Du Jingyi had not closed her eyes since setting out early that morning.
She was no soldier like Shang Ji, who spent his days enduring the high intensity of military training. For her, today’s pace—though hardly leisurely—felt almost like a rare reprieve.
When she finally returned to the familiar stillness of her own chambers, Du Jingyi cast aside all restraint. She lifted the hem of her silk skirt, crossed the threshold, and leaned against the embroidered brocade pillow laid atop the kang (a heated brick bed commonly found in northern residences).
A soft sigh escaped her lips. “It’s always more comfortable at home.”
Hearing that, Shang Ji let out a quiet laugh. “But I noticed that you seemed quite happy at the Du residence.”
“The General only knows one side of the matter,” she replied, her tone light but her eyes carrying hidden meaning.
“Oh?” His brows lifted faintly. “Then this humble husband would like to hear the other side.”
Du Jingyi saw that he was asking with genuine interest, yet the solemn way he straightened his back made her stifle a laugh. She coughed lightly and then, adopting a mock-serious tone, began to speak.
“Although I am married, I am still the daughter of the Du family. My parents always worry about me. Before, they feared I might be wronged here in the Duke’s Mansion. Now, they worry that one day I might offend someone of high rank and bring disaster upon them.”
She smiled faintly, though her voice softened into quiet truth. “With such worries lingering over them, I have to do my utmost to ease their hearts. Otherwise, if they live in constant concern, it would wear away at them. But… while smiling is easy, truly smiling every time is not. So though my body may not be tired, my mind feels worn.”
Her words fell softly—each one sincere, carrying the delicate ache of filial piety.
Shang Ji, listening, felt something stir within him. He had seen her wit and liveliness many times before, but this quiet vulnerability was rare.
A trace of guilt pressed on his chest. He stepped forward and drew her gently into his arms, his voice low and steady.
“From now on, you don’t have to always be cheerful before me. Show me everything—your joy, your anger, your sadness. If I make mistakes, tell me plainly. I am no scholar clinging to pride. If you must pour cold water over me, then pour it—I can take it.”
His sincerity startled a laugh out of her.
“General, are you telling me to be bold in teaching my husband in the future?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation, the corner of his lips lifting faintly.
“Oh?” She tilted her head playfully. “You really won’t get angry?”
“No.”
His tone was firm, as if sealing an oath. Du Jingyi studied him for a moment and realized he spoke the truth.
Though stern and authoritative outside, Shang Ji had never once raised his voice at her within the household. Even during their first days of marriage—when both were strangers treading carefully—he had always treated her with steady composure.
A tender warmth bloomed within her. She raised her arms and circled them around his waist, pressing her cheek against his chest, a soft hum of contentment escaping her lips.
After a long, quiet moment, Shang Ji straightened her slightly, his gaze earnest.
“Madam,” he said solemnly, “please sit properly. I have something to ask.”
Du Jingyi arched a brow in mild surprise. “Ask? Then please speak freely, General. I’ll tell you all I know.”
“I overheard you and my father-in-law discussing the agricultural disaster in the northern border,” he began. “I want to ask—do you have any solution in mind?”
“A disaster across the entire region?” she asked carefully.
Shang Ji nodded.
Du Jingyi thought for a while, then asked, “General, are you referring to Cezhou?”
“Yes. I’ve been stationed in Cezhou for many years,” he replied. “In the early days, I followed my grandfather on campaign. Later, I settled there and came to know its people well. Every winter, the crops suffer from frost and drought, leaving the people short of food for the coming year.”
He exhaled slowly, eyes shadowed by memory. “We’ve opened the granaries for relief before, but that’s no long-term solution. If there were a way to resolve it, even partially, the people of Cezhou could finally live in peace.”
Hearing his words, Du Jingyi’s expression turned thoughtful. “My past methods only protected the Du family’s business. They were small matters, hardly worth mentioning. But to address the plight of an entire province…” She shook her head slightly. “That would not be easy.”
Then, after a pause, she added seriously, “However, please give me a few days to think carefully. If you have any trusted men in Cezhou who know the local conditions well, could you allow them to share some information with me? It would help me form a clearer plan.”
She didn’t promise outright—because she knew her own limits. Yet her willingness to try spoke of quiet determination. Even if she could only lessen the suffering, it would be worth the effort.
Shang Ji felt a wave of relief at her straightforwardness, and his voice softened. “Madam, just do what you can. Don’t bear the burden too heavily. Cezhou’s troubles have long roots—it borders Great Jin and other foreign lands, always on the edge of conflict. Stability there has never come easily.”
Du Jingyi nodded slowly. A faint thought flickered through her mind, elusive, yet she chose not to voice it for now.
“Rest assured, General,” she said instead, her tone calm. “I understand the weight of this matter.”
“Good.”
Shang Ji gave a small, satisfied nod. He hadn’t expected a family meal to produce such a capable “advisor,” yet since fate had offered it, he would not waste the opportunity.
The following morning, he summoned Ni Yang, Lieutenant General of the Tiger Guards (a corps of elite imperial soldiers stationed under Shang Ji’s command).
Compared to warriors like Luo Yuan and Liu Xun, Ni Yang appeared less imposing—but his eyes were steady, and he carried a thick booklet in his arms, as if prepared for an accounting.
“Ni Yang, deputy general of the Tiger Guards, greets the General and Young Madam,” he said, bowing deeply.
“Rise,” Shang Ji ordered.
“Yes, General.”
Turning to his wife, Shang Ji introduced, “Ni Yang is one of the twelve deputy generals of the Huben Army. In addition to leading troops, he oversees military pay and rations, so he deals most often with the people of Cezhou. You may ask him whatever you wish—he might not know everything, but he can answer most matters accurately.”
Ni Yang nodded in agreement. Though slightly puzzled why the General’s wife wished to hear about military provisions, he would not question an order.
“Young Madam,” he said respectfully, “please speak. I will answer as best I can.”
“Deputy General Ni, you’re too polite,” Du Jingyi replied gently. “Then, without delay—do you have a record of the main crops grown by the people of Cezhou? How many rely on farming for their livelihood? Which crops are most affected by natural disasters each year? Please tell me all that you know.”
Ni Yang’s face grew serious as he listened. He had not expected the delicate, refined lady before him to ask with such precision. But seeing her sincerity, he quickly composed himself and answered earnestly.
“Cezhou is vast but sparsely populated,” he began. “Much of its land is dry and sandy—unsuited to lush cultivation. Most of what the people plant are crops that need little water and endure heat well, mainly wheat and cotton.”
He paused, then continued, his tone heavier. “But the people of Cezhou have no skilled farmers, nor effective methods for irrigation or harvesting. Each natural calamity brings famine. In bad years, there’s no harvest at all. In better ones—barely enough to survive.”