Chapter Two: A Mess

The maid, whose delicate features were like a painting, had no time to care for the dagger in her hand. She hurriedly turned to shield the third prince from the unexpected poison, her long sleeves swirling—a dance that happened to obscure the prince’s view.

After throwing the poison, Pei Xiunian did not pause for even a heartbeat. He placed one foot on the chair before him, using it for leverage to leap up. With his left hand, he snatched the hunting bow hanging on the crimson lacquered pillar, and with his right, he seized an arrow.

He nocked and loosed the arrow as if it were etched into his memory.

He only slid and fell to the gleaming jade floor as the arrow flew from his fingers.

The snake venom scorched Xiaoqin’s sleeve, fine wisps of white smoke rising. When she finally lowered her arm, she caught sight of the sharp arrow aimed straight at the prince’s face—a seamless succession of moves, overwhelming in its swift precision.

Pity for her adversary, for she was a practitioner of inner breath.

With a subtle twist of her palm, Xiaoqin summoned a gust of invisible wind through the bedchamber. But as the prince had no such cultivation, and the space between them was so slight, she dared not use full force—just enough to knock the arrow aside.

She watched as the arrow was swept onto the beams above, then stooped to retrieve her dagger, ready to throw it. At that moment, the prince, shaken and pale, finally came to his senses. Grasping the vial of elixirs at his side, he swallowed one, and color returned to his cheeks. He barked, “Flay…flay him alive! Don’t let him die so easily!”

Xiaoqin obeyed, gliding forward gracefully. As she pressed the dagger to Pei Xiunian’s throat, a “shh—” sounded behind her.

She turned. Blood gushed like a spring.

That arrow, long since deflected toward the beam, had impossibly embedded itself in the prince’s neck, pinning him as one would a serpent at its seven-inch mark.

“Your Highness!” Xiaoqin’s cry came too late—the prince’s eyes bulged, pupils dilating, life utterly fled.

Turning back, Xiaoqin’s eyes blazed with fury. Her pearl teeth bit her lip until it nearly bled, but her voice shrank to a whisper: “You dared kill His Highness! I’ll make you pay—”

“What Highness?” Pei Xiunian rose slowly, dusted off his robe, and eyed the dagger a hair’s breadth from his throat. Smiling, he said, “Now that impostor is dead, I am the third prince. You wish to kill me as vengeance? Go on.”

He guided Xiaoqin’s hand, moving the dagger even closer to his neck. The blade’s chill pressed against his skin, but his expression did not change. He continued coolly, “But if you kill me, you’ll die as well. By the law of Great Zhou, a maid who fails to protect the prince faces execution—her whole clan, three generations, wiped out.”

Xiaoqin knew this law well. Her anger held no affection for the prince, only fear of this iron decree. That fear kept her hand from falling.

Her gaze grew unfocused, her composure unraveling. The dagger trembled uncontrollably in her grasp.

Just then, a knock sounded from outside the bedchamber. A voice, ingratiating and low, called, “Your Highness, I heard a commotion just now. Forgive my boldness—may I ask if all is well within?”

Pei Xiunian adopted an imperious tone and replied, “Did my words earlier fall on deaf ears?!”

The old eunuch outside fell silent at once, stammering in terror, “Your servant dares not, your servant withdraws.”

Once the footsteps had faded, Pei Xiunian tapped Xiaoqin’s hand. The thin, sharp dagger clattered to the floor. Stricken, her legs gave way and she nearly collapsed.

“That eunuch couldn’t tell a false prince if he saw one. What are you afraid of?” Pei Xiunian caught her arm at the right moment, then asked coldly, “What should you call me?”

Xiaoqin’s mind was in chaos, her strength sapped. She stammered for a long while before finally managing, “Th…Third Highness…”

Pei Xiunian let go. Xiaoqin sank to the floor, exhausted, pallor draining the color from her beautiful face. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes, spilled in confusion and dread.

Pei Xiunian watched the girl’s trembling form, lying prone yet still shuddering, and released a long breath.

So this training in performance wasn’t entirely wasted, he thought. Thank goodness he hadn’t pursued civil engineering instead.

He exhaled, the air suffused with the metallic tang of blood.

He turned to the dead prince slumped in the chair, removed the jade plaque bearing the imperial dragon, and wiped away the blood. Spreading his arms, he said, “Dress me.”

Xiaoqin rose unsteadily, fetched another set of clothes, and quietly helped him change, saying nothing throughout.

“What was his name?” he asked.

