The imperial physicians tasked with treating Prince Rui’s condition were run ragged this month.
Every time Physician Wang entered the prince’s residence, he felt as though his own life was hanging by a thread—one misstep, and he’d be joining Prince Rui in the grave.
The first half of the year had been manageable. Over five full months, Prince Rui had fallen ill only four times. Though he still fainted every few days, he rarely coughed up blood. But once winter set in, fevers struck every few days, and fainting became a regular occurrence.
Prince Rui’s illness made him extremely sensitive to the cold, and winter was always the hardest time. They had always taken the utmost care inside and out just to keep the prince alive.
Yet this winter had been a disaster from the start. First, His Majesty arranged a joyous wedding to ward off bad luck, which left Prince Rui unconscious for three full days after receiving the decree. On the third day after the wedding, Eunuch Hong from the palace had enraged him into coughing up blood. He’d barely recovered enough to attend his duties when he was carried home on a stretcher as the sun went down…
Physician Wang let out a deep sigh, feeling as though he’d aged a decade this winter alone.
But old as he might feel, his diagnosis was steady.
The young man before him, barely into his twenties, had a pulse that was weak and thready, nearly vanishing under pressure. His yang energy was depleted, and all five organs showed damage. Judging by the pulse alone, he shouldn’t have long to live.
That was the strangest part of Prince Rui’s illness.
The first time Physician Wang detected that faint pulse, he’d been filled with despair and had even started picking out a gravesite in private.
Yet a year passed, then two. Prince Rui, with the pulse of a dying man, endured two harsh winters. When he wasn’t ill, he looked no different from any other frail person.
If the entire Imperial Hospital hadn’t confirmed the same pulse findings, Physician Wang would sooner believe his own skills lacking than accept that Prince Rui had a terminal condition.
This time was no different. Beyond reciting the same useless words he’d said countless times before, Physician Wang had nothing left to say.
“Lord Gu,” Ling Ting said, “my master appreciates your concern for his health. If there’s anything you need in terms of medicinal ingredients, just let us know.”
Physician Wang nodded repeatedly. “It’s my duty. I’ll do my utmost.”
Even without Ling Ting saying it, Physician Wang would have done the same. Everyone at the Imperial Hospital treated Prince Rui like their own lifeline. Forget medicinal ingredients—they’d even demand lost recipes from ancient texts straight from the emperor if needed.
Prince Rui’s health had always been His Majesty’s greatest worry. When the prince was well, the emperor’s mood improved accordingly. But when Prince Rui fell ill, the reporting physician entered the Imperial Study with his head on the block.
It wasn’t surprising, though. Though Prince Rui and His Majesty weren’t born of the same mother, both had been raised by Prince Rui’s birth mother, Noble Consort Ling. Their bond was naturally profound.
After Physician Wang left, Ling Ting entered the room. He parted the bed curtains and sat at the wooden table beside it. In the stifling heat of the room, he gently wiped Liu Yuanxun’s forehead and wrists over and over, hoping to help the fever break sooner.
Liu Yuanxun disliked having anyone attend to him closely, so Ling Ting was the only one who cared for him—and thus the only one who truly knew how frail the body hidden beneath those loose robes and wide sleeves had become.
He was like one of the ancient books Ling Ting had restored himself: so fragile that a mere breeze might scatter him to pieces, his lifespan drifting like willow fluff in the wind, liable to close his eyes one day and never open them again.
Ling Ting held that slender wrist loosely, his heart aching like a knife twisting inside.
Every time the prince fell ill, he bore it lightly—never complaining of the bitter medicine or his discomfort. He’d take the medicine when given and endure the chills without a word. He neither questioned the physicians about his condition nor posted notices far and wide seeking folk healers. It was as if he simply didn’t care about his own body anymore.
But Ling Ting knew the prince hadn’t always been like this.
His weak constitution was something he’d carried from the womb, but after the physicians said steady exercise offered hope for recovery, the usually lazy and sleepy Liu Yuanxun had risen every day without fail.
