Chapter Forty: Isolated and Without Aid (Double-Length)

Snow swept softly across the vast expanse of the land.

Beyond the capital, the fertile plains stretched for thousands of miles, now sheathed in silver overnight.

With the onset of winter, the unshielded wilderness revealed hints of bitter cold and frozen earth.

Now, aside from the two elderly men sitting face to face atop a hill and the chessboard suspended between them, only the whispering wind remained.

The Grand Diviner, clad in a Daoist robe and feathered cloak, picked up a white stone, pondering aloud, “This move of yours—I cannot decipher it.”

The old blind man, facing due north, took a sip from his gourd and said lightly,

“A Grand Diviner of the Celestial Observatory, and yet, on this mere nineteen-line board, there are still moves that baffle you?”

The Grand Diviner, with the ethereal bearing of an immortal, gazed at his opponent and sighed. At last, he placed his stone, and with that move, the white stones regained some vigor.

For a moment, his countenance seemed to brighten, as if infused with the spirit of the white stones, yet his tone remained detached: “The Celestial Observatory is but an office that observes the heavens. Divination is not its true purpose. I am not you, Blind Li; how could I hope to foresee all without omission?”

“If not for you, I wouldn’t even have known of the demon-rearing affair in Hangzhou.”

“Who knows whether you truly didn’t want to intervene, or simply didn’t know?” Blind Li laughed heartily at these words, tossing the black stone in his hand. “If I could foresee everything, I wouldn’t be a blind man.”

“I had Jiang Yunhe move through the world with her eyes closed, so that her other senses would sharpen, aiding her cultivation. But that does not mean she is truly blind.”

“As for me, I am the one who is truly blind.”

The stone Blind Li tossed landed on the board in an unexpected spot.

The entire broken and exposed rear line was suddenly revived by this masterstroke. In that instant, it became a tautly drawn arrow, and he said quietly,

“My eyes are likely still buried in the imperial mausoleum.”

“So this is a step in your grand plan of vengeance?” With worthy opponents locked in a tense match, the Grand Diviner toyed with a white stone and asked in a low voice, “How long did it take you to refine that pill? If not for its ability to nurture fortune, I wouldn’t have noticed your move—but… is he truly your choice? Or rather… how did you choose this particular prince?”

Blind Li shook the gourd in his hand; the liquid inside sloshed, nearly gone. He replied,

“Qingqiu and the demon-rearing scheme proved he could win the people’s trust without guilt. Is such a trial not enough?”

The Grand Diviner calmly pressed down a white stone, erecting a seemingly fragile shield against the powerful onslaught of the drawn bow. He countered,

“The prince has only been out in the world for a short while—was that enough for you to see him clearly?”

Blind Li lifted his head to the falling snow; it was unclear if he could truly see.

Fragmented flakes fell endlessly, blanketing the mountains, settling on shoulders, hiding among white hair.

He said wistfully, “Of course it’s not enough—which is why he was never my carefully laid piece from the start. I simply placed my bet. This is my final gamble.”

The black stone fell, the great bow’s force unstoppable, ready to swallow half the board.

The Grand Diviner picked up another white stone. Blind Li’s attack was fierce, but it was a desperate, all-or-nothing move.

The Grand Diviner’s feathered robe quivered. Though uncertain, he still admitted frankly, “This is unlike you.”

As he hesitated over his move, Blind Li remained serene. After a long pause, the old blind man gazing at the snow finally broke the silence draped over the wild hills:

“I am too old.”

“So many years have passed. Whenever I hear the ring of Jiang Yunhe’s sword, I still imagine myself standing in the rivers and lakes, but my vision remains shrouded in darkness, the wind rustling past my ears.”

“Not long ago, passing through Hangzhou, I heard a troupe’s melody. It felt as if I saw myself again falling into the world of wandering swordsmen—the year my sight was lost, my brocade robe soaked and ruined by rain, carrying the sword Tiansheng Bridge, the blade following me through the martial world, entering and leaving its scabbard.”

“I know that Tiansheng Bridge remains a fine sword, still capable of dazzling the world like frosted steel.”

“If I were a hundred years younger, I might have slain this decrepit true dragon of the Li clan that clings to the dying Zhou dynasty; if fifteen years younger, I might still have time to observe the world and make my choice. But now, I have grown old. Flowers may bloom again, but youth does not return.”

“As the river flows east, washing away all, Yi Qiu, our era has ended.”

A sorrowful feeling arose unbidden.

These two elders, who should have long since vanished from the world, looked at each other. The one who still had sight finally pressed down his white stone, saying only,

“I’ll wager with you.”