“Li Xiunian, styled Jiaqing, third prince of the Great Zhou, born in the first year of Zhaoning,” Xiaoqin answered, her voice still shaky but calmer than before.

“How curious. My name is also Xiunian—only the surname differs.”

Once dressed, Xiaoqin, without being told, began cleaning the blood from the floor. She was about to change the dead prince into Pei Xiunian’s coarse robes, but he stopped her.

“If I am to die in his place, the likeness must be perfect. Leave everything as it is.”

If I’m to chase a thrill, I’ll see it through to the end…

Pei Xiunian stood before the full-length mirror, scrutinizing himself. Clad in sumptuous robes, he now differed from the third prince by the smallest margin.

Thanks to his supreme control of breath and the passive skills “Longevity” and “Agile Step,” his complexion, once slightly wan, now matched the prince’s almost exactly.

Draining the cup of tea, his “Immunity to All Poisons” left him unconcerned. He mused aloud, “But why did he need a stand-in? Was he caught in a power struggle, accused of plotting against the crown prince? Was he impeached by rival factions? Or did he catch wind of an assassination attempt?”

A prince’s life is not easily forfeit—no matter how little favor he enjoyed, it was never so simple as to be sentenced to death…

He hadn’t expected much from the maid, yet she answered, “Colluding with demons.”

Indeed, this land was home to demons.

Not far west of Great Zhou lay the demon kingdom of Qingqiu. The two nations had long been at odds, warring constantly throughout the Zhaoning era.

Had the third prince truly colluded with demons, even his imperial status would not save him from execution for treason.

Xiaoqin continued, “But the third prince never did such a thing. It was other factions—because His Highness was appointed commander of the armies. He was merely meant to clear out bandits, but after a year of silence, Qingqiu suddenly struck, seizing Xiangyang in five days. They seized the chance to accuse him.”

Pei Xiunian was skeptical. “How do you know all this?”

Xiaoqin reflexively lowered her head and, as if reciting a well-rehearsed line, replied, “I am the daughter of the right deputy censor of the Inspectorate. My father was impeached and imprisoned, demoted to Yunchuan. I was to be sent to the Music Bureau, but the Empress Dowager recognized my talents and assigned me to protect the third prince.”

Pei Xiunian did not dwell on her background. Xiaoqin had already placed the corpse in the prepared ice coffin. He instructed, “Fetch the campaign sand table.”

She bowed again and brought out a sand table longer than herself.

The map already showed Qingqiu’s marching routes and the entire terrain of Great Zhou.

The empire’s situation was dire—Qingqiu’s army had torn open the western border like a blade, red banners falling in waves. With Xiangyang lost, only two more passes stood between the enemy and the capital. Hangzhou was first in line.

No wonder a prince had appeared at a prince’s manor outside the capital—he must have been seeking the Duke of Qi’s private army.

Perhaps the third prince only wished to win some merit, but ended up routed and forced to flee home in disgrace?

But why seek a stand-in? To quell the court’s outrage and try to redeem himself? Or truly defect to Qingqiu?

Now, only the corpse in the ice coffin knew. Since he had inherited the identity, he must bear the consequences.

Pei Xiunian glanced at the cool jade plaque at his waist.

What a mess he’d inherited.

He examined the sand table intently. Qingqiu’s army camped at Yunchuan, their flags scattered across Zhou’s heartland.

If only he could find Qingqiu’s supply line—most of Zhou’s granaries were not in the southeast. Qingqiu’s deep incursion stretched their lines thin; they could not maintain a long war. Their supply line was their lifeblood.

He rubbed his temples, then opened his eyes. With the aid of “Heaven’s Eye,” the tangled lines on the map became clear—red banners retreating, Xiangyang’s defenders burning their own supplies.

Tracing the battlefront south, then west, then north—he found it! Qingqiu’s supply line!

“Who is the deputy commander?” Pei Xiunian sprang up, eyes shining.

Xiaoqin, startled by his fervor, quickly replied, “General Chu, Your Highness. He should be at the front camp outside Hangzhou now.”

“Take me there.” Pei Xiunian’s excitement subsided, his tone calm.

Xiaoqin pleaded, “Your Highness, it is unwise. The front is in chaos, and the Duke of Qi’s heir is hosting a banquet here tonight…”

Pei Xiunian gave her no chance to finish. He grabbed the armor and weapons hanging on the pillar and strode toward the door. At the threshold, he glanced at the bow in his hand, as if recalling something, and said to Xiaoqin, “Kill everyone who was sent after me earlier. And bring the coffin.”

Then he pushed open the door, clapped his hands, and called out loudly, “Attend me—prepare the carriage!”