Liu Ji’s voice was not soft and charming, her figure was not delicate and small either. Her facial features were bold and striking, carrying a grandeur that not even silk, brocade, and rouge could conceal, her whole being exuding a dashing and unrestrained air.

When he spoke fluently with extraordinary knowledge, Zhao Yen had not been without suspicion.

And now, as her own hand touched that flat and firm surface, her eyes still widened slightly.

“So, you are also a Confucian scholar of the Mingde Hall?” Zhao Yen curled her fingers slightly in discomfort and asked.

Liu Baiwei’s waist and abdomen were lean and firm, slender but not frail. He released her hand and lightly coughed once: “You could say so.”

Zhao Yen did not quite understand why a youth about to take the imperial examination and enter officialdom would willingly conceal his name and identity. Scholars usually carried with them three parts of lofty pride, and most valued most highly the integrity of a man of letters. They should be the last to stoop to rouge and powder to disguise themselves as women.

Remembering the details of that night when her own identity had been exposed by Liu Ji, Zhao Yen said: “You disguised yourself as a woman and entered the palace, was it because of your wager with Zhao Yan?”

At these words, Liu Baiwei arched his brows and smiled, “Someone of my temperament—how could I possibly be bound by a mere wager?”

His gaze lowered, falling upon the flickering candle flame within the lampshade, as if once again seeing the spectacle of the early months of last year—the lamps of Mingde Hall’s Mirror Pavilion burning all night without cease, as scholars and the Crown Prince sat knee to knee in earnest discussion.

Seventeenth year of Tianyou, a spring night.

The unrestrained Shen Jingming lay sprawled in all four directions, sleeping with several scholars as pillows at his side. Cheng Jixing, shy by nature, curled alone in a corner for a nap, his ink-stained hands still tightly clutching a drafted scroll…

The window was half open, and beneath the solitary lamp, the frail and youthful Crown Prince stood cloaked, overlooking the dark, lightless halls and pavilions in the deep of night.

“Sir Linjiang has awakened me with one remark. Since the founding of the Great Xuan, eight or nine out of ten officials chosen through the imperial examinations have all emerged from the great aristocratic clans. When these men enter the court, what they consolidate is the interest of the family lines behind them, and they care nothing for the common people. The Great Xuan above has tens of thousands of imperial clansmen waiting to be fed, below has the Shen Guang Sect seeking to build temples and offer sacrifices, the national treasury is exhausted, these are chaotic times and cruel years. Without fierce medicine, they cannot be eradicated.”

Zhao Yan turned his gentle brows and eyes toward the flamboyant youth in a snow-white robe with a dark lapel at his side, “The new policies cannot be carried out by me alone, nor can they be accomplished in a single year. It must gather those like-minded as yourselves, and with ten years, even a lifetime of toil, exchange it for a new heaven and earth.”

He paused, then said warmly: “Baiwei, I am weak and sickly, confined to the narrow quarters of the Eastern Palace. I need one person to conceal his name and take on an identity least likely to draw suspicion, to act as my transmitting voice, gathering every force that can be used.”

Yesterday, Liu Baiwei had played riddles with the Crown Prince and lost miserably. Hearing this, he curled his lips: “The identity least likely to arouse suspicion, I suppose, would only be that of a woman with no background to be traced, possessing beauty alone?”

But such a woman was hard to find.

“Who says it is hard to find?”

Shen Jingming had at some point awoken, using his folding fan to lift Liu Baiwei’s pointed chin, then glanced at Zhao Yan, and teased shamelessly, “Are there not two right here before us?”

Liu Baiwei did not look very much like a man, and he was accustomed to others making jokes of him for it. But he had not thought this libertine Shen Jingming would dare to jest even about the Crown Prince.

He bristled at once, rolling his eyes angrily: “Scram.”

The Crown Prince himself, however, minded not at all being called a “beauty,” and pressed a fist to his lips, chuckling lightly.

When Liu Baiwei had finished enough banter, he stood in a brash manner, arms crossed, leaning against the bookshelf, and said: “I can give it a try.”

Zhao Yan looked at him in surprise, even Shen Jingming withdrew his frivolity.

Liu Baiwei said: “Even if such a woman existed, it could not be guaranteed she would act cautiously and remain loyal at heart. I am skilled in painting, I can use powder to conceal the Adam’s apple and features, and with Your Highness’s assistance to cover it, perhaps I might muddle through.”

