Tanglong Year One, September 25th.
Five days after the coup, I stepped into the Prince of Linzi's residence for the first time.
Not solely as a dentist—at least, not just that. Li Longji's wound needed a dressing change. He refused to let anyone else touch it and refused to come to the clinic. Chen Xuanli had waited at the gate for half an hour, saying His Highness had some free time today and invited me to the residence.
Carrying my medicine box, I followed him through the front courtyard. The sound of armor on the bluestone steps made my heart pound; I gripped the strap of my box tightly. Three months ago, when I first came here, this was merely a prince's private residence; now, it was the mansion of a hero of the coup. There were twice as many guards at the gate, their armor brand new, with large red silk ribbons flanking the lintel, signaling official imperial rewards. The stone lions had been repainted, their eyes wide and imposing.
The comings and goings in the courtyard were several times more frequent than before—civil officials, military generals, eunuchs, servants; everyone was rushing, everyone holding documents or food boxes. Some whispered arguments under the corridors, others exchanged secret notes in corners, and several officials in brocade robes waited in the yard, glancing frequently toward the study. The residence after the coup was like a gearbox just started up, filled with the sound of turning gears.
But the study remained the same. Piles of memorials covered the desk, maps spread over half the table. A plate of unfinished osmanthus cakes from last night sat on the desk, an expensive wax candle reflecting the twilight glow of brocade robes. Another piece of calligraphy hung on the wall—"The World is for All" (Tian Xia Wei Gong). The brushstrokes were even more vigorous than "The People are the Foundation of the State," the ink still fresh.
Li Longji leaned back in his chair, his left arm bandaged, holding a memorial in his right hand. Hearing the door open, he looked up and put down the document.
"You're here."
Today he wore a deep cyan casual robe, his hair tied with a jade hairpin. He looked completely different from the blood-soaked figure of that night, yet the dark circles under his eyes were deeper than before.
"Your Highness looks well today," I said, setting down my box.
"The wound doesn't hurt," he moved his left arm and frowned slightly. "It just itches."
"Itching is good. It means flesh is growing."
I walked over, unwrapped the bandage, and examined it. The wound was healing well—no redness, no exudate, the new tissue around the sutures showing a healthy pink.
"We can remove the stitches in three more days."
"Does removing stitches hurt?"
"No. Much lighter than when sewing."
I reapplied medicine and changed to a clean bandage. He was very quiet during the procedure, only glancing at me occasionally.
"Is Your Highness not busy today?" I asked casually.
"Busy," he said, his gaze falling on my face. "But when you come, I am not."
My hand paused for a moment. Always "busy," yet making time for me at this hour—I didn't say this aloud, just lowered my head to continue bandaging.
He leaned back, a slight smile on his lips, as if waiting for me to respond. Seeing I remained silent, he spoke again.
"Qingyan, have you heard any rumors these past few days?"
"What rumors?"
"About this King."
I thought for a moment. "Some say Your Highness is about to be titled a King. Others say you will become Crown Prince."
"Which do you believe?"
"Neither," I cut the bandage and tied a knot. "I only believe Your Highness's tooth is healed."
He paused, then laughed. That smile was different from before. Not the high-spirited look from the training ground, nor the caught-in-the-act grin from the clinic. It was a relaxation after exhaustion—like someone who has walked a long way finally finding a place to sit and rest.
"Qingyan, you are the only one who doesn't speak of these things before this King."
"Speak of what?"
"Of what this King should do, how to fight, how to choose." He leaned back, his gaze becoming somewhat distant. "These past few days, everyone has been telling me these things. Yao Chong says it, Song Jing says it, even Chen Xuanli says it. They say it should be this way, that way—everyone has their own reasons, everyone claims it's for my own good."
He pushed the memorial aside and tapped his fingers on the desk.
"But this King doesn't want to listen."
He looked at me, something indefinable in his eyes.
"Qingyan, do you know why this King likes coming to your dental clinic?"
"Because the clinic has tooth powder?"
He smiled slightly, neither denying nor admitting.
"Because in your clinic, there are none of these," he said. "No memorials, no secret notes, no one standing before this King saying what should be done. Only a patient, and a doctor."
He put down the memorial, his gaze resting on me. In that moment, I felt as if he was removing the mask of an emperor.
"Only you."
The study fell silent. The wind blew in from the window, rustling the documents on the table. The scent of osmanthus from the front hall mixed with the smell of wax candles, slowly dispersing in the air.
I said nothing, simply closing my medicine box and placing it on the desk.
"Your Highness, the stitches will be removed in three days. Do not exert force or get it wet until then."
"Good."
"And continue using dental floss daily."
"Good."
"Your Highness—" I hesitated, "I don't understand court affairs. But I will heal Your Highness's wounds."
He looked at me, silent. Then he nodded.
"Enough," he said.
Hidden Threads in the Clinic
After changing the dressing, I didn't leave immediately.
