The men nearby immediately laughed awkwardly.

Before… before, how could they have known that the delicate and weak Princess was actually someone they could rely on?

“Just because we said a few bad things, that’s why we’re making amends to the Princess now, aren’t we?”

“If the Princess really honors us by coming, I, Old Zhao, will punish myself with three jars of wine first!”

“Then I’ll drink five jars!”

“Eh—why don’t I see the Princess anywhere? Where did she go?”

The bandits craned their necks to look around, but Pei Zhaoye ignored them, walking against the crowd toward a certain direction.

Sure enough, at the city’s grain storehouse, he saw that figure wrapped in a snow-white cloak.

The Granary Officer, following Lizhu’s instructions, had begun inventorying the stores.

Lizhu had her hands buried in the millet and rice, turning and feeling through it, her face glowing with joy.

The Granary Officer said that the two granaries in the city together held over one million shi of grain; the exact number still needed to be tallied, but once the count was finished, it could be mobilized at any time.

Her grain.

Golden and glimmering, white and shining grain.

More than two million shi¹Shi (石) is an ancient Chinese unit of measurement for grain and other bulk goods.!

“Knew you’d be here.”

Pei Zhaoye’s voice suddenly sounded behind her.

Lizhu turned her head and saw him leaning in from above her right shoulder, tilting his head, watching her with a half-smile.

“Eyes shining at the sight of grain, you’re just like a mouse.”

Lizhu snapped in anger: “You dare say I look like a mouse?”

“Wouldn’t dare. I’m the one who looks more like one.”

“…How are you like one?”

The young bandit leader lowered his gaze toward the bit of shoe tip showing beneath her skirt.

“What do you think?”

He asked with a smiling tone.

“…”

Lizhu immediately pulled her foot back beneath her skirt.

Seeing that she had been feeling through the millet for so long that her hands were covered in dust, Pei Zhaoye took her to the riverside outside to wash them.

“You truly intend to lend grain to Jiangzhou for disaster relief?”

Lizhu gave a small “mm” of acknowledgment. “Do you think it’s not good?”

Last time she had heard Pei Zhaoye chatting idly with Gu Bing’an, saying that the rebel forces in Yanshan had already begun to take shape—in just a single month, they had gathered five thousand men.

At that rate, before winter even ended, they could raise a force of ten thousand.

Though they were a disorganized mob, once ten thousand people gained momentum, they would be like locusts—soon crashing into Jiangzhou, and even into Hezhou and Yunzhou which bordered it.

Pei Zhaoye washed her hands for her and wiped them dry with a handkerchief.

“There’s nothing bad about it. I think it’s very good. If you want to do it, then do it.”

But Lizhu hesitated a little.

“But…” Lizhu recalled what Xuan Ying had said to her that morning. “If I issue an order for disaster relief… would it not look like I’m trying to win people’s hearts?”

Pei Zhaoye lifted his eyelids.

So quickly she realized it?

Hadn’t she been completely unaware before?

He looked at her as if surprised.

“How could it? If the Yanshan rebels truly form a force, and join with the Xue clan of Jiangzhou, wouldn’t that become a great threat? You’re only acting for the sake of Nanyong’s realm and foundation—how could that be called winning people’s hearts?”

Pei Zhaoye’s words struck right at Lizhu’s heart, and she gripped his hand tightly.

“Right! That’s exactly what I was thinking! But…”

Lizhu, full of worry, took something from her bosom and said softly:

“Today, when I said I wanted to come to the granary, Lord Cui gave me his official seal, meaning that however much grain I wish to allocate, I may decide on my own without needing his approval.”

She held in her palms that seal which governed an entire prefecture, and in her arms the bronze tiger tally that could mobilize three thousand garrison troops—yet she felt as uneasy as though she were holding a burning piece of iron.

“What should I do?”

Lizhu lifted her fair, delicate face, swallowing unconsciously. “If my imperial father thinks I’m trying to rebel, what should I do?”

She had never thought of such a thing before.

But now, somehow… she possessed all the conditions to do so.

Pei Zhaoye gazed steadily at her.