Zhao Yan collected himself: “Baiwei, next year there will be an additional Grace Examination, if you disguise yourself as a woman you will miss…”

“I came to the Mingde Academy precisely to hide. To have the chance to hide within the Eastern Palace itself is all the better.”

Liu Baiwei deliberately stretched his waist as if at ease, humming, “Besides, by the time I restore my identity, you may all have become the backbone of the court already. If I enter officialdom then and sit back to enjoy the fruits, would that not be easy and delightful?”

Thus everyone laughed.

“Now that the draft of the new policies has taken shape, why not set ten years as the term, and write a pledge to encourage one another?”

Shen Jingming proposed with brush in hand, “No matter what position I come to hold, I am willing to fulfill this promise unto death.”

Moths fluttered in the moonlight, plunging without hesitation into the lampshade.

Zhao Yan pondered, then stepped forward to take up the brush, solemnly adding two small lines at the end of the scroll: In this life I vow to emulate the night moth brushing the lamp, though I die, I still turn toward the light.

“Brushing the lamp… wondrous, most wondrous!”

Shen Jingming clapped his hands in laughter, “Since we are all moths plunging toward fire, why not take Bright Lamp as our signal? When His Highness the Crown Prince has commands, he may hang a tall lamp upon the high tower of Jiafu in the Eastern Palace, and we, seeing the signal, will gather at Mirror Pavilion to deliberate upon His Highness’s instructions.”

Everyone nodded and said, “Good.”

Among them were tribute students already near thirty, and youths of only a little over ten, yet without exception, each solemnly and reverently wrote his own name beneath the small characters.

Remembering something, Zhao Yan lifted his head and glanced toward the two keeping watch dutifully outside the door, smiling as he said: “Axing, Chou Zui, you come as well.”

Since the sudden death of the former Crown Prince Yuan’an, the Emperor would select a “shadow” for the new Crown Prince, to live with him and accompany him, so that at critical times he might act as a substitute.

Axing was Zhao Yan’s “shadow guard,” of nearly the same age as his master, his figure and appearance seven or eight parts alike.

A shadow moved in darkness, originally without a name. It was Zhao Yan who split half his own name Yan (衍) to give him, naming him “Axing,” and told him that no one was born merely as someone’s shadow—when a man walks the world, he must live for himself.

Axing, flattered and fearful, hesitated, not daring to step forward.

With so lowly an identity as his, how could he be worthy to inscribe his name upon this scroll weighing a thousand catties?

“Without your guarding us day and night, how could we rest at ease to plan these things?”

Zhao Yan encouraged him gently. Only then did Axing dare to take the brush moistened with ink, and stroke by stroke write a small but upright name at the end of the scroll.

He passed the brush to Chou Zui behind him, but Chou Zui only stood there stiffly.

“I cannot read.” When he said this, there was not a trace of shame.

But no one laughed at him. Even the reserved Cheng Jixing took the initiative to say: “It is no matter, stamping a handprint or drawing something else will do. It is merely to declare our will and encourage one another.”

Only then did Chou Zui seize the brush in a fist-like grip, clumsy and slow, drawing a few crooked and rough lines at the very end.

Liu Baiwei, skilled in painting, frowned at once upon seeing this draftsmanship, and said oddly: “Brother Chou, why did you draw a fried egg?”

Chou Zui did not explain. What he drew was not a fried egg, but a plum blossom.

The memory faded away. Those spirited youths of Mingde Hall’s Mirror Pavilion, in the end, never managed to complete their agreed ten years.

Zhao Yen quietly listened as Liu Ji recounted the cause and course of events. Her fingertips brushed over those names—some unrestrained, some upright—as if still able to feel the lingering warmth of that time.

Was it that someone had leaked the contents of their reform? Zhao Yen wondered.

The one who could imitate her handwriting must be someone who knew her and Zhao Yan deeply. The Shen Guang Sect, the aristocratic clans, the imperial kin… all whose interests Zhao Yan had touched could have been accomplices.

Zhao Yuanyu, entangled in unclear ties with that so-called “Immortal Master”—the line of the Shen Guang Sect could not be escaped.

When time allowed, she would have to make a personal visit to the homes of Shen Jingming and the others; perhaps she could find some traces.

Zhao Yen tucked Zhao Yan’s final letter and the scroll into her sleeve, and with a heavy heart returned to Guanyun Hall.

Liuying came forward, wanting to speak but hesitating.

Following her hint, Zhao Yen looked over, only to find that Wenren Lin had at some point arrived at Guanyun Hall. He sat leaning in the palace chair, head slightly lowered, one arm resting on the armrest, the other casually placed upon his knee, his index finger tapping lightly, irregularly.

