Gu Lian begins to see Ai Miao not just as a companion, but as a strategist shaping a future far beyond the Eastern Palace—and Murong Che becomes the key piece in a game Gu Lian never knew he was part of.
Since that conversation in the study, Gu Lian felt as though a thin yet unbreakable layer of ice had formed between him and Ai Miao. Ai Miao remained close, impeccable in word and deed, but Gu Lian could sense it clearly—Ai Miao's core no longer belonged to the Eastern Palace.
He began to observe Ai Miao with a new, complicated gaze. He noticed how Ai Miao subtly connected the Grand Tutor's lessons on governance to the geography and culture of Beijing; how he quietly distilled key insights on military structure and tribal tensions when Gu Lian and A Lie chatted about border anecdotes.
Ai Miao was no longer just a study companion or a tactician at his side—he was a silent thunderstorm, a strategist laying out a grand design. And Gu Lian himself had been pushed from the center to the sidelines… or perhaps, a passive beneficiary? The realization stirred a mix of loss, shame, and a strange thrill of being led.
Inevitably, his attention turned to the hostage prince in the western quarters.
Gu Lian no longer watched Murong Che merely because Ai Miao did. He was driven by a stubborn curiosity he couldn't explain. He discovered that Ai Miao's teaching was methodical, starting from the very basics.
Ai Miao taught Murong Che to read Da Sheng's script—not poetic primers, but bureaucratic vocabulary. He taught him court etiquette, how to behave properly in palace settings. Occasionally, during chess games, he would explain customs from the northern lands.
"Beijing values alliances," Ai Miao said, placing a piece. "But they value strength more. A promise without power is like building walls with sand."
Murong Che listened intently, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on Ai Miao's every move. Gu Lian noticed how his gaze shifted—from fear to complete trust, tinged with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to driftwood.
Once, Gu Lian saw Ai Miao teaching Murong Che to recognize the character "Tuoba"—the name of Beijing's largest tribe. Murong Che struggled, sweat beading on his brow, but his eyes remained focused.
Ai Miao's teaching was strict but not cruel. When Murong Che succeeded, he would say, "Acceptable." When he failed, Ai Miao made him repeat until it was right.
Gu Lian watched from his usual hiding spot as Murong Che practiced the tea-serving ritual. A slight tremor in his wrist led Ai Miao to make him redo it seven times. Tea spilled on his sleeve, and his eyes brimmed with frustration. Just as Gu Lian felt a flicker of pity, Ai Miao handed him a fresh cup.
"Remember this feeling," Ai Miao said coldly. "In Beijing's palace, a mistake costs far more. Swallow this bitterness. Let it become your bones."
Murong Che looked up, chest heaving. Then he took the cup, fingers pale from gripping too tightly, and served it flawlessly. In that moment, Gu Lian saw not panic, but a fierce resolve.
It left a bitter taste in Gu Lian's mouth. Ai Miao had never taught him like this—perhaps because he didn't need it. But the difference stung.
This rough gem was being carved by Ai Miao's cold blade, shedding its outer shell to reveal a resilient core. Gu Lian had to admit—Ai Miao's eye for people was terrifyingly sharp.
One day, the emperor visited the study to test Gu Lian's knowledge. The question concerned Beijing's recent tax policies and border trade. Gu Lian answered with citations, but lacked depth. The emperor said nothing, turning instead to Ai Miao.
"Ai Miao, your thoughts?"
Ai Miao stepped forward and bowed. He didn't answer directly. Instead, he spoke of power shifts in Beijing's court, tribal resource conflicts, and how these internal struggles shaped national policy. He concluded with strategic leverage Da Sheng could exploit.
His tone was calm, but the insight, precision, and logic stunned Gu Lian. This was no casual observation—it was the result of long, deliberate study.
The emperor stroked his beard, eyes gleaming. "The Prime Minister has raised you well. You may step back."
That evening, Gu Lian was summoned to the imperial study. The emperor said little, merely pushing a sealed scroll toward him.
"Read it," he said. "This is Ai Miao's proposal from last month. As crown prince, your vision must go beyond textbooks."
Gu Lian unrolled the scroll and grew increasingly alarmed. It detailed Beijing's political landscape, military strength, and economic lifelines. It proposed a strategy of "cultivating a proxy, using schemes over war, and gradual erosion." The ideal proxy? Murong Che.
It even outlined early contact, testing, and shaping phases. At the end, the emperor's red-inked approval: "This plan suits me well. Ai Miao shall oversee it. All resources granted. Act as needed."
Ai Miao's actions had never been youthful impulse—they were part of a sanctioned national strategy. Gu Lian's earlier suspicions now seemed naïve. He had been playing with scattered pieces, unaware that the real strategist had already laid out a board spanning mountains and rivers.
Leaving the study, Gu Lian walked alone, troubled. Unconsciously, he arrived at the moon gate near the western quarters.
Inside, Ai Miao and Murong Che were together—not playing chess, not debating. Ai Miao handed him a hand-copied Beijing Almanac. Moonlight lit Ai Miao's calm profile and Murong Che's eyes, which shone with gratitude and unwavering trust.
That light—brighter than stars—stabbed Gu Lian's heart.
He saw Ai Miao nod and say something. Murong Che clutched the book tightly, nodding back.
Just then, A Lie arrived. His footsteps startled the pair—and Gu Lian. Ai Miao turned, meeting Gu Lian's gaze in the fading light.
There was no surprise in Ai Miao's eyes. Only calm, as if he had known Gu Lian would come, would see this.
"Your Highness," Ai Miao called across the courtyard. "Shall we return to the Eastern Palace for supper?"
Gu Lian looked at Ai Miao, then at Murong Che clutching the book like a lifeline, then at A Lie—oblivious to the undercurrents.
He realized, with painful clarity, that he was no longer the sole center of loyalty and attention. His friend's ambition—perhaps shared with the emperor—had already soared into realms he couldn't reach. They were forging a dangerous key that could reshape two nations.
And he, Gu Lian, heir to a glorious empire, stood like a spectator in someone else's game, watching the pieces move, yet unsure how to pick up his own.
"…Alright," he said at last, voice dry. He turned and walked toward the Eastern Palace, leaving behind the deepening dusk—and the two figures bound by a thread of fate he could no longer grasp.