The next morning, Yí chén, Liang, and Tao returned to the Hou mansion, where Prince Haoyu had secured them lodging under the guise of his assistants. Yí chén's wounds had been cleaned, bound, and carefully hidden beneath fresh cloth. News had already spread through the city: strict restrictions on movement were to be enforced. Whispers of unease rippled among the people, though for Yí chén it was almost a blessing—the restriction, he knew, would not last long.
"I am sorry," Yí chén said quietly, his voice weighed down with regret. "That was the most foolish decision I have ever made."
"No—we were foolish to believe infiltrating the Límíng Palace would be an affair of two short weeks," Liang replied, handing him a bitter draught for the pain. Yí chén drank without flinching at the taste.
Tao exhaled heavily. "So... what do we do now?"
"Call it off," Liang said, his voice tired, almost defeated. "Abandon everything. Focus instead on rescuing Jian—he must have been captured."
"What? We can't!" Tao snapped.
"We can," Liang countered flatly. "This is not our war to fight."
"It is," Tao insisted, leaning forward, his voice burning with conviction. "This is for our people. Of course it is ours to fight!"
Liang fell silent.
"Then I ask again—what is our next plan?" Tao's gaze turned toward Yí chén, who sat calm and still, as though weighing the weight of the heavens in his hands.
"We abandon the plan to infiltrate the palace on the princess's birthday, two days from now," Yí chén said finally. "We will no longer follow the orders of Prince Haoyu's father..." He paused, his eyes steady.
"If this must be done—then I will go myself."
Liang and Tao exchanged uncertain glances, unsure if Yí chén was sacrificing himself or leading them into deeper fire.
⸻
Bǎihé sat before the polished bronze mirror, her reflection hazy in the morning light. Hépíng carefully combed her hair, the pins catching glimmers of dawn. The princess's eyes, however, were heavy. She had not slept. The dream from the night before replayed endlessly, each word echoing sharper, louder— "Don't trust anyone."
Why would she say that? Bǎihé wondered, unease curling in her chest. Through the mirror, she studied Hépíng's familiar face, searching for comfort she could not quite find.
"Did you sleep well, Gōngzhǔ?" Hépíng asked gently.
"Hm? Yes... yes, I did," Bǎihé replied too quickly, startled.
Hépíng's eyes lingered on her, skeptical. Bǎihé forced a reassuring smile.
A sudden knock rattled the wooden door. A man's voice followed, deep and restrained.
"Bǎihé—it's me. Haoyu."
The princess rose at once, her heart quickening as she walked to the door.
"Come in," she said softly.
But Haoyu only smiled nervously, his voice dropping. "You know I can't. It would be improper."
"Improper?" she echoed, her impatience showing.
"It is not fitting for a man to step into a lady's chamber uninvited," he murmured, eyes cast down.
"It is fine," Bǎihé insisted, stepping aside. "Come in. Have tea with me."
For a moment, Haoyu hesitated—then entered. His eyes brushed against Hépíng, who had been watching him too long. She quickly lowered her gaze and bowed.
"Shall I stay, Gōngzhǔ?" she asked.
"No. You may leave."
Hépíng's brows twitched in surprise, but she obeyed, bowing again before slipping out. The door closed behind her with a quiet thud.
Now, silence.
The two sat across from one another, a low table between them. Bǎihé poured tea from a porcelain kettle into two cups, steam rising between them like unspoken words.
As Haoyu watched her, he thought—every time he saw her, she seemed more radiant, more ethereal. Today she wore pale green hanfu, its folds soft like spring willow. Her skin glowed, her presence filled the room—but there was something fragile in her eyes.
"Haoyu..." Bǎihé's voice cut through the stillness.
"Yes?" he answered quickly, too eager.
"I can trust you... can't I?"
The question struck him like a blade. His back straightened. "Yes. Of course. Always."
Relief flickered in her expression, though shadows still clung to her gaze. Haoyu studied her keenly, doubt stirring in his own heart. Should he go through with the plan?
"Have you... heard anything recently?" he asked.
Her head snapped up. "What is it?"
"There are restrictions on movement in and out of the city," he said carefully.
"Likely my mother's doing," Bǎihé replied wearily.
"No," Haoyu shook his head. "It is your sister, Lan."
Her eyes widened. Lan would never act rashly. Not without reason. This was serious.
"Apparently... a spy was captured," Haoyu continued. "He had plotted to steal the defense map. His accomplices escaped."
Bǎihé nearly choked on her tea. "What? How do I only hear this now?"
"Lan withheld details to avoid spreading chaos."
Bǎihé nodded faintly, though unease gnawed at her.
Haoyu reached for her hand, his touch trembling with concern. "What if that spy had been an assassin? What if he meant to harm you?"
"I am fine," Bǎihé said firmly. "No one can harm me—or the palace."
Haoyu's shoulders dropped with a sigh. "I only hope so... Bǎihé, I love you."
The words hung in the air like incense smoke.