The last stones, black and white, settled on the board. The drawn sword and aimed crossbow, the bold assault and seemingly fragile defense, were perfectly matched. It was the first game between old friends after many years apart.

Again, it was a draw.

———

Pei Xiunian strode quickly into the Hall of Literary Records. The familiar young page greeted him, took the Empress Dowager’s decree from his hand, and passed it through the required officials for inspection. Before long, Pei Xiunian was granted entry.

News of the Fifth Prince’s death had not yet spread. The death of a prince was a grave matter—and the emperor’s private affair. Without the emperor’s sanction, it could not be rumored.

Thus, aside from the princes, the Three Dukes, and the Empress Dowager, no one knew. Peace reigned within and without the Forbidden City.

Pei Xiunian’s expression was somewhat grave. He took a few slow breaths to steady his mind.

In truth, he should have noticed last time why, among the myriad techniques housed in the Hall of Literary Records, not a single one pertained to longevity.

Regrettably, he had not thought much of it then, and thus lost the initiative. Still, he held out a sliver of hope. He turned to the young page by his side and said,

“Go and fetch all the manuals and records on longevity stored in the Hall of Literary Records.”

The page acknowledged the order and hurried off to search, showing no excess emotion.

Most often, the Hall of Literary Records served scholars, who were notoriously demanding in their requests and minutiae. The pages here were long accustomed to such things.

Pei Xiunian ascended the central staircase of carved redwood to the second floor. The record-keeping officials stood to salute him; the formalities had already been observed, so no further approval was needed. Pei Xiunian was free to roam this great repository of Zhou’s history.

Time was short. Pei Xiunian had no leisure to study the conflicts between orthodox and unorthodox paths or to dwell on the demon-slaying campaigns of emperors past.

He merely ordered an attendant to bring him the latest official chronicles from the reign of Emperor Zhaoning.

While waiting, Pei Xiunian leafed through a recent biographical catalogue of notable officials, replete with portraits—perfect for quickly familiarizing himself with the faces of those connected to the Imperial Academy.

If the incumbents had not changed, the portraits would not have been updated to match their aging appearances, but even so, it was a useful reference.

Apart from the Three Dukes, Pei Xiunian also found the likeness of the Empress Dowager.

The old witch’s appearance differed little from her portrait; indeed, she now exuded an even more mature allure—proof enough that she possessed cultivation.

Other than these, there was no one else Pei Xiunian needed to know.

Yet as he flipped through the pages idly, his eye caught an unfamiliar face.

But the title was all too familiar—former Right Vice Censor-in-Chief of the Censorate.

The sight of him made Pei Xiunian’s heart jolt. The man bore little resemblance to Xiao Qin, but the biographical record could not be wrong. The final entry read:

“In the twelfth year of Zhaoning, convicted of corruption and bribery, his family’s property was confiscated, wife and daughters sent to the Music Bureau (the youngest daughter entered the palace as a maid to the Third Prince), exiled to Yunchuan, and in the same year, killed by bandits en route.”

Pei Xiunian’s brow twitched. He flipped ahead but found nothing further of use. Just as he was about to give another order, the records official arrived with a moderately thick chronicle, titled simply “The Zhaoning Years.”

Official histories, no matter how esteemed the Imperial Academy or how noble the scholars, always diverged from true events in some measure.

But such divergences were mostly in minor details—no one dared fabricate the major events.

For instance, the exact timing of the Crown Prince’s death, which Pei Xiunian urgently wished to confirm.

He had barely opened the volume when hurried footsteps sounded from below. The young page from earlier ran up, empty-handed, bowed, and reported,

“Your Highness, there is not a single manual on longevity to be found. Elder Cai says all such texts were checked out years ago…”

Pei Xiunian’s pupils widened momentarily. This was as he had suspected. He told the two before him,

“Today’s search for longevity techniques must remain absolutely confidential. Also, help me look up the illustrated roster of women serving in the Imperial Jewels Office in the twelfth year of Zhaoning—with portraits.”

The page and official replied in unison, “As Your Highness commands.”

Within the Hall of Literary Records, they had lived by these texts for generations. Bound by tradition, they would never dare defy the orders of high officials, much less a prince.

The two withdrew to search. Pei Xiunian opened the chronicle to the eighteenth year of Zhaoning—the year he had arrived in this world.

Being a historical record, it contained a plethora of events both great and trivial. Pei Xiunian, like browsing a black-and-yellow site, searched only for the keywords he needed:

“In spring, the Crown Prince led an expedition northeast to quell notorious bandits, returning in triumph; the Seventh Prince requested command to march north against the looming threat of Jin Xia.