Unable to run, he’d walk lap after lap around the Imperial Garden. Unable to jump, he’d follow his martial instructor in breathing exercises. No matter how bitter the medicine, he’d force it down with a furrowed brow. Even if nausea made him vomit it back up, he’d compel himself to drink a second dose.
He’d strived so hard to live, and it had finally paid off.
There was a whole year when the Seventh Prince didn’t fall ill once. Though still frailer than most, he could run and jump, brimming with youthful vigor at last.
But then, one day the next year, the Seventh Prince emerged from the palace and never mentioned strengthening his body again. It was as if he’d utterly given up on his life. His health declined at a pace visible to the naked eye.
Others said His Majesty and Prince Rui shared a deep bond, and Prince Rui had never spoken ill of him in public. Yet Ling Ting, with his keen observation, had caught a glimpse of something the prince desperately hid: his illness, his very life, were inextricably linked to His Majesty…
“Ling Ting…” Liu Yuanxun had only fainted from temporary exhaustion and insufficient qi and blood. After Physician Wang’s acupuncture, he’d stabilized and now stirred awake.
Ling Ting looked over at once. Seeing him awake, he exhaled slowly and said softly, “Physician Wang was just here and administered acupuncture. How do you feel?”
Liu Yuanxun’s fever hadn’t fully broken, leaving his voice weak, but relief was clear in it. “Acupuncture again? Good thing I was already out cold…”
The faintest curve touched Ling Ting’s lips, his voice gentler still. “The kitchen stewed a softshell turtle with some cordyceps—simmered for over two hours until the meat fell off the bone and the broth was clear. Shall I bring you a bowl? You can rest after.”
Liu Yuanxun frowned and murmured his refusal. “Can’t swallow it…”
“Alright, no eating if you’re not hungry. Whenever you have an appetite, I’ll have the kitchen prepare something else.” Ling Ting tucked in the quilt corners. “Rest for a bit. Sweating it out might perk you up.”
Liu Yuanxun didn’t want to sleep. He was still thinking of the forged music score he’d just received. “I want to see the new score we got today. Did you put it in the study?”
Ling Ting immediately realized his oversight and said regretfully, “It must still be on the carriage. I’ll fetch it now.”
“It’s fine, no need to rush. The accident delayed things anyway…”
Ling Ting nodded and hurried out.
He had barely stepped through the door when he saw Gu Lianzhao standing in the corridor, a cloth-wrapped bundle tucked under his arm. Ling Ting recognized at a glance that it was exactly what his master wanted.
Their eyes met. Gu Lianzhao’s gaze was sharp and indifferent, while Ling Ting’s was mild, full of deference.
Ling Ting stepped aside slightly and said to him, “So Lord Gu had the item after all. My master wants to see it. Will you deliver it personally, or…?”
Ling Ting trailed off, leaving the choice to Gu Lianzhao.
Gu Lianzhao glanced at the bundle in his hand, then strode toward Ling Ting. Thinking he meant to deliver it himself, Ling Ting stepped aside further to make way for the door.
But Gu Lianzhao merely approached, placed the wrapped package in Ling Ting’s arms, and retreated to the corridor.
His aversion to Liu Yuanxun was so blatant that anyone with eyes could see it. He didn’t like the prince—not enough to offer courtesies, and he even avoided sharing meals in the same room.
Gu Lianzhao might not understand the Seventh Prince, but Ling Ting had heard of him.
A fourth-rank capital official who wielded carrot and stick with his subordinates and curried favor with superiors; an Embroidered Uniform Guard commandant whose erratic cruelty and bloody interrogation methods were infamous; a smooth talker who adapted his words to his audience, securing his post as commandant despite being a ger… A man steeped in the Imperial Prison, dealing daily with vicious criminals, yet he shrank from the Seventh Prince, who was kind to a fault.
Claiming it was to avoid suspicion? The Embroidered Uniform Guard was full of men, and Gu Lianzhao stripped them bare for torture without hesitation. If his conscience was clear, what suspicion was there to avoid?
