Volume One: The Hidden Dragon in the Abyss Chapter Seven: Suspicion

“Yes.”
Old Zhong’s eyes brimmed with tears.
His Majesty—who could know what he was thinking? It was as if he had truly forgotten this son of his; not a single letter, not a single word.
So Old Zhong undertook the task himself.
Marquis Wu of Cheng had already arrived outside the city, at the post station.
Tomorrow, he would formally meet the Lord of Wei and attend the banquet.
...
As for the Crown Prince of Jin—
Ah, His Highness the Crown Prince.
The only order he had received, in truth, was simply to “take a look.”
So he would go and take a look.
Qi Hao never speculated about what the emperor might be thinking; this was one reason he was so favored, so trusted.
Nor did he care for other matters—once he returned to the capital and made his report, he could continue to lead the army northward and focus on his own strategies.
What he needed to do was go see Wang Chuan and later, upon returning to his country, give a faithful account of what he had witnessed.
At most, when the Lord of Jin asked, “What do you make of the boy?” he would answer honestly, expressing his true impression.
So all he needed was to go and see for himself.
When Old Zhong came to see him, he received him with utmost respect and sent him on his way...
A letter?
So this would be his first impression of the Crown Prince, whom he had never met.
Qi Hao read it carefully, word by word—and found himself thoroughly disappointed.
So impatient?
He hadn’t even entered the city, yet a letter was already sent—filled with nothing but longing for home, for his father, for an early return.
So little endurance?
Unable to bear even this much pressure?
What was he afraid of?
Yes, Qi Hao was deeply disappointed.
He calmed himself and turned to his books—this time, the biography of Lü Buwei.
In those days, Yiren served as a hostage prince. Because of the ancient enmity between the two states, Qin attacked Zhao repeatedly; Zhao did not treat Yiren with honor. As the grandson of the king of Qin, born of a lesser consort, he was sent to Zhao as a hostage, disregarded and impoverished in daily life.
Lü Buwei thus saw an opportunity for profit.
“How much profit does farming yield?”
“Tenfold.”
“And trading in pearls and jade?”
“A hundredfold.”
“And installing a ruler on a throne?”
“Infinite.”
Now, it seemed, Wang Chuan would not make for a promising investment.
The sky grew dark and heavy, the courtyard gloomy and unlit, a chill already in the northern wind.
A hole had been cut in the roof—a skylight, of sorts.
Wang Chuan sat cross-legged in meditation, his body beginning to tremble, pores opening as if to absorb the essence of the moon.
His mind entered a wondrous state, and insight came.
Qi circulated throughout his body, winding and entwining.
With sun and moon refining his spirit, his soul grew clear and free of distractions, his resolve only more steadfast.
It was time for him to act.
Wang Chuan draped a fox-fur cloak about his shoulders; his pallor grew ever more severe, his body shivering.
Old Zhong approached, knocking gently at the door.
“What is it?”
“Your Highness, a young man named Yang Hao is here to see you. I’ve never heard of him.”
Wang Chuan had not heard of him either and shook his head. “Send him away.”
Old Zhong acknowledged the order and left, but soon returned to knock again. “Your Highness, he says he is willing to support you with all his wealth and influence here in Wei...”
“Send him away,” Wang Chuan repeated.
Old Zhong departed but quickly returned once more. “Your Highness, he says this is his final request. He has brought a renowned physician, and wishes the entire courts of Wei and Jin to know of your grave illness...”
Wang Chuan considered a moment. “Very well. He may wait.”
...

