~The mountain does not boast its height; the snow does that for it~
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On the main avenue of Li City—the capital of the Northern Liang Empire—a black carriage drawn by two horses moved steadily through the crowded street. The people parted instinctively, their chatter fading as they turned to watch.
Two bodyguards on horseback flanked the carriage, each bearing a pair of long blades on his back. The driver, a quiet servant in plain attire, guided the reins with careful precision.
The carriage itself was finely made, its frame carved from dark sandalwood polished to a muted sheen. Four deep red jade tassels hung from the roof's corners, swaying gently with the movement of the wheels. It was not ostentatious, but every detail spoke of wealth and noble rank.
Whispers rippled through the street as it passed. Some watched in admiration, some in awe, and others with knowing looks that quickly shifted to caution.
Inside a nearby brocade shop, a young man peered out the window. "Boss, who's in that carriage? It looks grand."
The shopkeeper glanced up briefly. "You must be new here."
"I arrived this morning from my hometown," the customer replied. "Is that someone important?"
"Important?" The man gave a dry laugh. "That's the Kunlun Peak of Northern Liang."
"The what?"
The shopkeeper sighed. "Who else could it be but the emperor's ninth son, His Highness the King of Jing'an—Murong Chen. In this empire, there's only one man called the Kunlun Peak. Stop staring, young man. Curiosity about him only brings trouble."
Across the capital, everyone knew of the ninth prince. Murong Chen—brilliant, untouchable, and impossible to understand.
To some, he was a troublemaker who somehow escaped every punishment. Others said it was because the emperor doted on his favorite son, or because of the empress's powerful family. But there were whispers too—that it was something else entirely.
Perhaps, they said, it was because the Cold Prince had no desire for the throne.
No one ever found the true answer.
***
After a while, the carriage stopped in front of Loujing Tea House, the grandest in Li City. Scholars often gathered there for their monthly debates and competitions—poetry, calligraphy, painting, and music.
Today was one such day.
The servant sitting in front of the carriage bowed his head slightly. "Your Highness, we've arrived."
He dismounted, opened the door, and placed a small step beneath it.
A man in his early twenties emerged. He wore a dark red robe beneath a matching mantle, his black hair neatly combed and tied with a silver crown. His features were fine and striking, but his face carried no expression—so calm and cold that people instinctively lowered their eyes.
At the entrance, the steward of the tea house hurried forward and bowed deeply. "Your—"
A sharp glance from the aide silenced him before the title could leave his lips.
"Dear customer," the steward corrected smoothly, "please come inside."
He led the prince and his three attendants up the private stairs to a reserved room overlooking the main hall. Twelve such rooms lined the second floor, each screened with thin gauze curtains that concealed their occupants but allowed them to see the events below.
Murong Chen took the seat nearest the open curtain. His aide, Yin Li, quietly began preparing tea, while the two guards stood behind him, outwardly at ease but alert in every sense.
"Your Highness," Yin Li said softly, "the poetry competition is about to begin."
Murong Chen rested his elbow on the table beside him and leaned his head against his hand, eyes half-closed. He gave a slow sigh, the sound quiet but heavy.
Yin Li poured the tea and set the cup just within reach.
Below, a young scholar stepped onto the stage. His voice rang clear as he recited a bold poem—fifteen lines condemning corrupt officials who bullied the people and shirked their duties. The crowd applauded when he finished, some laughing, some muttering their agreement.
Murong Chen's eyelids lifted. "Yin Li, who is that?"
"The second son of the Minister of Revenue, Your Highness—Xiao Yu."
A faint smirk touched Murong Chen's lips. He raised his teacup, took a sip, and murmured, "How ironic."
***
The competition continued with more contestants, each greeted by polite applause. Then cheers erupted when a young noble took the stage—a clear favorite of the crowd.
In the room next to Murong Chen's, a group of young ladies began whispering excitedly.
"As expected of the Young Marquis of Ding," one said. "So handsome!"
"And that smile! He's nothing like that Kunlun Peak—so cold, as if carved from ice."
