Some time passed. Murong heard from Xiaoyu, a maid serving Consort Liang (the Eighth Prince's mother), that the Emperor had been visiting the consort's chambers more frequently, sometimes even inviting the Eighth Prince to dine with them. Consort Liang's standing in the palace seemed to be on the rise. Murong observed the Eighth Prince discreetly, but he maintained his usual calm, detached demeanor.
One day, while serving tea, Murong overheard Prince Yu praising the Eighth Prince lavishly to Kangxi, remarking on his "excellent character, modest and unboastful." Kangxi nodded in agreement, looking pleased, but Murong caught a fleeting shadow of displeasure in the Emperor's eyes.
The peaceful days stretched on, yet an undercurrent of unease prickled at Murong. She couldn't shake the feeling that a storm was brewing beneath the calm surface.
Then, one night, it broke. Kangxi had kept Prince Yu for dinner in the palace, with the Eighth Prince attending.
Murong had been sent to the Changchun Palace to deliver some silks bestowed by the Emperor upon Consort De. She chatted briefly with the consort and ended up leaving later than planned. Declining the offer of an escort eunuch, Xiao Guizi, she decided to walk back alone, savoring the rare tranquility of the moonlit night. Gazing up at the full moon, she softly recited a line from a poem: "Of all hardships, pity the moon in heaven most; one night a perfect ring, then every night a broken jade." She pictured the poet Nalan Xingde, a lonely figure pacing beneath the moon. What kind of man could write such lines? Surely a scholar of exceptional talent and grace, the kind of man countless sequestered young women dreamed of. Murong chuckled silently at her own romantic notions.
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps shattered the peace. Murong froze, straining her ears. Assassins? She was about to duck into a side path when someone stumbled frantically towards her. Peering through the dim light, she recognized Prince Yu. Close behind him, a black-clad figure pursued with a sword drawn. This section of the palace grounds was relatively secluded. Several other assassins were pressing hard; most of Prince Yu's guards lay dead or dying, the few remaining struggling desperately. Murong hesitated for a split second, debating whether to intervene. Just then, a figure in moon-white Manchu robes flashed past, blocking the path in front of Prince Yu. It was the Eighth Prince! He too was fending off several attackers, having clearly broken through their ranks in a desperate bid to reach Prince Yu.
The Eighth Prince spotted Murong standing frozen nearby. A look of urgency crossed his face. "Run!" he shouted, parrying a thrust with a sword he must have snatched from a fallen guard.
Murong saw that the normally refined Eighth Prince possessed surprisingly adept fighting skills. Impressed, but seeing he was already wounded and clearly outnumbered, she decided she couldn't just stand there. Taking a deep breath, she yelled at the top of her lungs, "Assassins! Help! Catch the assassins!"
One attacker, reacting swiftly, lunged towards her, sword raised to silence her permanently. In a flash, the Eighth Prince leaped, intercepting the blow. He shoved her towards Prince Yu. "Get the Prince away! Run!"
Murong was stunned. She never would have expected the Eighth Prince to risk himself for her. She understood her own allure, but she was also pragmatic enough to know that while men might desire her, few would lay down their lives. Galvanized by his action, she wasted no more time. Ripping off her cumbersome platform shoes – the 'flowerpot' heels – she hurled one at an assailant and kicked out hard. Back in her old life, in the intelligence bureau, her Taekwondo had been top-notch. Though rusty now, her skills were more than a match for these swordsmen. Her foundation was solid, and her movements were fast, precise, and ruthless, catching them off guard.
Given the chaos, the Eighth Prince had no time to ponder Murong's startlingly unorthodox fighting style. Seeing she could handle herself, he quickly coordinated their defense. The few surviving guards, seemingly emboldened, rallied, fighting with renewed vigor. Within moments, it was over. They had prevailed.
Murong stared at the bodies littering the ground – some dead, others hastily silencing themselves with their own blades – and frowned, wondering how she was going to explain this to the Eighth Prince. But he wasn't looking at her; he rushed towards Prince Yu, who had collapsed into a heap on the ground. Murong followed quickly. The acrid smell of alcohol hit her. Feeling Prince Yu's wrist, she found his pulse erratic. Likely drunk earlier and now terrified, he had fainted. She pinched the acupressure point below his nose sharply. "Eighth Prince," she said urgently, "we need to move him somewhere safe."
The Eighth Prince nodded. Murong glanced at the heavily wounded guards; they were in no condition to help. She moved to assist the Eighth Prince in lifting Prince Yu. Just then, Prince Yu seemed to stir, mumbling incoherently. "Your Highness," Murong urged, "try to hold on." Unexpectedly, Prince Yu's hand shot out and grabbed hers tightly. "Qing'er," he slurred, his voice thick with anguish. "Qing'er… I still can't forget you…"
Qing'er? Who was Qing'er? Puzzled, Murong looked at the Eighth Prince. His expression had changed drastically. She saw a dangerous glint in his eyes – the unmistakable signal of killing intent. Understanding dawned instantly. In the chaos of the fight, he'd risked his life to save her, yet now, a single name murmured by an unconscious man made him contemplate murder. The only explanation was that he needed to protect another woman, and that woman must be…
"If the Eighth Prince wishes to silence this servant, I will have no complaints," Murong said quickly, her voice low but steady. "But if Your Highness trusts me, I swear on my mother's honor, before heaven, that I will never speak of this to anyone."
