ITIEQ C83

Chapter 83 – As I Behold, Joy

He was, after all, not one raised in the saddle. On horseback he could endure at most two or three hours—beyond that, his limbs grew weak, bones felt numb, legs lost their strength. In order not to delay the march, and since the Northwestern Army took special care of him, they assigned him a simple carriage, whose speed was not slow at all.

This campaign, in which all forces were united in purpose, had gone extraordinarily smoothly: the eradication of the Run’an You Clan concluded even earlier than anticipated, by two days. Run’an Commandery lay at the border of three regions; Shen Qinghe liked the place. Facing three prefectures at once, recruiting students from all sides, it was only fitting to establish another branch campus here.

With affairs concluded, he finally had leisure to think of other matters, swaying gently within the carriage. Lifting his hand, he revealed the prayer beads upon his wrist, still carrying the faint scent of temple sandalwood.

The grain was exquisite, polished by time. Truth be told—he himself didn’t match such an object. But this was no ordinary strand of mala; it was an item the Emperor himself had removed from his body, given to him as protection and esteem. Out of respect, he carried it wherever he went.

Shen Qinghe slipped it from his wrist, letting the beads turn one by one through his fingers. Rumor in the streets had always claimed that the Zhaohuan Emperor despised talk of spirits or religion. The previous Emperor Huiwen had constructed innumerable Daoist temples and Buddhist shrines; he had torn them all down. For a long time Shen Qinghe too had believed this claim—until he saw with his own eyes the beads hidden in the Emperor’s broad sleeve, and the small Buddha niches nestled in the wall of the Lóngzhāng Terrace.

Ears may be deceived—but the eye cannot lie.

Well… so the Emperor, too, had his secret.

He closed his hand again upon the strand. And such rocking, jostling transport was precisely the kind that let thoughts drift loose. Unavoidably, his mind turned once more to that time in the Warm Pavilion behind Hanchang Hall—the palms covering his eyes, the scorching breath, the meaning difficult to read…

He touched the space between his brows. Even in the forgiving customs of Yong, still…

…what was all of this?!

He began trying to reason forward. In past dynasties, emperors taking male favorites was hardly unheard of. In theory, it was even commonplace enough to fill unofficial anecdotes, tavern gossip. Yet when such “scandal” seemed to fall upon one’s own person—it was as though Heaven’s thunderbolt struck, searing the outside black whilst roasting the inside half-raw.

“Qinghe!”

The curtain of the carriage lifted with a sudden flap. There sat Yao Guang upon his beloved white stallion, leaning carelessly to peek inside.

Shen Qinghe’s heart lurched; he forced himself back into composure, and their eyes met squarely.

“What thoughts carried you so deep?” Yao Guang grinned, raising at his waist a long dark tube wrapped partly in leather, catching glints of sun upon its polished surface. “And this device—how did you conceive it? Too wondrous! With this, what need have we of scouts and watchmen? Truly, ‘Eye that sees a thousand li’! Now, tell me, when will your students fashion us an ‘Ear of a thousand li’?”

“It is called a telescope,” Shen Qinghe corrected, pleased by how gunpowder, compass, printing, and such ingenuity could show real battlefield power. Yao Guang had once held all academies in equal contempt. Only after these inventions reached his troops, weapons keen for attack and defense, advance and retreat, had his disdain dissolved.

“You’d make me out to be divine? Such a thing cannot be forged so swiftly,” Shen Qinghe said. Listening devices required knowledge and technology far beyond what this age could reach—perhaps even within his lifetime, unattainable.

From behind Yao Guang another grizzled general rode forward, laughing broad: “Not only this marvel—even our soldiers’ armor and blades are transformed! Lighter, harder, sharper! Arrows crack before our breastplates, enemies’ armor splits like paper beneath our weapons!”

Someone echoed behind: “Aye! When we first received them, the men would even sleep holding their gear—never had they possessed such fine weapons!”

“Next time, Shen Teacher, when such wonders come forth—best grant us more!”

The Northwestern brutes liked, just like his pupils, to hurl that title “Teacher Shen.” Born in the north, reared under years of harsh campaigns, weather carving red veins into their cheeks, their voices boomed open and free like the blazing sun above.

Weaponry this fine should have been the exclusive playthings of princes and magnates. But the moment these hard men learned Qingbei Academy could forge arms, they, too, could not resist vanity. At the military foundry they demanded special engravings on their blades, marks upon their bows—an assembly line bent by whims into bespoke trinkets. Behind their orders lay craftsmen groaning blood and tears.

