Heavy snowflakes drifted down like goose feathers, shrouding the entire Imperial City in a vast, desolate white.
At the end of the long street, a lone courier thundered through the snow. His horse’s hooves shattered the ice and slush, a tireless gallop reserved only for urgent military and political dispatches. This messenger had come from the Northern Frontier, riding day and night through the wind and frost, forcing pedestrians to scramble out of his path as he breached the city gates.
A secret letter had traveled from the Huai River to the capital in a mere two days.
“The Eastern Liao delegation has crossed the Nine Passes. They will arrive in the capital within five days.”
The news spread like a gale, first through the palace, then to the civil officials, and finally to the common households. When the people heard the words “Eastern Liao,” their faces turned ashen.
The nightmare of the thirteenth year of the Longping era still bled in the hearts of every citizen of Great Chen. Back then, the Eastern Liao iron cavalry had swept south, conquering nine provinces in succession. They had burned cities, destroyed temples, and brutalized the populace, their vanguard coming within thirty miles of the Imperial City itself.
During that war, Great Chen had been utterly defenseless. The court could do nothing but retreat, offer tributes, and pay indemnities while watching their people be slaughtered and their cities fall.
In the end, the imperial court had used the excuse of a “marriage alliance” to list and send away wave after wave of young girls who had not yet even reached adulthood. They called it the “Annual Brides” under the guise of “maintaining relations,” but in reality, it was a complete loss of national dignity.
Sending women to exchange for a scrap of paper—a “peace treaty” for a temporary, cowardly respite. What kind of shameless government would do such a thing?
Even animals knew to protect their young, yet the court had personally handed over their own daughters to be playthings for a hostile nation, stamped with the imperial seal in gold and demanding the commoners cry out in “gratitude for the Emperor’s grace.”
Not even twenty years had passed. The old wounds had not yet healed, and now a new humiliation was arriving.
“More tribute? More daughters?”
“That damned court! If they can’t win a fight, they send women? I’d rather my daughter jump down a well!”
Overnight, the capital plunged into chaos. Families shuttered their doors, terrified that their daughters would be selected by the court. Girls of marriageable age were hurried into betrothals, while younger ones had their hair shorn and were dressed as boys to be hidden in back courtyards.
Tea houses and taverns closed their doors to guests. Even the Southern Market, usually the most bustling area, became as desolate as if it were under martial law.
With such a monumental crisis brewing, Gu Huaiyu naturally had to enter the palace for a consultation. As he stepped through the snow, Eunuch Xu was already waiting outside the hall. Seeing him, the eunuch hurried forward. “The Lord Chancellor is finally here! His Majesty is waiting for you!”
Lowering his voice, Eunuch Xu glanced toward the interior of the hall. “His Majesty has injured his hand, yet he insists on using his left hand to review memorials. I must trouble the Lord Chancellor to persuade him…”
Gu Huaiyu gave a slight nod, unfastened his heavy cloak, and entered.
The underfloor heating in the Hall of Chaste Government was burning fiercely, and a wave of warmth met him. The Son of Heaven sat behind the imperial desk, pen in his left hand, crookedly scrawling cinnabar comments.
Hearing footsteps, the Emperor looked up sharply. He instinctively moved to stand and welcome his visitor, but then seemed to remember something and forced himself back into his seat. “You have arrived, Chancellor.”
Yuan Zhuo kept his back ramrod straight, sitting even more formally than he did during morning court. “Quickly… provide a seat.”
Gu Huaiyu glanced at him and took his seat leisurely. A palace maid immediately knelt before him, carefully draping a fox-fur rug over his knees. He picked up the copper hand-warmer offered to him. “How was your hand injured?”
Yuan Zhuo tucked his bandaged right hand further into his sleeve, looking at him with a thin smile. “I accidentally cut it on a broken piece of porcelain. It is no matter.”
After a brief pause, Yuan Zhuo’s gaze fell upon the mountain of memorials on his desk. “Worry not, Chancellor. It will not delay the review of the memorials. I am practicing writing with my left hand.”
At the mention of “writing with my left hand,” the young Emperor’s gaze froze. It felt as if something were lodged in his throat, and he quickly lowered his head to hide his expression. After all, the only other person known for writing with his left hand was Master Plum—Xie Shaoling.
Gu Huaiyu scrutinized his distracted state, his fingertips lightly tracing the copper warmer. “Since Your Majesty’s hand is injured, there is no need to review memorials. You should rest and recover.”
Yuan Zhuo’s breath hitched. He looked up abruptly, a forced, cheerful smile still hanging on his lips. “Though the characters I write with my left hand are unseemly and do not fit the imperial standard, I will be able to write properly in just a few days.”
Gu Huaiyu understood perfectly. This little beast was afraid that if he stopped reviewing memorials, the reins of the government would fall entirely into Gu’s hands.
Seeing that Gu Huaiyu remained silent, Yuan Zhuo grabbed a cinnabar brush with his bandaged right hand and hurriedly scribbled a few words on a piece of paper. “Chancellor, look. I can still write with my right hand.”
