The Cage

Three days. Shen Qingyu had spent three days in the cell. No interrogation, no visits, no one told him what was happening outside. In the darkness, he counted time by footsteps—three bugle calls for morning, five drumbeats for curfew. But his fingers never stopped moving, tracing over and over on the straw the musical notes only he could recognize. He was waiting. Waiting for the moment when that man would appear again.

On the first day, he figured out the patrol shift schedule from footsteps. Handover at Mao hour, drills at Chen hour, lunch at Wu hour, recall at You hour—a skill he had learned in the Yingdu court. Waiting outside Elder Brother Shen Mingzhang's bedchamber for an audience, kneeling outside Second Brother Shen Mingyu's study awaiting punishment, he had learned to read information from sounds. The weight, frequency, and direction of footsteps—every detail told what was happening behind that door.

On the second day, he began to notice changes in the food deliverer. The person came each time, but they had one thing in common—they never looked at him more than once. This wasn't due to discipline, but because Xiao Hanzheng had given orders. What kind of order could make soldiers ignore a prisoner?

On the third day, he started drawing patterns on the straw.

Not a map—he dared not draw a map. He drew the Southern Chu palace. The long corridors, turrets, the rockeries in the imperial garden, and the cold palace where his mother had lived. He traced the lines on the straw with his fingers, and after memorizing them, smoothed them out with his palm.

He didn't know why he drew these. Perhaps the silence in the cell made him miss those equally silent corners, or perhaps he needed to do something to keep himself awake.

Anything was better than recalling the last words Xiao Hanzheng had said that day—"You remind me of someone, but that person is dead."

Finally, evening of the fourth day arrived.

Footsteps appeared outside the fence after three days of silence. Not Lu Changfeng's—Lu Changfeng's steps were heavy, like a bear walking. These steps were light and steady, each landing on the same beat, like the cadence of a marching drum.

Xiao Hanzheng.

Shen Qingyu did not stand up. He remained leaning against the wall, hands on his knees, eyes fixed on the direction of the fence.

Xiao Hanzheng stood in the moonlight. Today he wore no armor, no sword—just a simple black martial robe. This was somewhat different from his usual image. Shen Qingyu remembered the Xiao Hanzheng he had seen on the day of his capture—a war god wrapped in armor and renown, hard, sharp, unshakeable. But the man standing outside the fence now seemed to have shed a layer.

"Three days," Xiao Hanzheng said. "Still in the same posture. Like you're waiting for someone."

"Indeed waiting for someone," Shen Qingyu said.

"Who?"

"The General."

Xiao Hanzheng paused. "How do you know I would come?"

"Because the General has spent enough time on me," Shen Qingyu said. "If the General didn't want to see me again, I wouldn't have survived to the third day."

"Is that how you survived?" Xiao Hanzheng's voice carried something Shen Qingyu couldn't identify—not mockery, more like probing. "By guessing others' thoughts?"

"In the General's position," Shen Qingyu said, "anticipating the enemy is wisdom. In my position—sharp tongue may be the only weapon."

Xiao Hanzheng stepped forward. The moon behind him cast a long shadow onto the ground before Shen Qingyu.

"You do nothing," Xiao Hanzheng said. "Eat nothing—except the minimum to sustain life. Say nothing—except to me. Ask for nothing—"

"Because nothing I do makes a difference," Shen Qingyu interrupted. The interruption was deliberate—he wanted to see Xiao Hanzheng's reaction. Would a man who allowed no interruptions be enraged by a prisoner's interruption?

Xiao Hanzheng was not enraged. He just looked quietly at Shen Qingyu.

"Nothing makes a difference," he repeated Shen Qingyu's words. "Is that what you thought in the palace?"

Shen Qingyu did not answer, but his fingers curled slightly. Xiao Hanzheng saw it.

"I had someone check your background—" Xiao Hanzheng said, "—or rather, I tried. But information from Southern Chu is scarce. Third Prince Shen Qingyu, almost no public records exist in Yingdu. No title, no residence, no retainers, no marriage connections—a living prince, like a shadow of the palace."

"The General checks so thoroughly," Shen Qingyu's voice was flat, "wants to confirm what?"

"To confirm you pose no threat to me."

"And?"

"Not for now," Xiao Hanzheng said. "But you remind me of something else." He turned, back to Shen Qingyu. "A person who lived in the palace for twenty-two years but left no trace. Shen Qingyu, you are not a shadow—you deliberately hid yourself."

