Chapter 6

Half a quarter-hour later, the great Government Office had been mostly cleared of clerks, leaving only Luo Jiao, the red-robed woman, and the blue-robed official.

Luo Jiao sprawled insolently below the dais; the red-robed woman sat smiling upon the high seat, with a silent Zhou Zhaoyue at her side.

Disregarding the pair’s grand staging, Luo Jiao only wearily lifted her eyelids.

“I certainly didn’t intend to—but a few boastful words before the court, and the Eldest Princess of the Zhou Qi Dynasty takes such personal interest that she dismisses every clerk to try me alone.”

“Mm.” The Eldest Princess bantered right along. “Committing a string of scandalous blood crimes, yet slipping past judgment with the charges dodged, driving the Vice Minister of the Dali Court into a fury… I too think you are quite the marvel.”

Luo Jiao snapped, “How many times must I say it? I didn’t kill anyone.”

The Eldest Princess smiled. “And that is precisely the crux.”

“Every victim in these cases died strangely. On the surface alone, it was mutual slaughter, and it has nothing to do with you.” She tapped the table with a finger. “Because you and I both know—these two cases cannot be judged by any conventional standard… can they?”

“If not by convention, then by what?” Luo Jiao laughed hollowly. “Gut feeling?”

The Eldest Princess narrowed her eyes.

She studied Luo Jiao, silent for a long while, and only when the smile had fully drained from her eyes did she speak slowly. “Who are you.”

Luo Jiao said, “Xu Liangdi.”

The Eldest Princess gave a soft laugh. When she spoke again, her tone was even, without a trace of doubt. “I know you are not Xu Liangdi.”

Luo Jiao: “Ha. If I’m not Xu Liangdi, then who is? You?”

Though her mouth wanted to snipe, the alarm bells inside Luo Jiao were already ringing wildly. She thought: This Eldest Princess’s spiritual energy is thin—a mortal, nothing more. Not a Cultivator, let alone a Warlock. How is she this sharp?

Revealing her identity here would be all harm and no gain. Fortunately, the Eldest Princess and Xu Liangdi had never been acquainted—so as long as Luo Jiao’s behavior conformed to reason and plausibility, even if it didn’t fit Xu Liangdi’s own nature, nothing would go badly wrong.

So Luo Jiao rolled her eyes and fired back, “The Eldest Princess of the Zhou Qi Dynasty has learned to call a deer a horse now, has she?”

“You—!” Zhou Zhaoyue slammed the table, on the verge of erupting—but the Eldest Princess stopped her.

“Ah Yue, enough.” The Eldest Princess smiled, her gaze settling on Luo Jiao as if to see straight through her.

Luo Jiao wasn’t frightened in the least.

Who was she? She was confident these mortals—who knew nothing of Soul Arts—could not see through her.

Only one problem remained: her strength was unrecovered, and she was dragging around Xu Liangdi’s sickly body besides. In a straight fight, she would lose for certain.

So brute force was truly not an option.

Confessing was too reckless; bickering too brazen. She could only adamantly deny everything.

The Eldest Princess’s gaze lingered on her, her smile fading.

In the end, she sighed. “Very well, ‘Xu Liangdi.'” She chose not to press the matter of Luo Jiao’s identity further, saying only, “You know, it isn’t a good name.”

Taking her at her word that she truly wouldn’t pursue the identity question, Luo Jiao half-relaxed and said offhandedly, “Bad name? Change it, then.”

The Eldest Princess: “Change it to what?”

Luo Jiao studied her a moment and answered honestly. “No ideas. I’ll tell you when I think of one.”

The Eldest Princess asked again, “Your parents treated you so poorly—do you still wish to keep the surname Xu?”

Luo Jiao assumed she was setting a trap and feigned hesitation. “What do you mean?”

The Eldest Princess looked at her teasingly and did not answer.

Here we go again, Luo Jiao thought. In a single quarter-hour, this Eldest Princess has fixed me with that probing stare countless times. It’s making my skin crawl.

