Chapter 123: Reunion with an Old Friend

On the way back Shen Xin and Luo Xueyan spoke little. Though they tried to look easy, gravity showed through. Shen Qiu was unlike himself. Luo Tan, usually bold, sensed something wrong and stayed quiet.
Today they had offended Princess Ming'an—and thus Qin crown prince Huangfu Hao. The Shen house had barely returned before being pushed to the storm's edge. Shen Xin tried to avoid it—yet it felt like an invisible hand kept shoving them forward. He and Luo Xueyan did not fear trouble that might come—but Shen Miao had faced Ming'an today. They feared the princess would hate her and strike from shadow.
What was done was done. Water covers earth; generals meet soldiers. Only protect Shen Miao better and leave no gap.
Back at the house, Shen Miao washed in her courtyard. It was late. She lit a lamp. Guyu saw she would not bed down and said: "Miss—still worried about tonight? No matter. Master and Madam won't let that Qin princess run wild."
Shen Miao shook her head. She knew Ming'an's nature better than anyone. Selfish, competitive—in her past life's tribute feast Ming'an had troubled her too. Ming'an had thought Fu Xiuyi so outstanding yet married a rough wife—despised her. Now Liang sent Prince Rui; Ming'an's brightest star became the prince—yet she still did not spare Shen Miao. Some grudges, people said, were fated across lives.
"You may go." Shen Miao said. "I can't sleep. I'll play a game of go."
Guyu wanted to speak—Jingzhe tugged her sleeve. Jingzhe said: "We'll withdraw then, Miss. Don't think too much. Rest when tired—don't harm your health. Night is cold—don't stay too late."
Shen Miao agreed. Jingzhe and Guyu left.
On the small table the board was empty. Shen Miao held white in one hand, black in the other, playing seriously against herself.
She played with focus. Time passed. The board went from blank to black and white crossing—a complex war. At first she moved with ease; later each stone required long thought.
The courtyard was silent—no bird murmur, no insect cry—Ding deep in dream. Wind moved through the trees.
Shen Miao looked at the board and breathed out softly.
Two years—every faction had entered the stage; arranged pieces had reached their moves. In some ways holding the initiative did not mean victory step by step. This was her game against Fu Xiuyi—yet she had still thought some things too simple.
Everything in the world changes. She had changed—not the woman of her past life—so others changed too. Only change itself stays constant. What those changes did to the board—no one could tell.
She glanced at the board, stood, pushed open the window. Autumn wind rushed in, cool. Tree shadows swayed. After a while she turned—the lamp had burned its last. Flame wavered and died.
Darkness—moon poured in like water, room snow-bright. Cooler than lamplight.
A soft click from the table. Someone sat before the board unnoticed, black stone in hand, placed casually, then looked up at Shen Miao.
Purple-gold robes gleamed grander in moonlight; the pattern seemed faintly familiar. A posture that should be arrogant—half a silver mask made it deep instead.
A midnight intruder—Shen Miao was not surprised. She closed the window without changing color; the room darkened again. She found the table, struck a fire starter, lit another lamp.
Warm yellow light made robes and hair seem intimate. Shen Miao carried the lamp and sat opposite him.
"Were you waiting for me?" The purple-clad youth's voice was low, beautiful in night, deliberately hushed to a husky edge—like a lover whispering. His tone smiled—very pleased.
Shen Miao stared at the mask. Even masked, fine looks—elegant jaw, red lips—mystery made him more stirring. Rumor said Liang royals were all beautiful. She had not seen his true face—but by presence alone he was enough.
"Your Highness tapped the pillar three times—reminding your servant to call at the third watch. Your servant dares not disobey." She answered.
She saw clearly—the man curved his lips. "Clever."
His manner was flippant, even rakish—yet distance remained, as if one knew the cold cruelty beneath. Shen Miao watched him quietly. "What does Your Highness wish to say to your servant?"
The purple youth took a black stone from the bowl and turned it in long pale fingers—more exquisite for it. He swept the board. "Interesting game, little girl. You put all the realm's storms on one board—where is Great Liang? Which stone am I?"
He had seen through—the board mirrored Ming Qi's present layout.
Shen Miao was silent.
His voice was lazy, careless. "At tribute today you seemed old acquaintances with Princess Ming'an. Have you met her before?"
Her heart tightened. She did know Ming'an—today's performance would raise no doubt except Huangfu Hao's. A Qin princess and a Ming Qi official's daughter—realms a thousand li apart—Ming'an's first visit to Ming Qi—no one would link them. Yet this one sentence tore the surface and laid truth bare.
What had he found? Investigated? Or only a few meetings at feast sensed wrong? If the latter—this man was terrifying.
Still her brows did not move. Fingers in sleeve clenched slightly—face smiled.
"By chance your servant has not met Princess Ming'an—but is old acquaintance with Prince Rui."
The purple youth turned to her—suddenly both hands on the table, leaning close, breath at her ear: "Oh? When?"
She looked at the man so near—breath gentle, gold buttons cold, lips smiling, eyes somewhat indifferent. Fire or ice—she could not tell—all danger. He drew people—yet instinct said avoid.