Shen Qingyu's heart tightened slightly. But he said nothing.

"Starting tomorrow," Xiao Hanzheng said, "your status will change from prisoner to guest. You will have a separate tent, three meals a day, and—a guard by your side."

"General—"

"Don't misunderstand," Xiao Hanzheng interrupted. "This is not trust. It's for easier observation."

He left, as cleanly as he had come. Footsteps gradually faded until swallowed by the night wind.

Shen Qingyu sat against the wall for a long time, then smoothed out the lines he had drawn on the straw with his palm.

Guest.

That word was more dangerous than prisoner. A prisoner has only one identity—enemy. But a guest can have many meanings. A watched prisoner, a valuable bargaining chip, or a disposable pawn.

***

Late that night, another footstep sounded outside the fence.

Not Xiao Hanzheng's—these steps were light and broken, as if deliberately quietened. Shen Qingyu did not look up, but every muscle in his body tensed in that instant.

"Young Master Shen—Young Master Shen—"

The voice was very low, carrying an overly forced urgency. The newcomer leaned against the fence, moonlight revealing a young soldier's face—about twenty, wearing an ill-fitting soldier's uniform, eyes shining in the darkness.

"Who are you?" Shen Qingyu did not move.

"I am a man from Southern Chu," the young soldier lowered his voice. "My surname is Chen, I'm the fifth in my family, everyone calls me Afu. I fought in Southern Chu before, then lost and surrendered—was assigned to the kitchen here."

Shen Qingyu still said nothing. He was observing.

"Young Master Shen," Afu leaned closer to the fence, "I know your identity—you are a prince of the Shen Clan, right?"

"You've mistaken me for someone else."

"No, no," Afu shook his head. "I am from Southern Chu, I've seen portraits of the Shen royal family—Young Master Shen's features are typical of the Shen royal family."

Shen Qingyu stared at him. In the moonlight, this soldier calling himself Afu seemed nervous and sincere—but his nervousness was too obvious. Like an actor playing nervousness, not truly nervous.

"You came to me, what do you want?" Shen Qingyu asked.

"I want—" Afu swallowed, "I want to escape. The Great Liang people don't treat us surrendered soldiers as human. Sooner or later, we'll be used as laborers, or simply—" He made a throat-slitting gesture. "Young Master Shen, I know you can think of a way. You are royalty, smarter than us—take me with you, okay?"

"I can barely save myself, how can I take you?"

"Young Master Shen, I can bet my life on your heart," Afu's voice became earnest. "You have value in the camp, that's why General Xiao didn't kill you. As long as you are willing, you can always find a way. Take me, I can gather information for you in the kitchen—"

"No need."

Shen Qingyu cut him off. His tone was light, but every word was clear.

"First, you claim to be a surrendered soldier from Southern Chu, but your accent is not Southern Chu—at least three-tenths sounds like northern Great Liang. Second, you say you work in the kitchen, but your fingers are clean, no traces of smoke or oil. Third, you say you came to me for guidance on escape—but you yourself are unfamiliar with the roads in this camp. When you came over just now, you paused at a corner for two breaths, asking for directions."

Afu's face changed.

"Young Master Shen—"

"I don't know who sent you," Shen Qingyu said. "But trying to test me with such a trick falls short."

Afu's face turned pale in the moonlight. He opened his mouth as if to argue—but Shen Qingyu had already closed his eyes, leaning against the wall.

Footsteps hurried away. Shen Qingyu did not open his eyes. He heard the footsteps turn a few corners between tents, then disappear.

Not toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was to the north, but he went west—the direction of the main tent.

Shen Qingyu's fingers lightly swept across the straw, leaving a shallow arc.

***

At noon on the fifth day, Lu Changfeng came.

But not alone. Behind him followed a middle-aged man in civil official robes—Ministry of Rites attire, embroidered with cloud and goose rank badge. Shen Qingyu's heart sank. Xiao Hanzheng had finally handed him over to the Ministry of Rites.

"Shen Qingyu," Lu Changfeng opened the fence door. "This is Vice Minister Zhou of the Rites Ministry, ordered to verify your identity."

Vice Minister Zhou Cheng was a thin middle-aged man, with a refined appearance, but Shen Qingyu saw in his eyes a typical civil official's shrewdness. He stood outside the fence, not entering the cell, as if the smell inside would dirty his robe.