Only the prince would buy such an excuse.
Ling Ting lowered his eyes and turned to push open the door.
Liu Yuanxun looked surprised to see him return so soon. “You got it back already?”
“Lord Gu is quite attentive. He noticed the bundle had been overlooked and brought it back.”
“He…” Liu Yuanxun glanced instinctively toward the window. “Has he been standing out in the courtyard the whole time?”
As Ling Ting unpacked the bundle, he replied, “Probably. I didn’t pay attention.”
Liu Yuanxun thought for a moment. “Why don’t we prepare a room for him next door? It’s no good for him to keep lingering outside. The weather’s getting colder. Even with internal force to protect him, it’s not healthy to stand in the cold wind day after day.”
Ling Ting handed him the wooden box containing the ancient music score and asked quietly, “And what about Eunuch Feng?”
“No need to mind him or make a fuss. Just clear out a bed next door and add a cabinet. That way, if he doesn’t want to come in, he’ll have somewhere to go. Meals and daily life will still be with me. Even if Eunuch Feng finds out, it won’t be a problem—this doesn’t violate His Majesty’s decree.”
“Understood. I’ll see to it right away.”
“Wait…” Liu Yuanxun remembered something else. “Tell the kitchen that from now on, they should send meals over at the usual time. I eat whenever I feel like it, but Gu Jiu is growing and needs regular nourishment. No reason for me to skip meals and let him go hungry.”
Ling Ting couldn’t resist asking, “What about today’s softshell turtle soup?”
Liu Yuanxun sighed in helpless compromise. “Bring it along with the rest.”
Ling Ting smiled despite himself. “Very well. I’ll go now.”
Liu Yuanxun waved him off, paying the matter no more mind. He draped a thick outer robe over his shoulders and leaned against the bed table to examine the new music score.
Skipping over the smudged notes, the rest connected into something resembling a tune—but the transitions were awkward and grating. Liu Yuanxun tapped out the rhythm with his fingers. Midway through, his hand stilled…
He sat up straight, spreading the zither score fully before him, and went through it from the beginning. The more he analyzed, the tighter his brows furrowed.
The essence of composition lay in notes forming a coherent melody. Individual bars here might work in isolation, but strung together, it was utter nonsense. Forget courtly music—no folk tune was this disjointed mess.
Liu Yuanxun could even declare with certainty that this wasn’t a piece of music at all.
But if it wasn’t music, what could it be?
Notes carried limited information on their own. Liu Yuanxun scrutinized it left and right but saw no hidden word puzzles.
Perhaps it wasn’t a word puzzle…
A puzzle without hints would be overly complex, clashing with the straightforward style of marking dynamics from the start. Whoever had sent this forged score to him likely wouldn’t use intricate methods to encode it.
Viewing it through the same direct lens, what message could these uneven segments divided by blots convey, interspersed with those mismatched high and low dynamics?
Inspiration struck Liu Yuanxun. He couldn’t help raising his voice. “Is anyone outside?”
He itched to jot down his thoughts and called for a servant to grind ink—only realizing after the shout that the heavy snow meant no one was likely about.
Yet the door creaked softly. Within two breaths, a tall, straight figure appeared silhouetted against the screen.
Liu Yuanxun looked up and met a pair of eyes as still and deep as a frozen pond.
He hadn’t expected the person entering to be Gu Lianzhao. After a moment of surprise, Liu Yuanxun broke into a faint smile. “You… could you help me grind some ink?”
“Mm.” Gu Lianzhao lowered his gaze in agreement, settled at the other end of the bed platform, and gripped the ink ingot with practiced ease.
Liu Yuanxun unrolled a fresh sheet of rice paper and dipped his brush in ink. But instead of writing characters, he traced the melody from the guqin score, sketching several twisting, zigzag lines.
A long passage in the tune became a long line; a short one, a brief stroke. Strong notes angled upward, while weak ones curved down. This short piece of music, rendered in such a fashion, could transform into a map without any clear starting point.