Those black eyes, deep as sea, pinned her. She lowered her head, avoided his meaningful gaze, stared at embroidered buttons on his chest. "Long time no see, Xie Jingxing."
Air seemed to freeze. In the lamp, sparks crackled tiny; a fleck of lamp-flower fell—bright as a star in black night—then gone.
Shen Miao looked up at him.
The purple youth smiled faintly. Their shadows on the floor intertwined—as if he leaned to kiss her.
He slowly withdrew hands, sat back, voice still pleased. "Long time no see, Shen Miao."
He lifted the mask from his face.
Bold brows to the temples, star-bright eyes, nose like carved jade, lips painted. Yesterday still a red-lipped beautiful youth—two years—and a truly handsome man. His smile held the old faint mockery and mischief; eyes no longer held a boy's arrogance.
A depth more frightening—night made beautiful by stars, yet chilling for darkness. Nobility and grace at full power—every move born royal pride, cool as clear moon, dazzling as noon sun.
Without the cage of old identity, Xie Jingxing unmasked—too bright to ignore.
He looked at her half-smiling, tone ambiguous. "Two years apart—who gave you nerve to call my name?"
He spoke so—yet "I" replaced "this prince."
Shen Miao said: "You're no longer Young Marquis of Lin'an Marquis house. If you dislike the name, Prince Rui will do." Finally edged with irony—from Ming Qi marquis's son to Yongle's younger brother, this run was indeed far off-course.
She spoke politely—underestimated him. He laughed lazily. "Call my name if you like—I don't mind. Forgot to tell you—Xie Yuan is my true name. Jingxing is my courtesy name. Calling Xie Jingxing is calling my style… grown up and passionate, have we? Reached the point of style names between us?" His smile was wicked, teasing.
Shen Miao glared.
Only kin, lovers, or spouses used courtesy names. She had not expected Jingxing to be his style. Then she recalled—Yongle of Great Liang also surnamed Xie. Liang's throne was the Xie clan.
What coincidence.
Xie Jingxing poured his own tea—as two years ago, though Shen Xin had long left the general's mansion for this house, his uninvited ease unchanged. As before, he treated the Shen residence like his own yard. He sipped, glanced at her barely contained anger, amused. "Reciprocity—what should I call you, Jiaojiao?"
That "Jiaojiao" lingered sweet on the tongue—with his beauty, ordinary women might lose their way. Shen Miao flushed hot. Without royal rank he could be top courtesan in a pleasure house—perhaps famous across the land.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"Thinking you're so fair even a house's top boy cannot compare—no wonder you hide behind a mask." She baited him on purpose.
He choked—something crossed his mind—lazy ease stiffened a moment. She felt swift joy. Before she spoke he raised a brow. "So worried about me—you're quite taken, aren't you?"
"Does Prince Rui know how to write 'presuming affection'?" Disgusted by the style-name joke, unwilling to say Young Marquis again, she used cold "Prince Rui"—drawing a line.
"When you hugged and kissed me, you weren't so cold." he said.
Shen Miao stared unbelieving—like a fawn newborn in the mountain stream, round black eyes, pitiable.
"What do you mean?"
He pinched her cheek—too fast to dodge—already withdrawn, thinking. "Seems you forgot. The night you left the capital I bid you farewell."
She blanked, staring.
He sighed. "Drunk again and you deny it. Don't remember what you did to me?"
Conflict crossed her face.
Wine loosens morals; wine ruins affairs. Her tolerance was fair—yet that night's plum wine was fierce. She had slept alone to avoid slip of tongue or deed that might raise suspicion—yet Xie Jingxing had come?
"Prince Rui jokes. We are passing acquaintances—what could we do?" She pressed down unease, face calm. Yet she knew little of men and women—in her past life only pleasing Fu Xiuyi—truly blank here. Against a black-hearted man like him she was painfully green.
He smiled, not arguing yet, unhurried: "You seem to want to be empress badly. Drunk you called Eunuch Li for fireworks—wanted crown prince and princess with you." He watched her with interest. "Empress Shen?"
She had been masking with tea—nearly sprayed!
Years since that title—for an instant she thought she dreamed—perhaps this reborn life of kin and flowers was only dream—wake to cold palace, step by step toward sons dead and clan gone.
Her whole body stiffened—must admit a fact. She had thought he bluffed—now he truly had come that night, seen her drunk. Otherwise how would he know so much? What had she said? How much had he heard? How much had clever he guessed?
Unease in her eyes—his gaze darkened—yet he smiled. "Don't fear so. I'm tolerant with women. Want to know what you did to this prince?"
"What did I do?" She met his eyes calmly.
"Nothing much." He propped chin lazily, as if thinking—words shocking: "You only held me so I wouldn't leave, pressed on me and kissed me, cried and shouted to be my empress, begged me not to neglect you."
Shen Miao: "…"
"I never did such things." However drunk, she would not fancy him. That style was not hers.
"You deny?" He frowned. "Not fair, Shen Jiaojiao."
"I'll give you silver." She decided at once. "However much—you want, I'll compensate."