Bǎihé froze. The room seemed to spin, her consciousness drifting as though caught in a current. When she blinked back, the only words that left her lips were:
"Where is General Kong?"
Outside the door, Hépíng stood in silence. Her thoughts wandered, restless, as her heart beat faster than she wished. Never before had Bǎihé dismissed her during a private conversation. What could they be speaking of?
Her cheeks warmed as she recalled the prince's fleeting glance earlier—the kind that left her flustered and uncertain. He was indeed handsome, far too polite to press into a lady's chambers, and every bit the gentleman. Nervously, she plucked a flower from the pot beside the door, pulling its petals apart one by one, letting them scatter across the floor.
Then—footsteps. A shadow moved closer.
Her expression soured instantly when she saw the tall figure striding toward her.
"What are you doing here? I was certain the prince had dismissed you after yesterday," she said coldly, arms crossed.
Yí chén only smiled, dimples showing.
He stopped at the threshold, careful to keep distance from both the princess's door and Hépíng herself. "A simple hello would be nice."
Hépíng scoffed. "Sometimes I wonder what land you truly come from. With that strange hat, you hardly look like a general. More like a wandering scholar."
"Is there something wrong with my attire?" Yí chén asked, genuinely puzzled. "I thought this was how people dressed here." He gave a small shrug.
"People here? You speak like a wanderer," she replied sharply.
The grin faded from Yí chén's face, leaving only a careful composure. "Where is Prince Feng?" he asked plainly.
Hépíng's arms slowly lowered. Perhaps she had gone too far. After all, he was of higher rank. "Inside," she said more softly. "They are having tea. They will be out soon."
⸻
Not long after, the door slid open. Bǎihé emerged, Haoyu at her side. Hépíng bowed quickly as they stepped into the corridor.
Haoyu inclined his head, his eyes flicking to the Yí chén's hurt bandaged shoulder.
"You're well?" Haoyu asked subtly.
"Yes," Yí chén replied, straightening.
Relief crossed Haoyu's face.
But Bǎihé's gaze fell upon Yí chén, and suddenly her world tilted. A wave of dizziness struck her, the corridor spinning, her breath catching in her throat.
"I hope you are well, Gōngzhǔ Fang," Yí chén said, bowing once more. "I am still regretful for your... discomfort."
Bǎihé hesitated, her words tangled as her pulse thundered in her ears. "No—I should be the one apologizing. It was my fault."
Yí chén raised his head, their eyes meeting. "I serve to protect and advise Wangzǐ Feng," he said steadily. "You are dear to him. Thus, it is my duty... to protect you as well."
Before silence grew heavy, Haoyu broke it gently. "Since that's settled, shall we go?" He took Bǎihé's hand. At his touch, the dizziness faded, replaced by the familiar flutter of her heart.
⸻
At the gates of the mansion, she lingered, unwilling to let go.
"Do you want me to stay longer?" Haoyu asked softly.
Bǎihé shook her head. "No. Go. Tomorrow, we can walk the city together."
"Are you sure?" His voice carried concern.
"I'm sure." She withdrew her hand.
Reluctantly, Haoyu entered the carriage. Yí chén would follow after.
"General Kong..." Bǎihé called suddenly.
Hépíng froze nearby, her eyes sharp.
"Here, take this." Bǎihé pressed a folded napkin into Yí chén's hand.
He blinked at it, confused.
"You look unwell. Use it to wipe your sweat." She smiled faintly—so faintly it seemed like the shadow of a smile—before turning away. Hépíng followed close at her side.
Yí chén stared at the napkin, his expression unreadable, before tucking it into his sleeve as he stepped into the carriage.
⸻
Last night, Bǎihé lay awake.
The dream still lingered, a whisper gnawing at her thoughts: Don't trust anyone. But tonight was worse. Shadows moved in her chamber—faint shapes that danced at the edge of her vision, flickering like phantoms in play. She clutched her blanket, her breath quickening. Was she losing her mind?
For nearly six minutes they circled, playing their cruel game of hide and seek. And then—silence. They vanished. The air warmed, the goosebumps fading from her skin.
She tried to rest, burying her head against the pillow, but a sudden chill brushed her right hand where it hung over the bed. A soft fabric grazed her fingertips.
She jolted upright in fear.
A napkin.
But she hadn't been holding one before.
Slowly, she lifted it. Moonlight spilled across the delicate fabric. Her breath caught when she saw the strokes of ink upon it, fine and deliberate:
See me privately at the Plum House — General Kong.
"What?" she whispered, eyes narrowing.
The handwriting—it looked like her own.
Her mind spun. Why would she ask to see Yí chén? After that rainy terrible incident, It made no sense. She crumpled the napkin and tossed it aside.
"If I were to meet anyone privately, it would be Haoyu," she muttered, pulling the covers over her head. But sleep would not come.
For even as she closed her eyes, she could not shake the feeling: this was not madness. This was a clue to solving her revolting madness.
And perhaps—just perhaps—there was far more to General Kong Yí chén than met the eye.