At the end of spring, Qingqiu launched a campaign east of Yunchuan. The Crown Prince volunteered to lead the army; Emperor Zhaoning approved. The following month, the emperor began refining pills.

In summer, the Fourth Prince left the palace to serve as Supervisor of the Imperial Academy’s treasury.

The Second Prince uncovered a major tax corruption case, rooting out a host of complicit officials and was rewarded with the fief of Yangzhou.

In autumn, the Crown Prince repelled Qingqiu’s forces but was struck by a poisoned arrow during the pursuit and fell from his horse.”

At the beginning of the month the Crown Prince was buried in the imperial mausoleum, Emperor Zhaoning refined a second batch of pills.

Shortly after the burial, Qingqiu’s army launched a massive assault on Yunchuan, and by late winter, the south of Yunchuan fell.

At this point, Pei Xiunian stopped reading. The sequence was now clear in his mind.

The timing of the princes’ deaths overlapped suspiciously with Emperor Zhaoning’s pill refinement—not once, but twice. That could not be mere coincidence.

Now, having seen with his own eyes the Fifth Prince’s body switched, it was no longer a question of coincidence. It was all but certain: Emperor Zhaoning was slaughtering his sons to refine elixirs.

In a world governed by immortal cultivation, Pei Xiunian was not altogether surprised. Yet not being surprised did not mean it was within his ability to accept.

Because now, he was a prince himself.

Emperor Zhaoning had ruled for many years. Though once constrained by the Empress Dowager’s regency, his ambition could never have been extinguished.

How could a man of virtue, born beneath heaven and earth, resign himself to a life under others?

From his perspective, the greatest obstacle was the Empress Dowager, whose power was deeply entrenched—a mountain he could not conquer despite his ascension.

Though her influence had waned, she was far from defeated, still commanding the security and censorship offices, both ranking above the hundred officials.

Even if Emperor Zhaoning held the reins of the bureaucracy, he could not make the court his personal fiefdom.

Thus, he chose another path—pursuit of immortality.

Put plainly, he sought to outlive the Empress Dowager, to survive this old crone and become the true sovereign of Zhou.

With that in mind, it became clear that Li Yan was likely never a true contender for the throne, but a trap personally laid by Emperor Zhaoning.

Or rather… Li Yan was the bait, pushed forward as a decoy.

The court’s factional strife and the struggle for succession—this was precisely what the emperor wanted, so that he could openly refine pills from the princes who perished in the chaos.

As for whether the pills actually worked, Pei Xiunian needed only to look at the emperor’s appearance today for the answer.

With this in mind, many mysteries unraveled.

The reason for the Fifth Prince’s death and pill refinement was not just to delay court proceedings; it was also because Pei Xiunian had ruined his demon-rearing scheme.

Though he still did not know what the emperor intended with the demon, his interference had clearly forced the emperor to double down on pill refinement.

Thus, the path of a prince was fraught with peril.

Being eyed by siblings was one thing—having to guard against being turned into an elixir by the emperor was another.

The good news was, the Fifth Prince had just been refined; Pei Xiunian’s turn would not come so soon.

The bad news was, his own achievements had already marked him as a threat in the emperor’s eyes. That was how the Crown Prince had met his end.

Pei Xiunian felt his head spinning. Though his deduction was sound, to whom could he confide?

The Empress Dowager?

The Grand Diviner of the Celestial Observatory?

He ran through the possibilities in his mind. The Empress Dowager certainly had the reach to be involved—she likely already knew. But her silence meant she, too, had her doubts about whom to trust.

As Pei Xiunian brooded, the young page brought him the roster and illustrated records of the Imperial Jewels Office prior to the twelfth year of Zhaoning.

He leafed through a couple of pages and found the daughter of the former Right Vice Censor-in-Chief, now the Third Prince’s attendant.

The portrait showed Xiao Qin with bright eyes and white teeth, red lips and willow brows, her gentle smile radiating the poise of a noble lady, a beauty among beauties even at a young age.

Yet… Pei Xiunian did not recognize her. But the portrait and record, produced by the Imperial Academy, could not be false.

Moreover, the face in the portrait was far less striking than the Xiao Qin who now accompanied him daily.

Pei Xiunian suddenly recalled that, with the aid of the Heavenly Eye, even without consciously activating it, disguises would be automatically seen through.

Just like Zhao Congrong at the post station—on the flying boat, he had discerned that Zhao was indeed in disguise.

So… who was the “Xiao Qin” by his side?

Pei Xiunian pressed his fingers to his brow, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. He had not expected that, within the vast Forbidden City, he was already utterly alone.