“If it truly came to that, would you, in order to prove loyalty to your father, give up Yiling, give up Yanshan, cast aside everything, and return to Luoyang to keep being your father’s little princess?”

“Of course not!”

Lizhu answered without the slightest hesitation.

If she gave up, there would only be one end for her—to become a fallen princess of a ruined nation, and then choose for herself a beautiful way to die.

Oh, no—

In this life, Pei Zhaoye certainly would not enter Luoyang to become an official.

So before she became a fallen princess, she would likely first be sent by Shen Fu to the northern lands for a political marriage, to wed the Chanyu of the Wuhuan.

Lizhu sat on a low stone by the river, the cold wind over the water tugging her hair into disarray, but she was too deep in thought to care.

The Grand Preceptor had taught her from childhood to be loyal to the ruler and love her country; she naturally did not wish to become a traitor and rebel in others’ eyes.

But there were things that had to be done.

Even if she gained infamy, she must still do them.

Since Heaven had given her a chance to be reborn, and she had accepted that destiny, she could not watch Nanyong fall once more under the iron hooves of the northerners.

A thousand words surged to her lips; Lizhu’s eyes shone brightly, condensing into one forceful declaration:

“I absolutely will not marry a fifty-year-old old man!”

At this point Lizhu could no longer care about anything else.

Her reputation was important, her imperial father was important—but to make her marry a fifty-year-old old man because of that? Absolutely impossible!

…She would act first and think later!

Pei Zhaoye’s brows furrowed slightly, his dark eyes deep and shadowed.

Where did this old man come from?

Marry her?

What nonsense.

By dusk, the sky was gradually darkening.

Within the borders of Yiling Prefecture, while every street and alley was filled with talk of the day’s case, Lizhu had already boarded the small boat sent by Hongye Stronghold, traveling with Xuan Ying and the others toward the mountain stronghold.

When she had left, the mountain had been ablaze with red leaves like glowing clouds; when she returned, it happened to be Yiling’s first snow.

Large snowflakes, like goose feathers, fluttered down, filling the mountain ravines.

Along the way, the sentries had hung red lanterns to add festivity, and within the stronghold, everyone was busy slaughtering chickens and cattle, carrying jars of wine.

It was lively—an atmosphere completely different from the banquets in the palace.

There was even a group of men wrestling in the arena to add to the entertainment.

The cold winter wind howled, yet these young, sturdy men feared no chill, their fists striking flesh in fierce grapples and blows that made one’s heart pound.

Xuan Ying, being a ceremonial officer of the palace, frowned tightly at such a barbaric scene.

Lu Yu, after drinking two bowls of wine, became more and more spirited and even took off his upper garments to challenge the strong men of the stronghold.

Lizhu watched, eyes unblinking.

“…Is it good to watch?”

A voice cold and low sounded almost right beside her ear.

Lizhu turned her head to look at him, her brows and eyes smiling.

“Of course it is. My Lu Yu has already beaten ten of your men in a row, how could that not be good to watch? He’s making me proud.”

“…”

Pei Zhaoye, about to stand up, was pulled back by the leather belt at his waist.

“You can’t. Your injury hasn’t healed yet, you mustn’t go.”

“Even without healing, I can still beat him.”

He said with disdain.

Lizhu looked at him steadily for a moment, then couldn’t help but laugh.

“I know you would win. But I’d be worried.”

The falling night snow landed softly upon the table and into the wine cups; Pei Zhaoye’s restless competitiveness was pressed back by her words, yet his gaze could not help but wander to her again and again.

The stronghold was hung all around with great clusters of red lanterns.

The light reflected off her porcelain-white, delicate neck, giving off a faint halo, like a small and finely carved idol.

“Princess—!”

Danzhu came over carrying a huge jar of wine, her steps already unsteady, her face red as pig’s liver.

“Many thanks to the Princess for saving my life! I, Danzhu… mm… forget it! It’s all in the wine!”

Then she lifted the wine jar, poured Lizhu a cup, and downed the rest herself in one long gulp.

Lizhu blinked in surprise.