I sat in the chair for a while, looking at those memorials on his desk. The top pile's uppermost document was a report from Jingzhao Prefecture about a murder case in eastern Chang'an, the perpetrator still at large. Below that was a Ministry of Personnel evaluation, densely filled with officials' names. Beneath that was a report concerning Song Wang Li Chengqi.
My gaze paused on that report for an instant.
He noticed. "What are you looking at?"
"Your Highness," I didn't beat around the bush, "what has Song Wang been doing recently?"
He looked at me, his expression shifting slightly. "Why ask about him suddenly?"
"Because Your Highness's opponent is not Princess Taiping," I said. "No matter how strong Princess Taiping is, she is a woman and cannot sit on that throne herself. She needs someone. That person is Song Wang."
He said nothing, but his fingers stopped tapping on the desk.
"Your Highness succeeded in the coup with the greatest merit. But great merit does not guarantee that position. Ritual law is ritual law; human hearts are human hearts. Song Wang is the eldest legitimate son; if he makes no mistakes, Your Highness can only wait forever."
"I know," his voice was calm.
"Then what is Your Highness waiting for?"
"For him to make a mistake."
"What if he never makes a mistake?"
He fell silent. The scent of osmanthus drifted in from the window, sickeningly sweet.
"Your Highness," I said, "if Song Wang makes no mistakes, then make him not want to fight."
"How to make him not want to fight?"
"Make him feel that being a prince is better than being Crown Prince."
He looked at me, his gaze changing. No longer the scrutinizing look from before, but something deeper, more serious.
"Qingyan, have you already planned this?"
I hesitated. The clinic had been open for nearly three months; the visitors weren't just commoners. Yao Chong had come, Song Jing had come, and others I didn't recognize. When they came for dental treatment, they chatted. They talked about court affairs, about Song Wang, about Princess Taiping. They thought a female doctor wouldn't understand, but I understood.
"Your Highness," I said, "a patient recently came to the clinic. Surname Wang, a painting dealer who frequently visits Song Wang's residence. He said Song Wang is currently looking for a painting—Zhan Ziqian's 'Strolling About in Spring'."
"Zhan Ziqian?" Li Longji frowned. "That painting has been lost long ago."
"It hasn't been lost," I said. "It's in the hands of a merchant. That merchant recently arrived in Chang'an, looking for a good buyer."
He looked at me and slowly sat up straight.
"If Your Highness finds that painting and gives it to Song Wang—what will he think?"
"It's just a painting."
"It's not just a painting," I said. "It's Your Highness telling him—I am not fighting. I only want to appreciate paintings, discuss calligraphy, and be brothers with you. When he receives the painting, he will think a lot. He will wonder why Your Highness sent it, whether you are trying to lure him, what you are actually plotting. The more he thinks, the more tired he becomes."
He leaned back, thinking for a long time.
"Qingyan, where did you learn these ideas?"
"From the clinic," I said. "Many people come, so many stories are heard. Hear enough, and you understand how human hearts work."
He laughed. "Your clinic is not just a place for teeth."
"Your Highness is right." I stood up. "My clinic is one of the places in Chang'an with the most timely information."
He looked at me, something in his eyes I couldn't read—not surprise, not praise, but something deeper, heavier.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"You help this King; aren't you afraid of bringing trouble upon yourself?"
"I am afraid," I answered honestly. "But if Your Highness wins, I won't need to be afraid."
He paused. Then he laughed. The laughter was light but exceptionally clear in the quiet study.
"Good," he said. "If this King wins, you won't need to be afraid."
Zhan Ziqian
Three days later, Zhan Ziqian's 'Strolling About in Spring' reached Li Longji's hands.
Yao Chong had found it. The merchant originally asked for three thousand strings of cash; Yao Chong bargained it down to two thousand, plus a piece of calligraphy by Chu Suiliang. The merchant hesitated for three days but finally agreed.
On September 28th, the same day the stitches were removed, Li Longji sent someone to deliver the painting to Song Wang's residence.
The messenger returned to report: When Song Wang opened the painting, his hands were trembling. He said three words—"Second Brother understands me."
When the news reached the clinic, Li Longji was sitting on the examination bed, letting me check the wound after stitch removal.
"Your Highness, did Song Wang accept the painting?"
"He accepted it." He moved his left arm. "And sent back a piece of calligraphy."
"What did it say?"
"'Deep Bond Between Brothers.'"
My hand paused while bandaging. "Your Highness, these four characters carry heavy weight."
"I know." His voice was calm. "He is telling me he remembers we are brothers. But he is also telling me—he will not yield just because of a painting."
"Your Highness never expected him to yield because of a painting."
"Then why did you have me send the painting?"
"To make him think," I said. "To make him wonder why Your Highness sent it, what you are plotting, whether you truly aren't fighting. When a person thinks too much, they get tired. When tired, they make mistakes."