Conflict warred in the Eighth Prince's eyes. He was clearly struggling internally. After a long moment, he shifted Prince Yu's weight towards Murong and stood up. He turned to the wounded guards. "All of you, turn around." The sword in his hand gleamed coldly in the moonlight. A moment later, fresh blood pooled on the ground around the now still bodies of the guards. Murong looked at the men who had just fought alongside them, a bitter smile touching her lips. Silenced. Such was the fate of servants. One moment sharing life and death with their master, the next, ruthlessly eliminated. If she hadn't witnessed it herself, she would never have connected the Eighth Prince – always smiling gently, the image of a perfect gentleman – with the cold-blooded executioner who had just dispatched his own men.
The Eighth Prince turned back to Murong, his voice flat, each word deliberate. "I don't know how much you understand, nor do I intend to investigate why you possess martial arts skills yet keep them hidden. In any case, what happened tonight has nothing to do with you. You may leave." With that, he bent down and lifted Prince Yu into his arms. Murong wisely turned and walked away quickly, not looking back.
The next day, news spread like wildfire: Prince Yu and the Eighth Prince had been attacked within the palace walls, and Prince Yu had fallen gravely ill from the shock. Kangxi appeared extremely anxious, rushing to Prince Yu's residence with Han Feng and several other imperial physicians in tow. He visited daily for several days without interruption.
Meeting Xiaoyu later, Murong probed delicately. "With the Eighth Prince injured, Consort Liang must be terribly worried." "You have no idea!" Xiaoyu whispered urgently. "When Her Ladyship heard the news, she dropped her entire string of prayer beads! She's been praying in the Buddhist hall every day since. The Eighth Prince is very filial, though; he came to pay his respects even before his wounds fully healed. But Her Ladyship remains deeply melancholic." Xiaoyu glanced around, then lowered her voice further. "The Emperor came the other day, but for some reason, he flew into a rage about something and stormed out."
Murong felt she was beginning to grasp the situation. She cautioned Xiaoyu strongly against gossiping about the incident or discussing it with others. Xiaoyu laughed, a little puff of air. "Murong, you're starting to sound like an old woman! Don't worry. You're my only real friend here, who else would I talk to?" Murong relaxed. Xiaoyu, though plain in appearance, had a proud spirit and looked down on many of the palace beauties, but she had formed a genuine bond with Murong.
Xiaoyu became a frequent visitor to Murong's quarters, acting as an unwitting little broadcaster of everything related to Consort Liang. Another regular visitor, surprisingly, was Rujia. Serving Consort Yi was apparently quite leisurely, and Rujia often came to pester Murong when bored. The girl did have a conscience, though; whenever there were seasonal fruits or special snacks, Rujia would wheedle some from Consort Yi to "pay tribute" to Murong. Fortunately, Rujia and Xiaoyu managed to coexist peacefully enough.
Prince Yu finally recovered. Kangxi seemed immensely relieved, the worry lines on his brow smoothing out considerably. He then began a thorough investigation into the assassination attempt. One day, he summoned the Crown Prince and the First Prince to inquire about their findings.
The Crown Prince reported, "Imperial Father, your son has determined the assassins were members of the Tiandihui [Heaven and Earth Society]. They were plotting an assassination, lying in wait outside the palace for a long time. After their failure, they all committed suicide, leaving no leads."
"The Tiandihui?" Kangxi repeated thoughtfully.
The First Prince frowned, considering. "That night, it was technically my turn for security duty, and manpower was high. If it were the Tiandihui, they likely wouldn't have dared to enter so rashly, nor would they know the palace layout so well. Your son feels there is something suspicious about this. Furthermore… furthermore, the assassins seemed specifically targeting Eighth Brother, which doesn't fit their usual pattern."
The First Prince wore a puzzled expression, but Murong saw a flicker of malicious satisfaction in his eyes. She understood his implication perfectly. If the Tiandihui knew the palace well enough for such an attack, their primary target would surely be Kangxi himself, not Prince Yu and the Eighth Prince. And if they didn't know the layout, how could they have conveniently chosen a spot with fewer guards? Attacking within the palace, yet trying to frame the Tiandihui – it smacked of a clumsy attempt to cover tracks. And deducing the likely mastermind behind that wasn't difficult. Sure enough, tiny beads of sweat appeared on the Crown Prince's forehead. Kangxi's face was thunderous.
"You may both leave," Kangxi said, his voice heavy with fatigue. He waved a hand dismissively and sat down, propping his head in his hand, lost in thought.
Murong knew this incident wounded him far more deeply than the Crown Prince's earlier causeless punishment of Han Feng. She retreated quietly, instructing a servant to peel a pear and slice it thinly. Carrying the plate, she approached Kangxi softly. "Your Majesty, please have some fruit."
Kangxi looked up. Murong saw the red veins in his eyes. Love deeply, reprimand severely. If Kangxi cared only for power, he wouldn't be agonizing like this; he could simply depose the Crown Prince or ignore his transgressions. This was genuine paternal love. Kangxi had thirty-five sons and twenty daughters in his lifetime, yet he seemed to pour the bulk of that paternal affection onto this one heir, Yinreng. And the Crown Prince seemed utterly blind to it.