"Collateral branch of the Shen Clan?" Zhou Cheng opened a document, his tone carrying a trace of disdain. "I have checked the genealogy of the Southern Chu Shen Clan. Three hundred and twelve collateral members, none named Shen Qingyu."

"There are many Shens in the world, Your Excellency only checked the royal line, naturally not finding me," Shen Qingyu said flatly.

"Oh?" Zhou Cheng raised his eyes. "Then which branch are you? Who is your father? From where?"

Shen Qingyu paused for a moment. This question was a double-edged sword—too detailed would be exposed, too vague would seem suspicious.

"The Shen Clan of Yancheng," he said. "My ancestors served as minor officials in the Southern Chu court, later moved to Yancheng."

"Yancheng?" Zhou Cheng flipped a few pages. "There is no major Shen family in Yancheng."

"It is not a major family," Shen Qingyu said. "My ancestors had a single lineage, the family tree less than ten pages. It is normal that Your Excellency could not find it."

Zhou Cheng stared at him for a few breaths, then closed the document.

"Shen Qingyu, collateral branch of the Shen Clan—" he dragged out his official tone, "—identity doubtful, pending further investigation."

He nodded to Lu Changfeng and turned to leave. Shen Qingyu noticed he walked quickly, as if eager to leave this dirty and smelly place.

Lu Changfeng did not leave with him. He stood outside the fence, looking at Shen Qingyu.

"You almost revealed a flaw just now," he said.

"What flaw?"

"Yancheng. You said it too quickly," Lu Changfeng said. "As if you were waiting for the answer to that question."

Shen Qingyu looked at Lu Changfeng. The deputy general's analysis was sharper than he had thought.

"But Zhou Cheng didn't notice," Shen Qingyu said.

"Zhou Cheng is the least favored official in the Rites Ministry," Lu Changfeng said. "Being sent to verify a prisoner's identity is a task to sideline him. He won't investigate seriously." He paused. "The General knew this. That's why he deliberately invited him."

Shen Qingyu was silent for a while. "Your General—" he said, "what exactly does he want?"

Lu Changfeng did not answer. He just said, "Follow me," and turned to walk out of the cell.

***

The main tent was quieter than a few days ago. The desk was no longer piled with military reports and maps, only a document and a tea set. Xiao Hanzheng sat behind the desk reading a document, not looking up when he heard Shen Qingyu enter.

"Zhou Cheng left?"

"Left," Lu Changfeng said. "He said identity doubtful, pending further investigation."

"Expected," Xiao Hanzheng put down the document, looked up at Shen Qingyu. "Zhou Cheng is a waste. I invited him because he is useless enough—if it were another Rites official, they would have investigated deeper."

Shen Qingyu stood in the center of the tent, not knowing what to say.

"From today," Xiao Hanzheng stood up, "your status has changed."

He gestured to Lu Changfeng. Lu Changfeng walked to the side and lifted the curtain of the side chamber.Shen Qingyu looked over—it was a room that was not large but clean and tidy. A wooden bed, a low table, an oil lamp, and even a simple bookshelf. Although it was far inferior to any room he had in Yingdu, compared to a prison cell with a straw-covered floor, it was already heaven.

"No longer a prisoner?" Shen Qingyu asked.

"No longer a prisoner," Xiao Hanzheng said. "A guest."

"What does a guest need to do?"

"Nothing needs to be done. Only—" Xiao Hanzheng walked up to Shen Qingyu, paused for a moment, "—do not leave the area of the main tent. Not a single step away."

Shen Qingyu looked into that pair of pitch-black eyes. This time, what he saw in that gaze was not scrutiny, not suspicion, not curiosity. It was something more complex—like a mixture of vigilance and some restrained emotion.

"General," Shen Qingyu spoke, "Why do you care about the identity of a prisoner?"

Xiao Hanzheng did not answer immediately. He turned around and walked toward the tent's entrance. When he reached the doorway, he paused.

"Maybe I just want to know—" he said, "—whether you are worth living or not."

The curtain fell, and Xiao Hanzheng's figure disappeared into the blinding afternoon sunlight.

Shen Qingyu stood still, watching the swaying tent curtain. His fingers curled slightly, and his fingertips rubbed the calluses that had accumulated over the years.

A guest. Not a prisoner.

But this was more unsettling than being a prisoner. Because it meant—Xiao Hanzheng not only wanted to obtain intelligence from him, but also wanted something else from him.

And Shen Qingyu was not sure what that was.