ITIEQ C81

Chapter 81– ? Shall I Knock Again

Xiao Yuanzheng held a brocade towel embroidered with cloud‑patterns, slowly wiping the damp black hair before him.

In his heart he thought: so close, yet ruined at the last moment.

The Hánchāng Hall was a place for public business, but behind it a warmed chamber had been prepared for rest. More charcoal braziers had been set, gauzy curtains of goose‑feather weave were pulled down. Shen Qinghe’s vermilion court robe was stripped and hung upon a stand. In its place, Xiao Yuanzheng had given him a bed‑robe, far too broad, its folds only catching faint glimpses of the youth’s slim waist. The Emperor himself lingered in his gaze, then fetched a great white‑fox cloak, wrapping him tight until not a line was shown.

Upon its collar were embroidered, by silver thread, patterns of Sun and Moon—symbols Shen Qinghe did not understand. But Jin‑chang**, the Grand Eunuch who had served through three reigns and was master at reading imperial intention, surely knew. For even a prince wearing such emblems would be executed on the spot—yet when His Majesty ordered the robe brought out, Jin‑chang lowered his eyes, still as stone, saying nothing.

More astonishing even than the robe, however, was the Emperor’s current action.

Seated lower, Shen Qinghe held quiet as Xiao Yuanzheng’s hand wiped steadily down toward the tips of his hair. But he suddenly pressed upon that hand, halting it.

The young Emperor raised his eyes. Shen Qinghe saw only calmness there—yet could not know whether it was a placid sea or an abyss ready to devour. Thus he looked straight into that gaze, and said faintly:

“Today I met Yue Zhi. He said that for Your Majesty I am only the pawn at the front, riding to war. And no matter how splendid my robes today, my end will be like the hound cooked when the hare is gone.”*¹

A spark snapped in the brazier. The young sovereign, a moment before all crown and order, now stared at the figure half‑kneeling at his knee. He followed the fall of long black hair down his leg, and up its length until it crossed Shen Qinghe’s eyes.

“Such cold hands.”

Shen Qinghe twisted his lips faintly. Even with so many braziers, his body heat had yet to rise. His skin still shivered.

“Has Your Majesty nothing to say?”

Xiao Yuanzheng paused, then replied: “In the Little Plum Garden, the buds are set. The Keeper says this year they will be thick. It storms tonight—let us hope not too many are dashed away. Shall we drink plum‑blossom wine?”

Not wines, not flowers! This was not the answer Shen Qinghe sought.

“All along, has Your Majesty only used me as a chess piece against those clans—because I am brilliant enough, and useful enough?”

Xiao Yuanzheng was silent.

“I admit to some talents. That Your Majesty trusts me is no loss. But if you doubt me, nothing can be done.” His grip only tightened, pressing forward. “But then—let us have the answer, clear and plain. No fog between us.”

Between them, he would have no guessing. He wanted it one stroke, black and white.

“If Your Majesty thinks otherwise, then speak it sooner. I will gather my things and return to Qingbei, to teach children and till the soil—better than being ground down at the end.”

“What bond,” murmured Xiao Yuanzheng, “do we have between us?”

“Of course it is—” Shen Qinghe began.

But warmth suddenly pressed against his face, silencing him. The broad callused palm of the Emperor covered chin and lips, pressing heat over his trembling skin.

As if the Son of Heaven bore dragon‑aura, even his body’s warmth seemed fiercer than common men.

For but a moment Shen Qinghe was dumb, until he realized this ploy again—darkness before his eyes, vision stilled, leaving only touch.

Always this! A fist against cotton! Shen Qinghe’s anger spiked. He had already spoken so far—must the Emperor still circle around? Was he not Emperor enough to speak plainly?

He clenched against the soft fur collar, ready to fling harsh words. But just as his lips parted—something brushed them. Light as a sigh. Then a breath, warm upon his brow.

Eyes flew open. The voice was close, close enough to feel its vibration against his ear.

“In the past, Shen Qinghe said he trusted me. Now—it seems, not a word was sincere.”

A thousand thoughts whirled like leaves in Shen’s head. Yet he cut away all else, cleaving down to the heart. He pushed that hand away. “Yet Your Majesty once said you chose me to stand against the clans.”

Xiao Yuanzheng half laughed. “When did I say this?”

