Ten days after the successful test firing of the "Tuhuo Gun" (Erupting Fire Gun), Shen Lingcheng reported: "Three hundred units have been rushed to completion." This was five days ahead of Zhao Xu's half-month deadline.
When the news reached the Chuipao Hall, Zhao Xu was reviewing memorials. He put down his brush and glanced at me—I was sitting behind a pearl curtain, copying an imperial edict for him. He said nothing, but I saw his shoulders relax slightly.
"Let Shen Lingcheng enter the palace," he said. "And bring the items."
When Shen Lingcheng entered, he carried the scent of gunpowder. A portion of his beard was singed, and the bandages on his left hand were thicker than before, yet his eyes shone with an intense light. Behind him followed six craftsmen from the Armory, each holding a Tuhuo Gun.
Of course, all three hundred guns could not be brought into the Chuipao Hall. These six were samples, each carefully wrapped in cloth and placed on wooden stands. Shen Lingcheng personally unveiled the first one, revealing a brand-new Tuhuo Gun—the copper barrel gleamed, the iron hoops fit seamlessly, and the wooden stock was polished smooth, even coated with a layer of tung oil.
"Your Majesty, Your Highness," Shen Lingcheng's voice was hoarse, carrying the fatigue of several sleepless nights, yet every word was articulated clearly. "All three hundred Tuhuo Guns have been test-fired. Eleven exploded and have been recast. Two hundred and eighty-nine are qualified, each accompanied by thirty portions of powder and fifty projectiles."
Two hundred and eighty-nine, I calculated mentally. With three thousand defenders in Huanzhou plus the Firearm Battalion, distributing these two hundred-plus guns among the elite troops would be sufficient for defending the city.
Zhao Xu stood up and walked toward the gun. He reached out and touched the copper barrel. His movement was gentle, as if touching something incredibly precious.
"Shen Lingcheng," he said, "you have worked hard."
Shen Lingcheng's eyes reddened. He knelt and kowtowed. "This servant is not tired. I..." His voice choked slightly. "On behalf of the soldiers at the border, I thank Your Majesty and Your Highness."
Zhao Xu bent down and helped him up. "It is I who should thank you on behalf of everyone under heaven."
When Shen Lingcheng stood up, his hands were trembling—not from fear, but from excitement.
That afternoon, Zhao Xu summoned Gao Zunxian in the Chuipao Hall.
When Gao Zunxian entered, his back was straight, and he walked with vigor. At forty-seven, he was the Commander of the Palace Front, controlling the most elite units of the Imperial Guard. After Zhao Xu assumed personal rule, he had transferred Gao from the northwest back to the capital. This man had fought all his life and knew the Western Xia better than anyone.
"Gao Zunxian," Zhao Xu said, sitting on the dragon throne, his voice quiet but steady, "I want you to send someone to deliver the Tuhuo Guns to Huanzhou."
"Yes." Gao Zunxian bowed with clasped hands. "I have already selected the escort team. Two hundred elite guardsmen, on fast horses with light armor, traveling day and night, can reach Huanzhou within seven days."
"Seven days?"
"Yes. Using the relay stations, changing horses but not riders."
Zhao Xu nodded. "Depart tonight."
"Yes."
After Gao Zunxian withdrew, Zhao Xu walked behind the pearl curtain and sat down beside me. He removed his crown and rubbed his brow.
"What are you worried about?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"Liar. You rubbed your brow."
He glanced at me, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "Nothing escapes you."
"Then tell me."
He fell silent for a moment. "I am thinking—what if this thing doesn't work? What if an explosion hurts our own people? What if—"
"Zhao Xu." I interrupted him.
He looked at me.
"You ordered these made. You decided to fight this war. No matter the outcome, I stand by your side."
He paused, then lowered his head, pressing his forehead against mine. "I know."
That night, I went to the Imperial Kitchen.
Cui'er followed behind me, trotting all the way. "Your Highness, what are you doing? Let this servant do it—"
"No need. I will do it myself."
