Xieluo

Though his words were fluent, his hand still hung suspended in the air. From an early age, he had learned how to bow to fate, how to bend the childish pride and stubbornness in him, inch by inch, and press them beneath a smile as unbreakable as cast iron. Each time, he told himself it would be the last. Each time, he was disappointed. Tang Qianzi did not hurry him. He picked up the pomegranate-red brocade robe embroidered with coiling dragons from the ground, dusted it off, then came over and draped it over his shoulders. The ink was applied too heavily. It slowly gathered at the tip of the brush, and Ji Chang's hand trembled. A drop fell with a soft tap, soaking into the clean paper and spreading irretrievably. He bit his lower lip, then simply wrote quickly beside the ink stain: "To my esteemed elder brother Zhongxu: The situation is dire." The boy's eyes suddenly welled with tears, but he kept writing in one unbroken flow. The letter was always exactly twelve lines long, written in neat, elegant strokes. Every prince of the Zheng Dynasty had mastered this skill. Ji Chang pressed his cinnabar seal onto the black characters on the white paper, examined it carefully, then folded it and handed it to Tang Qianzi. The boy's childish yet resolute expression reminded Tang Qianzi of a gambler staking his last gold coin at the gaming table. Ji Chang looked at his Imperial Guard soldiers and suddenly smiled. He was only a boy of thirteen, still young, and his smile was bright, yet weary. His eyes and brows were heavy, as if they would never lift again.