Volume One: The Hidden Dragon in the Abyss Chapter Two: The Crown Prince

Wang Chuan had been living in his late mother’s former residence in the Wei capital ever since arriving, and what was meant to be a temporary stay in the Princess’s Mansion had stretched into more than ten years.

The carriage came to a halt. As he stepped down from the shaft, a short, thin, white-haired man hurried over to greet him, helping the driver set down the footstool and then offering his arm to assist Wang Chuan as he alighted.

Just as the elder was about to perform a formal bow, Wang Chuan had already strode confidently into the residence, his robes billowing, his bearing proud and unyielding.

The old servant hastened to catch up, following him into the inner courtyard, into the study—where he found Wang Chuan already seated before a chessboard.

As always, he closed the doors and windows for him.

Wang Chuan gestured at the seat opposite; the elder sat down as instructed.

Such was the true nature of the Crown Prince: with his own people, he dispensed with unnecessary courtesy. The elder had not been used to it at first, but now it was simply the way of things. Of course, in front of outsiders, he always observed the proper decorum between master and servant.

As for the game itself, Wang Chuan never played. He wasn’t skilled at chess. He had studied diligently as a child, but when he realized he couldn’t be the best in the world, he abandoned it. He approached all his studies in this manner; his apathy at the Royal Academy was genuine, not an affectation.

“Zhong Bo,” Wang Chuan said, picking up a chess piece, “I can’t continue at the academy any longer.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the elder nodded without hesitation.

Between these two, words were never empty. Whatever the Prince decided, Zhong Bo would see to it. If the Prince said he would not attend, then he would not; Zhong Bo would simply notify the academy of his absence due to illness, and that would be the end of it.

“Do you have anything to say?” Wang Chuan gestured to him. “You first.”

Zhong Bo would sometimes offer advice or report on daily matters—he was, after all, someone who genuinely cared for Wang Chuan. He had served the Princess for over ten years and had watched Wang Chuan grow up, his devotion unwavering to this day.

After a moment’s thought, he hesitated and said, “I waited at the gate all day again today. The Empress Dowager’s birthday banquet draws near, yet there is still no summons from the palace for Your Highness. As for His Majesty, that is to be expected, but the Empress Dowager once cherished your mother deeply—and you were her favorite. As a child, you were always at her side, telling her stories…”

But ever since Jin broke its word, all contact from the Empress Dowager’s side had been severed.

Zhong Bo had tried, but it was hopeless.

He had thought that even if the Emperor had cast Wang Chuan aside, the Empress Dowager, if she would only summon Wang Chuan and show him a fraction of her former affection, might still offer him some protection.

Here, in this foreign land, they were like a leaf tossed upon the waves, and in this vast capital, who knew how many waited with bared fangs.

“You are mistaken, Zhong Bo.” Wang Chuan shook his head. “You taught me when I was very young—about the human heart! Let alone the power of rumor. So often, what you see on the surface means nothing. What matters is what a person truly thinks, what they truly intend to do. If you know that, it’s enough…”

He had his own plans regarding his grandmother. He needed to meet her face to face before deciding anything; otherwise, all was mere speculation. That was why he hadn’t mentioned it lately.

“You need not wait at the gate any longer, Zhong Bo.”

Zhong Bo pondered this and nodded. “I understand, Your Highness. As long as you’re clear in your own mind. Please, continue…”

“Any word from Yangcheng?” Wang Chuan asked.

Yangcheng, the capital of Jin.

Zhong Bo’s face grew grave. He shook his head. “No news.”

“I see.” Wang Chuan gently tapped the chessboard with the piece in his hand. “Then there’s no point waiting any longer. It’s a waste of time!”

He had made up his mind.

He had long been prepared.

“Your Highness, I heard from the Zhao Trading House—and from within the palace as well…” Zhong Bo hesitated. “It seems there will be peace talks.”

He meant the palace in Jin.

“Peace talks are just for show, to appease the world.” Wang Chuan replied. “The Wei court has probably already received the diplomatic correspondence. Jin will never return Yanzhou, and Wei will never go to war.”

A flicker of doubt appeared in Zhong Bo’s eyes, but he held his tongue.

Wang Chuan glanced at him, put down the chess piece, and explained, “On the surface it looks like a dispute over Yanzhou, but in truth it’s a contest of strength between two nations. This emperor of Wei cannot afford to lose—not because he’s unwilling, but because he cannot bear the consequences. Everyone knows the disparity in national power, and if war breaks out, too much is at stake and too many variables will decide the outcome.”

“He is not confident! Without Yanzhou, he feels stifled, but if he acts and fails to reclaim it, it will be even worse. He has already been questioned once; he cannot afford a second.”

“Any wise man knows that victory in the moment is meaningless—it is who laughs last that matters.”

Having heard this, Zhong Bo nodded in understanding.

After a moment, he added, “Word from Yangcheng is that the envoy is named Qi Hao…”

At this, Wang Chuan’s eyes narrowed and he let out a cold laugh. “He is here to hasten my demise—my demise! With him here, the situation will only grow more dire…”

“There is no need for peace talks. If they go through the motions, it’s only to make a show of offering concessions, slicing off a bit of benefit in the hope of exchanging me. But it’s clear I am not and never was in their thoughts. When they seized Yanzhou, they cared nothing for me—how much less so now.” Wang Chuan shook his head. “Qi Hao was originally from Wei, his family destroyed by the barbarians, and he was never trusted here. He went to Jin, fought the barbarians, and climbed the ranks to become the Marquis of Martial Merit!”