I tied on an apron, washed my hands, and began kneading dough. Flour scattered through my fingers, falling into the basin, fine and dense like snow. I added a spoonful of sugar, then two, then three—Zhao Xu's preferred sweetness.
The osmanthus flowers had been dried last autumn and stored in a porcelain jar; opening it filled the room with fragrance. I kneaded the osmanthus into the dough, slowly, stroke by stroke.
Cui'er watched me, hesitating to speak.
"Ask whatever you want to ask."
"Your Highness..." she paused. "Are you worried about His Majesty?"
I didn't answer. I placed the dough on the cutting board and began to roll it out. The rolling pin moved over the dough, spreading it thin and round.
"Your Highness, His Majesty won't go to the front lines. General Gao said they are just delivering the guns—"
"I know," I said. But my hands didn't stop. I cut the dough into small pieces, shaped them into flowers, and arranged them one by one in the steamer. I put it on the stove, turned up the heat, and waited.
Cui'er fell silent.
Steam billowed from the steamer, making the Imperial Kitchen warm and cozy. I stood before the stove, watching the white steam rise, scatter, and disappear into the rafters. I just wanted to make something to eat. For him. And for those soldiers who were leaving.
Early the next morning, before the sky was fully bright, two hundred elite guardsmen were already lined up in the parade ground. Each rode a horse, carrying a bow and a sword, with three days' rations tucked at their waists. In the middle of the formation were ten carriages covered with oilcloth. Beneath the cloth lay the two hundred and eighty-nine Tuhuo Guns, along with crates of gunpowder and projectiles.
Gao Zunxian stood before the troops, conducting a final inspection. He walked to each carriage, lifted the oilcloth to take a look, and covered it again. His movements were sharp and efficient; he spoke not a single extra word.
Zhao Xu stood on the high platform. He wore casual robes, without his crown. The wind blew at the hem of his gown. His back was straight, his chin slightly raised, his expression calm—but I knew he was not calm. He had barely slept the night before, tossing and turning; I pretended to sleep, thinking he didn't know I was aware.
I stood beside him, holding a bundle.
"What is that?" he asked.
"For them."
He asked no further.
When Gao Zunxian finished his inspection, he returned, knelt on one knee, and said, "Your Majesty, the troop is ready."
Zhao Xu nodded. He stepped forward to the edge of the platform, looking down at the two hundred horses, two hundred riders, and ten carriages.
"Gentlemen," he said. His voice was not loud, but in the morning silence, every word was clear. "What you hold in your hands is something the Great Song has never possessed before. The journey to Huanzhou is fraught with danger. But I want you to remember—you are not going to your deaths. You are going to deliver victory."
He paused.
"I will be here in the capital, waiting for your return."
The two hundred men knelt in unison. "We obey your decree!"
Gao Zunxian stood up, turned around, and raised his hand. "Depart!"
The carriages moved. The horses moved. The column slowly rolled out of the parade ground, passed through the palace gates, and disappeared at the end of the long street.
Dust rose, floating in the morning light, golden in hue.
Zhao Xu stood motionless on the platform, watching the direction where the troop had vanished. His hand was clenched into a fist at his side.
I walked to his side and handed him the bundle.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Distribute these for me. It is not appropriate for me to do it."
He took the bundle and opened it. Inside were three hundred sets of knee pads and wrist guards—sewn from coarse cloth. Each set was tied with a strip of fabric bearing two characters: Ping An (Safe/Peace).
He flipped through them pair by pair. Every set was there. Three hundred sets, none missing. His finger stopped on one particular set—the stitching was crooked and uglier than all the others.
That was the one he had secretly gotten up to sew in the middle of the night yesterday. He thought I didn't know. But I had heard it—the slight "hiss" when the needle pricked his finger.
He turned to look at me. His ears turned red.
"You—"
"You sewed very poorly," I said.
"...You saw?"
"Mm. You pricked your finger three times."
