ITIEQ C25

Chapter 25 – Parting, For Now

The system let out a shrill, never-ending electronic wail.

“Host! What happened! The progress for our third-stage mission suddenly dropped to zero percent! We’ve slipped backwards by a huge, huge margin!”

Shen Qinghe winced, assaulted by its piercing tone. He sighed helplessly: “Life rises and falls. As you can see, I’ve just reached the bottom.”

The system reached out with its psychic feelers to scan the situation—then screamed even louder.

“My salary! If this continues, I’ll have less than three months of manifestation left!”

For the first time, Shen Qinghe thought he heard real emotion in that string of programmed words.

“Heartless thing. All you care about are your points. Didn’t you make it through leaner times before? Now that your master is down and out, it’s time to swallow hardship at my side. A little system like you ought to learn gratitude, understand?”

So man and system bantered, until Shen Qinghe was escorted into the Ministry of Justice’s Punishment Bureau.

Yuanbao, the little eunuch, had accompanied him onto the throne floor, and now accompanied him again on the grim walk to receive his sentence. He scurried ahead, fretting: “My lord, endure it! It’s only ten strokes. Bear it, and it will pass!”

Inside the dim punishment chamber, cold winter light cut through tall latticed windows. Dust drifted in the air, caught between clarity and haze.

Already, Shen Qinghe had surrendered his gauze hat and white-feathered Fifth-Rank robe. Even his inner garments had been stripped away, leaving only a plain white undercoat. The guards pinned him firmly onto the long bench, wrists and ankles held fast.

The executioner brought out the bamboo board: flat end an inch and a half wide, narrower end an inch across, weighing scarcely more than one and a half pounds. Shen Qinghe peeked at it nervously. Compared to the court cudgels as thick as bowls, this seemed “small fry.” Only ten strokes—how bad could it be?

His relief lasted a heartbeat. Crack! A burning flame of pain surged from his backside up through his crown; his ears rang like gongs. His once-steadfast, fearless face twisted hideously. Before he could even cry out, a second blow cracked down across his waist and back. Shen Qinghe clamped his teeth, but still howled aloud.

Forget pretending to be some stoic martyr. A good honest scream was warranted.

By the time the ten strokes ended, his mind was awash in white. The guards released him. Yuanbao rushed forward to catch him as he slumped from the bench.

“My lord! My lord, are you all right?”

The moment his feet touched ground, his legs gave way. His lower body felt as though struck by lightning, then tossed into boiling water. Now sensation returned only as fiery pain. In the back of his head, the system was sobbing pathetically. Shen Qinghe managed a faint tug of his lips: “…stop crying. My head’s pounding.”

Leaning almost entirely against Yuanbao’s small frame, he pressed forward with a grimace.

Wiping cold sweat from his brow, he gritted: “I—I’m very much not ‘all right.’”

Indeed, this punishment earned the name penalty. The executioner’s hand was merciless; repeated enough, it could kill outright! Utterly unlike the playful-sounding “bamboo shoots stir-fry with pork”^1 nickname.

His official robes had been confiscated. Outside, bitter winds howled. Yuanbao had prepared a fur-lined cloak, slipping it over his master’s shoulders.

Shen Qinghe’s lips were white. His vision blurred back and forth. He stared blankly at the expanse of palace road.

“…This doesn’t look like the way outside the palace.”

“No, Lord Shen. We’re headed for Longzhang Terrace.”

Shen Qinghe stumbled, steaming breath on the cold air: “Longzhang Terrace—what place is that?”

“It’s His Majesty’s residence.” Yuanbao’s lips moved uncertainly, then he whispered: “I think you’re the best of men. Those ministers were wrong. Though you’re demoted, and Qiuquan Prefecture is barren and far, don’t despair. My master ordered me to care for you—surely His Majesty’s will. Endure this, and you’ll return to the capital. Then, a new sky will open again.”

The little eunuch who normally only carried messages in the clerical office, now tried to comfort him with a false air of ease. Shen Qinghe smiled faintly, coughed, and got words out of his raw throat: “Of course I’ll return. That day you ran too quickly and missed tasting my iced fruit. Next time, I’ll make sure you eat it.”

Yuanbao turned, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

Inside Longzhang Terrace, the underfloor heating burned strong. Incense of oud and sandalwood curled in layers, warm and steady. Here, the winter chill eased slightly. Yet Shen Qinghe still felt dulled, as though his spirit had been drained along with those ten strokes.

It dawned on him—a thought late: the Emperor usually remained at Han­chang Hall for administrative work until evening. Now, so soon after court, the terrace had been preheated, the hall prepared. All for…

From the inner chambers emerged Emperor Zhaohuan, porcelain vial in hand.

“You’ve come.”

Shen Qinghe bowed faintly.

The Emperor beckoned. “Come closer.”

The youth met those pale eyes, steady and intent.

“Does it hurt?”

…What a question. Of course it hurt. Terribly. To death.

His lips and face were as pale as his undergarment. His features, usually bright as spring, were now thin and frail, stirring pity.

He said nothing. Yet the Emperor read the silence.

“Turn onto the couch. Lie down.” He lifted the vial.

Shen Qinghe’s eyes flew open. He shuffled back, grimacing. “No, Your Majesty, I—I can apply the medicine myself.” To let the Son of Heaven inspect his backside—better to refuse!

“Lie down.”