Fortunately, the Eldest Princess didn’t hold that half-smiling expression for long. Straightening up, she smiled. “What I mean is—you may take my surname, Zhou.”

At those words, not only Luo Jiao was thunderstruck—Zhou Zhaoyue sucked in a sharp breath.

Even having slept a hundred years, with little contact with the court in her past life, Luo Jiao understood: taking the surname ‘Zhou’ meant the protection of the Princess’s Manor henceforth—and, at the same time, her service to it.

Luo Jiao had no idea to whom else the Eldest Princess had made similar offers, but in any case, the surname ‘Zhou’ was hardly given out wholesale!

Startled by this dramatic turn, she couldn’t help clicking her tongue. She’d only just walked out of the wilderness—how had she landed in such a massive pile of trouble? What was this? Factional politics? And which were the other factions? Was she expected to pick a side already? Wouldn’t…

Wouldn’t this be a little too hasty?

Perhaps because Luo Jiao took so long to answer, the Eldest Princess’s patience ran out.

She drew a Golden Leaf Token from her sleeve and tossed it to Luo Jiao. “In a moment of crisis, this token can save your life. I know you’ll never confess to any so-called crime—on the face of it, none of it touches you. If anyone truly wished to dig deeper, they’d have to summon Cultivators from Lanjie Prefecture, Longyin Island… or Mount Sanqing, to render judgment. You won’t consent, and I’ve no taste for it.”

“The matter ends here.”

Paying no heed to Zhou Zhaoyue’s astonished stare beside her, the Eldest Princess rose and moved to leave.

She cast Luo Jiao one final look. “As for the change of surname—take your time and think it over carefully.”

The sun was high when Luo Jiao—deeming deference the better part of valor—picked up her little bundle and left, leaving behind a dumbfounded Zhou Zhaoyue and a crowd of baffled officials.

The instigator, the Eldest Princess, was striding grandly outward. Meeting the astonished gazes around her, she said only with a smile, “The weather is fine—why not ride out and enjoy the spring? I grant you all a day’s rest—put down your work and ride out into the season. Anyone insufficiently merry shall be punished.”

With that, she swept out of the Government Office like the wind.

None could guess what medicine the Eldest Princess had in her gourd, and none dared approach—only Zhou Zhaoyue hurried after her. “Eldest Princess, this—this is farce!”

The Eldest Princess didn’t turn her head, though her tone carried a smile. “Farce? Does Vice Minister Zhou perhaps have a better solution?”

“Your Highness!” Zhou Zhaoyue was sweating with anxiety, a hair’s breadth from dropping to her knees.

Seeing no one else around, she dropped the masculine register at once, her voice returning to its natural timbre.

“Zhou Kong!” she hissed, frantic. “This is harboring a criminal!”

The Eldest Princess’s true name was Zhou Kong; her title, Qianjun.

In the whole of the court, only Zhou Zhaoyue dared address the Eldest Princess by name.

Zhou Kong merely yawned lazily at the words. “Ah Yue, so many in court have their eyes fixed on you. Do you know what would happen if you slipped, even once?”

Zhou Zhaoyue didn’t follow, only echoed the construction back. “So many in court have their eyes fixed on the Princess’s Manor. If we grow careless and are branded with harboring a criminal… isn’t our position just as precarious?”

But Zhou Kong returned to her smiling mask. “Isn’t that perfect? When word reaches the capital: Her Highness, hungry for achievement, forced her way into the case, then—lacking the ability and stubborn besides—wrapped it up in haste.”

“You remain the spotless Vice Minister Zhou, who merely bowed your head under my tyranny.”

“The Eldest Princess and the Vice Minister of the Dali Court, at growing odds.”

“And in the eyes of the world? Two good-for-nothings joining hands—uselessness squared.”

Here Zhou Kong nodded slowly, seemingly in approval. “Very good. After ‘besotted with men,’ I’ve acquired yet another amusing charge.”