Upon that powerful and long hand, a faint red bite mark could be vaguely seen.

Seeing him waiting there, Zhao Yen felt a trace of inexplicable guilt, and quickly hid the scroll in her sleeve more securely, speaking softly: “It is already late at night, why would Prince Su be here?”

At her words, Wenren Lin lifted his gaze, and said lightly: “May I not come?”

Zhao Yen was stunned, recalling how last night, deep into the night, she had been clutching Wenren Lin while sobbing uncontrollably. For her to ask such a question now was indeed redundant, seeming like tearing down the bridge after crossing the river.

Just as she was about to explain, Wenren Lin’s eyes fell upon her hand concealed within her sleeve. His voice sank: “Go and wash clean.”

“Wash clean… what?”

Could it be that he was telling her to bathe? Alone man and unmarried woman in the deep of night, the word “bathe” sounded strangely ambiguous.

Zhao Yen hesitated, unmoving, and cautiously said: “I have already washed.”

Wenren Lin did not reply. Unhurried, he rose, clasped Zhao Yen’s right hand hidden in her sleeve, and led her toward the washstand outside.

He was tall and long-legged, each of his strides covering two of hers. Zhao Yen was pulled forward, body leaning, stumbling to barely keep up, calling out continuously: “Slower, slower!”

In the hurried stumbling, the scroll within her sleeve accidentally slipped out, rolling down to land at Wenren Lin’s feet.

Zhao Yen’s eyelids twitched. If Wenren Lin learned that she was once again entangled in the turbulent currents of the Crown Prince’s death, the sky would surely be overturned.

But unexpectedly, Wenren Lin’s mind was not upon this matter at all. He simply stepped over the scroll as though unseen, pressing Zhao Yen’s right hand into the basin of clear water already gone cold.

It had just rained. The summer night in the mountains carried a touch of chill. Zhao Yen, suddenly touching the cold water, stiffened slightly.

Wenren Lin’s face revealed no emotion, expressionless as he pried open her curled fingers one by one, rubbing each carefully with his fingertips, as though she had touched something filthy, cleansing them with utmost meticulousness.

The man’s joints were hard and prominent, his fingertips callused thinly. Rather than serving her, it was more like a punishment, not light, not heavy.

Until Zhao Yen’s delicate, fair hand turned faintly flushed, only then did Wenren Lin, in great mercy, finally let her go, taking a cotton cloth to dry her hand.

This hand—was it somehow displeasing to him?

Zhao Yen truly did not understand. Enduring the tingling numbness and faint pain in her palm, she cautiously probed in a low voice: “Is Prince Su angry? Is it because I slew Zhao Yuanyu last night, and so troubled Your Highness’s heart?”

Aside from her hand having been stained with an enemy’s blood, Zhao Yen could think of nothing else filthy enough to make Wenren Lin so particular.

Wenren Lin glanced at the scroll upon the ground, and laughed softly: “What matter if I am troubled? Your Highness, after all, still has other chests upon which to lean.”

The tone seemed plain, yet to the ear it carried a hint of sinister chill.

Zhao Yen was just pondering from where this strange feeling arose, when suddenly her fingertip hurt!

She could not help but cry out “Ah,” her eyes snapping wide open—only to see Wenren Lin bowing his head, her little finger caught between his lips, his teeth closing lightly… Zhao Yen trembled, cold dread climbing from fingertip straight up to her scalp.

Seeing her stupefied and at a loss, only then did Wenren Lin’s eyes soften with a faint smile. He pressed lightly upon that fingertip, but in the end could not bear to bite down harshly.

“This matter ends with Zhao Yuanyu. I have said before, this is the final concession.”

He pinched that slender little finger, not light, not heavy, and said: “If Your Highness does again what ought not be done, if you touch again what ought not be touched, then within this disobedient joint I will carve a mark, and bind the hand fast with chains.”

Zhao Yen stared blankly at Wenren Lin as he cast aside the cotton cloth and departed. Only after a long moment did she come to herself: what he called “touching what ought not be touched, filthy things”…

Could it be that he knew Liu Baiwei had taken her hand to touch his chest?

Like seeing the little cat he had raised, rubbing itself against another’s palm?

Had this man set eyes upon the roof beams? How was it that nothing could be hidden from him?

Zhao Yen crouched down, picked up the scroll, and pressed it tightly against her chest, her heart still palpitating.

Yet—how could she be willing to stop here?