Yongle Year 22, September. Beijing.
The room was very quiet. Case files were spread across the table—lists, marks, wax, blood. Sheet by sheet, stacked together, like a low wall enclosing him in the middle. He sat at the table, silent for a long time. I stood beside him, watching him. His fingers rested on the edge of the paper, motionless. His gaze fell upon the files, but he wasn't seeing them. He was thinking. Thinking about those threads, those knots, that net. The lamp was on the table, the light bright, illuminating his hand and the papers. There was a scar on his hand, pinkish, running from the base of his index finger to his wrist. The gauze had been removed, but the scar remained. The new flesh had grown, tender and softer than the surrounding skin, glowing faintly under the lamplight. I stared at that scar for a while. In the alley, when the blade sliced past, he didn't dodge. He said there was no time. I knew it wasn't. Was it that he had no time to dodge, or didn't want to dodge? He didn't say. I didn't ask.
I couldn't help but speak. "Is something wrong?"
He didn't answer immediately. Just looked at those files. For a long time. Then he said one sentence: "Too clean."
I paused. "What?"
His fingers lightly tapped the files. "What we found, every step was too smooth." His voice was very flat, like saying "the weather is nice today." But I heard it. In that word "smooth," there was something. Not the smoothness of success, but the smoothness of beingtoo successful. Like a road that is so smooth you feel there shouldn't be such a smooth road. In Australia, a professor once said:If the experimental data is too perfect, something must be wrong. I didn't understand then. Now I do. Too perfect data is man-made. Too smooth clues are too.
I thought about it. "Isn't smooth good?"
He shook his head. "Too smooth, and it's wrong." He paused. "Clues should be hidden, not placed there." His fingers moved slightly on the files, from one sheet to another. "This person's mark, we saw it. That person's wax, we picked it up. This room, we found it." He looked up at me. "Every step was just enough for us to find the next. Not more, not less."
I froze. Suddenly blurted out: "Then could it be—" I stopped. "Someone deliberately letting you find these?"
The air went still for an instant. The lamp was on the table, light bright. His fingers stopped on the files, motionless. He suddenly looked up at me. That gaze was deep, so deep I saw my own reflection in his eyes, small, like a drop of ink falling into water, slowly spreading. He seemed to have suddenly grasped something. Those threads, those knots, that net—he had always thought he was dismantling, untying, finding the person hiding in the dark. But perhaps, not. Perhaps it wasn't him searching; it was that person leading him. Leading him here, leading him there, leading him step by step to where he should go. Every step just right. Not more, not less. Like someone in the dark, watching him walk, saying softly:This way, then this way, arrived. Then stopping. Waiting for him to discover.
My heart tightened. "I was talking nonsense."
But he didn't deny it. Just slowly stood up, walked to the window. The window was closed; moonlight leaked in through the crack, drawing a thin white line on the floor. He stood there, back to me, looking at that white line. His shadow was stretched long by the lamp, cast on the ground, like a blade unsheathed. His hand hung by his side, fingers slightly curling, then relaxing. Curling, then relaxing. Like counting something. Like counting those clues, those names, those things he thought he found himself but were actually placed there by others.
"Not nonsense," he said. His voice was low, a bit cold. Not angry, not furious, but the kind of cold where—he didn't want to admit, but had to. Like in the Northern Desert, when wind and sand hit your face, you can't close your eyes. Close them and you can't see the enemy. He didn't want to admit. But he couldn't not admit. Because if he didn't admit, he couldn't see.
I froze. He stood there, motionless for a long time. The lamp was behind him, light shining over his shoulder, outlining his contour with a thin golden rim. On his hand, where the gauze had been wrapped, the scar remained, pinkish, faint under the lamplight. I suddenly felt that the way he stood there was the same as when he stood on the high ground in the Northern Desert. But different. In the Northern Desert, he was waiting for the enemy. Now, he was waiting for himself. Waiting for himself to think clearly, waiting for himself to accept, waiting for himself to say that name. Because once said, it couldn't be unsaid. Once known, it couldn't be unknown.
After a while, he whispered a sentence. "Then they weren't hiding."
I looked at him. "They were leading." His voice was very light, so light it was like talking to himself. I heard it.
My heart sank. "Leading you to investigate the Second Prince?"
He didn't answer. Just paused. As if thinking about the last question. That question, he had been thinking about it. From the arrows in the alley, to the blood in the room, to every word on the files. He was thinking. Who was hiding? Who was leading? Who was in the dark, watching him walk from one step to the next? Who could do this? Who could approach everyone, not be suspected, know the situation, and still leave clues at every step? Not more, not less. Who?
The room was very quiet. He stood there, motionless for a long time. Moonlight leaked in through the window crack, shining on his face; his face was very pale. The lamp was on the table, light bright, illuminating his hand and the files. His hand hung by his side, fingers slightly curling, then relaxing. Then. He softly spoke a name.
The voice was very low. So low I almost didn't hear it. But I still did.
Zhu Gaosui.