He looked at me and suddenly smiled. "Qingyan, do you know? You look very much like a strategist right now."
"I am a dentist." I lowered my head to continue bandaging. "Just helping Your Highness think a bit on the side."
"On the side?" He raised an eyebrow.
"...On the side."
He didn't press further, but I saw the corner of his mouth lift.
Song Wang's Response
October 3rd. Song Wang Li Chengqi hosted a banquet at his residence, inviting several high officials. Li Longji was also on the guest list.
When he came to find me, he wore a newly made moon-white round-collar robe, his hair tied with a white jade crown. He looked handsome, but his expression was heavy.
"What's wrong, Your Highness?"
"Song Wang is hosting a banquet tonight," he sat on the examination bed. "He invited many people."
"What is Your Highness worried about?"
"Worried he will declare his stance at the banquet."
"Declare what stance?"
"Declare that he is the eldest legitimate son. Declare that he will not yield." He looked at me. "Qingyan, if he says these things at the banquet, what should this King do?"
I put down the tooth powder jar and looked at him.
"Your Highness, he won't say it."
"How do you know?"
"Because Princess Taiping's people will be at the banquet. He won't declare his stance in front of them. If he declares anything, it will be in court. Before His Majesty, before the entire court."
He was silent for a moment.
"But what if he declares it in court?"
"Then Your Highness wins."
"Wins?"
"Yes. The sooner he declares, the sooner Your Highness wins. Because his declaration isn't 'I want to fight,' but 'I am afraid.' He fears Your Highness, so he must declare. No one believes the words of a fearful person."
He looked at me for a long time.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"Do you know? You are even sharper than Yao Chong."
"...Your Highness, I am just a dentist."
He laughed. Standing up, he walked to the door, then suddenly turned back.
"Qingyan, when do you think this King can become Crown Prince?"
I paused. This was a question he had never asked before. Always others speaking, him listening. Always Yao Chong planning, Song Jing analyzing, him nodding or shaking his head. But this time, he asked himself.
The setting sun streamed in from the window, falling on his face. His eyes were bright, brighter than ever.
"Your Highness," I said, "soon."
"How soon is 'soon'?"
"Three months. Or shorter."
"Why?"
"Because Song Wang accepted that painting. When he accepted it, his hands trembled. A person whose hands tremble cannot hold on for long."
He looked at me and suddenly smiled. That smile was different from any before. Not the smile of a boy with a toothache, nor the high-spirited smile on the training ground. It was deeper, heavier, like someone who finally sees the light at the end of the tunnel.
"Good. This King will wait."
He left. The sound of hooves gradually faded.
I stood at the clinic entrance, watching his back disappear at the end of Zhuque Avenue. Qingyuan whispered behind me: "Third Lady, when His Highness asked you that question, why didn't you tell him directly?"
"Tell him what?"
"Tell him when he can become Crown Prince."
"Because I don't know either," I said. "But I can't let him see that."
"Why?"
"Because he needs someone to tell him 'soon.' Whether it's true or not."
Qingyuan nodded, half-understanding.
I turned back into the consultation room, opened the medical record, and wrote a line on the last page: "October 3rd. His Highness asked when he could become Crown Prince. I said: Soon."
After writing, I stared at this line for a long time.
How soon is "soon"? I don't know. But I know one thing—Song Wang's hands were trembling. A person whose hands tremble cannot hold on for long.
Brothers
Li Longji attended the banquet on October 3rd.
When he returned, it was already very late. The clinic doors were about to close; he reined in his horse at the entrance. He smelled of wine, but his eyes were bright.
"Did Your Highness drink a lot?"
"Not much." He dismounted and walked into the consultation room, sitting on the examination bed. "Song Wang toasted this King three cups."
"What did he say?"
"He said—'Second Brother, between us brothers, let's not speak like strangers.'"
I looked at his face. The wine made his cheeks slightly flushed, but those eyes were sober.
"How did Your Highness reply?"
"This King said—'Elder Brother, we will always be brothers.'"
The consultation room fell silent for a moment. The wind blew in from the window, rustling the medical records on the table.
"Your Highness," I said, "were those words sincere?"
He looked at me. "Do you hope this King was sincere, or not?"
"I hope Your Highness was sincere," I said. "Because after winning, Your Highness will still need him."
He paused. "After winning?"
"Yes. After winning, Your Highness needs Song Wang to quietly remain a prince. Not forced, but willing. A willing person will not rebel."
He looked at me for a long time.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"Who exactly are you?"
"As I said, I come from a very faraway place."
"Are all people from that place like you?"
"Many are far more capable than I am."
He laughed. Standing up, he walked to the door, then suddenly turned back.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"You said 'soon.' This King believes you."
He left. The sound of hooves faded on the bluestone road.
I stood at the door, watching his back. The moonlight stretched his shadow long on the ground, like an unsheathed blade.
Soon. Truly soon.
(End of Chapter 5)