For an interminable stretch, Ye Jiao stood rooted in place, utterly motionless. Were it not for the gusts of wind that swept through the hall, anxiously fluttering her sleeves, Li Zhang might have sworn she was a statue carved from stone. He spoke not a word, nor did he depart. Instead, he lingered in the narrow shadow beside the doorway, scrutinizing the figure before him.
Ye Jiao clenched her fists, yearning to unleash her fury, yet found no outlet for her rage. Gradually, tears welled in her eyes, her expression laden with grievance. She sniffled softly, as if about to leave, but abruptly turned and seized a brush.
A blank sheet of paper was affixed to the side of the bookshelf. With swift strokes, Ye Jiao sketched a portrait—simple yet unmistakable: sparse hair, broad face with high cheekbones, and a conspicuous large mole. It was evidently the visage of Song Shoujie.
What was her intent? To vent her wrath by stabbing the image with a needle? Such childishness—women often fancied that crafting such effigies, inscribing a birth date, and spearing them could sway the fate of their adversaries. It seemed Ye Jiao was no different—foolish and laughable.
Li Zhang emitted a faint snort and was about to turn away when Ye Jiao tore the paper from the wall, folded it carefully, and pressed it against her nose. A thunderous sniff echoed through the hall.
Satisfied, Ye Jiao used the portrait of her superior as a tissue, then broke into a smile, as if finally exacting revenge. Her cheeks and nose flushed red; her expression remained plaintive, yet her clear, bright peach blossom eyes sparkled with mirth.
After a brief moment of stunned silence, Li Zhang turned and proceeded toward the government chamber.
This was Ye Jiao's true nature—immature, tedious, foolish, and petty. What value could such a person hold? Aside from Li Ce, who had grown up sheltered within the imperial tombs and had never seen the world, there was no one else in this realm who would deign to regard her favorably.
Entering the government hall, Li Zhang approached a tall bronze mirror used by officials to adjust their attire. He halted abruptly, turning back to gaze at his reflection.
His rugged features and the golden crown securing his hair remained unchanged, but the reflection smiled—an expression flowing from the depths of his soul. His eyes and lips brimmed with a fullness that seemed to transform him entirely.
Li Zhang raised his hand, overwhelmed with disbelief; it had been ages since he'd smiled so genuinely.
Song Shoujie, Minister of War, could not smile at all. Not only did laughter elude him, but soon after leaving the hall, he sneezed repeatedly and felt a chill throughout his body, uncertain if he had caught a cold.
The matter was straightforward: after Tibet's submission to the Tang dynasty, they agreed to retreat south of the Ganquan River, thus expanding Tang's territory by an entire prefecture.
Tibet delivered maps of the lands north of the Ganquan River, and the Ministry of War was to dispatch men to survey the terrain anew. However, the area near the Ganquan River was often shrouded by blinding sandstorms, leaving many disoriented and lost, never to return.
When Ye Xi still served at court, she had assisted border troops by installing wind-observation wooden birds.
These wooden birds were ingeniously crafted: their chests connected to a pivot inserted into a hollow wooden tube centered on a disc. When the wind blew, the bird rotated, driving the pivot within the tube to turn, enabling observation of wind direction.
Wind measurement was not merely about direction; it could also estimate wind strength and predict impending sandstorms based on short-term wind speeds.
Positioned high along the border, these wooden birds served not only as wind indicators but also crucial landmarks.
The original records had been lost, and all who had participated agreed only Ye Xi knew the locations of these markers with certainty.
Song Shoujie hoped Ye Xi could recall from memory and guide the Ministry's men to these landmarks. It was a minor task—Ye Jiao could easily be sent on the errand.
Yet Ye Jiao utterly lacked the sense of duty toward her superior and outright refused.
Song Shoujie, quick-tempered and direct, berated her to her face rather than grumbling behind her back. He was not one to spare feelings, regardless of Ye Jiao's youth or thin skin.
After scolding her, he instructed his subordinate to draft a letter for Ye Xi and send it beyond the city walls.
Word had already spread throughout the capital that Ye Xi had returned to attend her daughter's wedding.
Since the emperor himself had bestowed marriage blessings upon Prince Chu and Ye Jiao, the Duke of An's residence was no longer taboo; old acquaintances from those years could now be approached.
Requesting Ye Xi's assistance was a gesture of respect toward her.
After a long absence, she surely wished to reforge ties with court officials and frequent the palace, becoming a cherished guest among the capital's noble families.
What surprised Song Shoujie most was Ye Xi's reply—a mere two words:
"Forgot."
"Forgot?" Song Shoujie rubbed his eyes in disbelief as he stared at the hastily scrawled characters on the paper.