He watched her a while—eyes like knives—as if he wished her dead. At last he smiled through gritted teeth. "You take me for courtesan or kept man? Silver? This prince never lacks silver."
Silence.
He drew a deep breath. "How did you find out?"
Sudden change—she puzzled. "What?"
He picked up the mask from the table. "How learn my identity? Two years ago I died in battle—meeting once and guessing is not reasonable."
"Before seeing you I'd guessed." Shen Miao said. "Guessed you were Liang—not that you were royalty. At tribute I felt familiar—dared a guess."
He frowned gradually. "Guessed two years ago?"
"The night at Wolong Temple—you came for tea and pastries. By chance I ate a little too."
He raised a brow. "So?"
"By chance those pastries seem made by Great Liang imperial cooks—very tasty."
He paused slightly.
Two years ago at Wolong Temple he saw Shen Miao trap Shen Qing and Prince Yu—out of interest visited her room. Hungry from running outside half the night, he used her tea and ate pastries—and fed her one. Raised in luxury even while working in Ming Qi, Liang pastry cooks traveled with him—that bundle was their work.
He had imagined many clues—never this. One pastry bundle exposed him. Yet sharp gaze: "How know it was Liang cooks?"
"By chance ate once before." she said.
She had—at Ming Qi's tribute feast foreign gifts came. The pastries were a small novelty. Yongle loved sweets; imperial cooks added fruit juice so cakes bore fruit scent. She had tasted at tribute, found it novel, made some for Fu Xiuyi—he disliked sweets, always gave to servants—she had grieved.
That night's cakes carried Liang fruit scent—before tribute—impossible import then. Strange.
He did not press where she had tasted them. "Only that?"
"Lucky guess." She lowered eyes. Pastry alone would not prove Liang. Real doubt began with Gao Yang the imperial physician in palace—familiar, then remembered—seen in past life at tribute. Liang sent a prince and a great minister—the minister famous as strategist; Fu Xiuyi had Pei Lang watch him—Gao Yang. Then Gao Yang was courtier, not physician. That day in palace she saw ease between Xie Jingxing and Gao Yang—plus pastry—links formed.
Later northwest—news Xie Jingxing died in battle. After shock she calmed. In past life he should not have marched then—yet same end both lives. She did not believe fate alone. Knowing him now—such a man dying so horribly—unbelievable.
If he used death to scheme—more believable. New identity, fewer troubles—fit his crisp nature. Young Marquis of Lin'an could not hold his ambition.
What was his ambition? Her gaze fell on the black-white board—a flash of dread.
"Your luck is always good." He watched her at ease.
"But…" she hesitated, asked at last: "How did you become Prince Rui now?"
A false identity? Bold beyond measure—impersonating Liang royalty, Yongle's brother—discovery meant death a thousand times. Or real—then what was a decade as Xie Ding's son?
"I was always Liang's Prince Rui." he said. "Now things return to their owner."
Her heart stirred. "Marquis Xie is not your father?"
He smiled with contempt. "Lin'an Marquis? What qualifies him to be my father?"
Not Xie Ding's blood son. More dread—his identity could pull many threads—her past self never noticed. She thought—in past life Fu Xiuyi crushed Xie Jingxing without mercy, planted men in Xie army, let him die by own side—father and son wrapped in horse hide—only Xie Changwu and Xie Changchao left—was it only fear of merit too high—or Fu Xiuyi had sensed wrong identity and meant to cut the root?
Her face flickered—he saw, eyes deep, smile warmer. Beauty grown—handsome and vivid fused, righteous and wicked—very fine. He tapped the table. "Came to see an old friend—you've improved much."
She returned. "Prince Rui shines brightly now."
From Young Marquis in Ding to Prince Rui—more precious. Once he strode Ding in Ming Qi—now his name might reach heaven.
"Satisfied?" he smiled. "Proud for me?"
Her brows composed. "Your servant is Ming Qi. Prince Rui is Liang. Well water does not trouble river—how proud?"
He took the mask, fitted it again. Silver clung to bone—did not hide light—mystery like night more bewitching.
"When you kissed me, you didn't say that." Eyes more moving than autumn moon outside, sliding over her. "You said I was your man."
She denied flatly. "Prince Rui misremembers."
"I'll help you remember later." He stood. Purple hem swept the table—scattering the whole game.
"Next time I'll visit again, Shen… Jiaojiao."
Shen Miao: "…"
He swept out the window. Watching his back, she thought tomorrow she must have Shen Qiu post more guards at her courtyard gate. The house held skilled folk—Shen Xin, Luo Xueyan, Shen Qiu—all military—yet no alertness. Free comings and goings were a joke.
Outside the Shen wall on the street, a purple-clad man walked. Third watch—empty road—only he and guards behind, long shadows in moon.
Moon could not hide his light; silver mask gleamed. The guard said: "Master seems in good spirits."
Said to see an old friend—entered Shen house, left smiling throughout—some joy heard inside.
The youth glanced at the guard—gold thread on sleeve faint. Night travel in brocade still heroic. Eyes half-smiling, voice pleasant as spring wind.
"Meeting an interesting person—naturally good."