“…Eldest Princess!”

Zhou Zhaoyue cut her off. “This is no joking matter!”

“I’m not joking.” Zhou Kong blinked. “That’s truly how I see it.”

The Eldest Princess had always been thus—moods inconstant, judgments unreadable, no one ever knowing what she thought.

So although Zhou Zhaoyue plainly staggered for a moment, she soon resigned herself, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Releasing her was far too careless.”

“Pushing too hard only does harm.” Zhou Kong said instead. “Write ghosts and gods into the official record, and that would be proof of a broken mind.”

Zhou Zhaoyue: “Ghosts and gods are certainly out. It should be…”

“Should be?” Zhou Kong cut her off sharply. “Demon sorcery? Sinister arts?”

She pressed relentlessly, “Or shall we write the Forbidden Art banned for a thousand years—the Phantom Heart Art—into the official record and send it to the capital?”

The Phantom Heart Art—a Mind Art that drives and harnesses the human heart to one’s own service, so the old histories recorded.

From the moment she’d first seen the strange case, Zhou Zhaoyue had suspected it was tied to the art of the ‘Phantom Heart,’ though she had never said so aloud. She knew perfectly well: so long as those three characters went unspoken, everything remained mere suspicion—but a firm ruling would ignite an uproar. Caution upon caution was due.

That Zhou Kong would now name it so plainly left Zhou Zhaoyue stunned.

“You—you clearly knew! Then all the more reason not to release that Xu Liangdi!” Zhou Zhaoyue’s eyes snapped up. “If she does evil again, you’ll be an accomplice!”

The word ‘accomplice’ was disgraceful no matter how you sliced it—even laid on the reigning Eldest Princess, it could be dismissed as trivial or inflated into a formal impeachment.

Zhou Zhaoyue expected at least a flicker of alarm. Instead, the other woman remained perfectly indifferent. “Accomplice? Splendid.”

Then her tone shifted. “Do you know who has wielded the art of the Phantom Heart best in all this world?”

“—Ye Qingzhou.” Before Zhou Zhaoyue could speak, Zhou Kong went on, unhurried. “Fengyi Sect’s, Ye Qingzhou.”

“I have seen her conjure illusions: a thousand li of Mount Sanqing, transformed by her into sea mist.”

“And yet the Phantom Heart Art is no Fengyi Sect doctrine. There are those who say that before entering Fengyi Sect, Ye Qingzhou studied under the Daoist of Sanqing. I suspect it was from this person that she learned her arts.”

“The world believes Ye Qingzhou is the only living master of this Illusion Art.” Zhou Kong’s eyes narrowed. “But today… I believe I have found a second.”

Zhou Zhaoyue: “So that’s why you asked whether Xu Liangdi wished to change her name? To make her serve you?”

Zhou Kong gave an “Mm.” “I bestow my surname on her, and bring her under my banner as well—”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Does that displease Vice Minister Zhou? Forgive me for letting a little village girl share the surname Zhou—shall she now sit as your equal in the Dali Court?”

Zhou Zhaoyue’s original name was Zhao Yue; upon marriage into the Princess’s Manor she had taken the surname ‘Zhou.’ For a scholar of common birth, taking the imperial surname was itself a form of allegiance.

Zhou Zhaoyue blanched at once and bowed deeply. “Your servant would never dare! Your servant never once thought such a thing…”

“Vice Minister.” Zhou Kong cut her off with a cold laugh. “It must be that I treat you too well, that you’ve forgotten your place.”

“That isn’t it!” Zhou Zhaoyue said hastily. “Your servant simply doesn’t understand—if she’s truly that capable, then releasing her… wouldn’t that be more dangerous?”

Zhou Kong shot back, “Zhou Zhaoyue—we are mere mortals, flesh and blood. To tear off all masks and imprison her, or to leave a thread of goodwill each and let her go… which of those is safer?”