It was the first time she had ever seen a woman drink so heartily—truly worthy of being Danzhu.

Pei Zhaoye reached out to take her wine cup.

“She’s a drunkard. Don’t mind her. If you don’t want to drink, then don’t.”

“How could that be,” Lizhu shielded the cup, not letting him take it. “This was poured by Danzhu for me. I’ll drink just this one.”

Even in the palace, she was not one to abstain entirely from wine.

Though what she drank there was only sweet fruit wine, she could manage a few cups.

As soon as Danzhu finished her toast, the others followed her example, crowding forward.

Some were sincerely thankful for the Princess’s help in resolving the troubles of Hongye Stronghold these past few times, and others simply wanted to take this chance to sneak a closer look at her.

She was indeed beautiful.

An ordinary man standing beside her looked no more striking than a servant.

Only their Mountain Lord, seated next to her, could match her appearance, his looks not outshone.

Not only was she beautiful, but she held them—these bandits—in esteem. Though she could already have left here and never dealt with them again, she still condescended to share wine and laughter with them.

Even when they toasted her, she was willing to take a small sip to show respect.

“How much longer are you going to stare?”

The Mountain Lord said with a smiling squint, “Shall I dig out your eyes and set them on the Princess’s table, so you can look all you want?”

The half-drunken bandits came back to their senses, clutching their wine jars, and scattered in a rush.

Pei Zhaoye turned back toward the Princess, whose cheeks were flushed red.

She still maintained her upright, proper posture, yet her gaze was already a little unfocused.

“Daring enough to drink even in a bandit’s den, you really are bold.”

Lizhu looked toward the lively banquet before her. Snow was drifting down from the night sky, landing on the crimson lanterns, their red glowing bright and vivid.

She tilted her head. “Like this, it looks just like our wedding banquet.”

Pei Zhaoye stared at her, his breath caught in his chest.

“…You really are drunk.”

With that little tolerance, she still dared to drink?

Barely three cups, and it wasn’t even strong liquor.

Lizhu shook her head. “I’m not drunk. I’m perfectly clear-headed.”

She pointed at the man still wrestling in the arena. “That one is Lu Yu.”

Then pointed at the young man Danzhu was hanging onto, forcing him to drink. “That one is Chang Jun.”

She meant to point at Xuan Ying, yet Xuan Ying was not there at the moment. Her finger traced a small circle in the air, then pointed toward the young bandit leader beside her, whose brows and eyes were calm.

“You are Pei Yinzhi.”

His eyelashes trembled slightly, and his brows drew together in puzzlement.

“…What did you call me?”

“Yinzhi.”

She seemed somewhat drowsy, her head lowering as her fingers toyed with the black leather belt fastened around his thigh—loosening it, then tying it again.

After a moment, something welled up from the corners of her eyes.

“I’m very afraid.”

A tightness rose in Pei Zhaoye’s throat; her words left him somewhat at a loss. He bent his back, cupping her face and gently wiping it.

“You’re the Princess, what are you afraid of?”

“Afraid of the old man.”

Pei Zhaoye could not decide whether to laugh or sigh.

“What old man? Was it Cui Shiyong who frightened you?”

Lizhu shook her head again. The tears hanging on her long lashes dropped onto the back of his hand, burning hot like embers.

He stroked her damp face.

“Do you have many things weighing on your mind?”

The first snow fell piece by piece, pressing upon the branches, blanketing the mountains.

The banquet around them was full of noise, yet here it was quiet—so quiet that Pei Zhaoye could hear the sound of her tears falling.

“Will you tell me?” he asked softly. “Or tell me how I can make you stop crying.”

She sniffled. “Can you… not die?”

Pei Zhaoye gave a faint laugh. “I’m young and strong, haven’t even married yet—why should I die? That would be too unjust.”

“Even after you marry, you can’t die.”

Her forehead rested against his chest; head lowered, she spoke in a quiet voice:

“No one is willing to help me. You must help me. They all dislike me, you must like me. Always like me.”

Footnotes

• 1
  Shi (石) is an ancient Chinese unit of measurement for grain and other bulk goods.