That warm, deep voice brooked no refusal—reminding him who ruled an empire with a word.

Shen Qinghe hesitated. But he recalled how, in Hezheng Hall, the emperor had shielded him, stood alone against the crowd. After a weak struggle, he obediently lay down on the couch.

“In my western fief, nomad raids came often. Skirmishes were bloody, battles fierce. Our old army physician kept this powder—golden sore medicine for bruises and wounds.”

Shen Qinghe buried his face in his arm, pretending to be an ostrich.

The emperor’s hand hovered at first, stalled—her slender waistline drawn out tightly beneath the thin garment. His face set grim, but his fingers hesitated. Then he quickly pulled down the linen trousers.

Livid welts criss-crossed the pale skin, bruises flaring across delicate flesh. Below, curved mounds rose, painful and mortifying.

At once pity sparked—and heat.

Xiao Yuanzheng, grim, forced himself to pour the gray powder swiftly across, then hastily covered again.

Shen Qinghe tried to rise, but was pressed back gently, a firm hand pinning him.

“Do not stir. Rest. If bored, I’ll keep you company.”

So he lay still, eyes closed.

Rare idle moments weighed him down. He thought back over his journey, the bold risks he had taken. Without the Emperor’s protection, he might have perished silently a hundred times already.

The Emperor sat beside him, stroking his hair.

“After this trial, I cannot keep you by my side. Not even in the capital. Do you understand my intent?”

“I do, Your Majesty.”

“I know you are aggrieved. Yet in these days of turmoil, I cannot shield you fully. Do you bear resentment?”

“No resentment.”

The soft couch beneath, the warmth, dulled the fiery pain.

After weighing his words, Shen Qinghe murmured: “At Hanchang Hall, in the Plum Garden—I did resent. But now, I understand Your Majesty’s heart clearly.”

“The world is not at peace—countless souls wander, displaced. Yue in Yanjin, Qi in Poyang, Chang of Taiqi, Liu of Jiangling, Wei of Yunguo—the Five Noble Clans, webbed and knotted deep as roots, unshakable. In chaos, any man with patience may ascend. Given time, perhaps I too could reach ministerial heights. But, Sire—I most despise trouble, and most never fear it.”

The Emperor’s hand never ceased combing his hair.

Shen Qinghe turned his gaze, staring headlong into the unmatched face of the sovereign.

“If I seek peace across rivers and mountains, rich harvests across the land—then before me yawns only a great abyss.”

A flick to his forehead—sharp and sudden. Shen Qinghe blinked, bewildered, holding the spot. All solemnity vanished.

“I had a younger brother.”

Curiosity jolted Shen Qinghe. He knew of the small Prince of Pingxiang, named but forbidden to mention. Now the emperor himself spoke?

He hushed, waiting.

“His name was Xiao Yuanhe. Were he alive, he’d be your age.” The sovereign’s eyes, softened, gazed afar.

A revelation dawned—why fate had placed that meat-pie in his lap, why such strange favor. Gently, he asked not as servant, but as man:

“Did he resemble me?”

“In some ways—yes. In others—no. He was a torch. But the dynasty was cold. He burned out swiftly.” For the first time, a shadow passed over that calm face—melancholy, grief.

“So I will not let you burn out.”

“The palace is no place for birds to rest their wings. I will not chain you here in a golden prison.”

“Your Majesty… where I come from, we say: death is not the end of life. Your memory of him will always reach him.” Shen Qinghe laid his hand atop the sovereign’s.

“And I do not mean to be a torch. I would rather be a stubborn stone—hard, foul, an obstacle. I’ll be the stumbling block that trips their heavenly ladder!”

So guileless. So defiant.

The emperor sighed.

“I appoint you Prefect of Qiuquan. The northwest is bitter, far from the luxuries of the capital—but all the safer. My old retainers remain there; they will look to you. And I grant you the Imperial Sword; if need arises, you may kill first and report after.”^2

At this moment, it was no sovereign with minister, but elder brother guiding younger, preparing him for departure.

“This parting is your trial. Without me, be careful. Guard your health.”

Shen Qinghe thought privately—it felt almost like a father sending a child off to boarding school. Even the Son of Heaven was not immune to common sentiment. Yet Xiao Yuanzheng was three years older than him, ten older than this body—not really “father,” more “brother.” All his life, whether abroad or wandering cities, none had ever carefully admonished him so.

How rare, how warm.

“Your Majesty—parting is for reunion yet to come.” Shen Qinghe rose, bowed, and took his leave with the gravity of farewell.

The emperor’s smile was still gentle, steady as sunlight. “We will meet again.”

In front of Longzhang Terrace, Eunuch Jinchang had long prepared a small palanquin.

The Emperor did not escort him further—only climbed the upper pavilion of the terrace, hands clasped behind his back, watching distantly as the curtain dropped. Two eunuchs bore the palanquin wanly out through the palace gates.

A purer sky stretched.

The first snow fell on the capital.

Footnotes:

1. “Bamboo shoots stir-fry with pork (竹笋炒肉)” – a mocking nickname for flogging with bamboo boards, referencing the bamboo shoots’ shape; ironically downplays how brutal the punishment really was. 
2. Imperial Sword (尚方剑) – a historically symbolic sword bestowed by the emperor, granting its holder authority to execute on sight and only report afterwards. It marked high trust as well as extraordinary emergency powers.