His ears turned even redder. Without speaking, he gripped that knee pad tightly in his hand.
"Zhao Xu."
"Mm."
"We will win."
He looked at me, silent for a moment. Then he smiled. It wasn't his usual curved smile, but another kind—the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, light in his eyes, like the winter morning sun.
"I know," he said.
That night, Zhao Xu was reviewing memorials in the Kunning Hall. I sat opposite him, making osmanthus cakes for him—the batch made during the day had been given to the soldiers for their journey; this batch was specially for him.
He finished one memorial, glanced up at me, looked down, and finished another.
"Why are you looking at me?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"Liar. You looked three times."
He put down his brush and looked at me.
"A-Heng."
"Mm."
"Why did you sew knee pads for them?"
"Because they are going to war."
"You don't know them."
"They are your soldiers," I said, looking at him. "Your soldiers are my soldiers."
He paused, then lowered his head, picked up his brush, and continued reviewing memorials. But I saw the corner of his mouth lift.
After a while, he looked up again.
"A-Heng."
"Mm."
"I want a pair too."
"Don't you already have one? The one you sewed yourself."
"That one is too ugly."
"Then why did you sew it?"
"Because..." He paused, his ears turning red. "Since you sewed three hundred pairs, I wanted to sew one too. To do it with you."
My heart skipped a beat.
"Zhao Xu."
"Mm."
"You are an emperor; why are you sewing knee pads?"
"An emperor is also human." He looked at me, his eyes bright. "An emperor also wants to do the same things as his Empress."
I said nothing. I stood up, walked to him, and extended my hand.
"Give me your hand."
He paused, then extended his hand. I took it, turned it over, and examined his fingers. There was one needle mark on his index finger, two on his middle finger, and one on his ring finger. Four little red dots.
"Look," I said. "You pricked it four times."
"Three times. You said three."
"There's one more you didn't count. You pricked it again when you were finishing up."
His ears were so red they seemed about to bleed. "You... how do you know everything?"
"Because I am watching you," I said. "Everything you do, I remember."
He looked at me, the light in his eyes trembling slightly. Then he reversed his grip and held my hand tightly.
"A-Heng."
"Mm."
"After I finish this war—I will take you to Suzhou."
"You haven't fought yet. The soldiers are fighting."
"Then after the soldiers finish fighting—I will take you to Suzhou. To see Feng Bridge, to see Tiger Hill, to see your grandmother's noodle shop."
"Okay."
"Is it a promise?"
"It's a promise."
He extended his hand, pinky finger raised. Looking at his raised pinky, I remembered many years ago in the Imperial Garden, when he had raised his pinky to make a promise with me. Back then, his hand was small, able to hold only two of my fingers. Now his hand was large, his fingers long and distinct. Those hands could hold a bow, hold a brush, hold the world—and also sew knee pads.
I extended my hand and hooked my pinky with his.
"Pinky promise, hanging upside down, never change for a hundred years."
"Never change for a hundred years," he said.
That night, I wrote on a slip of paper: The Tuhuo Guns have been sent off. Two hundred and eighty-nine guns, two hundred soldiers, ten carriages. I sewed knee pads for every soldier and wrote "Peace." He also sewed a pair; it was very ugly. He pricked his finger four times. He said an emperor also wants to do the same things as his Empress. He said after the war, he would take me to Suzhou.
Outside the window was the moon. The moon of the seventh day, thin and curved, like a petal of osmanthus.
I touched that ugly pair of knee pads on the table—he had secretly tucked them under my pillow after finishing them. I pretended not to know.
But his pricked fingers, red and warm, were imprinted in the palm of my hand.
He said never change for a hundred years. If he says no change, then there will be no change.
He is still that child who watched ants in the Imperial Garden. Only now, he is a head taller than me. When he looks down at me, there are stars in his eyes.
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow I will make osmanthus cakes for him. I'll add a little more sugar. He likes it sweet.
[End of Chapter 46]