A Thousand-Mile Exile, An Encounter with an Old Friend - Chapter 17

The silk cloth, covered in crooked characters pricked out with the tip of a needle, was handed to the Prince of Su.

Li Zhen reached out, his fingers brushing over the texture with a measured touch. He traced the indentations, attempting to decipher Zhu Qinghou’s handwriting.

Beside him, his confidant didn’t dare to breathe too loudly. It was truly strange that criminal slave from the Zhu clan had only entered the Prince’s study once, yet he had already managed to mimic His Highness’s handwriting so quickly?

The subordinate was even more curious about what Zhu Qinghou had written. Had he penned some unspeakable hidden grievance? Or perhaps there was some grave matter he required the Prince to settle?

As the confidant’s mind raced with a thousand different speculations, Li Zhen suddenly stopped moving, appearing as though he were about to issue an order.

The confidant straightened his back, looking solemn. He was prepared to go through fire and water—whether it was raiding a household, exterminating a clan, or dragging a few more death-row prisoners into the Juntai Prison, he wouldn’t flinch.

“Sliced raw fish, crab, mutton soup, yogurt,” Li Zhen said in a cool voice.

The confidant instinctively turned to leave. He was ready to investigate the “Raw Fish Crab Mutton Soup Yogurt” case immediately and throw those corrupt officials into—wait, that’s not right?

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned around, staring blankly at the Prince. These “people” no, these dishes.

Why did His Highness suddenly recite a menu?

Li Zhen remained expressionless, his brows carrying their usual air of indifference. He tapped his lethal fingertips lightly against the silk, looking for all the world like he was about to sign a death warrant.

Instead, the words that left his mouth were: “Have these dishes prepared and sent to the inner palace.”

Confidant: “…”

After a stunned silence, he hurriedly stammered his assent.

Zhu Qinghou sat before a table full of delicacies. He patted his stomach, let out a satisfied burp, and leaned back lazily.

Since Li Zhen could understand his writing, it seemed his “needle-work” wasn’t too bad after all.

He needed to think carefully.

Think about what he wanted for dinner.

Full of enthusiasm, Zhu Qinghou picked up the stylus again, intending to order more food.

The soldier guarding him stared at the silk cloth—identical to the one from noon and fell into deep thought. What exactly was this “ancestor” ordering now?

A pair of hands held a ledger, carefully checking off items. “Young General, this year’s grain supply is complete. It can now be delivered to the granaries of Yongzhou.”

Traveling day and night, the grain transport ships had reached Yongzhou in just three days.

The group was currently at the ferry crossing, tallying the supplies before contacting the local government to report to the Prince of Su and then transferring the goods to the granaries.

The clerk holding the ledger suppressed the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow. He looked cautiously at the man sitting before him, who was perched with his legs crossed in a bold, authoritative manner. Heaven only knew why the “Little Vajra” of Sizhou—the son of Governor Feng—had inexplicably come to deliver grain in person.

Feng Chan was dressed in red, his arms wrapped in iron bracers, with a fiery red iron whip coiled around his fingers. His expression was one of idle nonchalance. “I will handle the liaison with the Prince of Su’s manor.”

The clerk broke into a cold sweat but didn’t dare speak. The world said that after the Prince of Su lost his sight, his temperament had become eccentric. Having dealt with the manor several times, the clerk knew that as long as one didn’t make a mistake, the Prince’s people were actually quite reasonable.

However, Young Master Feng had a fiery temper and a poisonous tongue. If he said something offensive and provoked the Prince’s household, it would be a disaster.

“Perhaps… perhaps it would be better if we went instead?”

Before the clerk could finish, Feng Chan gave him a heavy look, and the man immediately fell silent.

Feng Chan toyed with his iron whip, his eyes lowering slightly. Soon, he would be able to see Xiao Yu.

The Prince of Su’s Manor.

Zhu Qinghou sneezed for no reason, wondering who was talking about him behind his back.

The early spring air was biting; it had been quite cold lately.

He counted the days and realized it had been a month since he last saw Zhu Liujun. He wondered if that brat was crying under his covers at night, calling for his “Xiao Yu.”

At the thought, Zhu Qinghou frowned. He couldn’t set his mind at ease. He picked up the stylus and added a line to today’s “menu.”

He wanted to see Zhu Liujun. He wanted him alive.

Alive, kicking, and healthy.

After a while, the messenger returned, looking hesitant—as if weighing whether he should speak. If he didn’t, this “ancestor” might just tear the roof down.

“His Highness is receiving a guest.”

“A guest?” Zhu Qinghou looked up. In all his time here, he hadn’t noticed Li Zhen having any friends in Yongzhou.

The messenger lowered his eyes and remained silent, clearly unwilling to answer.

He figured that even if he didn’t speak, Zhu Qinghou couldn’t possibly read his mind.

Zhu Qinghou, being as clever as he was, asked lazily, “Has the grain delivery from Sizhou arrived?”

The messenger’s eyelids flickered, but he stayed silent.

Damn it. Zhu Qinghou really could read minds.

The response he received was a pair of fair hands. Zhu Qinghou reached out, and the attendant hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should take the hand, only to hear Zhu Qinghou say, “Give me the letter.”

“I’ll deliver it myself.”

Outside the Prince’s study.

Zhu Qinghou hopped lightly off the palanquin, his robes fluttering behind him. He casually pulled off the purple silk covering his eyes, preparing to walk inside.

The movement was fluid and natural, but it nearly gave the guards a heart attack. Who jumps off a palanquin while supposedly blindfolded?

“Once bitten, twice shy,” but Zhu Qinghou didn’t care about the guards. He glanced around and saw no strangers. He wasn’t sure if the guest had already left or if they were still inside.

