow, his belly clenched painfully. In the glistening surface of the soup, his reflection was grotesque, puffed and dirty, tears left unwashed at the corners. And still, gazing at it, he began to weep again, tears plopping into the bowl. Startled, Min Xuefei took the bowl, worried he’d eaten too fast.
Min Xuefei warmed his hand, rubbing the aching abdomen.
“Thank goodness, thank goodness…” Lianzhi wrapped his arms around Min Xuefei’s neck, weeping and laughing as if in jest. “Thank goodness I didn’t burn the house!”
Min Xuefei blanched to hear he’d considered it.
Spoonful of porridge warming his belly, Lianzhi bundled himself in fur. Min Xuefei gently wiped his face before stepping out to take the reins himself; knowing how conscious Lianzhi was of appearances, he preferred not to have anyone else witness this reunion.
The carriage skirted the Ministry of Justice, avoiding the palace’s main roads, instead turning through deserted back lanes. Lianzhi, peering through the curtains with fresh eyes—though this was his familiar city, it all seemed new. The vendors and workers burst with unfamiliar vitality. Gripping the window, scarcely able to believe he was free.
A moment before, he was a condemned man; a moment later, freed like a bird—unreal, dreamlike.
At the turn to Tian Cai Lane, Lianzhi suddenly called out, and Min Xuefei halted the carriage at once. Lianzhi gazed, transfixed, at the mouth of a quiet alley—beneath a dead locust tree, someone waited, standing on tiptoe to watch the road and lighting up when he saw them arrive.
“Fusheng…” Min Xuefei, considering, stepped down to let master and apprentice speak.
Fusheng, in rough gray, had secretly left the palace. Kneeling, he scrambled onto the carriage, lifting the curtain with trembling hands. Lianzhi, draped in white fur, watched him quietly. Fusheng bowed three times, head to the floor, shoulders shaking.
Lianzhi touched his shoulder, smiling gently. “From now on… take care of yourself.”
Fusheng wept softly. “Supervisor, I can’t do it. I’m afraid.”
“It’s all right, don’t be,” Lianzhi comforted, wiping his tears with the same gentle voice. “From now on, you’re the sky for those children—you have to stand tall, do you understand? Fusheng, you’re better than I was. I was wrong from the start, always beyond redemption, trapped on a crooked path. But you’re special; you’re a favored attendant now, cherished by your masters. No need to scheme and struggle as I did.”
Fusheng clung to him, sobbing. “Only you ever truly cared for us. Without you, I am nothing. What will become of us now?”
Lianzhi hugged him kindly. “Nonsense. You’re deputy supervisor now. You can’t ask about everything, and I can’t make decisions for you all your lives. Even if I stayed, when I grew old and unwanted, you’d seize power and push me aside. That’s as it should be. You can’t expect me to stand in your way forever.”
Looking down at the dark crown of Fusheng’s head, so young, Lianzhi couldn’t help but smile with wistfulness. “All right, enough tears. Do you want me to coddle you?”
Fusheng sniffled, but his sorrow remained.
Lianzhi cautiously asked, “Are Wu Ji and the others… well?”
Fusheng nodded. Lianzhi’s first action after sensing his own downfall was not to secure his fate, but to send word for Fusheng to transfer as many of his loyalists as possible to Zhaohua Palace, before the guards could arrest them. Under Fusheng’s protection, they were safe.
Relieved, Lianzhi muttered, “Good, good. You always set my mind at ease.”
The worried look reminded Lianzhi of their first meeting—Fusheng, a boy of eleven or twelve, face bruised from beatings, unable to serve master or eunuch, hiding in a courtyard to cry. Lianzhi had found him, pretending arrogance, “We need someone to wash feet and clothes. Interested?” Fusheng, sniffling, had followed.
All were servants—no real distinction between master and follower, only survival together.
Wiping his tears, Fusheng hesitated to part. “Will I see you again?”
“No,” Lianzhi smiled. “Never again in this life—only then will you be safe.”
Never again… Fusheng held back a wail.
Lianzhi closed his eyes, cocooned in fur, chin tucked deep within warmth. He must have heard Fusheng’s departure, or perhaps not. When he opened his eyes once more, the figure he saw was Min Xuefei’s, upright and solid at the reins. His life had been like a dream: ascending, plunging, a knife ever at his throat. The mighty palace was like a mire—he drifted, hoping only to live without shame, even if for a single day.
But crimes he’d committed, regrets he harbored; in the end, he could not claim to be true to himself, much less to others.
By what blessings, he wondered, could drifting duckweed take root, dandelions set seed? Outside, the snow thinned. At the horizon, a glimmer of light began to break through the clouds that had hung heavy for days. Gazing at the figure before him, he remembered that day at eight, in the palace rain, when a boy with a beautiful oil-paper umbrella promised to take him home to tend flowers.
That promise, Lianzhi had awaited for more than twenty years. At last, it was fulfilled.
He exhaled, snowy mist swirling—behind them, the palace receded into a faint blur, that suffocating cage finally disappearing.
Lianzhi finally asked, “Where are we going?”
Min Xuefei tightened the reins and glanced back with gentle warmth. When he opened his mouth, his breath was a matching wisp of white, just like Lianzhi’s. Lianzhi leaned closer, watching the two clouds of vapor merge, indistinguishable.
“—Home,” Min Xuefei said with a smile.
Author’s Note:
Zhi Zhi’s performance: over.
—Did today’s Xue Xue break their word?
—No!
Xue Xue: So I’m just the backdrop?
—What more can you want? You’re carrying Zhi home now!