True, local nobility maintained private troops, sometimes even swaying local garrisons. Yet compared with hulking disciplined regulars, these regional soldiers were wine-sacks and rice-bags, chicks before hawks. What was more, the Northwestern Army now carried tricks devised by Qingbei’s Military Academy—a single tear-smoke sphere could send enemies weeping, snorting, silenced, vanquished without resistance.

Absolute force could indeed sweep all obstacles. Yet Shen Qinghe knew: force alone would never be the ultimate solution.

Though he had birthed these deadly tools, he feared what imbalance they might bring—and reminded them: “Blades and steel, left unused, are but scrap. But pressed too far—they bring consequences still grimmer.”

The general chuckled, answering sincerely: “Teacher Shen, we understand. More than anyone, the Northwestern Army yearns for peace. The day Little Zheng* no longer needs us—that will be the best day yet. Here in the south it is damp, marshy—no grasslands for galloping herds, no bold northern lasses. I’ve longed for home. When I die, I’ll hang this saber on my tomb, so all who pass will know a mighty soul lies here!”

“Bah, bah! Talk of death, Zhao Uncle, don’t be ill-fated.” Yao Guang cried. He had kept to his imperial-bestowed spear, his hair tied high behind, flying with the tassel’s scarlet streamers. Behind, soldiers snickered, each bright as stars on a north night.

Shen Qinghe, wearied by Kyoto’s suffocating dust, at last laughed freely among them.

“Yet truly,” an officer sighed, “it has been an age since we last saw Little Zheng. He would send letters, but now his decrees are fewer than orders.”

They had been his companions since his princehood. Privately, they seldom used his exalted name—anyone overhearing knew the intimacy in it.

“He’s Emperor now! Emperor knows? Buried each day in affairs of empire—what time remains for bantering with white-heads like us?” Another officer added, “I even once cradled him as babe. How swift time flies—now enthroned! How he honors us!”

“Yes, Kyoto bores—full of specters and demons in court. Better for him to return north with us… But, well—now Teacher Shen is in Kyoto also—he can be his companion. All right, all well!”

Inside the carriage, Shen Qinghe shifted, thigh-soreness throbbing from rash horse-riding. Not weak, but compared to battle-hardened giants, he was brittle indeed.

He leaned upon the window, trying not to twitch muscle, listening to their chatter, relieved of gloom. Yet one question pressed.

“Does His Majesty have no old comrades at court?”

“Old comrades?” A general scratched his temple. “After ascending, he left all of us in Cangzhou. If Yuanhe yet lived…” He trailed into sigh.

Any other ruler leaving founders behind smacked of “kill the dog after the hares are gone.” Yet not one of them bore resentment. They had glimpsed but the tail of his struggle against the Five Clans, enough to understand how impossible to balance forces alone. In Cangzhou their rations never short, each soldier skilled in his craft, they were content.

“And… kinsmen by marriage?”

A round of laughter. “Kinsmen? Ah, we sought to match him. But Little Zheng—such a block of wood! What woman could stand waiting by a log? No tinder can ignite that ice, no matter who tried.”

A block of wood?

Shen Qinghe reserved judgment.

“At least he’s Emperor! He cannot remain single forever! By our age, most have two children. Teacher Shen, surely you yourself are prime age as well? Handsome and witty, you are more likable than Little Zheng himself! Is there anyone for whom you hold fondness? Say the word and we’ll seek her hand for you. Or else—we’ll beg our Emperor to decree marriage!”

They knew his family’s plight. They cursed the Ministry of Rites for blindness, and pledged to shield him themselves like kin.

Northern ways respected no endless spin of pedigree, only “see, like, decide.” Swift compared to the south’s half-year circumspection.

“Zhao Uncle, don’t press him,” Yao Guang interrupted. “Your words stray—you nag his marriage, not mine?”

Shen Qinghe raised his voice, half-jest: “Were His Majesty to grant me a bride, who knows what trap I’d fall into! Already I’ve been marched across a thousand li without warning. You must take my part, uncles!”

The generals’ eyes widened. “Oh? And how so?”

Yet before Shen Qinghe could weave his tale, Yao Guang’s sharp eyes caught glinting sunlight along distant horizon. Under twilight’s glow, banners of red inscribed in black characters snapped upon the wind; soldiers armored in gold, dragons embroidered unfurling claws.

