Chapter Seventeen: The Scapegoat Princess Is Sentenced to Death (17)

The imperial physician Wang paid little mind at first, but upon finally finding someone he could converse with, he spoke with a touch of frustration:

“Isn’t that the truth? I must have been cursed through eighteen generations to end up as the imperial physician at the Prince of Lu’s mansion. If only I had resigned early—gone out to be a traveling doctor even—it would have been better. Traveling doctors heal their patients, and everyone is grateful. But here, I’ve only seen the Prince two or three times in total. Today was the first time I actually treated him… and now my head’s on the line.”

“Wait, wait. Could it be that you, Imperial Physician Wang, were also transferred here recently like Steward Dong?” Zhou Hui, who had only just arrived, knew that many people in the Prince of Lu’s household had disappeared and been replaced, but he wasn’t sure exactly who. Hearing Wang say he had only seen the prince two or three times and treated him for the first time today, Zhou immediately assumed Wang was also newly assigned here, recently dispatched from the capital by Emperor Guangwu. Instantly, he felt Wang was less suspicious.

“That’s not true,” Wang replied firmly. “The Prince of Lu has been here for several years, and I’ve been here just as long. The thing is, the prince never allowed us to see him when he was ill before. He always treated himself with alchemy. Though it was a troubled process, he never poisoned himself to death, and always recovered. That’s why he trusted his alchemy more and more, even comparing himself to Ge Zu. Because of this, the incident you know about happened—indirectly leading to the Prince’s wife being executed. When the Chief Clerk and others were executed a few years ago, I was nearly terrified to death.”

Wang quickly realized Zhou had misunderstood and clarified: “The prince frequently took elixirs.”

Hearing this, Zhou’s emotions stirred. He crouched again and grabbed the prince’s arm, pointing to the bluish, purplish, and blackish spots scattered across his skin.

“Imperial Physician Wang, look at these spots—don’t they resemble the marks caused by excessive elixir consumption, the kind of alchemical poisoning I’ve seen on Taoist priests in the capital? Though their spots weren’t this severe, and they were dead long before it got this bad.”

“Normally, such spots should appear gradually over time, and few who get them survive. But yes, it looks exactly like that—only more severe.”

Wang showed no surprise at this. After all, his medical skills were genuine, not fraudulent.

“I know. But even if these spots are due to taking too many elixirs, it doesn’t make sense because I saw them appear suddenly—in an instant, or at most within moments. At the same time, the prince’s body is riddled with sores but there’s barely any alchemical poison left inside. It’s as if all the poison has been forced out to his skin.”

Why had his tongue and hands become like pig’s hooves? Wang could not diagnose it by pulse. Yet from the skin symptoms alone, he could infer the condition, even if he couldn’t fully understand it.

“Could it be that the elixirs the prince takes are faulty?”

“There must be a problem, but I don’t know the specifics. The prince’s elixir recipe is top secret—only he knows it. I do know it contains cinnabar and other substances like human heart’s blood, fetal heart, liver, bone marrow, tiger bones, leopard fetuses, and plenty of bear bile. But the exact formula and refining methods are unknown to me!”

“Damn it all!”

“No matter how damnable, His Majesty has already made a ruling. Who dares to question it? Even this investigation into the prince’s supposed possession must not reopen old cases. I think you understand that well enough; I don’t need to say more.”

“I’m aware of the limits.”

When does a person grow mature? Perhaps it’s when they realize the darkness of society yet feel powerless to change it. The saying about children from poor families growing up early simply means they realize this sooner. Zhou Hui was no longer young; he naturally understood all this. Had he remained unable to accept the darkness like in his youth, he likely would have died in a wrongful prison sentence long ago.

After a moment of silence, neither Zhou Hui nor Wang said more. Zhou took his leave and hurried back to the governor’s mansion, honestly reporting everything he had learned, seen, and even touched to Zhai Hongxia, who was still awake.

Zhai Hongxia fell silent afterward. If this was all some charade or superstition, he had confidence in himself. But if not… then he truly had no assurance. At that moment, he even began to contemplate the possibility of sudden death. Yet having clawed his way to his current position, he was unwilling to give up so easily.

In the end, he offered incense to the portrait of Confucius and the God of Literature, deciding to give it his all. Even if ghosts and spirits truly existed, he would catch them! Besides, perhaps there were no ghosts at all—maybe just some unknown, arcane trickery.

In past cases, when unaware of the truth and methods, things seemed mysterious, as if spirits were at work. But after solving the cases, the truth was always laughable!

Perhaps this time would be no different.

Only around midnight did Zhai Hongxia finally fall asleep, bolstered by his resolute belief.

…

Where was Ding Shui at this time?

She was in the capital—yes, she had fled to the capital!

The phrase “night roaming a thousand miles” refers to a soul’s ability to travel vast distances swiftly at night. Roaming thousands or even tens of thousands of miles is no problem if the soul is strong enough—otherwise, a gust of wind could scatter it.

Ding Shui’s soul was undoubtedly strong.

She was somewhat relieved she had not attempted to fuse with a body to revive herself. After all, traveling a hundred miles a day would be difficult with a body, let alone facing wild beasts, checkpoints, household registrations, road passes, or bandits along the way.

It could have taken half a month to reach the capital.

But now, it took less than an hour.

Upon arrival, Ding Shui did not rush to the palace. Instead, she first returned home—the mansion of the Duke of Shu.

After marrying and following the Prince of Lu on his fief, the original host had never been able to return home. Vassal princes were forbidden from returning to the capital without imperial edict. Had the prince not committed so many sins and been exposed, he would not have returned twice in just five or six years. The first time was for interrogation—without the original host accompanying him. The second time, he took the blame alone and was executed in the Prince’s mansion, the safest option.

The original host’s regret was not being able to see her parents one last time, who had gone gray-haired and mourned her death.

That was why Ding Shui had come back overnight.

Though hesitant upon reaching the doorstep, she used the original host’s memories and quickly went to her mother’s courtyard.

Though it was already past midnight, the courtyard lights were still on.

Normally, given her mother’s health-conscious nature, she would have been asleep for at least two hours by now. Staying up so late suggested she was thinking of her daughter.

Passing through the walls and entering the room, Ding Shui’s eyes welled with tears.

Her mother, Zhang Xia, sat alone on the meditation cushion beneath the statue of Kṣitigarbha Bodhisattva in the family’s Buddhist hall. Her eyes were swollen from crying as she clutched her daughter’s memorial tablet, sorrowfully chanting the Kṣitigarbha Sutra.