The promise made in the plum garden, the jade pendant worn close to my body, was like pressing a red-hot ember against my heart. By day, I was still the Su family's young master who required quiet recuperation and rarely showed his face—drinking medicine, reading books, occasionally basking in the sun in the courtyard under Father's worried gaze. Night, however, became an entirely different time.
Xiao Yuhuang, as she had said, did not frequently risk coming in person. But what she left behind was far more than a single jade pendant.
On the third day after our pledge, a middle-aged woman with an ordinary appearance and a calm demeanor was brought into my courtyard by Mother. Mother only said that she was a former female medical officer from the palace, surnamed Qin, highly skilled in recuperative treatment, and that the Empress, in her consideration, had specially granted her to tend to my health. Aunt Qin was sparing with words, yet her medical skill was exceptional. Her pulse diagnoses and prescriptions differed greatly from those of the imperial physicians before, focusing more on strengthening the foundation and nourishing vitality, rather than blindly warming and suppressing symptoms.
Only I knew that when she took my pulse each morning, the particular rhythm of pressure beneath her fingers was a prearranged signal agreed upon with Xiao Yuhuang. Beneath the pulse record, there would occasionally be an extra sheet of paper, thin as a cicada's wing, written with a special medicinal solution that only revealed its words when heated.
The first note contained only four characters: "Do not worry. Wait calmly."
I knew she was reassuring me—and gathering strength.
I did not remain entirely passive. Using "the tedium of recuperation" as an excuse, I asked Mother for more court bulletins and publicly issued imperial decrees to read. Father initially opposed it, afraid it would tax my mind, but after a moment of silence, Mother unexpectedly agreed, merely instructing Aunt Qin to keep close watch on my condition.
Thus, through those dry lines of text, I was able to glimpse a corner of the shifting currents of the court.
After the First Imperial Daughter, Xiao Lintian, took charge of assisting the Ministries of Revenue and Works, her movements were significant. The Ministry of Revenue began auditing deficits from previous years, arresting several officials of middling rank, recovering a fair amount of funds and grain, and earning widespread praise for being "impartial and iron-fisted, rectifying discipline." The Ministry of Works, meanwhile, started planning repairs to sections of the official road from the capital to the northern border, claiming it was to "facilitate border defense and promote commerce." But anyone with insight could see that this was laying the groundwork for deeper involvement in northern affairs.
The Eighth Imperial Daughter, Xiao Linyue, though still "recuperating from injuries" at her residence, saw the military generals under her command speaking ever more forcefully at court. They repeatedly questioned the lack of clarity in the accounts of recovered funds and grain, and challenged the inflated budgets for road repairs, warning that they might open the door to corruption. The two sides clashed head-on in court, the smell of gunpowder growing thicker by the day.
As for Xiao Yuhuang, she remained hidden in the shadows. Her name rarely appeared in the heated debates, yet a careful observer would notice that whenever His Majesty inquired into specific administrative details—such as the precise relief procedures after flooding in a certain region, the pros and cons of new regulations for grain transport escorts, or even the tax particulars of border markets—there would always be one or two incisive, practical suggestions quietly adopted. The proposer might be a neutral official, or an unassuming yet capable clerk from one of the Six Ministries. But when Second Sister Su Fei came to visit me one day, she casually remarked, "Strange. The new performance assessment method proposed the other day by Vice Minister Zhao of the Ministry of Personnel—upon closer examination, it's astonishingly similar to a passage in a memorial submitted by the Third Imperial Daughter two years ago, the one that was shelved."
I knew then—it was Xiao Yuhuang's hand at work. She was infiltrating, using the insight accumulated from years of cold observation, using meticulous planning beneath a facade of noncontention, bit by bit, like water dripping through stone, seeping her ideas and influence into the sinews of the court.
This required immense patience and even more exquisite control. Fingering the jade pendant at my chest, I could imagine her within the deep palace, calculating in solitude, selecting her pieces, grasping the timing of when to speak. That endurance and precision filled me with admiration—and a trace of chill.
What could I do for her?
Direct participation in court politics was a fantasy. The only thing I possessed was a way of thinking and fragments of knowledge utterly different from this world.
One day, the secret note Aunt Qin passed to me bore slightly disordered handwriting, containing only a single short line: "A corruption case in grain transport has erupted. Many under the First Imperial Daughter are implicated. Yet to tug one hair moves the whole body; they fear striking the rat and shattering the vessel. Deadlock persists."
Grain transport? My heart stirred.
Though I had not specialized in it in my previous life, the basic principles of logistics and accountability in engineering management were universal. Grain transport in this era was mostly controlled by major families and local officials, layer upon layer of exploitation, low efficiency, rampant corruption. The First Imperial Daughter's faction was deeply involved; the web of interests must be deeply rooted and difficult to shake.
After long contemplation, I spread out a plain sheet of paper and took up my brush, dipping it in ink—but I did not write a direct policy proposal. Instead, under the guise of "reflections from reading history" and "chance gleanings from ancient methods," I hastily penned several passages that looked like casual jottings.
One passage mentioned a river-control effort in a previous dynasty, which employed the method of "segmented contracting, fixed deadlines, heavy penalties for delays, and rewards for excellence," achieving remarkable results. Another chatted idly about reading in a miscellany of foreign lands overseas, where the transport of bulk goods used a system of "joint transport contracts," in which cargo owners contracted with multiple carriers, clearly defining responsibilities—one delay triggering accountability along the entire chain. Finally, I added a few vague lines: "Water too clear holds no fish, yet flowing water does not rot, door hinges do not decay—the crux lies in the mechanisms of 'living water' and 'pivoting hinges'…"
Not a single line pointed directly to grain transport, nor did a single word touch upon court factional struggles. I merely wrapped concepts like "segmented responsibility," "clear accountability," "introducing competition," and "maintaining systemic fluidity"—basic ideas from modern management—inside old texts and hazy metaphors.
When I finished, I blew the ink dry, rolled up the paper, and handed it to Aunt Qin, saying only softly, "I've had some scattered thoughts from reading lately and scribbled them down at random. If Aunt finds them not too unsightly, perhaps… they could be used to pass the time with someone."
Aunt Qin looked at me deeply, took it without a word, and tucked it into her sleeve.
I did not know whether Xiao Yuhuang would understand the implications within, or what she might think of them. This was, at present, the most oblique—and the boldest—attempt I could make.
The news fell silent for several days.