Qi Hao’s carriage and escort entered Luocheng, observed by many townsfolk.
Neither ostentatious nor overly humble, he proceeded as any diplomat might.
The Lord of Wei had prepared a banquet for him, though the day was still young.
Layered clouds stretched, scale-like and neat, above the vast palace; the sight was grand and imposing, like mountains pressing in.
It was not Wang Chuan’s first time in the Wei royal palace—though it might well be his last.
Let it be so; he had long been prepared to face this sovereign.
A storm was gathering.
Now and then, palace maids in pale blue skirts passed by, eunuchs with dusters in hand, stepping delicately along the corridors—everyone moved with respectful caution.
The chief eunuch leading the way had presumably tried many times to discern Wang Chuan’s cultivation, all to no avail.
They entered the great hall, where music, singing, and revelry already filled the air.
The emperor was present, Qi Hao was present, and so were other ministers.
Those who cared for him most were already eager to observe Wang Chuan.
He responded with anxious courtesy, glancing often toward Qi Hao, wishing to speak but ultimately holding back.
The Lord of Wei raised his cup several times; Wang Chuan followed, though his movements were slow and wooden.
Otherwise, he remained motionless, shrinking into himself like an ostrich.
He could not follow the conversation at the high table.
“Wang Chuan,”
The Lord of Wei called out suddenly.
Whatever the topic had been, all conversation ceased at once.
Wang Chuan, startled, hastened to rise and bow, but in his flustered state, bumped into the table. “Your Majesty...”
The Lord of Wei was in his forties, still in his prime, and his cultivation was not low.
His features were chiseled and stern, his eyes deep and commanding. Dressed in a yellow robe, he exuded an aura of sovereignty.
“Wang Chuan, you’re nearly grown. Do you miss your home?” the Lord of Wei asked.
“In this delight, I do not yearn for Jin,” Wang Chuan blurted out.
A few ironic laughs rippled through the hall—these dignitaries, usually so composed, could not help themselves.
“Truly? You do not miss it?” the Lord pressed.
“No... I do not,” Wang Chuan hesitated, instinctively glancing back.
“Who taught you to answer so?” asked the Lord.
“Old Zhong...” Wang Chuan began, then stopped abruptly, realizing his mistake.
The others exchanged glances.
The Lord of Wei laughed heartily, his thoughts inscrutable. Then he addressed Wang Chuan again: “I hear you angered your tutor recently. You are nearly a man now, you should show respect for your teachers and elders. Years ago, your parents entrusted you to my care, but I have had little time to look after you. Today, since the occasion presents itself, why don’t you compose a poem and let me see your learning? Will you?” He clapped his hands. “Someone—bring writing materials for my nephew!”
Eunuchs and maids swiftly brought forth a desk and the scholar’s four treasures.
Wang Chuan’s eyes widened. He scratched his head. “Your Majesty, I’m not inspired today. Perhaps another day...”
“Today!” The Lord’s will was unyielding, his gaze fixed upon him.
Wang Chuan stood there with head bowed, silent—a wordless resistance.
The ink had already been ground, the maid still stood by, awaiting his move.
The air grew tense, teetering on the edge of stalemate.
“It must be you, wretch, who failed to grind the ink properly, and now my nephew is uninspired!” The Lord suddenly pointed to the maid at the center of the hall. “Take her out and behead her!”
The girl, aghast, fell to her knees, sobbing and pleading for mercy. “Have mercy, Your Majesty! Spare me, Your Majesty...”
Guards stepped forward, dragging her away with chilling indifference.
The sight was grim, but no one dared to protest for fear of incurring wrath.
“If my nephew cannot compose a poem, what use are you?” the Lord raged.
This was directed at the maid—
But also, unmistakably, at Wang Chuan.
“If you cannot compose a poem, Wang Chuan, what use are you?”
A message with two targets.
“Your Majesty, I will compose one!”
Wang Chuan declared in a clear voice.
The Lord waved his hand; the guards halted.
The maid had been dragged to the door, face manic and spiritless, muttering pleas for mercy still.
The Lord watched Wang Chuan in silence.

Looking at Wang Chuan, fist clenched, the faint trace of youthful pride appeared on his face.
With an air of righteousness, Wang Chuan pointed and declared, “Since the desk is not far, I shall compose a poem in seven steps.”
He moved forward, step by step.
In that moment, many felt an illusion—as if his back straightened with each stride, the timid fool of before vanished, replaced by someone altogether different.
He grasped the brush, it danced—the poem was written in a single, unbroken flow.
A eunuch hurried over and presented it with both hands held high.
The Lord of Wei seemed pleased with his bearing, nodding slightly.
But when he read the poem, he shot to his feet, clutching the paper so hard veins bulged on his hands, his pupils contracting.
Everyone could see—the emperor was furious!
Even from his reaction alone, something was clearly amiss.
Those who knew him well realized he was struggling mightily to suppress his rage.
All present grew tense, though the matter had little to do with them.
“Well, well!”
“A fine poem!”
“Indeed, you are my good nephew! My sister bore a fine son! Wang Yang bore a fine son!”
“A reward! A rich reward!”
His voice rang out powerfully, echoing through the hall...
Yet it only made his fury more evident, overwhelming in its intensity.
He fixed his gaze on Wang Chuan, as if to say, Do you think I would not kill you?
Wang Chuan stood motionless below, his expression calm and composed, meeting his gaze in silence.
Only his spine was straight, unbending...
“It’s late. The banquet is over.”
The Lord of Wei swept his sleeves and departed.
The eunuchs quickly called for the return to the palace, hurrying after him.
Wang Chuan bowed deeply, saluting in farewell.
Bent low, he smiled where none could see.
“Your Majesty, are you satisfied with this version of me?”
“If I play the fool too well, even I cannot believe it, and I become a joke.”
“If I show too much wit, you’ll never tolerate me—you’d strangle me in the cradle rather than let me become a threat to Wei.”
“It’s so hard to strike the right balance.”
“For now,”
“My dear uncle,”
“Are you satisfied?”
...
“So the Crown Prince is about to spread his wings—how high can he soar? Will he fly straight to the heavens?”
Qi Hao was deeply interested in what had transpired in the hall.
Like everyone else, he was intensely curious about the poem, eager to gauge the young man’s depth.
Soon, the poem reached his ears, and quickly spread throughout the capital.
This poem, this person—his heart’s frustrations and grievances poured forth in unrestrained emotion, the words brimming with force.
“Three thousand miles from my homeland,”
“Twenty years within palace walls.”
“One cry of ‘He Manzi,’”
“Tears fall twice before the lord.”
“I always said the ‘Meat-Eating’ Crown Prince was only feigning madness!”
...
Night had fallen; spirits were low.
On street corners and in alleys, townsfolk gossiped over tea or around warm hearths at home.
Those who could read were surrounded by the illiterate, who admired them for their learning and were awestruck by what they could not understand.
Tales from the court had already set listeners’ hearts racing, as if they themselves had been present in that distant, stormy hall.