She smiled. “And I imagine you’re wondering how she saw through your disguise at a glance. Vice Minister Zhou—if she wields the Phantom Heart Art, how hard could seeing through your sex possibly be?”

At Zhou Zhaoyue’s stubborn face, Zhou Kong’s patience visibly ran out. “Zhao Yue. Let me put it another way.”

“Were it not for me—this false Prince Consort who entered the examination halls dressed as a man, this crime of deceiving the Sovereign—your head would have hung from the city gates for seven days and seven nights.”

Zhou Zhaoyue: “…Your servant would never dare.”

Zhou Kong stepped closer. “Never dare what?”

Zhou Zhaoyue only bowed her head. “…Never dare overstep.”

Watching Zhou Zhaoyue lower herself, Zhou Kong’s emotions did not stir in the slightest.

She only sighed, slowly.

“Zhaoyue. You once asked me—we read the same sages’ books, so why must the women of this world dress as men before they may even touch the halls of office?”

“From childhood, I wondered too. Why, when my swordsmanship, horsemanship, statecraft, and recitation all surpassed my Medicine-Jar Brother’s, did Imperial Father always favor him?”

“Later, I understood.”

“Because of ‘power.'”

“Those who hold power are never one alone, yet they always cut down what differs from them. And so everyone unlike them becomes a pawn beneath power’s hand.”

“And I—I intend to be the one who ‘changes the dynasty.'”

Zhou Zhaoyue had always known that the dynasty Zhou Kong meant to change was more than a name. She meant to alter the rites, to reform the laws. She meant to strip the shackles from women, so that no daughter would again be confined to the hearth by notions of ‘men without, women within’ and ‘men honored, women low.’

Zhou Zhaoyue understood what she was doing. Or rather, understood what they were doing. It was a brutal road: succeed, and ten thousand generations would reap the benefit; fail, and…

Zhou Zhaoyue dared not think further. To snuff out a minor Vice Minister of the Dali Court would be no great labor; and even Zhou Kong, this Eldest Princess, if branded with the crime of high treason, would likely lose her head as well.

Zhou Zhaoyue could not bear the thought.

She had always held to the creed: hear the Way in the morning, and die content at evening. She could perish; Zhou Kong could not. With such ambitions reaching to the clouds, Zhou Kong deserved to be written into history.

Zhou Kong spoke on, unhurried.

“Look at that Xu Liangdi. In her house: one healthy elder sister, one sickly youngest brother. However stark the contrast, the former was cast aside without a second thought, all to fulfill the latter. But in this world, is hers the only family that endures this way?”

Zhou Zhaoyue understood her meaning.

She sighed. “This age… has far too many ‘Xu Liangdis.'”

“And so, I need power.” Zhou Kong said. “Fengyi Sect’s Ye Qingzhou turned me away at the door—her failure to read the room, I suppose.”

“And this one before us—her ability will be no lesser, she carries no identity to speak of, she is even alone and unclaimed, easily grasped… I will not let her slip past.”

Zhou Zhaoyue interrupted, astonished: “Whose ability… will be… beneath whose?”

Zhou Kong said with certainty, “Xu Liangdi’s ability will be no lesser than Ye Qingzhou’s.”

“…………”

Zhou Zhaoyue: “Your Highness jokes.”

The Everlasting Sword’s Ye Qingzhou, first sword of the Nine Provinces—being compared to some green village girl who’d sprung from nowhere, with talk of ‘ability no lesser than hers’! Never mind the Old Sect Master of Fengyi Sect, who would surely twist his nose in fury—even a random passerby, on hearing it, would laugh their teeth loose.

Catching Zhou Zhaoyue’s doubtful look, Zhou Kong’s lips curved. “Disbelieve if you like.”

“Ah Yue, you need only stay at my side, and serve me.”

Zhou Kong’s hand suddenly rose to Zhou Zhaoyue’s collar, drawing her close.

Her voice low and rough, she said, unhurried—

“Our golden age—shall be built by our own hands.”