Shen Qinghe lifted his hand—within his palm, a jade thumb‑ring. “Was your meaning not clear, when first we met in the Hall of Governance?”

The Emperor fell quiet. “Has no one told you never to presume the mind of the sovereign?”

“If I presume, it is because I am foolish. Then let Your Majesty tell me outright. Speak with truth. No evasions, no hidden words—I wish to know.”

Silence.

He was Emperor. His decrees sent men into death without explanation. A ruler must be fathomless, unpredictable—that is power. Never had anyone dared come here, barging into lightning and storm, demanding an answer.

Except Shen Qinghe.

Outside, thunder crashed. Candles guttered. The Emperor’s face lay half in light, half swallowed by dark.

At last he spoke: “Did I not tell you? For a hundred years the Xiao clan has battled with those aristocrats, trying every policy. Even in our greatest years, stability lasted no more than ten. And do not forget—the Xiao clan itself, a century ago, was born of the same gate‑clans.”

Shen Qinghe nodded. He remembered indeed—that was why, among princes and dukes, only Xiao Yuanzheng did he choose.

“Young, I could not save my brother.” His words fell as he soaked a new cloth, gently wiping Shen Qinghe’s frozen hands. “But I am no longer just Prince of the Northwest. I must do more now.”

“What will you do?”

“Raise troops. Sweep all thirteen provinces. Eradicate the aristocratic houses.” His movement did not falter.

Shen Qinghe’s heart jolted. “Majesty, I think that—”

Xiao Yuanzheng shook his head.

“When it is done, I will issue a confession edict, declare my crimes and step down. An heir has been chosen—you met him. Zi‑zhao, rash now, but with training he will inherit.”

“This error repeats unending. Someone must end it. I am sovereign—it should be me.”

Clear them all away, every boss on the map—certainly the most direct course. Yet history… For such an act, the vilest of infamy.

For centuries, scholars had schemed for even a line in history. Xiao Yuanzheng would embrace curses everlasting.

But the Emperor looked calm. That scent of sandalwood still soothed, his eyes held neither regret nor pride.

“For myself I will be sacrifice. If the land is whole, if the people are at rest—so be it.”

Lightning split the chamber. His eyes were gentle—yet beneath, they brimmed with slaughter’s resolve.

“When all is finished, I will raise you as Taishi*². You will guide Zi‑zhao, be his first minister, your name shining in the chronicles. Power, title, and honor—gold‑purple robes upon your fine form—it will suit you well.”

He had already written Shen’s path—a road daunting, yet straight, paved to the sky.

Torch fire lay in Shen’s chest, caught between dread and awe. He could not speak.

“These words should not be said. To know too much is prison.”

Yet Xiao Yuanzheng had said them.

“Still—you are in the capital. I can shield you.”

“…Then Your Majesty underestimates me.” Shen rose, robe trailing at his feet.

“Such storms—of course bring me with you.”

Now it was the Emperor looking upward. Light flickered in his eyes. “Do not be wilful.”

But Shen Qinghe only laughed. Once he had thought this was a friendship of life and death. To be lied to angered him deeply. Even if the Emperor paved him a glory road, he himself had right to choose.

“Do you know the narrow gate?” he asked.

The Emperor gazed back, silent.

“The wide gate gives worldly ease. The narrow gate is lonely, painful, against human desire. Few take it. But from the first day Qingbei Academy was born—I was ready. Gladly will I step through that gate I myself opened.”*³

Xiao Yuanzheng’s throat shifted.

“I do not ask to know all things. But live well. The pillars of this dynasty must not be burned with its worms. I am not a child, soft and weak.”

He meant to declare every proof of his readiness. But in the next instant he was pulled into a broad embrace, the scent of sandalwood surrounding him.

“You,” the Emperor whispered, “leave me without words.”

Footnotes

1. “Cook the hound once the hare is dead” (兔死狗烹) — a proverb: soldiers and advisors are discarded once their task is over. 
2. Taishi (太师) — “Grand Preceptor,” highest of the “Three Dukes,” the exalted mentors to the heir, holders of supreme honor. 
3. The Narrow Gate — allusion to moral allegory (with roots in both Daoist/Buddhist parables and echoes of Christian metaphor); the hard but righteous path of few, versus the wide easy gate of worldly compromise.