LBLCPCB C2

Chapter 2

If the beauties of the capital could be likened to drifting clouds, then Wen Fengxuan alone was the moon among them.

Time was pressing. The very next morning, Zhu Song’s calling card¹ was sent to the Eastern Palace. Yet, before Zhu Song could even finish reading a single dossier after arriving at the Court of Judicial Review, a clerk entered with a message from the Eastern Palace.

“My lord, the chamberlain of the Eastern Palace came just now and said His Highness the Crown Prince is unwell and cannot receive visitors.”

This was the very first time one of Zhu Song’s calling cards had ever been rejected. Though displeasure stirred in his heart, he betrayed no sign of it and merely nodded, dismissing the clerk.

At that moment, Gu Huaiyu, who also served as an assistant minister in the Court, happened to enter. Hearing the words, he grinned slyly.

“Well now! I wondered why you’ve been nosing around about the Eastern Palace all these days—it was to seek an audience with the Crown Prince, wasn’t it?”

The two had been childhood friends. Zhu Song raised his head toward him, mood bright. “Yes indeed. My father just told me days ago that the Crown Prince is truly handsome. Naturally, I wished to see how handsome—whether or not he could compare with our own Great Beauty Gu.”

When Gu Huaiyu was little, his face had been rosy and tender. Zhu Song’s first sight of him had been when he was dressed in a pink robe, delicate as a little doll. At that time Zhu Song was a mischievous boy, sun‑darkened like a lump of charcoal. Blinded by such beauty, he had scampered after what he thought was a little sister—until discovering he was actually a little brother. He sulked for days over the disappointment.

But Gu Huaiyu had taken a liking to Zhu Song, trailing after him eagerly. At first Zhu Song disliked having a “younger brother” tag along, but after a while he grew so used to those footsteps that he accepted him as his own follower.

Later, as they grew, that little follower became his sworn brother. What never changed was Gu Huaiyu’s androgynous beauty—features radiant as an immortal’s, such that even in a capital brimming with lovely faces, he was still praised as “Great Beauty Gu.”

At Zhu Song’s words, Gu Huaiyu sighed. “Can’t you cure your infatuated ways? The moment you hear someone is good‑looking, you just have to seek them out. But I’ve heard the Crown Prince has grown terribly weak this year—every step exhausts him, he often coughs blood, and he’s thin as a shadow, a frightening sight. Best not invite such misfortune upon yourself.”

Zhu Song thought helplessly: it isn’t a matter of whether I want to go or not.

“Hm, yes, yes, I understand.” He refused to linger on the subject and smoothly changed topics. “I heard talk that a few nights ago commonfolk saw something strange—what’s that about?”

Gu Huaiyu seated himself comfortably across from him, setting about preparing tea with skilled ease.

“Old Qu told me yesterday. Said there was a peddler, packing his wares one night, who spotted a man in a black robe standing stock‑still in the street, arms outstretched as though leaping. He claimed the man’s face was monstrous, more ghastly than any ghost. The poor fool barely took one glance before fainting from fright.

Now you know Longxi Street is under repair lately. At night there aren’t many lanterns around. I figure someone simply passed by, hopped around a little, and startled him. But when that seller started shrieking, he woke the whole neighborhood. Once he embellished the tale, panic spread. Unfortunately, Consort De’s second nephew happened to be there and carried the story straight to Prince Jin.

So Prince Jin ordered Old Qu to investigate thoroughly, restore peace to the capital.

Old Qu couldn’t find anyone, and was fretting like a grasshopper, so he came begging me for help. I turned him away.”

By the time the story ended, the tea was ready. Gu Huaiyu’s skill with tea was peerless; Zhu Song, who had never cared for tea, had grown to savor it under his influence.

One sip of clear brew, fragrance lingered at lips and teeth.

Setting down his cup, Zhu Song remarked: “Tch. Old Qu’s hopeless too. Everyone knows you hate bother—nine times out of ten, any matter he brings you goes unresolved—yet he still never learns. Should’ve come to me instead.”