“It is—Brother Xiao!” Yao Guang cried, leaping forward at once. Bounding from horse, he bowed: “Majesty! The You and Yan factions are all captured, and other tribes stirring—they must all be seized in one sweep.”

Xiao Yuanzheng answered with one nod, hand steady upon his reins, gaze sliding past—toward the carriage.

“The journey, long and rugged. Your labors are not in vain.”

“Not at all!” Yao Guang, suddenly shy, beamed.

Troops converged. Shen Qinghe, guilty at heart, had thought to hide—but impossible now. He opened his curtain, saluted properly as subject.

“From Kyoto I passed through here,” the Emperor said quietly. “There is a redwood forest, quite a view.”

The generals traded glances. Redwood forest? When had their ruler taken such a fancy?

Shen Qinghe caught those eyes—“….”

“Will you not mount?”

“He has ridden too long,” Yao Guang explained blithely. “Thighs pained, now only sits carriage.”

The Emperor stilled. A tether loosed, his horse handed away with a shake. He walked, calm, three steps to the carriage.

“Your legs—hurt?”

So many watching eyes, familiar and not. Shen Qinghe felt crushed. Admit truth—cowardice. Deny—fraud before the Son of Heaven.

The carriage dipped under weight of boots woven with gold onto black sole. He filled the cramped space, tall, broad. The curtain swayed shut. Outside, no one could guess; inside, Shen Qinghe’s face startled bright.

“Proceed,” intoned the Son of Heaven.

The wheels clattered forward.

Within, already warm, now torrid. The Emperor radiated heat like a furnace. Shen Qinghe stiffened elbow, retreating inch, feigning composure.

“Majesty will not ride?”

A pause; then mild answer: “To guide horses all day wears even emperors. At times, carriage suits.”

“…Really…?”

The window scratched by a tap. In came a porcelain vial.

“Pu Ying Powder,” said the Emperor, “for abrasions.”

“Truly it is not serious. Rest, I will heal.”

“Do not belittle it. Infection knows no small wound.” His gaze sharp. “Is it that Shen Qinghe does not wish medicine here?”

…A sharp guess.

He snatched the vial, hid it in sleeve. “Majesty’s grace I accept. I shall not conceal, nor ignore wounds. When back in Kyoto, I swear it will be applied.”

“…Good.”

No more words. He sat in dark blue robe shimmering faint green in folds, tide-like. Adjusting the jade pendant on his lap, Shen Qinghe caught sight of embroidered threads, agate beads blood-red in seam.

Though the Emperor favored simplicity, still his garb was never ordinary. Seeing this regal splendor, Shen Qinghe could not help but joke: “What’s this? Majesty turned student of fashion?”

The Emperor looked down at his sleeve, raised it with mild amusement. “It is an old robe.” Shen Qinghe’s eyes lingered upon the beads, curiosity piqued. Suddenly the Emperor untied the string, placing it before him.

“For me?” Shen Qinghe received it blankly. He had only ever seen such exquisite agate on Princess Xiao Yuxi. But this—this strand shone finer still.

At once all distracted scheming melted. This was unmistakable Zhànguó hóng—‘Warring States Red,’ a natural agate revered in later ages, worth fortunes at auction.*

“It was my mother’s,” Xiao Yuanzheng said quietly. “Stored in treasury, gathering dust. In your hands, it may meet the sun.”

“Then—I accept. But Majesty, no taking it back later.”

“No. Not back.”

Shen Qinghe’s glance darted from the red stones to the Emperor’s face. Deliberately he sighed. “Two strands of beads already. The palace must overflow with them.”

“No.”

“…What?”

“There is no excess of beads in the palace,” the Emperor smiled faint, “for they adorn only you. And as I behold it, I am glad.”

Footnotes:

• Little Zheng (小政) – Intimate nickname for Emperor Xiao Yuanzheng, used only by his closest companions and old retainers of his princely house. 
• “Zhànguó hóng” (战国红) – “Warring States Red,” a term for a prized deep-red agate stone discovered mostly in modern Hebei/Inner Mongolia, valued extremely highly in jewelry markets. Used here, it implies pricelessness, a gem worthy only of royalty. 
• “As I behold, joy” (我看着喜悦) – An intentionally intimate phrasing by the Emperor; though spoken calmly, its undertone is personal affection, implying Shen Qinghe himself is the source of happiness.