My entire body froze. Zhu Gaosui. The Third Prince. The one who laughed at the banquet, saying "That won't do, if the Imperial Grandson is boring, this palace will have no meaning." The one in the side hall of the Qianqing Palace holding a tea cup, watching the show. The one who was never in the game, seeming to always be just an observer. My first reaction was:Impossible. But the next second, images of him flashed through my mind. At the family banquet, he sat in the corner, holding a tea cup, watching everyone. When Zhu Di asked "How is the Great Ming?", he said "Preservation is key." Safe, but useless. When Zhu Gaoxu probed me, he chuckled, saying "It seems the Crown Princess is quite fond of her." Not light, not heavy, just enough to shift the atmosphere slightly. After the incident in the alley, he said at the banquet "If the Imperial Grandson is boring, this palace will have no meaning." Not light, not heavy, just enough to make everyone laugh. He was never in the game. But every time, he was there. In the corner, under the lamp, where no one could see. Watching. Waiting. Smiling. He did nothing. But every step was just right. Not more, not less. Like someone in the dark, saying softly:This way, then this way. Arrived.
I suddenly felt a bit cold. Not the cold of weather, but the kind where—you stand in a very high place looking down, and realize what's below isn't ground, but water, and you've been standing on the edge for a long time. How long had he been standing there? Since when? Since the alley? Since the family banquet? Since earlier? Since the first day? I didn't dare think.
He stood there, back to me. The lamp shone on him, his shadow on the ground, motionless. His shoulders were straight, just like when he stood on the high ground in the Northern Desert. But I knew the burden on his back was heavier than in the Northern Desert. In the Northern Desert, it was cavalry, blades, visible enemies. Now, it was invisible. People standing beside him, people calling him Highness, people working for him. The one who smiled at the banquet saying "That won't do."
"Are you sure?" I asked. My voice was smaller than I expected.
He didn't answer. Stood there, motionless for a long time. Then he whispered a sentence. "...Only him."
Only him. Could approach everyone, not be suspected. Only him, knew the situation, knew where every step should land. Only him, could watch everyone from the dark, without a trace. Only him. He stood there, voice very light, so light it was like saying something that didn't need confirmation. Like saying "drink tea," like saying "let's go," like saying "it will sprout." But this time, not. This time, he was telling himself—that person had always been there. From the first day. He didn't want to know. But he knew. His fingers clenched slightly inside his sleeve, fingertips gathering, then relaxing. Then hung down, just like before. But I saw it. His fingers were trembling. Not the kind of tremor that couldn't be suppressed, but the kind where—he was suppressing, but couldn't quite. Same as in the Northern Desert. Same as in the alley. He suppressed it. But I knew, he was in pain. Not hand pain, but somewhere else.
I walked to his side, standing by the window. Moonlight leaked in through the crack, shining on us. His face was in the light, very pale. His eyes looked out the window; there was nothing outside. Only moon, only clouds, only wind. He was looking at those invisible things. Looking at those things he didn't want to see but had already seen.
"You knew long ago?" I asked. Not a question, but a statement.
He didn't answer. After a long time, he said: "Didn't want to know."
I looked at him. His profile in the moonlight was very quiet. His eyelashes were long, casting a small shadow. The corners of his mouth were pressed tight, not from tension, but from that—didn't want to admit but had to press. He didn't want to know. Because knowing meant acting. Acting meant chaos. Chaos meant it couldn't be taken back. He didn't want to act. But he knew. From the arrows in the alley, to the blood in the room, to every word on the files. He knew. Just didn't want to know. Like someone standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing there's an abyss below, but not wanting to look down. Don't look down, and you can still lie to yourself. But now, he looked down.
"Then you know now," I said. "What do we do?"
He didn't answer. Stood there, looking out the window. For a long time. Then he turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down. He picked up the files, turned a page. Then another. His fingers paused on the edge of the paper, then continued turning. Just like every day. Just like when reading memorials. There was a scar on his hand, pinkish, faint under the lamplight. He flipped through those files, sheet by sheet, stacked together. Those names, those marks, that wax, that blood. He flipped, looked, thought. Just like every day. But I knew, it was different now. He knew who it was. But he didn't move. He sat there, flipping through files, waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for that net to close itself. Waiting for that person to walk to him on their own. He was waiting. Same as in the Northern Desert, same as in the alley, same as when interrogating Lord Zhao. He was waiting. He knew everything. But he didn't move. Not because he didn't want to, but because if he moved now, the net would close. He would be trapped. He waited. Waited for that person to walk out on their own. Waited for that person to reveal their flaw. Waited for that person to walk to him. He could wait. He had always been able to wait.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"Are you tired?"
He didn't answer. Turned a page of the file, then another. Then he stopped, looking at me. Moonlight shone on his face; his eyes were very bright. Not the brightness reflected by light, but the kind where—there was something inside. That something was deep, heavy. He had suppressed it for a long time. Now he wasn't suppressing. Let it out, let me see. In his eyes, there was exhaustion, determination, those things he didn't want me to see. He let them all out. Let me see.
"I'm fine," he said.
I looked at him. He sat at the table, files spread across it, lamp on the table, light bright. There was a scar on his hand, pinkish. He flipped through those names, those marks, that wax, that blood. He knew who it was. But he didn't move. He waited. I stood beside him, didn't leave. He waited, I waited too. Waiting for the day he would move. The kumquat sprout on the windowsill had grown a little taller, tender green, swaying in the moonlight. It will sprout. He said so. What he said would come true. He said "it will sprout," and the kumquat sprouted. He said "they will confess," and they will. He said "he will wait," and he was always waiting. Waiting for the day he would move. I could wait.
(End of Chapter Thirty-Seven)