If lightning were fast enough, then this bandit moved like lightning itself. In the blink of an eye, he erupted into motion, a blade—no one had seen him draw—already arcing toward Li Ce. Like a beast baring its fangs, he lunged, determined to tear into his prey's throat.
He had feigned surrender, kneeling before Li Ce in false supplication, waiting only for this moment.
Yet Li Ce did not retreat.
Whether it was from shock or sheer lack of strength, he remained seated atop the carriage, gaze sharp as a blade, calm and unmoving.
Yan Yun and Qingfeng panicked. The carriage had stopped—Qingfeng was tending to the harness and hooves, too far to intervene. Yan Yun, though gripping the bandit, was caught off guard by his sudden struggle. In desperation, he seized the bandit's arm. The blade veered, skimming just beneath Li Ce's jaw—mere millimeters from slicing open his handsome face or piercing his throat.
"Your Highness!" Yan Yun cried out, hoping Li Ce would react, fall back, evade.
But still, Li Ce did not move. He sat composed, and as the bandit shifted again to strike, Li Ce suddenly extended a hand.
That hand was pale—so pale it seemed carved from ice or jade. In it was a dagger, equally white, glimmering as though cloaked in a blinding light. This was the dagger Ye Jiao had given him, sharp enough to cut through iron like silk.
With a muffled "Pchh", the dagger pierced flesh.
In a single, clean motion, Li Ce drove it in and drew it back. So swift was the strike, the blade bore only a slender thread of blood. The wound was not fatal, but deep enough to rob the bandit of his strength.
Clutching the wound, the bandit dropped his weapon, stunned as he stared at Li Ce.
"You…"
You're supposed to be a half-dead ghost, a sickly shadow of a man—how could you kill? How could you fight back? How could you be so ruthless?
"I'll spare your life," Li Ce said from above, his voice refined and composed, yet razor-sharp. "Go back and tell Yan Jide: disaster relief is paramount. Our personal grievances can wait."
At that moment, Yan Jide was drilling 100,000 of the imperial guard at Mount Yangquan, with another 50,000 under Yan Congzheng's command. Only a fool would fail to deduce who had orchestrated such a crude assassination.
Seven years ago, Yan Jide had terrified Li Ce's mother into madness with an insidious scheme—likely devised by Tian Yingyu herself. Now that she was dead, Yan Jide's bag of tricks had run dry.
The bandit, still clutching his wound, staggered back, surprised to be spared.
"What are you waiting for? Run!" Yan Yun shouted angrily.
The bandit stumbled into the depths of the forest. Of the imperial guards who had fled, only one was recaptured, and now even this one escaped. Li Ce was left without evidence to accuse Yan Jide before the emperor.
Yet Yan Yun did not question his master's decision—only blamed himself bitterly. "It was my own foolish negligence. Your Highness, I beg you to punish me."
He knelt, holding his broadsword above his head.
Li Ce looked at him but did not take the sword. Instead, he tapped it gently with his dagger and said softly, "Your aim is true and your skills formidable. You are not foolish. But you were indeed careless."
Yan Yun lowered his head, cheeks burning, sweat pouring like rain.
"But…" Li Ce continued firmly, "No one is perfect. Correct your carelessness from now on—that will suffice."
He turned, returned to the carriage, and calmly wiped the blade clean.
Yan Yun and Qingfeng quickly urged the horses forward. After some time, Qingfeng nudged Yan Yun's shoulder and whispered, "Do you know why His Highness said you were careless?"
Yan Yun sighed, face full of remorse. "Because I failed to hold down that guard."
"No," Qingfeng replied with certainty. "It's because you once shot an arrow into his very heart."
"I did not! I would never dare aim at His Highness's heart!" Yan Yun blanched, protesting.
Qingfeng curled his lips and whispered, "Some hearts beat beneath flesh. Others… get promoted to command posts at Wuhou Outpost."
That night at Prince Zhao's residence, Ye Jiao had been wandering in the dark and was struck in the shoulder by one of Yan Yun's arrows.
Realization slowly dawned on Yan Yun. He nodded, dazed.
"But even if it has left," Qingfeng sighed, "it still beats inside His Highness's chest."
Wild, untamed, impossible to harm—bold enough to defy the world.
At the edge of Ganzhou, refugees were herded within a three-mile radius by the garrison from Longzhou. Seeing Li Ce arrive with only two guards, Captain Lin Yushan's throat tightened in anxiety.
"Your Highness, where is the food you promised?"
"The grain wagons are slower," Li Ce replied. "They'll arrive by nightfall."
He had ridden day and night, while the Ministry's grain shipments required time to be packed and transported.
"Not good," Lin Yushan frowned. "The food here is already scarce, and there are constant fights during distribution. Even whips don't help. Without your supplies, we'll have another riot by midday."
"How many meals' worth is left?" Li Ce asked, eyeing the starving masses.
"Three at most—and only if it's watery gruel."
Gruel thin enough to reflect one's shadow.
"Then cook all three meals at once," Li Ce said.
Lin Yushan hesitated, glancing at the ravenous refugees. "What if the grain doesn't arrive by tonight?"
If the people had one full meal, only to starve again at night, chaos would be inevitable.
Li Ce walked to the cauldron and said quietly, "Then that is not your concern."
Distribution was, as expected, chaotic.
Ten cauldrons lined up in a row. Young, strong men pushed their way forward, shoving the weak aside. Women clutched crying children, tiptoeing desperately in fear of missing out on the only meal they might get.
One child, frantic with hunger, bit down on his mother's arm. The woman let him—her face streaked with tears—but she could not bring herself to scold him.
If a mother's blood could feed her child, every mother would bear the pain without a word.
Li Ce, face dark with fury, murmured to Qingfeng. Qingfeng stepped forward and slammed a lid over the cauldron. Following suit, the guards covered the remaining pots.
"What's this?" the men at the front shouted, raising their bowls. "Why won't you let us eat?"
Li Ce stood atop a raised platform and spoke with clarity.
"I am Li Ce, ninth son of the Emperor and Prince of Chu. By His Majesty's decree, I bring grain, winter clothes, and silver to help you return to your homes. But the people of the Tang Empire have always respected the old, protected the young, and cared for women and children. This gruel is thick and plentiful—but seeing such disgraceful brawling, I'd rather spill it into the dirt than let a single unworthy mouth taste it."
For a moment, the crowd fell silent—then burst into uproar.
"Where's the food you brought?"
"We eat this, and then what? Nothing next?"
"The governor stole our grain! Let's settle this with him!"
The guards prepared to draw their blades, but Li Ce raised a hand, stopping them.
"If the grain wagons do not arrive in three hours," he declared, "you may do with me as you will."
Standing high above, the wind tugged at his dark robes. A jade pendant shaped like a deer swayed gently at his waist. From a distance, he looked like a frail young noble. Yet something about him called to mind the unwavering resolve of Lord Shang placing a log in the street, the solemn stone beasts at court, and the ruthless god of war cloaked in imperial mystique.
Alone, he could stand against ten thousand.
Silence spread through the crowd like a tide.
And then, slowly, the men stepped aside.
They parted the way for the elderly and the women to come forward.
Even the most fearsome among them muttered under his breath, "There better be grain tonight…"
No one answered him. The crowd stood still—quiet and waiting.