The lively bustle of Pingle Street was in full swing. The stalls were stacked high with bright red paper, strings of firecrackers, and lacquered trays of sweets—signs that the New Year (the most important festival of the lunar calendar) was near.
“New Year’s goods are quite complete,” murmured Duke Shang Yukuan softly, his voice carrying both satisfaction and fatigue.
As the head of the Duke’s Mansion (a hereditary noble rank one step below a prince), Madam Wei had always been the one overseeing the household’s preparations. He rarely concerned himself with such things. Yet even he couldn’t help but feel a faint joy as he watched the cheerful street, the laughter of merchants mingling with the crisp sound of wind chimes swaying under snow-covered eaves.
Scenes like this stirred something deep within him—memories of his own childhood.
Back then, his father was often away at war, and his mother had passed early. He had lived under his fifth uncle’s roof, wearing thin clothes and eating plain food, yet somehow managed to survive those bitter years.
Now, as snowflakes swirled again outside the window, he couldn’t help wondering if the family still living on that same remote farm was enduring the same cold.
With that thought, he lifted the curtain slightly and called to the attendant outside.
“When we return later,” he said, his tone measured but soft, “buy more New Year’s goods here and have someone deliver them to my fifth uncle’s family at the farm.”
“Yes, Duke,” replied the servant, bowing low.
Satisfied, Shang Yukuan leaned back and closed his eyes, allowing the swaying rhythm of the carriage to lull him as they made their slow way toward the Imperial Palace.
He did not know—hidden within the crowd— many eyes were watching him.
Had the streets not been so crowded with New Year’s shoppers, those in pursuit might have already made their move.
In a shadowed corner stood Luo Yuan and Zheng Deli, both commanders within the Tiger Guards (the imperial elite cavalry charged with covert and battlefield missions). The two men were hidden among the vendors’ stalls, their expressions grim as they kept their gaze fixed on the Duke’s carriage.
Only when the carriage finally turned out of Pingle Street did Luo Yuan exhale quietly.
“That Madam Wei,” he muttered under his breath, “she looks so delicate, yet she dared to hire killers. Once women in the inner court become ruthless, men like us barely stand a chance.”
Zheng Deli snorted, his breath visible in the cold. “Even if a woman like that were as beautiful as a fairy, I wouldn’t dare marry her. Who knows if I’d wake up alive the next morning?”
His words were crude but not without truth. Both men despised Madam Wei’s cruelty, though inwardly, they couldn’t deny a grudging respect for Madam Jiao’s efficiency in finding an assassin. Such skill didn’t come from inexperience—she must have arranged such things more than once.
The hours of waiting dragged by slowly. Yet, for men of the Tiger Guards, patience was second nature. They had once ambushed rebels with General Shang Ji for four days in freezing mountain passes without food or fire—this was nothing in comparison.
At last, dawn crept across the sky. The snow had stopped, and sunlight spilled faintly across the rooftops, bringing a deceptive warmth to the morning air.
The streets grew busier, merchants calling out, children laughing, and the fragrance of roasted chestnuts wafting through the lanes.
When Luo Yuan’s sharp eyes counted over four thousand people moving along the street, he finally spotted it—the carriage of the Duke’s Mansion, approaching slowly from the distance.
“They’re here,” Zheng Deli said quietly, straightening his posture.
Luo Yuan nodded once, his expression sharpening. He kept his stance still and his senses wide, ready to act.
Inside the carriage, Duke Shang Yukuan was resting, half-drowsy. The constant rocking made his eyelids grow heavy.
Up front, the driver tugged the reins and frowned. “Master, the road ahead is blocked,” he called respectfully. “Shall we take a detour, or continue forward?”
Receiving no answer, the driver hesitated—until, without warning, the whistle of an arrow sliced through the air.
A sharp pain followed.
The arrow grazed the driver’s cheek and shot straight into the carriage—burying itself deep into Shang Yukuan’s left arm.
A cry tore from his throat. “Ah!”
The peaceful street instantly plunged into chaos.
“Murder!” someone shouted, and panic swept through the crowd like fire through dry grass. People scattered, knocking over baskets of fruit and bolts of silk in their desperate flight.
The frightened horse reared violently, its hooves crashing against the cobblestones. The driver, thrown off balance, lost his grip on the reins and tumbled into the street.
Inside the carriage, Shang Yukuan clutched his bleeding arm, his vision spinning. The horse bolted forward wildly, dragging the carriage with it. His head slammed against the wooden frame—blood trickled down his temple.
Through the haze of pain, one thought flashed across his mind:
An assassination? In broad daylight?
But there was no time to think. The carriage careened through the crowd, crashing into stalls and scattering terrified townsfolk.
From the shadows, Luo Yuan’s expression hardened. “It’s too wild,” he muttered.
Before he could act, Zheng Deli gestured sharply. “Move!”
At once, the hidden soldiers—plainclothes Tiger Guards—sprang into motion. Some rushed to seize the would-be attackers; others leapt into the path of the runaway horse.
One guard vaulted onto the horse’s back, yanking the reins with all his might. Yet the beast was too far gone, as if driven mad—or drugged.
Seeing no other choice, the man delivered a sharp blow to the horse’s head, then hurled himself into the carriage, pulling the wounded Duke clear as the animal stumbled to a crashing halt.
The horse gave a terrible cry before collapsing in the snow, its body twitching.
Shang Yukuan lay in the guard’s arms, his robe soaked with blood. His lips trembled as he tried to speak.
“Thank you… brave man… I…”
But before he could finish, the distant rhythm of boots thundered closer.
A detachment of the Jingjisi (the capital’s disciplinary patrol bureau charged with maintaining order under imperial law) arrived, their armor clinking as they pushed through the crowd. The leader’s sharp voice rang out:
“Seal off the street! Search every corner! Protect the Duke!”
The rescuer, his task done, slipped quietly back into the crowd and vanished.
Moments later, a shout went up nearby.
“Help! Murderer!”
A man in coarse linen was dragged out, a bow still clutched in his trembling hands—the very weapon that had struck Shang Yukuan.
The Jingjisi surrounded him. The man struggled, but suddenly, his limbs went weak—as if all strength had been drained from his body. In panic, he thought only, It’s over! If they accuse me of killing the Duke, I’m finished!
Meanwhile, a short distance away, the Duke’s servant knelt beside his master’s still body, his own face pale with blood loss.
“Sir!” he cried to the Jingjisi commander. “Help! Someone tried to assassinate the Duke!”
The commander’s face blanched.
Under the very shadow of the Imperial City, someone had dared such audacity?
He barked out orders in quick succession. “Seal off Pingle Street! No one leaves until the assassin’s accomplices are found! Send men to locate the killer immediately!”
“Yes, Commander!”
The patrols scattered into the lanes, blocking exits and shouting commands. Within minutes, the chaos began to settle.
It did not take long to find Duke Shang Yukuan, lying unconscious only a few hundred paces away, his robes darkened with blood. The captured archer was bound and kneeling, his face twisted with fear.
The commander frowned deeply. Everything had happened too neatly, too quickly.
Still, when one of his men hurried over and reported breathlessly, “The Duke has fainted, and his body is covered in blood,” the commander’s doubts were pushed aside.
He straightened immediately. “Call for the imperial physician! Escort the Duke back to the mansion at once!”
And as the sun climbed higher, Pingle Street, once alive with the joy of New Year’s preparations, fell silent under a pall of fear.