"Forgot," the subordinate who delivered the letter confirmed, "He initially said only those two words and hastened to leave. Fearing you would not believe him, I shamelessly begged him to write something, so he penned this letter."
"Did you tell him it was my request?" Song Shoujie asked.
"Yes," the subordinate replied awkwardly, "But he claimed not to remember who you were."
In truth, Ye Xi had been far ruder. While rhythmically striking a wooden fish, he remarked, "Minister Song? Song Shoujie? Is that man still alive? Don't recognize him."
Strangely, the man was alive yet feigned ignorance—clearly intentional.
Though the subordinate did not replicate Ye Xi's exact words, Song Shoujie's blood boiled, nearly to the point of collapse.
Indeed, like father, like daughter.
"Enough!" he declared heavily. "We shall devise our own strategy! No matter what, Tang's territory must be reclaimed. Even if we measure it step by step, we will be meticulous and precise, then dispatch troops!"
Outside Jinzhou city, Li Ce and Ye Chang Geng first clasped hands tightly, then embraced profoundly.
"Waited long?" Li Ce asked.
"Just arrived," Ye Chang Geng replied, pulling Li Ce forward to introduce him to local officials.
Besides Jinzhou's governor Zhou Ci and many subordinates, the Hedong Circuit military commissioner Zheng Feng'an was also present.
In his thirties, Zheng Feng'an had a fair complexion, handsome features, and the vigor of a seasoned martial artist tempered by the disciplined demeanor of a civil official.
He respectfully greeted Li Ce, who hastened to help him rise with a smile.
"Had I known Commissioner Zheng was stationed here, I needn't have come myself."
"Far from it," Zheng Feng'an responded humbly, "My governance was lax, causing this chaos. Once the situation stabilizes, I will present my apologies to His Majesty."
Jinzhou Governor Zhou Ci, in his forties with a goatee, faced the prince sent by the emperor with shame and trepidation.
"All my fault," he sincerely confessed, then added, "But the canals must be repaired; spring plowing is crucial."
Spring plowing signified the wellbeing of the populace. Despite the calamity, Zhou Ci hoped to spare the common people from harsh punishment.
After exchanging polite words, they each entered carriages to proceed into the city.
Ye Chang Geng, unconcerned with appearances, climbed straight into Li Ce's carriage, lowering the curtain. His cheerful face instantly turned solemn.
"I clearly sent a letter of warning. Why did Ninth Lord still come?"
From their first meeting, Ye Chang Geng had addressed Li Ce as Ninth Lord. Even after learning his true identity, he never ceased.
Li Ce's expression was no longer carefree.
"Military affairs are grave," he said. "Now that I assist the regent crown prince, it's not a matter of refusing if I don't wish to engage."
Though he spoke thus, Ye Chang Geng understood it was not that Li Ce could refuse, but the weight of national duty compelled him forward.
"Besides," Li Ce reassured, "Brother Ye is here as well."
Ye Chang Geng gripped his waist blade tightly and said solemnly:
"To be honest, Ninth Lord, I have no confidence at all. But my mission is to repair the canals. If they riot, let them finish. Then we repair. At worst, I return to the capital to face blame or dismissal. You, however, are different."
"How so?" Li Ce pondered, leaning back slightly, a glint of keen insight in his eyes.
Though it was a question, it seemed he already knew much. Yet, he showed no intention to retreat.
"One misstep—" Ye Chang Geng drew his blade and slashed at empty air, "—and one's life is forfeit!"
He was not threatening his future brother-in-law but, like a wolf sensing a trap, instinctively issuing a grave warning based on the present peril.
Li Ce extended his hand. His knotted fingers grasped Ye Chang Geng's sword hilt, turning the blade back into its sheath.
"To perish," Li Ce said with grim resolve, like a hunter drawing a longbow, gathering a terrible power in his confidence, "may befall another."
Wherever power exists, there are sycophants and opportunists.
Since Ye Jiao quarreled with her superior, the officials in the storage department had grown lackadaisical. They feared closeness with Ye Jiao would offend Minister Song.
Thus, they often fled promptly upon arriving at the office, even while Ye Jiao remained at work.
Hence, on this day, when the imperial kitchen delivered Ye Jiao's birthday noodles, only Ye Jiao and Crown Prince Li Zhang remained in the government hall.
The kitchen also sent food to Li Zhang. As dishes were set down, a palace attendant casually remarked:
"Lady Ye's meal has also been delivered. Today is her birthday, so an extra bowl of noodles was prepared."
"Her birthday?" Li Zhang lifted his head, a warm hue flickering in his narrow eyes…