Gu Huaiyu smirked. “Oh, spare me your bragging. Without skill, could Old Qu be prefect of the Capital Magistrate’s Court²? Most times he just wants someone to complain to. Yet you’re the only fool who takes it to heart and actually runs around helping.”

At that, Zhu Song chuckled. “What can I do? Old Qu truly is handsome.”

Qu Zhoubai, unlike Gu Huaiyu, had once resembled Zhu Song as a child—dark as pitch, mischievous as a monkey. But from the age of ten, he had transformed in leaps and bounds, a different youth each day. In merely two years, the rough boy became a refined young gentleman.

Qu Zhoubai’s beauty was unlike Gu Huaiyu’s peach‑petal charm of red lips and white teeth. His was elegant, distinguished, though he wore a glamorous face, his reserve and quiet melancholy gave him a slightly decadent air. Yet within his eyes shimmered brilliance; when his gaze turned upon you, deep and affectionate, one felt willing to grant him anything.

Gu Huaiyu sighed. “Had you not been superior in everything since childhood, always outshining us, Old Qu might not have been so gloomy all his life.”

Zhu Song’s spirits swelled at the praise. “Well, how else could I be your big brother?”

Recently, with light workloads at the Judicial Court, Gu Huaiyu lingered long in conversation. On leaving, he remarked: “Truly, the Crown Prince is a good sort. Even in such poor health, he still bears the role of steadying the court. Who knows how much longer this balance can hold, though.”

He didn’t mean that the Crown Prince held real control, but that since his investiture two years past, the rivalry of the three princes had visibly waned, granting the Judicial Court rare peace—hence, these two were free to chat idly in the morning.

Zhu Song said lightly: “Didn’t Abbot Liaoji foretell? Twenty‑five years old. Seven years remain yet.”

Gu Huaiyu lowered his voice, replying: “He never said he’d live until twenty‑five. Only that he’d not live past it.”

Zhu Song blinked—he had never thought of it that way. Liaoji had passed away last year; there was no asking further. If Wen Fengxuan were to die this very year, then wouldn’t their family’s theft be exposed?

No. Impossible. He had to act quickly.

After some idle words, Gu Huaiyu returned to his own office. They worked in separate halls, though scarcely a hundred meters apart.

Zhu Song wracked his brain all day, without finding any way to make Wen Fengxuan grant him entry into the Eastern Palace. Yet delay was impossible. So that very night, clad in dark garb, he climbed the palace wall.

The night was beautiful: a full round moon hung in the sky, so close it seemed one could reach out and touch it.

He chose the most secluded courtyard of the Eastern Palace, scaled the wall, and no sooner raised his head than he saw, within the courtyard, a man in white—an exquisite beauty drinking alone under the moon.

His hair was unbound, loosely tied halfway down his back, with a few strands falling before his ears, swaying lightly in the breeze. Moonlight bathed him in silver radiance, the vision of a transcendent being. Ever so slightly bowing his head, his features seemed painted with the brush of a master; the tip of his nose flushed faintly red, as if he bore some immense sorrow.

Zhu Song froze, instantly recognizing. This could only be the Crown Prince Wen Fengxuan.

But wasn’t he supposed to be infirm? Why was he under the night sky in such thin garments, drinking alone?

Zhu Song perched atop the wall for nearly half an hour, uncertain whether to descend or retreat and try another day. Suddenly, Wen Fengxuan, who had always kept his gaze downward, lifted his eyes directly to him. That glance, stunning and dazzling.

If the beauties of the capital were clouds, then Wen Fengxuan was the full moon—indeed, breathtaking beyond mortal measure.

*“As pure as jade, as radiant as the azure sky itself.”*³

He seemed inebriated, tilting his head with puzzlement, and asked softly: “Are you the little celestial official my mother sent to fetch me?”