"Shh," another hissed. "Lower your voice! What if he hears you?"
"He's not here," the first replied confidently. "I asked the steward earlier."
"Is that so?" Relief softened their tones, and their chatter resumed.
In the next room, Yin Li cast a cautious glance at his master. Murong Chen seemed utterly unbothered, sipping tea in silence. But Yin Li could not help sighing inwardly. Young ladies… the Peak is right next door.
Their voices carried on:
"I haven't seen him at the academy all week."
"As if you ever see him! My father says he hasn't attended court once this month. It would be stranger if he appeared daily."
"Forget him—focus on the young marquis."
At last, the conversation died down.
***
Hours later, the competitions ended.
"Your Highness, it's over," Yin Li said quietly.
Murong Chen opened his eyes, stretched, and stood. One guard opened the door; outside, the steward waited.
At that same moment, the group of young ladies stepped from the neighboring room. The first to emerge—the one in the light pink robe—froze. Her eyes widened as she recognized the figure they had mocked. She nudged her friend, who turned and went pale.
Murong Chen ignored them entirely, descending the stairs with calm, unhurried steps. The steward followed, seeing him to his carriage.
Before leaving, Yin Li handed the steward a silver sachet. "For your trouble," he said quietly. Then, after a brief whisper, he returned to his seat beside the driver.
The carriage rolled away toward the Prince of Jing'an Residence.
Inside, the steward exhaled in relief—only to be stopped by the group of embarrassed young ladies.
"Why did you lie to me?" one demanded. "You said he wasn't here!"
"When you asked, Your Ladyship," the steward replied evenly, "His Highness had not yet arrived."
"You—" she began, but he interrupted gently.
"Also, His Highness left a message: 'The affairs of the imperial family are not the concern of officials' daughters. Watch your tongues carefully—unless you wish them sewn shut.'"
The color drained from their faces. Without another word, they hurried from the tea house.
The steward wiped his brow. Even relaying that message had chilled him. He made a silent note to himself—never cross the Kunlun Peak again.
***
The carriage reached the gates of the Jing'an Residence just as dusk fell.
The butler, Old Liu, stood waiting as always. He had served the household faithfully for five years and knew his master's habits well. No matter the occasion, Murong Chen always returned around the same hour.
"Your Highness," Old Liu reported as the prince stepped down, "shortly after you left for Loujing, His Royal Highness the Crown Prince's aide arrived with a gift. A servant from the Prime Minister's residence also came to say that the Old Madam will prepare your favorite dishes tomorrow evening. She invites Your Highness to dine before dusk. And—the new horses have been caught. Everything else is as usual."
"Thank you, Old Liu," Murong Chen said simply. He walked toward the main hall without another word.
As always, once he entered, no servant followed. By strict rule, the main hall and living quarters were off limits while he was inside. Cleaning and maintenance were done only during his absence.
The residence was vast but quiet, housing only twenty-one servants, including the butler. It was more than enough, for Murong Chen lived alone. Unlike his brothers, he had neither wife nor concubine. The staff's duties were simple—his food, his clothes, nothing more.
The empress herself had warned them when he first took up residence: "My son values silence. Unless he is ill, do not linger near him."
They obeyed her words faithfully.
Guards, on the other hand, were plentiful—four times the number of servants, excluding his two personal bodyguards.
That evening, Murong Chen dined alone in his tea room, where everything had been quietly prepared. No servants waited nearby. Afterward, he retreated to his study to pass the hours as he always did—composing new *weiqi* moves, painting on bamboo fans, reading war strategies, or reviewing the academy's lessons.
Later, he practiced his sword forms under the lantern light, then bathed and retired to bed. His days followed the same rhythm, steady and silent as the mountain from which his title came.
***
The next morning, he woke before sunrise.
It was the sixth day of the week—the day he usually visited the Phoenix Palace to take breakfast with the empress and remain there until lunch.
It was also the day he was required to attend court.
A single day each week—that was the minimum the emperor allowed for his ninth son.
For Murong Chen, that was more than enough.
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