“He comes now as the will of the Prince of Jin, and is someone the King of Wei dare not kill. Even if he enrages the king, he is unafraid. On the matter of territory, they will not yield. My position will only become more precarious…”

“The hostage is discarded at last!”

Wang Chuan sneered. “My glorious father has so many sons. One less means nothing—he can always have another…”

I never counted on him!

No!

I have never pinned my hopes on anyone else!

“Your Highness, both monarchs are shrewd and ambitious. If relations continue to sour… Even if the King of Wei does not kill you, I fear we will be trapped in the Wei capital forever, suffering humiliation.” Zhong Bo saw the truth. “We must plan early—to return home! The sooner, the better!”

“And what do you propose?” Wang Chuan cast him a sidelong glance.

“Well…” Zhong Bo could think of nothing. The King of Wei would never let them leave easily.

What now?

“Don’t worry, I have a plan.” Wang Chuan replied with confidence. “Bring me the calligraphy on the wall.”

Relieved, Zhong Bo fetched the scroll.

He recognized all four characters, but together their meaning was obscure.

This piece had accompanied them to Wei, to this foreign land, for over a decade.

Wang Chuan studied it for a long time.

The room fell silent.

Suddenly, with a sharp motion, Wang Chuan flung the scroll to the floor. “Step on it for me.”

Zhong Bo was startled. “Your Highness, this was a personal gift from your father before your departure.”

“Step on it!” Wang Chuan’s tone brooked no argument.

Zhong Bo, helpless, obeyed. It was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever been asked to do.

At last, Wang Chuan spoke again. “Put it away. I have use for it. When the envoy from Jin arrives, I will show it to him.”

Zhong Bo finally relaxed, gently wiping the scroll.

“Your Highness, then what will we do?” He sat again, earnest.

“I have three plans.” Wang Chuan picked up a chess piece, dropping them one by one onto the board.

“Everyone knows it is impossible for me to return home; I know it best of all. The astute in Wei’s capital understand—it all depends on the will of the king.”

“The steps must be clear: calming the king’s wrath is impossible—he will never let me return home unscathed. All that matters is that he vents his anger on me; whatever comes, I must endure.”

“In the end, I must give him a reason he cannot refuse to let me go—and I have had that reason ready for a long time.”

As Wang Chuan spoke, his voice remained calm.

Zhong Bo was shaken, but from his tone caught that unyielding resolve.

Tears welled in his eyes.

Both nations had abandoned them. The prince could only rely on his own strength to return home.

Home.

“In truth, he cannot kill me—so long as I don’t court death myself,” Wang Chuan went on, still dropping pieces onto the board, as though laying out a strategy. “The Crown Prince of Jin is both my death sentence and my guarantee. Jin ‘borrowed’ Yanzhou—no matter what, it was a loan. If the prince were to die in Wei, the pretense would be shattered; the two states would be mortal enemies, and my ‘glorious’ father would have every reason to take the moral high ground and march to war…”

Zhong Bo, hearing this, felt the situation clarify somewhat.

But as for this game, he still could not see the whole picture.

“I have three plans.” Wang Chuan dropped the pieces again, one by one.

“Feign above, plot in the middle;”

“Feign in the middle, plot below;”

“Put oneself to death and seek life thereafter!”

The sound of pieces striking the board was invigorating.

“Do you know, Zhong Bo, we have only ninety-nine guards—every one of them a deathsworn. For more than ten years, it has been so: once a deathsworn, always a deathsworn.” Wang Chuan sighed. “My ‘glorious’ father never intended to bring me home. Sending these men to guard me had a very clear purpose.”

Zhong Bo was stunned, speechless.

He had never imagined it would be so.

At first, he had noticed the fierce aura and ruthless efficiency of the escort—he had thought them simply veterans, blooded in war.

But over the years, he had sometimes wondered. How could these men remain so cold and ruthless for so long? Their routines, their discipline, their very habits unchanged.

Now, thinking back, they were machines for killing.

Their blades even keener than before.

And they never forgot their mission.

“They are of no further use to me—let them guard the Princess’s Mansion. From now on, have them stand sentry with drawn swords! Blades unsheathed!” Wang Chuan made a chopping gesture with his hand. “If anything happens, they are to act as they see fit.”

“Yes!” Zhong Bo said, standing at attention.

This was nothing less than the highest state of military readiness.

Had it really come to this?

“You may go. I will cultivate now,” Wang Chuan said.

“Yes…”

After the other left, Wang Chuan’s figure flickered and vanished; he had slipped into the secret chamber to train.

In the martial path, there were four ranks: Heaven, Earth, Black, and Yellow. Above them were the Immortal and Saint levels, undying and indestructible.

His skin was as tough as leather, his sinews taut as great bows, his bones as hard as iron. He possessed the strength of at least ten oxen; no martial artist below the Heaven rank could stand against him.

Yet, thanks to his concealed cultivation, to others he appeared only a mediocre Yellow-rank failure—his inner energy and constitution both unremarkable.

In truth, his martial attainments were already exceedingly high.

Looking around the world, he wondered if there was anyone who could be his equal. For now, solitude was his only companion.