The movement was childlike. His reddened eyes brimmed with tears; he looked upon Zhu Song in wounded supplication. At once Zhu Song’s heart softened, and he leapt down from the wall.

As he approached, the powerful scent of wine enveloped him. Zhu Song cupped his hands and bowed. “Your Highness, the Crown Prince.”

Wen Fengxuan’s long, pale fingers rested upon his hand for support as he rose. “Let us go at once. Today is not yet over—there’s still time for me to celebrate in Heaven with my mother.”

So today was his birthday, and also the late Empress’s death anniversary. No wonder he was sorrowful. Zhu Song comforted him gently: “Your mother sent me here to tell you—you must live on well. She will always be watching over you from Heaven.”

At those words, a crystal droplet spilled from Wen Fengxuan’s eyes, striking Zhu Song’s hand like burning fire.

“It’s all my fault,” Wen murmured, voice hoarse with grief. “If not for me, my mother would still be alive.”

“That is not true,” Zhu Song replied softly. “Your mother wished most dearly to raise you herself. But greater than that wish was her hope for you to grow strong. If you torment yourself with guilt, she would only grieve to see it from above.”

Suddenly, Wen Fengxuan convulsed with a violent cough. Harder and harsher it grew, forcing his body into a crouch. In panic, Zhu Song held him, patting his back—yet his palm struck sharp bone beneath the robe, the body frail as a skeleton.

Never had Zhu Song beheld someone so fragile, delicate as porcelain, a glass doll ready to shatter at a breath. He hardly dared exert force in his touch.

After long moments, Wen Fengxuan’s coughing fit subsided. He slumped into a seat again, but still clung tenaciously to Zhu Song’s hand.

“Tell my mother… tell her I will live on… that she mustn’t grieve.”

His eyes were obstinate, as though Zhu Song alone were his lifeline. The sight ached in Zhu Song’s chest. He nodded. “I promise. But it is late and the dew is heavy, Your Highness should rest now.”

Wen Fengxuan inclined his head, at last releasing his hand. “Very well. You should also return.”

Zhu Song could not waste this chance. He said, “I am not in a hurry. I’ll remain until you fall asleep.”

Wen Fengxuan assented meekly. “Alright.”

Zhu Song offered his arm. “Allow me to support you to your chambers.”

“Thank you.”

He helped him inside—and there Zhu Song halted, astonished. The room was nearly empty. Other than bare essentials of table and chairs, nothing decorated the chamber. No partition nor screen divided the space; one glance reached its end.

Almost summer, yet no mosquito net hung above the bed. Naked boards with only a single threadbare quilt. As Zhu Song lifted the cover, he saw edges already fraying. Truthfully, even the lowest servant of Zhu Manor would balk at using such bedding.

His brow knit. “You live here?”

Seated on the bed, Wen Fengxuan tilted his head. No lamp was lit, only moonlight filtering in. With flushed cheeks from wine, he looked like a youth. “Mm. I cough badly at night. Living here, I don’t disturb anyone.”

Zhu Song frowned. “Disturb who?”

“The other people of the palace,” he replied. “Back in Changqiu Palace, they complained that I coughed too much, they couldn’t sleep. But the grounds there were small, I couldn’t move far away. Later I was relocated here; at last spacious enough that everyone sleeps well. They’re happy, so I’m happy too.”

For the very first time, Zhu Song felt the reality of Wen Fengxuan’s life. An unloved prince, bullied even by servants.

Footnotes

1. Calling card (拜帖, bài tiě) — a formal note sent to request an audience or visit, commonly used in aristocratic circles.

2. Capital Magistrate’s Court (京兆府尹) — the chief office in charge of governing the capital city and its law enforcement in ancient dynasties.

3. “As pure as jade, as radiant as the azure sky itself” (淵清玉絜，碧落扶光) — a poetic phrase, describing someone’s purity and brilliance, suggesting an ethereal, transcendent beauty.