As he moved forward, a sword was suddenly thrust across his path. A young soldier in black, holding his sword across his chest, spoke without emotion: “His Highness is receiving a guest. You should not be here.”

Still with a guest?

That meant the person hadn’t left yet.

Zhu Qinghou’s eyes lit up. He stood on his tiptoes and waved toward the front. “Xianpu!”

The soldier was startled and instinctively looked back.

However, the study doors remained tightly shut. There was no one there.

Zhu Qinghou took the opportunity to push the scabbard aside, slipped past him, and stood directly in front of the study door. Just as he was about to push it open, he heard voices from within.

“Your Highness, I heard you’ve acquired a criminal slave. I wonder if you might be feeling generous enough to bestow him upon this official.”

The voice was clear and light—like a cold spring hitting a stone ringing with a relaxed, airy quality.

After this request, there was a long silence inside the study.

The soldier outside heard it too. Knowing the “criminal slave” referred to Zhu Qinghou, he felt a flicker of pity at such a contemptuous remark.

He wondered how Zhu Qinghou would react upon hearing those words…

He turned to look at the young man in purple, intending to offer a word of comfort, but the latter simply pushed the door open and walked in.

“How lively,” Zhu Qinghou remarked casually. Upon scanning the room, he saw only two people.

Li Zhen sat by the window. The light was soft and clear, illuminating his features like carved jade and making his dark collar look like ink while his white robes seemed to glow.

He looked like an immortal lofty and imposing.

Then there was the young man in red sitting below him. His hair was tied with a red ribbon, and his arms were encased in dark iron bracers. Though he sat upright, his posture betrayed a hidden tension.

It didn’t look like a meeting between host and guest.

…It looked like a standoff.

Under the gaze of both men, Zhu Qinghou walked inside without batting an eye. He approached Li Zhen, and just as he was about to ask someone to bring a chair, he realized the armchair he usually sat in was still in its place, unmoved.

He arched an eyebrow, pulled the chair closer, and sat down right next to Li Zhen.

“Why has everyone stopped talking?” Zhu Qinghou asked nonchalantly.

The study fell into a heavy silence.

Outside the window, the branches swayed in the biting spring wind, cutting the light into faint, cold shadows.

Feng Chan’s gaze fell on Zhu Qinghou’s hand. That hand was resting on the Prince’s arm in a lazy, familiar manner as if this intimacy were an old habit.

He pressed his fingertips together and slowly withdrew his gaze. Keeping his voice neutral, he asked, “Your Highness, this person is…?”

Li Zhen’s voice was as flat as ever, perhaps even a touch colder than usual. “The grain delivery is settled. You may return to Sizhou now.”

He was dismissing him?

Even though he knew the other man couldn’t see him, Feng Chan kept his expression guarded. “My father has long heard of Your Highness’s reputation. They say that back then, you were the one most likely to—”

He stopped abruptly, seemingly inviting a follow-up question.

Li Zhen clearly had no interest in pursuing the topic. With a cold, detached expression, he tilted his head slightly. Zhu Qinghou sensed what he was about to say and quickly pressed down on Li Zhen’s hand, cutting in first.

“Who is this person?” Zhu Qinghou asked lazily, openly inquiring about Feng Chan’s identity right in front of him.

Li Zhen remained expressionless and asked back coolly, “You don’t know?”

The way he said it made it sound as though they were merely pretending not to know each other.

Which, in fact, they were.

While rubbing Li Zhen’s fingers—from the long tips to the slight protrusion of the knuckles—as if playing with a beautiful ornament, Zhu Qinghou replied, “Should I know him?”

With one sentence, he threw the question back to Li Zhen.

Li Zhen pulled his hand away. He had no interest in playing these word games and issued a cold order to leave: “Someone, see the guest out.”

In the next instant, the study doors swung wide. Two soldiers stood there with their swords held across their chests, smiling as they made a “please” gesture. Their smiles were polite but distant, carrying the same cold indifference as their master.

Feng Chan stood up and bowed with his hands clasped. His voice was clear and calm. “This official takes his leave.”

Before departing, he stole a glance at the young man in purple with the cinnabar mark between his brows. The other man was leaning against the Prince of Su, toyed with a lock of the Prince’s hair, and glanced back at him with a lazy, sidelong look.

Zhu Qinghou silently mouthed two words: “Save me.”

Feng Chan’s footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second. He didn’t look back again, turned around, and walked out.

From beginning to end, Zhu Qinghou only looked at Feng Chan twice. He seemed entirely absorbed in playing with Li Zhen’s fingers and hair, appearing completely indifferent to Feng Chan as a person.

He thought to himself slowly: Feng Chan didn’t arrive too late.

This person might be useful.

As for how to use him… Zhu Qinghou hadn’t decided yet.

“What did you say to him?”

A voice like still water suddenly echoed in his ear deep and cold—nearly startling Zhu Qinghou.

“What do you mean, ‘what did I say’?” Zhu Qinghou countered. “You were in this study with him for so long; what did you say?”

The thief calling “stop thief” turning the tables completely. Regardless of the situation, Zhu Qinghou would never allow himself to lose an argument.

Li Zhen said nothing. The study fell back into a deathly silence, so quiet one could hear a pin drop.

The wind rattled the curtains, and the silk documents on the desk rustled. The sky outside darkened as if rain were imminent.

Amidst the growing silence, Zhu Qinghou moved. He slapped today’s letter onto the desk. “I wrote you a letter. Read it now.”

After a few heartbeats, Li Zhen finally reached out, took the letter, and began to “read” it.

His voice remained cold: “You want to see Zhu Liujun?”

Support A Thousand-Mile Exile, An Encounter with an Old Friend